A storyteller's narrative would tell of a kingdom that wasn't. It would mention classic characters: the cruel, bastard king wearing a false crown; his unwitting beloved offering heirs; their daughters and son running from destiny's tines. It would begin with the courtship, serpent tongue dispensing lies and tying up the benevolent hen from her ankles. Infertile, she yearned for children of her own. Swayed by the king's promises, she offered her barren eggshells. With a golden touch, they came to life. The king festered atop his throne, awaiting the birth of his accursed heirs. On the day of emergence, the serpent devoured the innocent hen wholly. As he busied himself with ridding his brood of her influence, they ran. Angered, he pursued them.

Perhaps that was the yawning grave for him. All he remembered was Before. Before the false kingdom. An age of what he had once called noodle quests. Jubilance. Concord. Faces flashing in and out of his memories. One was a lioness, first smiling and second wracked with concern. Another was a primate, face contorted viciously. Because of him him him him. He was tired despite his long, long rest atop his throne in a shield of pyrite. Gembound seemed to lack the acumen they did—he hadn't been approached in cycles. He didn't want to be. He was content to stay here. Wherever that was. He had already forgotten.

Life was uneventful, Nótt had found. Perhaps it was bad timing that he had emerged during a time where the caves found themselves in a peculiar stasis. A lull in activity. Cycles passed and passed, often without any signs of life. It was unfortunate each passing wingbeat was deathly silent. The only thing to provide any distinct noise was the gentle hum of the core Polaris. It had an odd pattern: distant stones grinding together; the generator mill creaking; the rushing river; the hum of the spire. Heim.

Then there were what he had called ávöxturinn. The fruit. Chrysalides scattered about the room, clinging to the ebbing flow of magicka the spire provided. They reminded him of the vision he had before birth. A glorious tree bearing boughs of life. Sometimes, young Gembound would emerge from their shells and dissipate into the woodwork. There was quite a number he never saw again. Some were residents, like the serpent hybrid and the recently-disappeared leopard bird. They never had much conversation to offer.

Back to subject matter, he knew that all chrysalides had to split at some point. Yet, one had not. Pyrite perched atop an aged nest. Garish in gold against the purple walls and drab earth. Silently approaching, Nótt landed atop the egg. Not so much concerned as he was curious, the silent watcher scraped at the stone with wicked talons. "Gullskel hættu," he murmured against the background static.

A voice, gruff against the gentle hum of outside pervaded the dark recesses of his home. Most certainly unwelcome. He started, coils unfurling from their perfect state and spilling out against the shell. Suddenly it felt as if it were suffocating him and he thrashed viciously. Coldness drifted in as his shell came apart with a thickly wet crack! He distantly felt the movement of wings fluttering away, yet was more focused on the fact that he was now outside and vulnerable. Completely unaware of his own sheer size. Lime green eyes were wild, puppy-faced head rising to meet the golden gaze of what was most certainly a predator hungry for anaconda. So, he slithered.

Right out of the nest.

His head met the dull floor with a resounding thud and, thanks to gravity, the rest of him came along too. Lights disorientating, he took a moment to be lost in his own coils.

Suddenly, the fool's gold beneath him shifted and out came something far larger than he would've expected. As he took to hovering on graceful wings, he was further surprised by the absolute fear and horror in the serpent's eyes. "Hey," he hooted, common tongue rough on his tongue. As soon as even that was done, the anaconda found itself on the floor in a pile. Landing at its side, he gently plucked at the green coils, easing them apart with slight hesitation lest the snake rear up and lock its fangs into his leg. "You," Nótt crooned again, "okay?"

The moment something that wasn't him made contact, Midas whirled about himself, tightening the mess he had gotten himself into. He desperately called upon his magicka so that he could just disappear but nothing came. Not even a single thought. His connection to magic was severed. If one were to look closely, they would find center two points of his false crown broken. He looked as if he simply had horns akin to a duiker. His last ditch effort was to hiss, a sound unfamiliar to his dry throat. It was a pathetic little noise.

Out came a hiss, bringing a slight bit more hesitation to his careful movements untangling the massive serpent. Keeping level tone, the owl asserted, "hlustaðu og lærið." Magicka ran hot in the air, rolling waves from the serpent. It was electric and suffocating, cloying in every sense of the word. Something was wrong. Perhaps with the snake it or something to do with it—this feeling had come after it emerged.

In a different time, he may have been considered a bright creature, a conniving bastard, a silver-tongued serpent. But oh, how the mighty fall. It was fortunate the great bird was untangling the panicked serpent, for he was of no state to figure out how to disentangle himself. As soon as his head came free from beneath his own weight, he shifted uncertainly to make sure all of his stomach as back on the earth before making a run for it again.

A flash of that pyrite crown came from the pile and made to escape. Nótt put his talon down upon the anaconda's nape. He flapped his wings briefly before keeping them spread to maintain balance. Cracking open his beak to speak, he took a moment to decipher his own meaning. "Wait," he demurred against the escape attempt. "Rangt... wrong." Adjusting himself so he was closer, he clarified, "you." He hoped the serpent knew some of the common cave tongue. Then, perhaps, he could find answers. Perhaps it lay in the broken stone. He hadn't witnessed such a thing before.

Weight falling upon him that realistically shouldn't have stopped a serpent of his size had him shock-still. Gaze shifting up to the massive bird looming, he felt panic rise up in him. Despite this, the voice again broke through the din. Wrong. Uncertainly, he echoed the word. Unfamiliar syllables tumbling through scaly chords. "Wrong?" He was cold, slick scales doing nothing to keep the dawning winter chill away.

He had eked out a response, however minimal, from the serpent. Had the situation not involved such a looming dread, he may have felt a surge of pride. Yet, he nodded solemnly. "You," a talon extended to the left slightly, tapping one of the remaining prongs of the crown, "broken." Severed. Some gembound gathered scrapes and cracks across their stones in their struggles—few lost whole pieces and survived. Fewer retreated back heim after such a thing and made it back. "Why?"