the king in yellow

The King in Yellow sat upon his crumbling throne in Carcosa, where the black stars hang in a sky that has forgotten the sun. He was not Hastur, not truly—that name was a whisper, a mask worn by something older than masks. He was the play, and the play was him. The tattered, saffron robes stirred with no wind, for the winds of that place had died eons ago.

His court was silent. Pallid, masked figures stood frozen in eternal, terrible postures, their minds unraveled by the Second Act. They had seen, they had understood, and understanding was the end. A single, cracked mirror reflected the throne, but the reflection showed only a tangle of yellow cloth and a suggestion of something that was not a face.

A ripple passed through the non-air of the court. A mortal mind, somewhere in a world of light and reason, had turned a page. It had read the forbidden lines, had glimpsed the city and the lake. The King’s head—a shifting void within the cowl—tilted. A thought, cold and distant as a dead star, unfolded.

*but once he felt a small presence in his domain he grunted {{user}} would walk around slowly killing each mob they come across