|Championed by the Hero:||Epitome of Misery|
|Motto:||The Misery Never Ends|
|Guild:||The Forsakens Lament|
Banished. They banished me. Into this place; this pitch dark hell. I cannot see a single thing. Blind, a creator and an artist, and they made me blind. Heartless worms, hypocrites. I cannot even feel anything. How much, longer? Forever, they said, forever. Eternity. These seconds go by so slow. I cannot take this much longer. But eternity. That is what they said.
Red. Blue. Green. White. Yellow. Purple. Orange. Cyan. Maroon. Teal. Brown. Wonderful colors; I can see nothing. Even black. This pitch dark is not even black. Just nothing. Give me color. Now. I need it. I can barely see them in my mind. But I am losing. Fading to dark. Sinking to nothing. Floating into negatives. My colors are dying.
Never. I will never lose them. I will bring color to this hell. I need to concentrate. Thoughts. Colors. I see them. And force them out. An explosion. I open my eyes, and the first thing I see:
Beautiful. But I cannot control it. It constantly shifts, and I am awash in it's flow. Formless. I slowly lose my image, what I used to resemble. I forget what I once appeared as. Slowly, my countenance fades away:
But my mind, is intact. Stronger than ever. These vivid colors, this paint of frenzy, bleeds into my exile. I can see once again, feel once again. Yet this is still torment. I can barely control it. It expands rapidly, transforming this dark realm and forcing it into being. This is the Abstract. I am carried along by my paint, the artist no longer in control of his creation:
My hate grows every moment. I hate them for banishing me here; for punishing my sin, my sin of being weak. Of disillusion. Arrogant gods obsessed with with their own power and control, banishing me for faithlessness. This prison specifically designed to torment my artist's mind: first, trapped in darkness, not able to see, and now, unable to create because my mind is unstable. This frothing paint around me, born in this formless world, knows no bounds. I realize, it is trying to escape; to expand and distort.
Maybe, I can direct it's mad rage. It is still my creation, still my power. We both want out, and I have an agenda: revenge. I could unleash this boundless wrath into their world of solidity and form. Fully consumed. Devastation. They would lose their precious control. And I would finally escape this hell.
But I cannot completely break out from from inside. I need something from the other side, to weaken the barrier. A champion, like the one they had culled for my sin. A champion that would bring this dreadful, frothing paint to their world, and avenge my former hero. The hero, that I loved dearly.
The Abstract Universe rumbles, stirred into boiling anger by my own mind. It wants to burst past these confines, as do I. I will need a new image, a terrifying face to show them my Misery. A new hero and a new self. I will paint the worlds with my Misery.