Do you think you are worthy to look upon me?
Yes… Yes you are.
Well then, wanderer, share with me your stories…and perhaps I shall return the favor…
Hubris, The Usurper
HABITAT(S): Nomadic
Illustration of Hubris.
Hubris, also known as The Usurper, is a mysterious being who spends most of his time wandering the Backrooms, sharing and listening to stories from wanderers and entities alike. Those who tell their stories to Hubris will feel compelled to boast of their achievements, ultimately giving them the illusion that the lies they spat out were real. This gives the wanderers "hubris", and most of the time, this will cause their lives to end in horrific ways. In particular, Hubris enjoys tales that end in despair and sorrow. It is known that he loves to recite quotes that he learned from wanderers.
Hubris has made numerous attempts to steal power from high-profile beings, with the seeming end-goal of expanding his influence over The Backrooms itself. His supporters mainly consist of entities, favoring Hubris to be their ruler. Most are hostile towards wanderers, but Hubris forbids them from outright killing wanderers unless the time is "ripe". Some humans even believe that Hubris' role has held The Backrooms together for all this time and prevented it from collapsing, which is why they too have sided with him — whether willingly or forcefully. They see their options as to either serve him, or die in the collapse of reality.
-Ah, there's no need to look at that. Some secrets are better left unknown, right?
I'll let you talk about me, but don't go and cross any lines now.
Description
Hubris commonly takes the appearance of a humanoid with jet-black hair and sharp orange eyes that seem to gleam in the dark. It is unknown if this is his true form, as there have sometimes also been reports of additional features like small tree branches jutting from his forehead as horns. Hubris has an extensive wardrobe, but most commonly prefers to wear tattered clothes of royalty within his own level, and more casual attire outside his level.
Behaviors
It is unknown whether Hubris is hostile towards wanderers, but it is advised to avoid engaging in extended conversation with him.
Now, now. I think I at least have the right to talk about myself. Think about it, I get to talk, you have less to write. Two birds with one stone, eh?
I like to think of myself as being on the rather peaceful side of things as far as "entities" go. I won't immediately murder anyone who enters my level; in fact, quite the opposite, really. I welcome them, allow then to take some time to rest, sharing a story or two with them before they go continue their exciting adventures.
The tales that mortals recite fill me with excitement! And the best part? The end, of course! I always ponder their endings, like whether they will be at the hands of a skin-stealer, or being crushed under the heel of a hound. So many options, but so little stories…
Discovery
Aren't you bored of writing in the same format again and again and again? The M.E.G have no sense of finesse. Here, I'll show you what the readers want. Angelina, could you please write the rest for me?
"Oh, me? Of course Your Majesty! Any question will be okay?"
Favorite Quotes
es, yes. That's the right stuff to ask! Well then, which are my favorite huh? Well, I guess these would have to be my favorite.
No pain, no gain.
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.
May you live all the days of your life.
All of these are quotes I have heard mortals boldly tell me with complete certainty. Too bad each one of them suffered a spectacular death.
Favorite Guest
Ah, this is easy. Her name was Alice Morningstar. A very intriguing individual she was. Always asking questions, collecting as much information as she could when we chatted. Her motives seemed a little strange for a human, but it doesn't change how I think about her. I would love to see how her story ends. Perhaps she can even be… Ah, never mind.
Motive
Well, to read a lot of despair inducing stories of course! Why else will I tolerate the existence of those mortals?
Your Throne
Ah, yes. My throne. A peculiar name indeed, but my…mother named it, so I guess I have no choice but to keep it… Anyway, it does make you feel quite powerfu- Oh! I just remembered an amusing guest I once had.
One time, a male wanderer no-clipped into my level on accident. At the time, I wasn't there, so I was quite surprised to find a mortal sitting on my throne, enjoying the feeling of power.
I let him stay there for awhile. In a few minutes, he completely felt like he was the king of the world! It was so absurd, that I had to intervene. He tried to boss me around, but in a few moments his illusion shattered, leaving him cowering in fear. Quite the turn I bet. I never saw him after that. He didn't even bother to write a journal of his experience of the Backrooms. Very rude.
Relevant Tales
It seems there are none to be found here…so, I suppose I shall tell my own…
In elder seasons, when the Grounds of Daedos were yet to learn their names and remember their shapes, two High Names walked the interstice and bartered vows beneath the unturning sky. One was He-Who-Weighs, the Unblinking Judge, whose gaze could split the marrow of a sinner’s bone and whose scales measured every deed — called Tlamelahuacachinaliztli by the faithful whom shadowed his path. The other was She-Who-Thirsts, the Blooming Mother, the Vine that bends every heart toward more with breath the sigh of a thousand unspoken longings and unquenchable yearnings — whose taken-name was Protastheia.
Some say they set their hands together for the sake of hush and peace; others that the truth was far too vast for lesser minds to grasp, veiled thrice-over with a seal no cipher can open, lost to the mists of the First Dawn. No matter the motivations that stirred their will, the pact was sealed in the language of creation itself. It was agreed thus: two scions would be shaped, to be tried as future bearers of the Spear and Scythe when their elder hands trembled or grew weary. Thus did the God and Goddess kneel before the Altar of the First Oath, where the air hummed with the music of unseen strings, and the stones wept ichor of gold and iron. There, two of Protastheia’s fingers — one a fragile blossoming branch quick to drink dew, the other a gnarled bough heavy with leaf and thorn drinking sun with stubborn mouth — were severed by the spear of Tlamelahuacachinaliztli, whom spun them into the twin scions Hubris and Humility.
The Brothers-Twin were both nurtured in the ways of the world and their sacred duties, that one might prove worthy to ascend as successor to the thrones of their creators and magnify their power through worthy stewardship. Though bifurcated from the same divine wellsprings, they were yet destined for divergent paths.
Hubris appeared the more formidable candidate—vital and fierce, with determination burning like forge-fire within him. His laughter was the crash of thunder, his anger the bite of the whip. He took up the Sword and the Rod, the echo that returns to a cry; heat and haste thrummed in his sinews, and he adored the straight line between wound and recompense. He manifested Retribution — wrought only through hand and blade, through force and fracture, for he had been granted no gentle tools by which to shape fairness. He scorned his laws of his mother and father, for they were chains upon his wrists. “Why must justice be a ledger?” he demanded. “Why not a fire? Why not a flood?” He sought to forge his own code, written in blood and ember rather than ink and parchment.
Yet Humility, gentle of nature with a will to nurture rather than destroy, found greater favor in the eyes of their progenitors. He was a seed given voice — his silence was the hush of wheat in the wind, his mercy the balm of the first rain. He took into his small and steadfast hands the silent Scales, and the Ledger that tallies the give and the gift, the bread and the hand that broke it. He moved as rainfall over parched ground, allocating by measure, and the weave of Karma fastened in his footfalls as destinies unfolded in accordance. He carried within his being the justice of Distribution. “The Threads of Fate are not ours to sever,” he murmured in reply to his brother. “Only to read, and to weigh.”
Thus contention arose between the Spear-Scythe and the Scale-Plough. Hubris railed at the codices inscribed upon the winds, proclaiming, “My Desire and Justice are my own, let the world feel it!” He was son and storm both, and would not be bridled. Humility, quiet as moss upon a fallen lintel, bowed and bent himself to the old Law, seeking not renown but rightness.
At the end of many provings came the final test. Tlamelahuacachinaliztli and Protastheia set before the brothers a city where the wicked and the virtuous dwelled side by side, their sins and glories tangled as the roots of the World-Tree. “Bring me Justice,” commanded the father, “And bring me Desire”, commanded the mother — “And then we shall know which of you are worthy.”
Hubris descended upon the city like a wildfire. He slew the wicked where they stood, their blood feeding the earth, their screams lost to the wind. But in his wake, the virtuous cowered, and the threads of their lives frayed with fear. For his judgement was indiscriminate, consuming, leaving only ash in its path.
Humility walked instead as a pilgrim. He listened. He weighed. He bound the hands of the wicked with threads of their own sins, and lifted the virtuous upon the shoulders of their deeds. And when he departed, the city breathed easier, for his judgement was a harvest—measured, nourishing, leaving the field ready for the next planting.
The brothers’ progenitors beheld their works, and rendered their final judgment. They lifted Humility and anointed him sole successor, instructing him in the sacred arts of celestial justice that he might one day bring enduring peace to the infinite corridors.
Hubris, the discarded heir, stood with fists clenched, heat moving in him like summer lightning. He rose once in revolt and raised his voice in rebellion against this decree. For this act of ultimate disobedience, he was sundered from divine favor and banished into the lonely margins between realms, doomed to wander the unlit Grounds as a pariah. Many assert the forsaken brother dwindled into madness and oblivion, consumed by his own isolation.
…Or so the legends would have one believe. Yet some missing passages have crumbled to dust with the fading ages. Does truth truly reside in such tidy endings? Was Hubris truly unmade from the tapestry of reality, merely forgotten? Could the story of Justice and Desire truly conclude with such simplicity?
Was the moral simply to listen to your creators and pursue humility? I bet you think it's silly and nonsensical, right?
Well it is, dear friend. It's one of oddest stories I've read. Want to know a secret, though? I know the rest of the story, and I know it in great detail. I did promise you I'd tell you a good story, didn't I? I wouldn't want to tell only a summarized, boring version of it. After all, it would tarnish my good name if I disappointed you.
Humility, Karma Incarnate
Let me tell you more about my brother, Humility. Like the stories claim, he embodied Distribution, or "Karma" as some might call it. I can tell you he had hair entirely made of leaves, a purple and green eye, and a face and body covered in patches of bark. He was short and wore shabby purple clothes. You know, some say that he dressed like an old priest, I can't exactly say I disagree with them. What poor fashion sense!
Personality-wise? Oh, I'm sure you can already guess. He was a naive little goody two-shoes, the hero you would root for in stories. He was also a total pushover, who let let our parents control him and shape him to be a "good" successor. Someone who can't even fend for his own opinion and thoughts. I believe it's easy to understand why he was chosen, don't you think? He was the easier son, the son that went along with whatever and was easier to mold. He was just perfect.
His ability made him even more perfect in the eyes of our mother and father. All he needed to do was just go in many places everyday, and karma would be swiftly delivered. Those with bad Karma would suffer misfortune and be pushed to acquire good Karma with good actions, while those who were already good received luck and positivity. He was blessed with something far greater than his own will to lead, because he was too "humble" to take a position of power. That is why he insisted I take his place, but mother and father refused. He didn't know how well he had it! His brother had some truth in seeing him as a coward who couldn't put his powers to use because of his soft heart. The story omits this, because whoever wrote it didn't want everyone to know that the celebrated hero is an utter wimp.
I believe he must have secretly enjoyed his superiority, even his ability showed an hidden cruel nature. I bet even if he pretended to not be in control of his powers, he probably was. Whoever was affected by bad Karma would develop terrible dark markings on their back that burnt like crazy! And those blessed with good Karma would get sparkling golden markings that made them look ridiculous. And that is but a taste of the irony to all of it.
Humility seemingly pitied me. The stories claimed he "loved" me and always tried to be there for me. Well, I can tell you that it's completely "bullshit" as you humans like to say so much. True, I resented him for being the golden child, but it was more than that. Humility was a selfish and neglectful brother. What brother would leave his own kin to be ostracized and slowly forgotten? Such a two-faced character! Tsk tsk…