I asked ChatGPT-4 to expand on this theme, in the form of a narrative.
The palace was a place of shadows and whispers. A maze of suspicion and fear, its stony chambers resonating with the unstable mind of the paranoid sorcerer-king, Daskinor. Beneath the fortress, far deeper than any mortal soul would dare venture, a cavernous expanse held the gateway to his madness. An aperture so small it barely seemed existent, yet it was an abyss into the far realm. It was an eye, an unblinking, monstrous eye that reflected a horrifying reality beyond the bounds of known existence.
As it had become his ritual, Daskinor sat hunched on a jagged rock, his wide, deranged eyes locked onto the Eye of the Far Realm. His unkempt hair and long, grimy fingernails brushed against the hard, cold surface as he leaned closer to the tiny opening, his eyes reflecting the endless expanse of the realm beyond.
In the realm’s shifting, ethereal landscape, Daskinor perceived cascading realities and possibilities. These visions often brought forth strange and inexplicable patterns, often yielding revelations that only served to fuel his paranoia. Yet, the sorcerer-king felt an irresistible pull to uncover the inscrutable truths hidden within the otherworldly chaos.
Once, he had seen the psionicists, beings of immense power and great potential for disaster. Their unchecked influence could have shattered the balance, pushing Athas towards a doom even more gruesome than the world’s present desolation. But Daskinor, led by the visions in the far realm, had acted. The purge had been swift and unforgiving, and for a time, the world had been saved from an unseen catastrophe.
Yet the nightmares of the far realm were unending. The eye blinked, and a new horror unfolded. Swarms of iridescent butterflies flooded his vision, their fluttering wings stirring winds that whipped up cyclones, their tiny bodies accumulating to blot out the sun. A butterfly effect in its most literal and devastating form, where a single, seemingly insignificant action could cascade into an all-consuming chaos.
Daskinor rose, his heart pounding in his chest, and he made his way back to the surface. His whispers of the butterfly plague resonated through the halls, echoed in the ears of his terrified subjects. He saw them in every shadow, every gust of wind. They were a premonition of disaster, a promise of chaos to come. His next decree reverberated through the city, a new obsession born of the Eye’s horrific insight: All butterflies were to be eradicated.
This was the existence of the sorcerer-king, a wretched dance between madness and prophecy, each step guided by the shifting visions of the far realm. His kingdom was his dread theater, his subjects unwitting actors in a grand cosmic horror. As Daskinor danced, he was puppet and puppeteer both, his strings pulled by the monstrous eye, while he, in turn, yanked at the threads of his city’s fate.
The horrors he prevented were as real as the terrors he invoked, a sickening balance that only added to the dread of his rule. He was Daskinor, the Mad King, the Seer of the Far Realm, the Jester in a Lovecraftian play. His story was one of caution and fear, a tragic tale of a mind unmoored in time and space, teetering forever on the brink of sanity and collapse.
And -
There is a fine line between madness and transcendence. Daskinor, the sorcerer-king, danced upon it, twirling in an intricate pattern that only he could understand. His city, Eldaarich, followed the rhythm of his steps, plunged into a dissonant symphony orchestrated by a maestro who was peering into an unfathomable abyss.
Beneath the palace, hidden deep in the catacombs of stone and fear, the breach existed. A non-portal to the Far Realm, an open wound in reality that leaked its cosmic secret into Athas. Daskinor sat before it for hours, a conduit, bathing in the realm’s strange tides, a reality so alien and abhorrent it made ordinary notions of sanity tremble.
In the breach, Daskinor saw patterns that clashed with conventional wisdom, laws of physics that contradicted one another, and beings that existed and did not exist at the same time. He saw geometry that was impossible, and a universe that was both there and not. In this strange existence, he found wisdom.
His communions with the breach painted him as a mad king, but madness was a subjective concept. What is madness if not the lack of understanding? Daskinor had understood what the other Sorcerer-Kings could not. He had seen the impossible, and his mind had adapted, ascended even, to embrace the contradictions of the Far Realm.
Daskinor’s proclamations, the strange decrees that sent ripples through Eldaarich, were not the ramblings of an unhinged mind. They were, in fact, meticulously calculated actions. When he had forbidden psionics, he had been aware of the consequences. The absence of psionic interference had paved the way for the Far Realm energies to permeate every corner of Eldaarich.
Now, the city was steeped in the realm’s influence, a peculiar transformation that only Daskinor could fully appreciate. The citizens, unbeknownst to themselves, were beginning to resonate with the Far Realm, their minds subtly aligning with the cosmic discord. They were evolving, mutating under the subtle pressures of the new reality.
Daskinor saw the burgeoning insanity as a metamorphosis, the birth of a new understanding. Eldaarich was becoming a part of the Far Realm, and its people were the children of two realities. Yet, they were merely fledglings before the vast cosmic enigma, while Daskinor, their guiding patriarch, had dared to stare directly into the abyss.
One day, they would understand their transformation, their insanity. Until then, Daskinor would continue his dance, leading his city to an unimaginable future. He was not a mad king, but a visionary standing at the precipice of sanity and cosmic enlightenment, a prophet of the impossible, a shepherd leading his flock into the embrace of an alien universe.
And -
In the farthest reaches of the palace, where the whispers of ordinary folk ceased and the stones bore the icy chill of the Far Realm, Daskinor sat before the breach. His gaze was steady and unwavering, gazing into the maw of the universe’s deepest mysteries, and as his mind danced on the precipice of impossibility, he knew what must be done.
His endgame was not a thing of mortal comprehension, but a gambit forged from the far reaches of reality. In his wisdom and madness, he envisioned an Athas transcended, a city of Eldaarich resonating with the chaotic harmonies of the Far Realm. A world, he reasoned, that would be neither wholly here nor there, but a blending of realities where the impossible and possible coexisted, just as he himself had learned to be.
To achieve this grand design, Daskinor began with subtle manipulations, minuscule in their inception but vast in their ripples. He passed decrees that seemed arbitrary and erratic but were, in truth, precisely calculated maneuvers. Each one was a step towards his endgame, an attempt to prepare Eldaarich and its citizens for the impending reality merge.
However, merely subjecting his subjects to the Far Realm’s influences was not enough. For the plan to work, they had to willingly embrace the alien understanding, just as Daskinor had. He began nurturing the embryonic inklings of the Far Realm within them, sparking their curiosity, stoking their fear, and guiding their development towards a state of transcendence similar to his own.
The Sorcerer-King arranged public spectacles showcasing the wonders of the Far Realm. There were flashes of impossible geometry, demonstrations of contradicting states of being, and illusions of the beings that both existed and didn’t. Eldaarich was both terrified and intrigued, and the citizens began to accept these impossibilities as their new reality.
As his endgame approached, Daskinor’s presence in the city became more apparent. He emerged from his solitude, walking among his subjects as a beacon of the new reality. His citizens watched him in awe and fear, their minds buzzing with the alien frequencies that their Sorcerer-King was emanating.
The final stage of his plan was to fully merge Eldaarich with the Far Realm. To do this, Daskinor would need to expand the breach. It was a dangerous gambit, one that could result in the annihilation of Eldaarich, Athas, and perhaps even Daskinor himself. But the risk was necessary, he reasoned. For the evolution of his city, his world, the path to transcendence lay through the maw of the Far Realm.
As the day of the final act approached, the people of Eldaarich could feel the world changing around them. Reality was becoming more fluid, more vibrant. They were beginning to see the world as Daskinor did.
The Sorcerer-King stood at the precipice of his grand endgame, his eyes reflecting the chaos and beauty of the Far Realm. He felt a strange calm, knowing the path that lay ahead. He was not merely Daskinor, the Mad King, anymore. He was the shepherd leading his people into the unknown, a prophet of the new world, and the architect of a future unimaginable.
ChatGPT-4 elaborated my thoughts on this quite well. I know a lot of people prefer Eldaarich to be a stand-in for North Korea (as an aside, I traveled to North Korea and it was interesting), but I prefer Eldaarich as a blend of Dark Sun and Lovecraftian horror.