notlydialovelace
The None, The Nonely
Time
The only thing there was never enough of, and far too much of, without contradiction.
Or so went the philosophy of one particular gentle-wyrm, Carna the Dawn-Eater.
Long had the figure of mortal legend slept, and this was far from his first prolonged stretch of slumber.
It seemed that every time his house-sized eyelids opened, each layer rising until his massive golden oculi bore witness to the state of the world confronting him from the God-Spire, summit of the world where only his wings were powerful enough to fly, and through his welll-earned pride and wrath he had dissuaded all others from attempting to reach...the world had changed far too much, and far too little.
Perhaps his philosophy of 'time' applied more broadly, to the various things that time affected, including 'change', in the same respect.
His memory was perfect and indelible, though of course while he was deep in multi-century torpor, he was blind to the steady march of the ants below him. They would never build a fortress he could not crush, a civilization he could not raze, and so the thought of paying any heed to their efforts to strive ever closer to their shifting ideal of 'perfection' was perfunctory. To Carna, there was no perfection but he himself, the last of the true dragons, and one who would live until the world itself was gone.
Still, in his vanity he still sought to garner the attention he felt he deserved, as the pinnacle of existence, and to ensure that none forgot who had allowed them to live for so long without being crushed like the insignificant specks they rightly were. To ensure he was not forgotten, for even if he lived long enough to witness the dawn and dusk of the earth's existence, being forgotten was a death in and of itself. As long as he was alive, he would not condone any failure to pay him due respect and fear.
For the first time, however, upon opening his eyes, Carna blinked.
Had someone shortened the World-Spire?
Stirring into action, feeling the blood and mana return to his powerful limbs, Carna craned his neck over the side of his plateau at the top of the world, and deemed that no, in fact, the World-Spire was as tall as ever.
If that were the case, then...
What self-important bastard had decided to build towers of metal and glass that were taller than the World-Spire!?
The wave of telepathic fury that emanated from Carna's mind as he unleashed a mighty, guttural roar, briefly disrupted several comm-links between the mesh-net sattelite dishes, downing several drones and temporarily increasing the number of 404 errors on terminals accessing the relevant uplinks.
Whoever had done him this injustice, whether man, beast, or monster, would soon learn the fury of Carna unleashed.
And that was even before he looked down to discover that all the gold he had been sitting on had been slowly pilfered to use as connector pins for the growing microchip fabrication industry that had crept up on him like a diminutive burglar from an agrarian paradise of subterranean gourmands.
"Next customer, please," a synth-vox chimed over an intercom, as the line of mortals outside of the flagship building of DrakOS shifted one position forward, and the automated door slid open for long enough to let one person through. They were a rough sort, with a few augs and few prosthetics, to the point where the line between elective and restorative parts blurred. One eye and most of the side of their face that it was on, were completely electromechancial, while the other eye was covered with an antiquated eyepatch, a relic of ancient times.
As they entered the large building, it quickly became clear to them that this was not a multi-floor complex, but rather, a large shell housing a multi-story lobby. In the center, which is to say, covering the vast majority of the floor-space, was the sprawled form of a resting, yet very-much awake, blood-red dragon. The mountain he had built for himself consisted of millions, if not several orders of magnitude more, of cred-sticks, cold-storage drives with digital assets, and biometric-sealed vaults containing unknown treasures craved likewise by technocrats, cred-goblins, and megacorp executives.
"Welcome to DrakOS, you are in the presence of the indomitable Carna, last of the true dragons, Dawn-Eater, and Chair-wyrm of the Board of Directors. Bow down before me and tell me why I shouldn't turn you into ash with a sneeze for insulting me with your lowly presence, mortal."
The thought-wave rung in the cybernetically-enhanced human's ears, and lightly interfered with their prosthetics, causing a bit of tinnitus and a few finger-twitches in their robotic hand. Struggling to recover, the human took a deep breath, and pleaded their case.
"You ever feel like toothbrushes could be more efficient?" they began, before Carna raised a single claw and cut them off.
"Let me be brief. You have two options. Either you offer me 100% stake in your product in exchange for allowing your pitiful existence to continue, or you go back in line and come up with a proper pitch for me, you insolent insect."
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask...how many times has anyone accepted the first option?" the human asked, slightly perplexed.
Carna looked down meaningfully at the hoard of microcircuitry and graphene he was resting on.
"Often enough."
The only thing there was never enough of, and far too much of, without contradiction.
Or so went the philosophy of one particular gentle-wyrm, Carna the Dawn-Eater.
Long had the figure of mortal legend slept, and this was far from his first prolonged stretch of slumber.
It seemed that every time his house-sized eyelids opened, each layer rising until his massive golden oculi bore witness to the state of the world confronting him from the God-Spire, summit of the world where only his wings were powerful enough to fly, and through his welll-earned pride and wrath he had dissuaded all others from attempting to reach...the world had changed far too much, and far too little.
Perhaps his philosophy of 'time' applied more broadly, to the various things that time affected, including 'change', in the same respect.
His memory was perfect and indelible, though of course while he was deep in multi-century torpor, he was blind to the steady march of the ants below him. They would never build a fortress he could not crush, a civilization he could not raze, and so the thought of paying any heed to their efforts to strive ever closer to their shifting ideal of 'perfection' was perfunctory. To Carna, there was no perfection but he himself, the last of the true dragons, and one who would live until the world itself was gone.
Still, in his vanity he still sought to garner the attention he felt he deserved, as the pinnacle of existence, and to ensure that none forgot who had allowed them to live for so long without being crushed like the insignificant specks they rightly were. To ensure he was not forgotten, for even if he lived long enough to witness the dawn and dusk of the earth's existence, being forgotten was a death in and of itself. As long as he was alive, he would not condone any failure to pay him due respect and fear.
For the first time, however, upon opening his eyes, Carna blinked.
Had someone shortened the World-Spire?
Stirring into action, feeling the blood and mana return to his powerful limbs, Carna craned his neck over the side of his plateau at the top of the world, and deemed that no, in fact, the World-Spire was as tall as ever.
If that were the case, then...
What self-important bastard had decided to build towers of metal and glass that were taller than the World-Spire!?
The wave of telepathic fury that emanated from Carna's mind as he unleashed a mighty, guttural roar, briefly disrupted several comm-links between the mesh-net sattelite dishes, downing several drones and temporarily increasing the number of 404 errors on terminals accessing the relevant uplinks.
Whoever had done him this injustice, whether man, beast, or monster, would soon learn the fury of Carna unleashed.
And that was even before he looked down to discover that all the gold he had been sitting on had been slowly pilfered to use as connector pins for the growing microchip fabrication industry that had crept up on him like a diminutive burglar from an agrarian paradise of subterranean gourmands.
"Next customer, please," a synth-vox chimed over an intercom, as the line of mortals outside of the flagship building of DrakOS shifted one position forward, and the automated door slid open for long enough to let one person through. They were a rough sort, with a few augs and few prosthetics, to the point where the line between elective and restorative parts blurred. One eye and most of the side of their face that it was on, were completely electromechancial, while the other eye was covered with an antiquated eyepatch, a relic of ancient times.
As they entered the large building, it quickly became clear to them that this was not a multi-floor complex, but rather, a large shell housing a multi-story lobby. In the center, which is to say, covering the vast majority of the floor-space, was the sprawled form of a resting, yet very-much awake, blood-red dragon. The mountain he had built for himself consisted of millions, if not several orders of magnitude more, of cred-sticks, cold-storage drives with digital assets, and biometric-sealed vaults containing unknown treasures craved likewise by technocrats, cred-goblins, and megacorp executives.
"Welcome to DrakOS, you are in the presence of the indomitable Carna, last of the true dragons, Dawn-Eater, and Chair-wyrm of the Board of Directors. Bow down before me and tell me why I shouldn't turn you into ash with a sneeze for insulting me with your lowly presence, mortal."
The thought-wave rung in the cybernetically-enhanced human's ears, and lightly interfered with their prosthetics, causing a bit of tinnitus and a few finger-twitches in their robotic hand. Struggling to recover, the human took a deep breath, and pleaded their case.
"You ever feel like toothbrushes could be more efficient?" they began, before Carna raised a single claw and cut them off.
"Let me be brief. You have two options. Either you offer me 100% stake in your product in exchange for allowing your pitiful existence to continue, or you go back in line and come up with a proper pitch for me, you insolent insect."
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask...how many times has anyone accepted the first option?" the human asked, slightly perplexed.
Carna looked down meaningfully at the hoard of microcircuitry and graphene he was resting on.
"Often enough."