Gilgamesh

History
His kingdom is a place of crystal clear waters with petals drifting across the surface, and willow trees with their drooping branches all alight with fireflies trailing through the current. A lonely waterfall feeds it. It is a world of eternal night, with the moon a crisp silver. Stars flicker like the lanterns and fairy lights that alight the air. Thick brush and thickets, with luna moths and mushrooms glowing softly beneath the thick leaves. Every step unleashes a puff of glittering golden spores. Fruit hangs in abundance, vegetables nestled in the earth, and the waters team with fish. Game scurries through the undergrowth. The glowing eyes of owls in the trees and tiny sugar gliders watch your every move.

And then there is him, the king of this whimsical ever-night grove. He sits upon his throne of beautiful polished onyx, brambles and roses entwined with the intricately carved stone. Red lights float languidly about him, and every now and then he will take one into his hand and run his sharp black nails over it. The orb shivers and presses closer every time, and he will smile and press his thin, supple lips to it in lieu of a kiss. His carmine eyes glimmer like fire, and his wild braided raven locks fall around him like willow branches.

And upon his grand skull lies a crown of thorns and roses, charred antlers encircling the piece with dew beading upon the sharp zeniths. He lounges, pale as the moon and the silk of his robes draped all about him. A bonfire of rich scarlet flame alights the clearing, turns his flesh an ethereal hue.

It is a place of indulgence, with sweet water and honey that drips from hives of harmless bees. The softest satin nests lie in the shade under the thickets. Though it is dark, it is beautiful. Perfect. And though it is perfect, with food to feast on and bedding to rest in, a soft melody playing from nowhere, this fantastical place is nothing but a prison.

The hatchlings don’t know any better, scampering amongst his briars, their thistles soft and gentle. A tiny skydancer and an almost as tiny imperial. They laugh and play freely, and he lies back, watching the stars shimmer in their feathers and scales. He did not know their names, knew not their parents or their clans. He had wanted them, wanted their innocent and curious spirits to explore his loveless kingdom. For all he had, for all he ruled, it was not enough if he was the only one to enjoy it.

And so when he had seen them, so new to this world with little fear of anything, he had decided he wanted them. It took little effort to lure them with promises as empty as his grove, into the darkness and between the planes of reality. His dimension, his ever-night, had only ever been his, and whatever was in it was also his.

The days passed and he watched his little hatchlings run ever onwards, and though he rarely left his clearing, he always watched them through the countless eyes in his forest. He watched as their enchanted eyes dulled, growing tired, because even though his grove was so very beautiful and tireless, they were not. They craved the light, he knew, and the parents they thought they loved. But such parents could never love as he did, so vastly and strongly as he did. He would love them endlessly, and they would love him. It would be so easy, if only they never questioned him.

Even that, he knew, was wishful thinking. He was powerful, but not so that he could keep them from growing larger and smarter. Their innocence faded, their playfulness waned like his ever changing moon. It was not long before they started to ask questions.

They yearned to see the sun, visit the world of their birth. They nagged him incessantly, taking advantage of his inability to deny his lovely servants their wishes. Even though they served him and only him, he did care for them, wanted them to be happy. So he struck a deal.

He would take them to this world, but he would go with them. They would understand, eventually, that the world they remembered was not as beautiful as they thought. Sooner or later, they would want to return to his grove.

So he took the form of his imperial, and the three of them left his ever-night grove for the harsh light of Sornieth.