Rivertown: The Prequel (Part 1)

 

Me: Start the chapter with Ezrathil brooding in his chambers, being passed over yet again for a seat in the council, contemplating about his significance in his realm. He ponders about how his older siblings Zephyra and Vorak is always the favoured one, the thought of it makes his blood boil. Oblivion enters the room, with the intent to comfort him using his usual joking manner to lighten the mood. Ezrathil was not in the mood for Oblivion's quirks, but doesn't reject his efforts. He inquires his brother's intent as he continues to brood. Ezrathil sighs and admits his intrusive thoughts about Zephyra and Vorak, wondering if he were ever to be taken seriously at all,  and while Oblivion agrees to his sentiment, gave him some half-hearted reassurance about his role in their realm. Ezrathil also laments that his social standing costs him his romantic eligibilities, and fears that he may have no one to sire children with to continue his legacy. Ezrathil groans angrily, wishing that he would be taken seriously, wishing that he were the first borns instead of the youngest of them all, never being considered a valuable member of the realm. Oblivion can only wryly agree to his plight as he too is not a firstborn, and suggested that if the realm won't accept him, he should forge his own path. Ezrathil contemplates Oblivion's words, before sighing and asked if he would like to have a drink, and they drank the night away to distract himself from his problems. Make their conversation a bit descriptive. 

 

In the dimly lit chambers of Ezrathil, the Trickster, shadows danced as a storm brewed within him. Passed over once more for a coveted seat in the eldritch council, he pondered the significance of his existence in the vast realm. The air crackled with his discontent, setting the stage for the tumultuous tale that was about to unfold.

As Ezrathil brooded, his mind seethed with resentment. The shadows whispered tales of Zephyra's enchanting wisdom and Vorak's thunderous might, always favored by the eldritch council. The mere thought of their perpetual approval ignited a fiery storm within Ezrathil, his blood boiling with the injustice he felt.

Oblivion, sensing Ezrathil's turmoil, entered with a mischievous grin. "Ah, dear brother, vexed by the council's whims again? I suppose they can't appreciate your unique charm," he quipped, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere with his usual jests.

Ezrathil, immersed in brooding, cast a sidelong glance at Oblivion, the corners of his mouth twitching in a reluctant acknowledgment. "What whimsical trick do you bring to brighten my somber musings, dear Oblivion?" he inquired, his voice a blend of frustration and curiosity. Oblivion, undeterred, leaned against a shadowy corner, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Just a dash of levity, my troubled sibling. A jest to untangle the knots in your thoughts," he replied, his tone playfully conspiratorial.

Ezrathil sighed, the weight of his thoughts escaping in a heavy exhale. "Do they ever see me as more than a trickster, Oblivion? Am I destined to forever dance in the shadows of Zephyra's wisdom and Vorak's might?" Oblivion, still wearing his jesting facade, dropped it for a moment. "Brother, your role in our realm is more profound than they realize. A trickster's dance can be as powerful as thunder or enchantment, if played right. They'll see it in time," he reassured, though his words held a hint of uncertainty.

As the weight of his frustrations deepened, Ezrathil's lament extended to matters of the heart. "Even in matters of romance, my trickster's mask becomes a barrier. What legacy shall I leave if I am denied the chance to sire children, bound by the whims of my social standing?" he mused, a tinge of sorrow in his voice. Oblivion, leaning in closer, offered a more solemn response. "Love may be elusive now, but remember, the threads of fate often weave unexpected patterns. Your legacy may yet find its way into the tapestry of time," he said, his words carrying a mix of comfort and uncertainty.

Ezrathil's frustration erupted in a low growl, a torrent of wishes escaping like a tempest. "Why must I be the youngest, forever denied the respect I crave? If only fate had deemed me the firstborn, perhaps then, they would see the value I bring to this realm," he lamented, the echoes of his discontent lingering in the shadowed confines of his chamber.

Oblivion, sharing the burden of being overshadowed by elder siblings, offered a wry agreement. "Ah, the struggles of not being firstborn. Perhaps, brother, it's time to forge a path beyond the expectations of this realm. If they won't accept you, create a legacy that stands apart," he suggested, a hint of rebellion in his words.

Contemplating Oblivion's words, Ezrathil sighed, a weary acceptance in his gaze. "Perhaps you're onto something, dear brother. But for now, let's drown our troubles in spirits and dance with forgetfulness for a while," he proposed, a flicker of resignation in his voice. Together, they drank the night away, the clinking of glasses and the echoes of their laughter echoing through the halls, a temporary reprieve from the burdens of their existence.