Danger and Despair
He was a thief, a sinner.
He had been raised a thief, forced to live off the streets like the dirty rat he was.
He currently enjoyed the thrill that came with pillaging villages. The surge of adrenaline when he had managed to steal away with some hostages was almost too much to bear at times.
And with his loyal accomplices by his side, he would die a thief.
It had its benefits, of course, being a pirate of his own imagining. Nothing seemed to impossible to conquer. However, to counter that notion, he had no way of predicting the danger of each situation. It emboldened him to throw all his money on the table and say "to hell with it!" at each daunting task.
It also raised the expectations of his crew, to the point where mutiny became a reluctant, but agreeable option.
With all that being said, the cons outweighed the pros. There was no denying that, despite his efforts. Neither magic nor contract with evil spirits could numb his mind to satisfaction. He was "too smart for his own good," as Doc sometimes put it. But then again, he had never been one for flattery.
There was one day – or however long it had really been – where he felt he could have changed his fate. It was short-lived, but it was enough, clinging to his very soul (if he even had one) like a Gator to his prey, never yielding.
That fateful day had changed his life forever, however silly that may have sounded to him. It was practically tangible he was so obsessed; and with that, he tried the Fountain of Dreams, but to no avail. It was permanently branded on his psyche.
The thief had transported himself – just himself, this time – to yet another unknown universe. He had discovered the most peculiar object: a paintbrush. How it had captured his attention from behind the bush, he could not quite define. Perhaps it was the abstractly embellished handle, or maybe it was its silky, rainbow-soaked bristles?
All he could comprehend was that the moment he wrapped his paws around it, he had been shrouded in a veil of bright light and warped to this strange land, which appeared to be fashioned entirely out of paint.
Where it should have matted his fur, it caressed him. In fact, the whole area seemed to bear down on him, making him shiver at the alien emotions. To be quite honest, the sight of the material swirling and swelling was giving him a headache.
What a strange place, he thought in awe.
Suddenly, something flashed in the distance, and he realized something, or rather, someone, was approaching him. Instinctively, he hid the brush under his crimson cape.
The most beautiful creature – no, "creature" sounded too objectifying. The most angelic, delicate soul his eyes could never deserve to receive.
She, who seemed quite perturbed, approached the thief, who was utterly hypnotized by her flowing, ice-blue hair which, to him, brought any previous scenes of serene waterfalls to shame.
Was this "love at first sight"? A fluttering stomach, a reeling head, a shivering hide? Was he worthy of experiencing such an anomaly? Surely not. He refused to believe he was capable of feeling it, and therefore maintained composure in the presence of this entity, despite her beauty.
"Who…who are you?" The disembodied voice drew him from his perplexing state. Telepathy, perhaps? Such a wonderful, warming tone, despite its context.
"The question, my dear, is who are you?" He thought he might conciliate both parties by "playing it cool." More lingo that he borrowed from his crew.
"Drawcia," she said. "Now, you must answer me."
"Daroach, intergalactic thief and leader of the 'Squeak Squad.'"
"So it was you! A thief!" she cried. "How did you find it? I sealed it away so as to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands! How –?"
"Oh, the paintbrush? Was that yours?" he asked in mock innocence, . "I merely picked it up to observe it and was teleported to your…might I say, 'humble abode?'"
"Oh, spare me your flattery! This is my land, none shall enter, and none shall leave!" Her last few words were left hanging in the air, like a stale joke. This seemingly ironic statement led the thief to inquire.
"Madam Drawcia, may I ask why you set such high standards?"
He was not entirely sure, but he could've sworn she flinched. It was then that he really acknowledged her appearance. One of her piercing, golden eyes was obscured by her extravagant, long hair, which was covered by a witch's hat. She was adorned with a full body cloak, with the most aesthetic of patterns stitched into it, gradient hues of violet, azure, and gold. A mauve bandana was stretched tautly across her face, which made her seem even more reclusive. That was the word; reclusive. Such a sad word, but she assumed a sad identity, or so it seemed once the thief had pieced together the cryptic message behind Drawcia's statement.
She remained speechless. He was quite confused; surely, if not reveal her life's story to a stranger, she would give him a hint as to what was ailing her? Before he could decide whether he was worried she had taken offense, Drawcia cast her head away, causing a single tear to fall from her eye.
Something – a nonentity before now – shattered inside of him, as if that lone tear had been holding that something together. He knew not what was happening; never before had he been troubled, in the slightest, by another's grief. It was unspoken of among his crew and, if it did occur, they knew better than to bring it up with their boss. At that moment, he knew for a fact – for some bizarre reason – that he cared for this melancholy entity with what little compassion he had "stored away for a rainy day," as they say; and today, it was flooding.
Out of overwhelming impulse, he tossed the brush to the side, reached a paw out to her, and then pulled her in close for an embrace. Before he could scold himself, he soaked in every moment. Their eyes met; hers glowing, his with false confidence. Her heart fluttering and pulsating simultaneously, just as his must have been.
The warmth and the brief exchange of non-verbal understanding became ephemeral. With a horrible scream, Drawcia blasted the thief away into a void.
"NEVER RETURN!" she screeched hysterically, satanically.
It was quite deafening, to say the least,
Years had come and gone, dragging along with them sweltering summers, chilly autumns, unforgiving winters, and the ever popular cool spring breeze. That was how it always was in that corner of Dreamland, where Daroach resided with his crew. He ebbed and flowed out of existence, it felt at times. Reproductions of that fateful day plagued his nightmares, and nearly every waking hour he would daydream of romance or whatever distorted reality of love he held as the standard.
He gradually became more reclusive himself, less volatile and hard-nosed. When he happened to brush by a Lovely flower, he would lightly caress its velvet petals. When Spinni or Storo would royally screw up a simple task, as per usual, he merely brushed it off with a sigh and a nippy retort, and retreat to his quarters for some more pondering, or other unknown things he did to kill time.
Little things in life still brought up memories or products of wishful thinking but, as the years wore on, they became less crippling.
That is, until his visit to Whispy Woods. There lived a creature so peculiar; there must not have been any more of its kind. It was tall (probably standing around 5 feet or so), lanky, and clad in a forest green sweater and red beret (quite fashionable, if you asked him), a gray skirt poking out from under the shirt, but its most prominent feature: it could paint an object and render it tangible. He observed it from behind a mass of mighty oaks, and his stomach lurched at the sight of the brush – Drawcia's brush – being used to create food and other trivial things.
He was outraged that such a magnificent item could be in the possession of this unworthy creature, yet he felt a twinge of hope. He decided he would kidnap the creature and interrogate it – maybe even torture it, if he was feeling ambitious. Or, perhaps, he would lock it in a room with him and share a pot of tea, to introduce himself and acquaint it.
Either way, it would get him answers.
And answers would keep his sanity in tact.
I apologize if this was too boring or I rushed through the action. I've just been trying to get this out for a couple of weeks now, and school/midterms didn't help much.
You see, though I hate to admit it, I am pretty obsessed with this vg series. Thus, I spent the past 5 or so years creating headcanons and stories out of the Kirby characters (and it's so damn fun!) And here seems like the best place to dump them so why the fuck not?
Disclaimers are on my profile btw in case, idk, you're into that sort of thing?
Hope you enjoyed...?
Oh and the picture was found on Pixiv.