jump

Call him evil, a narcissist, heartless, without principle, soulless, empty. Call him someone who dodges responsibility, someone completely swallowed by self pity. Nothing, nothing, nothing, call him Nothing.

But, he’d called himself Nothing for long enough, and he’d grown sick of it. ‘Nothing’ had no history or future, no grievances or delights, or guilts.

He’d considered ‘Chaos’, but that wasn’t enough, it was too depressing, too unimbuable with order. ‘Quintessence’ and ‘Five’ were too on the nose.

‘Yawn’ would work. Chaos came from a yawn, he mused, vaguely recalling its etymology. You are a Yawn, a Bored, Living Man, seeking to put the country on a more agreeable track. Your previous tenure as a do-nothing prince proved too boring and restrictive.

It was all post hoc, probably, as with most things with you. You probably didn’t know what you were thinking, and now you had to give it greater meaning, so the guilt of your irresponsibility and shattered relationships didn’t eat you up.

But it didn’t matter.

A door kicked open. “Salutations, adventurers!”

Nobody heard, or maybe no one cared. Obnoxious overdressed inebriated beautiful men in black velvet cloaks and face masks carrying unused swords and staffs and backpacks was probably a normal occurrence here. Fish in water and whatnot.

You are Yawning Jack, no, Yawning… Squire? Yawning Fool? Yawning Dick. When filling in your application, you would say “Yawning [TBD]”. You are a former Penbarrian farmer who got sick of farming, and taking advantage of the measly inheritance your father left you, you decided to set off for the Blisbane Vanguard guild. You had grown sick of Felkner, but still wanted to serve the country, and you’d heard Blisbane had far more issues with crime than Felkner. That, and Anisa scared you. Prince Hendrik took pity on your situation and provided you some gear. And now you were in Blisbane, in the primary Vanguard Guild hall, which seemed more like a homeless shelter, or a back alley drug deal factory, where everyone had something vaguely pointy or magical or explosive to use if someone looked at them wrong.

There was a large board — full of ripped paper and illiterate scrawlings and swears and penises — that was apparently at one time a job board. The few papers you could see that were telling anyone to do anything productive were mundane. Help build a fence. Shovel manure. Pass out fliers informing people of the benefits of using an outhouse, and putting money in the bank, and pictograms trying to direct them to the city reading center.

You left.

A door kicked open. “Salutations, mages!”

This had a more positive response of garnering mass suspicion and irritation.

Ah, well, he had to announce a name, now, and you couldn’t exactly call yourself an adjective, you had to call yourself a noun. “I am the Yawner!” You cringed. “I have come from the city of Felkner to join in your efforts of magery and esoteric study! I would like to fill out a membership form, pay the fee, and begin study posthaste! Praise Holstram, praise Shiron, praise Logos!”

“We… we’re not recruiting. Check back in a few months.”

“Really? I have the endorsement of Hendrik Day, who—”

“Yes, really. Tell Hendrik to stuff it.”