Nebulae, Nebulae, where for art my Nebulae?

The damned bitch hasn’t responded to my latest love poem. She’s a lover of Haikus. So let’s paint another on my bedroom wall. Paint it over with white and restart. Alright, alright. Haikus were never my specialty on earth. Fighting and winning and gore and being thanked by kings galore. Bedding women? Easy. Wooing a God? Only in this shit life.

So, Nebulae, hi.

Turbulence is near to us.

Answer me, my Goddess love.

Seven, five, seven? Or is it five, seven, five? Damnit. I can’t remember. Maybe my Grief Room artist knows. He seems artistic.

“Hohnair Mand?” I sing his name from the throne of the Mainstay. My fingers find a whole between the teeth. Cavity or just mountain decay? “Hohnair!”

The door opens and Hohnair rushes in, bows his head slightly. “Yes, Chief?”

My fingers tap inside the hole. Tippity tap, rappity dap, da dink, da dink, da dink. “What’s your favorite poem?”

His hesitation, an eye dart to the window. Of course this idiot doesn’t know anything about women. I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. “Forget it. Go get the oldest man who is married or whatever still. Bring him here.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

A bow. A scurry. A coward leaves before me.

The village bustles and moves outside the window. My molar thrown is perfectly worn so it’s not too uncomfortable while I wait for little artist dumbass to come back. Minutes roll by, then more minutes. How long can it possibly take?

Hohnair Mand finally comes in. A bow. A greeting.

“Speak.”

“I have not found any man like you speak of. I apologize.”

He fidgets with his fingers. Nervous? Not his fault I kill the people who are madly in love. Jealousy is my strong suit down here, especially as I wait for Nebulae to respond.

“Eh,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

He bows. Leaves. Turns into the Grief Room. It’s where he likes to be. I get it. I’m sure he’s treated bad by the others because of his special kingly treatment.

A tusk of the elephant is what I need to woo Nebulae. “Hohnair Mand!?”

He rushes back in.

“Bring the golden tusk to me and set it at the foot of my thrown.”

Bow and rush and turn towards the hollows of my brain.

Now what? Either face disappointment as Nebulae probably has ignored me again with my lovely Haiku or sit here and pretend I’m king of the freaking mountain?

A nervous young woman walks through the mainstay doors and courtesies.

“Well, well, hello little villager,” I say. “What bringeth youth hereth?”

“Chief, I found a dead goat.”

The conversation, I’d relay to you but do you really want to hear about how I lavishingly grieve for this green-eyed goat this girl is so upset about, she risked coming in here to tell me? Her lips tremble more, her mouth opens to speak, but the sound doesn’t come out.

“Why don’t you enjoy the rest of your day. Don’t worry about that little goat. How important could it possibly be?”