Razzelok had never been one to sit still. His mind was a circus, a constant blur of half-formed ideas, jumbled thoughts, and unfinished jokes. At any given moment, a dozen different plans could pop into his head, each one more ridiculous than the last. But they never came together. No, not here. Not in the heavens. Not where the other gods ruled.
It wasn't that he didn't try. He did. He tried so hard. Too hard, maybe. He would put on his best routine, deliver a joke with all the flair he had, and yet the gods would only stare back at him, their faces like stone. They didn't laugh. They didn't smile. They didn't even look interested.
His fingers twitched as he paced around his palace, the grand halls echoing with nothing but his own thoughts. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him. The other gods—powerful, stoic, unfazed by his presence. Their laughter, or lack thereof, was a silent reminder of just how much they looked down on him.
It was maddening.
He was the god of comedy. He was humor. But here, among the perfect, unchanging gods, his jokes were nothing more than childish distractions. They didn't want laughter. They wanted order. They wanted control. They wanted everything to be...perfect.
His eyes flicked to the vast, empty expanse beyond the palace walls. Far below, the mortal realm churned, chaotic, flawed. The perfect setting for his brand of chaos. But he couldn't stay here. Not anymore.
He paced faster, running his hands through his wild hair, eyes darting around, trying to focus on something. Anything. But his mind was scattered. Thoughts jumped from one idea to the next, never staying in one place long enough to be meaningful. One moment he was thinking of a joke, then he was thinking about how they would react to it, and before he knew it, his mind had leapt to something else entirely.
"I'll make them laugh," he muttered to himself, the words lost in the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head. But there was a truth to it. He had been trying for centuries to get them to laugh, to show them that laughter was the answer, that chaos was what kept the universe alive.
But they never got it.
"Not funny," one god had once told him, a sneer curling their lip. "Try again, Razzelok. Maybe you'll get it right next time."
He had tried, again and again, but it never worked. His humor wasn't the kind they wanted. It wasn't structured. It didn't fit into their perfect little plans. They didn't see the beauty in absurdity, in randomness. To them, it was an annoyance. It was beneath them.
Razzelok stopped in his tracks, his thoughts sharp and angry now.
"Enough."
He slammed his fist into the nearest column, watching as it cracked down the middle. It wasn't enough. Nothing here was enough. His jokes, his ideas, his self—nothing mattered. They weren't even going to try to understand. He was just the clown, the laughingstock of the gods. He wasn't a god in their eyes. He was a nuisance.
His fingers twitched again, his thoughts spinning faster. Maybe they didn't get it. Maybe they never would. But he didn't have to stay here. He didn't have to play by their rules.
He lifted his hand, and the air around him hummed with energy. A burst of light erupted from his palm, cracking the heavens above. The palace trembled, the foundation of the divine realm shaking beneath him. This wasn't his world. These weren't his people.
With a surge of power, he flung himself into the rip in the sky. The world around him blurred into streaks of color, the ground far below him disappearing as he plummeted through the void.
It was a strange thing, falling. In the heavens, everything was always in place, always controlled. Falling felt like freedom. The chaos of the fall, the twisting, tumbling descent—this was where he belonged. His mind couldn't focus on one thing long enough to feel scared. Instead, he felt exhilarated.
For the first time in centuries, he felt alive.
When he landed, it wasn't with the grace of a god, but with a crash that rattled the very earth beneath him. Dirt and dust swirled around him, the remnants of his chaotic arrival. He took a deep breath, looking around at the land that stretched out before him.
It was...messy. Wild. Imperfect. Exactly what he had been looking for.
He stood up, dusting himself off, and felt the pull of something. Something new. He couldn't explain it. His mind was still a hurricane of thoughts, but in this new world, it felt like there was space to breathe. To be. Here, he didn't need to conform. He didn't need to fit in. He could just exist, however chaotic that existence might be.
"I'll make them laugh," he said again, but this time it wasn't a question. It wasn't a plea. It was a promise.
The world around him would feel the chaos of his humor. It would feel his absurdity, his madness. He would bring comedy to the people of this world, and they would laugh—whether they wanted to or not.
But there was something else, too. Something darker. He could feel it deep inside, a gnawing feeling that wouldn't let go. He wasn't just running from the gods anymore. He wasn't just escaping. He was trying to prove something. To them. To himself.
He wasn't a joke. He wasn't a fool. And if the gods couldn't see it, maybe the mortals could. Maybe the mortals would finally get it.
As he took his first steps into this strange, chaotic world, Razzelok smiled. It wasn't a smile of joy. It was a smile of defiance. He would make them laugh, yes. But he would also show them just how far he was willing to go to be seen.
And if they didn't laugh? Well, that was fine too. He wasn't here to please anyone anymore. He was here to be himself.