The air crackles with the faint presence of powerful, very powerful magic. Taste electric on the tongue– and if one were to breathe it in they would detect the scent of ozone. Lesser men would heed this signal ( I mean business, do not test me ) and back off.
But Ganondorf is no lesser man.
Lorin, deity he, stands before the other in a barren clearing. Despite being completely and utterly dwarfed by the demon king’s incredible height, his demeanor more than makes up for it. There is a distinct cold and emotionally detached quality to it, complete with a narrowed gaze up at the other as he attempts to scan for intent, any intent, of making a move.
Fear rushes through his veins like ice water, but he dares not let that show ( to show fear is to show weakness, to show weakness means you have already lost ). He will instead wring his hands behind his back, kneading his nails into the meat of his palms.
Not fear of you, but fear of what you may intend to do. To become.
Even within the constraints of this sordid tale, there is still a way find and grasp absolute power. Power that can, and will, shape the land as he knows it.
When a move isn’t made, he continues. Steady, steady, unlike his frantic heartbeat. It betrays him, it betrays his steely facade.
He has an inkling of just who, just what, you are.
–––– ❝ May I ask what has brought you to this accursed land? ❞
And he will not hesitate to act if you prove his assumptions true.
The land is ruined, dark, dead. Signs of disorder that once reigned or perhaps continues to reign. It has an aching familiarity to it, even though he has never been here ( at least, maybe, not in this life ), but it tugs at something in his brutal heart. But he is not here to understand whatever it may be --- he is here on his journey for absolute power. Ganondorf can sense it, the scattered remains of the very thing that will practically put the world into the palm of his hand to do as he pleases with.
He knows how much he stands out, with his mane of fire, with his shining armor, with his jewels. He knows that he cannot pass as any normal traveler, and why would any normal traveler willingly cross these lands?
“Call it curiosity,” he responds with ease, keeping his tone light and casual, as if his intentions were not anything but devastating, terrifying, born entirely of greed and selfishness and the hunger for chaos that remains restless in his bones.
Ganondorf does move then, but he keeps those movements slow, calculated. The hand that brushes across the hilt of one of his swords is deliberate before he folds his arms behind his back and puffs his chest out. He stands proud, he always does, but there is still a tension in his body, he is still coiled tight to strike at any moment if he must.
Eyes burn into the stranger’s own gaze, pools of golden alight with something almost indiscernible. “If I may be so bold as to ask,” he continues, remaining rather amicable, “What is this place?”
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