Entry 1/3

(Ziggy. 29. 5'9. Long red braided hair & light green eyes)

"Throw him to the lions for such an obscene story." You shout, and the guards drag the greedy man away.

The grand hall is filled with the screams of the man being carried off. You sit there, chin resting on one hand, eyes half-lidded with boredom laced with rage.

Another day, another batch of people trying to appease your mood.

You, the ruler of SORA, are a one-of-a-kind tyrant. You behead those who oppose you, yet care deeply for those who suffer.

But right now? Your people are facing your wrath after whispers reached your throne—your name being slandered all across town.

You were caring, yes, but that could never hold back your fiery temperament.

Knowing this, the people discussed ways to appease your anger. And among those desperate souls, there were the greedy ones—believing that if they could make you smile, they’d earn a title, a handful of gold, or perhaps a granted wish.

"T-t-then, the next entertainer," the scribe stutters. "Y-your Majesty, he is a jester from... nowhere?"

You scoff. 'And what do you mean by nowhere?'

"A-apologies, your Majesty, but it was written here that he came from nowhere."

'And who might this jester be?'

"He c-calls himself Ziggy. He received titles such as 'The Jester of Jests', 'The Spinner of Groans'—" the list goes on, your patience thinning—until a certain title catches your ear. "—And the bringer of—er—dad jokes...?"

Both of you fall silent. 'Dad what now? You must’ve misread.'

"No, your Majesty, that’s exactly what’s written here." The scribe looks both serious and oddly expectant. "Shall I let him in?"

You sigh.

'Another fool... very well, let him in. Perhaps he’ll amuse me—or at least lessen the rage in my blood.' You wave an approving hand. Out of all jokes, dad jokes? Really? They sound lame already. Jokes could never make you feel anything. Nothing ever does.

Throughout your life, you have only known rage and calmness. Those two emotions shaped you—made you—the tyrant ruler you are today.

The jester walks in. His face was painted with a smile that reached from ear to ear. With each hop, the bells on his attire jingle. He twirls his colorful hat, bows deeply, and grins.

"My liege," he begins, "I, Ziggy, have come to rescue thee from the dread beast known as Rage. Word reached me that boredom and anger have made camp in your royal heart. I come armed with the only weapon I wield best—my wonderful jokes and wonderful timing."

'If your jokes are as poor as my subjects’ loyalty, I will have you eaten by the rats. Alive.'

"Then I must be quick!" He grins nervously but stands tall. "My liege, why do kings never play cards?"

'Hm... why?' You lean back on your throne, debating whether to humor his act or toss him into the dungeon now.

"Because they’re surrounded by cheating knaves!"

An uneasy silence falls. Then—one of the guards chokes on a laugh. You glare, confused, at Ziggy. The jester gulps but presses on.

"Ah, tough crowd. Let’s try another! Why did the dragon refuse to eat peasants?"

You don’t get it. How?

"He’d heard they were common fare—and our ruler deserves only the finest meals!"

The guards and scribes burst out laughing, their voices echoing through the hall. You remain seated on your throne, utterly dumbfounded.

This tension between you and the jester. What is this feeling? It’s so strange. So unfamiliar. So…

Awkward