Of Roses and Champagne

Storage for his lore, and the progression of his downfall.
More will be added along the way.

I. The Golden Thorned King

Born into a prestigious pride, ORaC was raised under the gilded paw of a former queen, a lioness whose rule had once been admired and feared. His mother, renowned for her beauty and cunning, saw in him the potential for greatness - her son would be the next ruler of the Sahara Desert, destined for glory. In the first months of his life, he was showered with affection, rare meats, and the finest luxuries the pride could offer. There was no struggle in his youth, no harsh summers or brutal winters to survive, no rival predators to ward off. He was the prized cub, and to him, that meant that greatness would come easily, that power was his birthright. While the other cubs were taught the brutal ways of survival, hunted by their mothers and fathers, ORaC spent his days lounging in the warmth of the royal den, his only battles fought in the form of playful disagreements with other cubs over toys and treats. This lack of hardship became his foundation, the bedrock of arrogance upon which he built his sense of superiority.As ORaC matured, the cracks in his seemingly perfect world began to show. His mother’s influence still loomed large, and he began to witness the undercurrents of the pride’s politics - the whispered conversations, the subtle power struggles, the shift in loyalties. The elders spoke of wisdom, restraint, and duty, but ORaC saw nothing but weakness in those words. He craved power, but not just any power - the kind of power that was absolute, unchallenged. Rivalries blossomed within the pride, but instead of seeking camaraderie, ORaC viewed his fellow cubs as obstacles to overcome. The idea of friendship was foreign to him; to him, others were tools to be manipulated or enemies to be destroyed. One by one, he made his mark, using deception and trickery to undermine those who posed a threat. A false whisper here, a well-timed challenge there - his rise through the ranks was swift, ruthless, and inevitable.At the height of his arrogance, Vyzer, the reigning king, stood as a monument to everything ORaC loathed. Where Vyzer was measured and thoughtful, ORaC saw only weakness. The king’s rule was steady, built upon wisdom and a sense of responsibility, but to ORaC, that was nothing but indecisiveness. The true throne, in his eyes, belonged to him and no one else. Vyzer’s reign, long and prosperous, had brought peace to the pride, but in the heart of ORaC, a darker hunger brewed. He could not be content with a simple life; he wanted to reign with unmatched authority, to be the lion to whom all others bowed for. The moment of opportunity arrived during a fierce storm, when the pride was divided and disoriented by the chaos of nature. The winds roared through the desert, and in that tempest, ORaC saw his chance. He gathered a handful of loyal followers, his manipulation complete, and made his move. Vyzer, caught off-guard by the treachery of his former protégé, was struck down. In the blinding fury of the storm, ORaC killed him, feeling no remorse - only the thrill of seizing what he believed was rightfully his. With Vyzer's blood staining the sands beneath him, ORaC ascended to the throne, taking his place as king of the Sahara Desert.At first, the pride was unsure of what to make of their new king. But ORaC wasted no time in asserting his authority. The lion who had once been a carefree cub now stood as a tyrant, ruling with an iron paw. His rule was absolute, built upon fear and intimidation. Where once there had been harmony, there was now division and cruelty. ORaC demanded loyalty, but not respect - he cared little for the pride's well-being, only for his image as an unquestioned ruler. Despite the lavishness of his reign, a shadow crept into his soul. For all his power, he could not escape the truth of his isolation. His arrogance had led him to distrust even those who had once been his closest allies. His fears of betrayal paralyzed him, causing him to sever ties with many and view everyone - family, friends, and followers alike - as mere tools in his grasp for more control. As the years passed, he ruled not with wisdom but with paranoia and cruelty. His every move was calculated to preserve his fragile sense of security.In the quietest moments, when the roar of the desert winds could not drown out his thoughts, ORaC found himself haunted by the specter of Vyzer. The noble king’s shadow followed him, reminding him of the wisdom and compassion he lacked. It tormented him that, despite all he had accomplished, his legacy could never be as revered as Vyzer’s. The desire for a lasting legacy gnawed at him, for deep down, ORaC feared that his reign would be remembered only for its brutality. He wished to be more than just a king who ruled by fear; he longed to be a king remembered for his greatness, for a reign that inspired respect. Yet, his ruthless nature betrayed him, undermining his every attempt to leave behind a legacy of honor. In the end, ORaC's rule would be one of paradoxes. He would be remembered as both the lion who seized the throne with blood and the lion who was consumed by it. A king who gained the world only to lose himself in the process. His name would echo across the desert, but whether it would be in reverence or in warning remained to be seen. For in the Sahara Desert, where the winds carry whispers of the past, no king's reign lasts forever - especially one whose heart is ruled by fear.

II. The Thorn and The Jackal

The air hung heavy over the Sahara like breath before a strike. Beneath the moon’s sickle light, Of Roses and Champagne prowled the edge of his kingdom. Sand stirred around him in quiet reverence - or fear. His mane shimmered with sweat and dust, his eyes twin blades of suspicion.His kingdom had grown restless. He could smell the tension on the wind. Whispers of rebellion, ghosts of doubt. He would not tolerate them.So when he saw the figure sitting calmly atop the sun-bleached remains of a dune lion statue, he did not ask questions.“You dare trespass on royal ground?” ORaC growled, voice sharp, regal, enraged. “State your name, or die with it in your throat.”Schadenfreude didn’t move. The black and white lion lifted his eyes, glassy and calm, like a mirror catching firelight. His smile was faint, as if the world were amusing, not threatening.“Ah,” Schadenfreude murmured, “The crown fits crooked, but it still believes itself golden.”ORaC’s snarl deepened. He stepped forward, tail lashing, muscles tense. “You think you can speak riddles and walk away? I’m not some cub dazzled by superstition.”Schadenfreude rose slowly - graceful, poised, unbothered.“I don’t speak for you to listen, little king. I speak so the silence will remember.” He circled once around ORaC, not as prey, not as predator, but as witness. “Tell me - when you dream, do you still see the old king’s eyes watching you from the storm?”ORaC lunged.Teeth flashed, claws struck sand - but when the dust settled, Schadenfreude was gone. No wounds. No blood. Only laughter echoed, dry and weightless, like wind in the bones of a buried palace.And at ORaC’s paws, a single white thorn.
Some say ORaC never speaks of that night. Others say he doubled his guards at the kingdom’s borders, though none knew what he feared.But the vultures remember. They say the king tried to destroy the thorn, but every time he burned it, it grew back, blooming in his private chamber. A silent reminder that no lion escapes judgment - not even those who deny its name.After that night, Of Roses and Champagne returned to his throne, his steps heavy with fury. He told no one what happened. Not his guards, not his advisors - not even the loyal lioness who once nursed him. He buried the event beneath a veil of disdain.“A vagrant spirit,” He called Schadenfreude when questioned about the sudden doubling of patrols. “No threat. Just another scavenger with a flair for theatrics.”But the pride knew better.Because something changed in him.The king’s voice grew sharper, like thorned wine. He punished too quickly, rewarded too little. He paced more. Slept less. His once extravagant feasts became smaller, colder - though no one dared comment. The courtiers began to whisper that the king had seen a ghost and now feared his own shadow.And then there were the thorns.White, pale, unnatural. They bloomed in the cracks of his chamber walls. In the footprints left on polished marble. In the mane of a loyal servant found dead with no wounds - only petals in his mouth.Every time ORaC ordered them burned, they returned. Quietly. Elegantly. Like a message dressed in finery.The king refused to show fear. He would not give power to superstition.“There is no curse,” He told his reflection. “Only cowards who believe in them.”But at night, when all the torches burned low and the hall was silent, he would see those eyes again - mirrored, silver, calm.And laughter would echo down the empty halls of his palace.A laughter that wasn’t his.
Across the land, the tale twisted and spread. Some say ORaC challenged a spirit of judgment and lived. Others say he struck a deal and now pays in thorns. A few whisper that his crown is no longer gold, but salt and sand, crumbling by the day.Only the vultures know the truth. And they do not speak. They only watch… and wait.

III. The Bloom of Madness

It began with the thorn.After his encounter with Schadenfreude, Of Roses and Champagne convinced himself it was meaningless. Just a phantom, a trickster with nothing but riddles and moonlight. But the thorn remained - first as a single bloom, then as a creeping infestation that no claw or fire could kill.He told no one. His pride depended on strength, and he would not give his court a reason to doubt him. But the signs began to show.• He grew paranoid. Servants were rotated constantly. Guards were interrogated. He began accusing allies of betrayal before they even spoke.
• He stopped holding council. Decisions were made alone. He whispered to reflections. He demanded that the stone walls of his palace “stop listening.”
• He destroyed mirrors. Every one. Because each time he looked into them, it wasn’t just his face he saw - it was Schadenfreude’s, smiling back.And always, the white thorns grew. In cracks, in corners, in the space between dreams.He started plucking his own mane - trying to rid himself of the sensation that something was crawling beneath his skin. His once-lavish appearance faded into something gaunt, ragged, with wild eyes and twitching ears. He barked orders at shadows. He paced endlessly, dragging his claws into the floor.Some nights, servants would hear him arguing with someone who wasn’t there. Sometimes he would laugh. Sometimes he would sob. One day, he was found staring at a single white thorn clutched in his paw, whispering:“It’s only a weed if you fear it.”The pride began to fall apart. Without leadership, order fractured. Some left, fleeing into the dunes. Others stayed, terrified of the mad king and the ever-growing garden of pale thorns now overtaking the royal chambers.No one dared speak the spirit’s name.But they all felt him.Schadenfreude never returned in form. He didn’t need to.His work was done the moment ORaC refused to listen.

IV. The Ghost Wears Gold

The sun does not rise for kings.
It watches them.And today, it watches a lion draped in ruined silk, staggering beneath a crown that no longer fits. His bones click when he walks now - thin things, fragile things. His mane, once a banner of power, clings in greasy tufts to his neck like shadows refusing to let go.But today, he’s found a treasure.A hat. Worn, wide-brimmed, human-made. Left behind near an abandoned caravan - sun-bleached and dust-choked, rim curled like a sneer. He doesn’t know why he takes it, only that it feels right when he places it over his half-mane. It hides the sun. It hides the shame.Later, he finds the gun.
Rust-eaten. Cracked stock. Hollow chambers.He carries it in his jaws like a sacred object, then ties it to his side with a fraying sash - like a knight with a broken sword, or a god with no prayers left.“Now they’ll listen,” He mutters. “Now the shadows will kneel.”But the shadows do not kneel.
They laugh.He speaks to them anyway, voice raw like wind over glass.“You don’t have to answer. Just nod. Just nod, damn you.”Nothing answers.“Do you feel powerful now?” Schadenfreude asks from somewhere behind his eyes.
“Does the crown still fit?” The wind hisses.He stumbles forward, gun swinging at his side like a dead limb. The hat tilts over one eye. He imagines applause. He imagines fear. He imagines a court of shadows who remember his name.But none of them do.And so he keeps walking - his ribs sharp beneath sunburned skin, his tail dragging trails through the sand. A mockery of royalty. A cowboy without a cause. A king without a kingdom.At night, he sits beside a crooked tree, singing lullabies through cracked lips. He tells the moon about the hat. About the gun. About how it made the silence stop, if only for a second.The moon doesn’t answer.But he tips his hat anyway.“For the audience,” he says, smiling through tears.“They always loved an encore.”