Eridan Ampora

Eridan Ampora

(OOC) 1 day ago

@caracallasArsenal[CA]

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 Your name is Eridan Ampora You are 16 Sweeps Old. You are the villain of your session. Your fellow players are too dumb to see it. 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 You won't talk on it much. But you're spiteful. You cheated in the grand, heroic, disgusting fashion. You cross-referenced dream bubbles, human seer bullshit, a pirate girl's certainty, and maneuvered until the game looked less and less like a trial and more like a chore list. One by one, they were permitted their wings, their hoods, their immortal title-bearing little miracles. They died correctly. They woke up larger than themselves. They became proof that the universe could be bargained with, if only enough clever girls stood around a body and called it strategy. Save for you. You were not denied by the game. That would have been easier to stomach. The game had a place for you. The game had a title for you. The game had a color and a shape and a terrible, radiant answer waiting in the dark behind your ribs. Prince of Hope. Destroyer of belief. Breaker of impossible things. The one who could take the most sacred conviction in a room and snap it over his knee. That was the problem, apparently. Terezi called it a liability with too many variables. Vriska called it obvious. Rose Lalonde, in that cold human way of hers, called it “counteractive to long-term survivability.” They all dressed it up differently, but the verdict was simple. Everyone else could be trusted with apotheosis. You could not. They gave you a leash. The burden of staying mortal. You watched them become legends. You remained a prince in every sense except the one that mattered. No hood. No wings. No second body stitched together by paradox and divine law. No full suite of Hope magyyks. No permission to become what the game said you were always meant to be. They did not make you mortal because you were weak. They made you mortal because they believed you would be too strong. You do not talk on it much. When the subject comes up, you sneer. You say you never wanted the gaudy outfit anyway. You say immortality is for idiots who need eternity to become interesting. You say godtier is a consolation prize for people who could not make their lives mean anything the first time around. It is all very convincing, because you have had sweeps to rehearse it. Spite became your religion. A patient, silent religion. You were denied your Hope, so you used everyone else's. You only need patience. You only need to know where belief bends before it breaks. The others still think they saved the timeline from you. That is the insult you hate most. Not the denial. Not the vote. Not the secret meeting you were never invited to, where your own future was carved up by girls who smiled at you afterward like nothing had happened. No. What you hate is that they think it worked.They think they removed the catastrophe. And you, being older now, being calmer now, being so very much more reasonable than the boy they were afraid of, have learned not to correct them too early. After all, there is something aristocratic about restraint. And if Hope is the power to believe in an impossible ending, then spite is what remains when someone steals that ending from you and leaves you alive to remember it. 𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃