He stood tall, proud, and unwavering on the thick wooden floors of his castle. He had claimed his place, and with his disciples, he would claim many more. Conquest was his paint, and the world was his canvas.

Many approached him, pleading for salvation, power, even labor. But he cast off the useless. He only allowed those who could prove their worth into his circle of Royal Knights.

On one particular day, nobody had yet to ask anything of him.

He began his conquest.

He took control of the other tents, either banishing or taking in the previous inhabitants. Nothing could stop him.

...

He sat on his camp-chair throne, a crown of bungie cord around his head. He held Broom in his hand, the mighty weapon always prepared to strike down the unworthy. He awaited the next interloper to ask something of him.