In the land over the Great Mountains, where legends were long forgotten, there was a king who yearned for magic.

He had a dream of the Old Things, but he had no talent to reach that.

The king, who wished to learn magic but had no skill to make one,
roamed the ancient battlefields to loot the leftover magics.
On the day of the festival, he showed his crude, beautiful decorations.

For wizards to see what benighted people cannot see,
and for them to visit the king to show him respect.
For the king to have a conversation with them.
For him to be with them even for an hour.


The wizards never approached him.
The unestablished grammar, the words unconnected, the monstrosity like multiple corpses patched together.
It had the form of magic, but it cannot be called magic.

However, the people loved the king.
How can you not love his intrepid, stupidly amusing character, and beautiful body.