Haku1
Ze Hamster of Lurkdom
Ennui.
Boredom.
Those were the things truly anathema to his kind.
Oh, there were those who claimed that cold iron was their bane. That the gaze of the dreadful tyrant of the heavens, the daystar, was the doom of those who held a trace of infinity in their hearts.
Those did indeed kill his kind.
But ennui and boredom, that which heralded the end of stories. That was the truth death of his kin from which there were no returning from.
After all, dying because of being slain was merely the pausing of a story. Where one could return in triumph and vindication.
But the state where even stories faded to dust. How could one return from that? Where was the pleasure, the joy, of continuing on in such a state?
And yet, here he was.
Upon a marbled throne gilded with gold and mother of pearl, in a darkened hall, with a fell mood resting within his heart.
Alone. For he had sent away his court.
Their mirth and jesting brought no cessation to the mood that had settled upon him. Their little games raised no more passion and joy in his heart.
There was nothing new. Merely repetitions, of countless patterns over and over in their myarid variants.
Once, he had raised his sword against all of the world. Heroes, villians alike had been his enemy. From the lest of nations to the greatest Empire of all, it and its ten thousand dragon-spawned lords.
Where had it all gone?
Victory had taken them away from him. There was no more challenges, for he had only grown in strength with each victory. With each cessation of opponents, reducing them to mere footnotes in history, he had grown. Now, there was naught that could challenge him.
Victory and time, it was they who had cursed him with ennui and boredom. Truly, the house of the Shaped was cruel beyond measure.
He could march against the Sun and the Moon and all the stars, but that wouldn't present a challenge. Only death and ruination awaited him in such a confrontation, for it was not in his story that he stand against such and win. Only the world.
Such a jest, what price victory if one attained and there was nothing further...
And so, he sat alone, in the darkened halls where once the princes of the earth danced, and which he had claimed as his own. Sat and thought as he drank deep of the wine 'dispair'.
Drinking deep of his wine, there was the notion. The lest of notions in the back of his mind, to stand forth and abandon the banal shores of the world.
To wander the infinite maze, and to pass once more the gates of Nirakara.
To shed the shape that he had worn as the Prince Clad in Yellow. To assume the truth that lay within in him as a pearl, that there was a king beyond compare.
"My ͘s͜erva͏nt͟ ̛tha͠t͢ ̶e͜xìst͠s ͞s̶o̕mewhe̡re̷ iņ t͟hi͝s ҉v̨a͢st͞ ҉u͜n̴i̕ve͝r͞s͟e."
He could swear that the laws of drama was demanding his presence, and yet... what was the point. Was he not playing the part of the jaded king well enough that the laws of narrativium were demanding that he play another part?
"͟My ͜d̡i̵v̀in҉e, w͟i҉s͟e,̴ ͜an͟d ͢bęa͜utif̢u̴l͠ ҉se̕r͏v̵an͡t.̀ ̸Hee̢d ̛my ́ca͡l͟l.́"
It certainly seemed that way, he could feel the fabric of reality buckle before him.
"͞I̡ ̴wi͞s̕h͝ ̵fr̨o̢m͜ the ̢ve͟ry̶ of ̴m̴y ̢hea͢r͞t.̧ M͠y ͟s͡ȩrva͝n̷t͘, ͞answ͡er m͏y̨ c͢al̛l͡ ͏an͡d̡ a̛p͝pear̛!͝"
The mirror sheen of the emeral oval before him was interestingly new. How could he not answer its call, even as a jaded king... such a thing. An invitation to adventure, to novelty, to something new.
***
Ennui
"There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison..."
- Conan
***
Boredom.
Those were the things truly anathema to his kind.
Oh, there were those who claimed that cold iron was their bane. That the gaze of the dreadful tyrant of the heavens, the daystar, was the doom of those who held a trace of infinity in their hearts.
Those did indeed kill his kind.
But ennui and boredom, that which heralded the end of stories. That was the truth death of his kin from which there were no returning from.
After all, dying because of being slain was merely the pausing of a story. Where one could return in triumph and vindication.
But the state where even stories faded to dust. How could one return from that? Where was the pleasure, the joy, of continuing on in such a state?
And yet, here he was.
Upon a marbled throne gilded with gold and mother of pearl, in a darkened hall, with a fell mood resting within his heart.
Alone. For he had sent away his court.
Their mirth and jesting brought no cessation to the mood that had settled upon him. Their little games raised no more passion and joy in his heart.
There was nothing new. Merely repetitions, of countless patterns over and over in their myarid variants.
Once, he had raised his sword against all of the world. Heroes, villians alike had been his enemy. From the lest of nations to the greatest Empire of all, it and its ten thousand dragon-spawned lords.
Where had it all gone?
Victory had taken them away from him. There was no more challenges, for he had only grown in strength with each victory. With each cessation of opponents, reducing them to mere footnotes in history, he had grown. Now, there was naught that could challenge him.
Victory and time, it was they who had cursed him with ennui and boredom. Truly, the house of the Shaped was cruel beyond measure.
He could march against the Sun and the Moon and all the stars, but that wouldn't present a challenge. Only death and ruination awaited him in such a confrontation, for it was not in his story that he stand against such and win. Only the world.
Such a jest, what price victory if one attained and there was nothing further...
And so, he sat alone, in the darkened halls where once the princes of the earth danced, and which he had claimed as his own. Sat and thought as he drank deep of the wine 'dispair'.
Drinking deep of his wine, there was the notion. The lest of notions in the back of his mind, to stand forth and abandon the banal shores of the world.
To wander the infinite maze, and to pass once more the gates of Nirakara.
To shed the shape that he had worn as the Prince Clad in Yellow. To assume the truth that lay within in him as a pearl, that there was a king beyond compare.
"My ͘s͜erva͏nt͟ ̛tha͠t͢ ̶e͜xìst͠s ͞s̶o̕mewhe̡re̷ iņ t͟hi͝s ҉v̨a͢st͞ ҉u͜n̴i̕ve͝r͞s͟e."
He could swear that the laws of drama was demanding his presence, and yet... what was the point. Was he not playing the part of the jaded king well enough that the laws of narrativium were demanding that he play another part?
"͟My ͜d̡i̵v̀in҉e, w͟i҉s͟e,̴ ͜an͟d ͢bęa͜utif̢u̴l͠ ҉se̕r͏v̵an͡t.̀ ̸Hee̢d ̛my ́ca͡l͟l.́"
It certainly seemed that way, he could feel the fabric of reality buckle before him.
"͞I̡ ̴wi͞s̕h͝ ̵fr̨o̢m͜ the ̢ve͟ry̶ of ̴m̴y ̢hea͢r͞t.̧ M͠y ͟s͡ȩrva͝n̷t͘, ͞answ͡er m͏y̨ c͢al̛l͡ ͏an͡d̡ a̛p͝pear̛!͝"
The mirror sheen of the emeral oval before him was interestingly new. How could he not answer its call, even as a jaded king... such a thing. An invitation to adventure, to novelty, to something new.
***
Ennui
"There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison..."
- Conan
***
Familiar Of Zero x Exalted
Fairfolk : The Summoning!