The majestic Malchior lounged in a throne of golden radiance warmed by rich crimson splashes placed mystifyingly throughout. Floating invisibly about the powerful eldritch light of his nigh-godly form was a palpable aura of…
Bored-ness.
"Uhhh…" Malchior's ice blue eyes trailed off lethargically along the pitch walls he'd meta-physically forged in his imprisonment.
Malchior had been soulfully shackled in this prison for such a very long time; far longer than the Earth has existed. When he was first banished to this Hell designed especially for him many dimensions' lifespans ago it had been nothing but torture and imprisonment. He was stripped down to his basic ethereal self and placed in an inescapable pseudo-dimension that was nothing but aether magically coerced into torturing his very substance for all eternity.
But despite the complexity of the deep magic used to build His Hell and to keep him there and tortured for all time, Malchior was too strong to surrender. After a millennia or so his sheer force of will had broken most of the original stipulations of his imprisonment, but never was he able to single-handedly escape or break the dimension. So instead he set about shaping it as he so pleased using a combination of his deep primordial magic, sheer force of will, and his wild and divinely complex imagination.
For an aeon or two Malchior was actually entertained, indeed joyously enthralled! Thinking up grand new sagas and stories and then having the power to not only write them down but to make them come to life before his very eyes. He thought that if he ever escaped the prison he would have to thank his jailors for showing him what it was like to be God. Thousands of sagas and hundreds of worlds with millions of heroes and villains with their stories stretching over their quasi-fictional histories.
But eventually even Malchior's cosmic imagination reached it's limits, he could think of no adventures that he had not already created, he could think of no great new loves, no great new evils, no great new paradoxes that he had not already done in every variance possible.
Malchior revisited the favorites of his worlds often but after several hundred times they lost almost all interest to him. So he resigned to organize all his great tales, thoughts, romances and philosophies. He created his throne room: the central hub of the pseudo-dimension that was once nothing but malignant aether, transformed into a glorious multiverse by the will of Malchior.
The throne room itself was a glorious place of vast volume. Long, white marble floors leading to walls of the pitchest black, interupted at artistic intervals by Corinthian pillars of the same marble-whiteness as the floor, that in turn lead up to a ceiling that Malchior purposefully left a half-formed construct: a semi-existing mist, just to keep things interesting. There were countless grandly arching windows that went from floor to quasi-ceiling. Blue curtains that mixed well with the pitch walls and the white floor accompanied these grand windows. Outside the windows was a wonder in and of itself. They would show whatever Malchior willed them to, but often times he would simply just let show the same mysterious quasi-existence of the ceiling.
He had willed many statues and fountains into existence, many of his own design, many from the time before his imprisonment, and a few he had seen and loved in any of the times someone had let him out of his prison, oh how he loved those times, and how rare they were. For you see even though it was his multiverse to control, even though he was its God, he was ultimately free to do everything and anything save for the one thing he wanted most: to leave.
It was significantly better than what was originally intended for him, but it was still eternal imprisonment.
To amuse himself further he created many fountains in his thrown room of various styles and beauties, all eternally spouting and flowing shimmering water of life. Along one of the far pitch walls was a seemingly endless shelf of books. So many books of every size, shape, thickness, and color. Each and every one held an entire universe, wrought entirely of Malchior's imagination that after countless visits to, Malchior had grown tired of.
Often times in his search for entertainment Malchior would muse about the times he'd been set free, recalling the euphoric feeling of freedom was enough to set the primordial being into a good mood.
An interesting thing that Malchior discovered on one of the first times he was mistakenly given temporary liberation from His Personal Hell was that the pseudo-dimension was transubstantiated into a tome in the actual multiverse. That he was essentially a primordial being of immense power, scope, and consequence stuck in the pages of some musty old book. But an interesting stipulation he discovered on a later temporary liberation was that he could control the text of the tome's leaves. He often chose his favorite of all the grand sagas he had woven: The Life of Rorek.
Malchior had been accidentally summoned many times, and on rare occasion summoned intentionally, but always had he been put back. The reason for his constant conquer was another of the stipulations of his imprisonment that he had yet to overcome in the aeons of aeons of his incarceration: how to avoid being thrown back into the book. As things now stood and had always stood once any being spoke the words of his imprisonment he was pulled by his very ethereal essence back into the musty leaves, back into His Hell. The pseudo-dimension that was linked to his soul by the very same powers that set up the pillars of existence.
Malchior so loved these little romps in the real world. He would either cause mischief or he would patron heroes or inspire poets or insight rebellion or defend kingdoms (or destroy kingdoms if he was feeling particularly grumpy). Malchior rejoiced in noting all the changes in things since his last excursion into reality. In his more recent vacations he was euphoric to learn that an ancient race that he had been the creator of was still alive and was burned into the subconscious of the 'humans' that inhabited the planet that his tome had been on for many millennia. Dragons.
Malchior had been the first dragon; he took up the form long ago and was so pleased with it that for a long time it was what he used as his casual body. But as time went on the huge size and beastial nature of the body became cumbersome and he resigned the form for when he needed to be truly intimidating and ferocious.
In one of his excursions he conjured a race of dragons after the image of himself in that form, and that was the birth of the therionous race.
Unfortunately for Malchior, however, all these niceties were useless to him as he was always re-incarcerated into His Hell where he reigned supreme… supremely bored, that is.
Besides reminscing about the past and dreaming of future freedom he spent a great deal of his time in his thrown room, trying in vain to entertain himself.
Music? With a thought Malchior could have any band or orchestra or choir he desired.
Food? The merest whim of the primordial being conjured the most grandiose dining that had ever been seen.
Pleasurable company? Poets, jesters, heroes, philosophers, lady(ies) of the evening, all born in an instant purely out of his will.
Yet, being God had grown old for the being named Malchior, and this became evident as he sat on his golden and crimson thrown, glowing with deep magic, and tapped his long fingers on the armrest like an impatient teenager with nothing to do.
The long silver hair, the pale (nigh-gray) skin, the ice blue eyes, the robes and armor that would identify him to the Titans as the fictional 'Rorek' was the form the primordial being chose the great majority of the time. As has been mentioned The Life of Rorek was his personal favorite of all the tales that he had fabricated, and the handsome body of the young sylvan hero had become one that Malchior wore so often that he had come to identify it as his casual body.
With the clothe down from around his lower face Malchior sighed and cast his ice blue eyes out across his thrown room, at all the fountains, all the statues, all the globes. His eyes traveled to his bookshelf and all the contents of the myriad of universes he had created, and all the wonder they had in them.
Malchior sighed once more, "Uhhh…" He sat back in his majestic throne and closed his eyes, rubbing his long, sylvan face with his mighty hands causing a few shimmering strands of his hair to fall into his face. His arms then fell back to their places on the armrests as Malchior sat in an unnatural silence.
With a deep breath Malchior thought about the most recent time he had been set free. It was the shortest amount of time he had ever been let out.
As his thoughts wandered over the event his soul, old as time, twanged with a pang of regret even though all of his senses knew he'd only acted as he'd had to. Like a small skylark flapping it's pure-white self across the dread basin of a dark storm cloud.
He opened his eldritch eyes half lidded and a name escaped his lips in a voice that betrayed pride, lust, admiration, hate, and remorse, "Raven…"
His head tilted back against his Supreme Throne and he gazed up at the rolling, semi-existing mist that comprised the ceiling of his throne room. With a potency that any actor would kill for Malchior easily mused a scene of faded fatigue, failure, and nostalgia as he spoke, "If only you understood..."