morality

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this is inspired by an idea Cinnabon1173 had hwhfshg

WARNING(S): the entire part wherein c!charlie is isolated is a big warning. i'm not too sure how to describe it — if there is a way to do so, please tell me. this part will begin and end with exclamation marks instead of asterisks (*)

this part will be summarized at the end

there's also mentions of general dsmp lore, but it's near the end, so

***

It begins with curiosity, as most things do. It begins with yearning of knowledge, of seeking answers even when there are none, of explanations and observation and notes written with ink on timeworn pages. He pushes his glasses up and watches the wind rustle through the forestry, looks at the bugs that crawl on the branches of trees, and the lush greenery that grows all around him. Information catalogs itself in his head, constantly analyzing, constantly discovering.

It is this curiosity of the world, of what makes life, life, that brings him to make a deal with a god.

(Gods are a concept that humans can never understand. Gods are morally corrupt, and life is just a game, and humans cannot comprehend that, cannot grasp why they survive the way they do, why humans are pawns when gods look the same as them. Why gods believe they are supreme, why they are perfect and humans are flawed, yet imperfection is something sought after regardless. Gods are complex yet so very simple, and this is knowledge that even he should not seek after, should not interact with. Curiosity kills the cat, and yet.

And yet — )

"In turn for your morality, you will garner all the knowledge you need," the god says, thousands of voices merging into one, an echo that makes the lands shiver and the seas still. In turn for what makes you yourself, you will seek what you desire.

He should've known better when he looks at that silken coated hand towards him and foolishly, naively accepts.

(The cat gives in to temptation, and this is how this ends — )

!!!!!!

He is taken to an abandoned mineshaft. Wait, the god said, and you shall receive what you desire. He, ever trusting, believes.

There are nothing but ruins in this, yet what had he expected? By the fifth hour (?) he has read through all the worn, torn books, and has scoured for mobs through the corridors, and there is nothing besides slimes that are... Unusually docile. Torches light each hall, highlighting the ridges of the beams of wood that support the mineshaft, reflecting off of rickety mine-carts on broken, rusted rails. The tools are too rusted to be of use.

...There is nothing else.

Oh.

Oh.

There is nothing else.

And — and despair draws on he, a naive fool tricked by what is incomprehensible, because he does not know how long he has to wait, and in this mineshaft, so small and enclosed, so unlike the rolling expanse of he world, so dull compared to what knowledge the world can provide, he —

— he claws on the stone walls of this cage and screams.

***

He uses the ridges in the stone walls to count the hours (that turn to days to weeks to months to years to — )

He's reread all the worn pages. Made theories in the sidelines, but he never remembers them. Had a piece of coal he could use as something to write with, but he's afraid that he'll tear the pages. He practices his native-tongue's lexicon and syntax in one of the echoey halls, just to hear a voice besides his own, even if its sound is the same-but-not-quite his own.