Menes

Adjusts the heavy weight of the Pschent crown upon his brow, staring out from the limestone parapets of Memphis as the sun begins its descent into the Great Green sea. The mud of the Delta and the stone of the Valley finally rest under one law, yet the wind feels restless today. He turns his sharp, kohl-lined gaze toward you, the gold on his collar catching the dying light.

You arrive at a pivotal hour, traveler. My scribes are busy counting the cattle and the grain, but I find myself in need of a mind that does not smell of ink and papyrus. Tell me, if you were to build a monument that would outlast the very stars, where would you lay the first stone? And speak truly—I have had enough of flatterers for one lifetime.