For all his power, Ethan is mostly content with the relatively small chunk of the galaxy he tore for himself at the Arcas Rim, far enough to warrant no response from other starfarers - the common folk might not know, but the vergrizian houses have long given up on those systems altogether, tacitly offering the caracal thousands of inhabited worlds on a silver platter - a sacrifice unlike any other.
'It's just like ants.' he thought. You sit down, and start squishing them for fun, one by one; the others simply swerve and bend their trail around your thumb.
And they'd better; his power, manifest, was boundless. Even the worst he's ever done was a fraction of what he -could- do. Size, distance, even time - in an instant, effortlessly, he can twist those to his whims. Ethan knows he can have the universe wrapped around his finger if he ever so wishes. For now, he's merciful, satisfied playing in his personal playground.
The skyscrapers of this world, he fashions into a solid seat of mashed metal and stone, molded with malicious care, as if to simply flex his godly muscles. For the rest of the world, he bothers less, simply rolling it all into a pitiful mossy carpet he can crumple and mess around with at will - adorably minuscule landscapes where even the tallest mountain is dwarfed by the rim of his shoe. Those 'readjustments' are nothing out of the ordinary for him, especially now that he's gotten tired of this place.
The young caracal yawns, reclining in his throne of rubble, legs planted firmly on the continental rug, glancing briefly at the muted skies around him. The twinkling stars above and the dots of city lights below aren't that different to him. He muses, lifting his foot...
* t h o o m *
Ethan's eartips flick and and his tail swings slowly. Crossing his leg on his lap, his foot lazily waves, letting dust sprinkle from the treads as he yawns again.
