He walks slowly, each lumbering stride carrying him a dozen leagues. Entire villages are crushed beneath his feet; whole nations are shaken by his passing. He cares not one whit. He strides through them like they are grass. They are insignificant in his eyes, for they forgot him long ago.
He chatters with himself for, as the last of his kind, there is no one else with whom to talk. He is the lonely god — and he is stark, raving mad.
“What will it be, Bronze? What will you do now?” he asks himself.
“This,” he replies.
He stoops, and the land beneath him shudders. With his hand, he scoops up a mountain, brushing away dirt and stone until only the thumb-bone of a titan remains in his palm.
“Ah,” he says. “Right where I left it.”
He grins and plops one end of the bone into his mouth, sucking fiercely upon it.
He stands again, and resumes his plodding. The lonely god will not come this way again.
He has that for which he came.