The Solar King commeth.
His hair shines golden. Wax pours from his ears in brown cascades.
Where he slouches from, no one knows.
Infinity peers from his peepers. The celestial spheres wobble in time to his rhythmic gait.
Speaking of gates, he has opened many, and still there are many more he has not opened.
The Solar King.
He of the Eternal Triumphâ„¢.
He who bakes many things. Have you tasted his bread? Yes? Good. No? Even better.
They say he has infinite fists, or perhaps even a thousand, or even a dozen.
A baker's dozen.
None can stand before him and live. This is by design. A feature, not a bug.
The Solar King.
He of the gleaming insole. The marmalade sneer.
Many roads has he strode, some of which have terminated in gates.
Do not bow to him. In his culture, this gesture translates loosely as: "I have sullied your niece. I do not apologize for this. Your move, sirrah."
Many bow to him. They do not know.
The fists inform them.