Like the angry red eye of a god it stares, unblinking, from the dark firmament.
A world of mahogany clouds braced by corpuscle-crimson skies
Orbited by Twin moons the hue of blue smoke rising from the funeral pyres of a thousand lizard men.
Below a canopy of leaves jagged like halberds and smooth as spades, umber haired ape-men cluster enjoined in a booming chorus accompanied by elongated flutes crafted from the thighbones of their enemies.
The plains teem with herds of great quadruple-horned beasts, stalked by felines large as Leviathan, and flocks of bat-like creatures clad in coarse white fur ride the gulf stream over seas of sinewy beasts all tails and tentacles, titanic and terrifying.
This world is a pestle for the gods. Time and again it has been hammered by war, scoured by radioactive fire and time and again it rises from the ashes, vibrantly altered through violent rebirth.
In days gone by explorers arrived in shining cylinders. Landing, they plant their flags, raise their weapons and march on the apex population intent on plundering this great red world. War upon war rages over the surface of this great and angry planet and each generation sees the irradiated geography roil with change like a seething pit of serpents.
Out of the razor forests he strides, dark of eye sullen of aspect standing with the soles of his feet astride the battlements, a crooning blade in his fist.
He surveys the great chaos before him and thinks but one thought…
“A world fit for conquer!” (Softly)
“A world fit for conquer!” (Louder)
“A world fit for conquer!” (BELLOWING)
And she practically drops her drink on the floor
“Oh my God!” she squalls, her face contorting for a second retort: “Who were your parents to let a child imagine such things—I mean OH MY GOD!!”
“You asked me what kinds of games I liked to play as a kid, so I told you. I liked to play Zeyton: The Mutant Wonder World.”
“Oh my GOD, where did you get that stuff? Your thinking has been poisoned! I mean, what did your parents do to you?”