( (Mood Music: https://youtu.be/ohUb8-po4pw ))
A vulture perched atop a precisely-hewn stele, eight-sided, to face in all directions at once.
Beneath, a desiccated corpse, withered by the desert, was eyed by it. The carrion bird hungered, even as the flesh withered and decayed further. A gaping hole was apparent where the chest was caved in by some mighty force, and something removed with just as much. Beneath, a pile of bones, a veritable mountain.
The Stele begins, written in carved Dethekk, in letters meant to impose an iron will:
"I AM THE SON OF THE HEAVENS, HE WHO IS BURDENED WITH TERRIBLE PURPOSE, KING OF KINGS, ERISHUM-EL-ADAD, BORN INTO THE WORLD DESCENDED FROM NERGAL."
Around, the desert wind blowed, scattered stones and tattered fabrics the only hint that once there might have been a settlement in this place. Bones slowly clattered down from the pile.
"IT IS MY JUDGEMENT, AND RIGHT, AS BEARER OF DIVINE WILL, THAT I IMPOSE RULE AND SACRIFICE FROM THESE LANDS, AS APPOINTED UNTO ME BY MY HIGHEST CHARGE. IMMORTAL SHALL BE MY REIGN, ENDLESS SHALL BE THE LIBATIONS OF HEART AND BLOOD."
Far in the distance, drums rumbled. The stirrings of an army that longed for war, the long droning sound of horns carried far across barren sands. Stretching off, far into the distance, into the maw of a setting sun, stretched a line.
Stele after stele, beneath them, piles of corpses. Hearts removed, torn from their chests. Mourning wails carried upon the winds.
"I SLEW THE PEOPLE OF SIPPAR, I SLEW THE PEOPLE OF DAR-KUNUZU, I SLEW THE PEOPLE OF KUTU, I SLEW THE PEOPLE OF LARSA, I TRODE THEIR BODIES UNDER MY SANDAL, I GROUND THEIR BONES AND BOILED THEIR BLOOD INTO COSMETICS FOR MY CONCUBINES, THERE IS NO DEPREDATION I DID NOT INFLICT UPON THEIR WRETCHED LESSER FORMS."
A knife, still stained black with ritual blood, sat upon the base of the stele. A tool, discarded once its purpose had been served, much like the lives it carved.
"I WILL NOT STOP, I WILL NOT CEASE, THE WORLD SHALL KNEEL AT MY FEET. ALL HAIL NERGAL, WHO BRINGS DEATH TO THE WORLD, AND I, KING OF KINGS, HE WHOSE SANDAL PRESSES UPON THE FACE OF LESSERS, ERISHUM-EL-ADAD, HIS SCYTHE."
Around, nothing but desolation. The winds carried dust, ash, and grief.