Once upon a time, some mortal fuckwits decided to spread their preconceived notions that all gods sit atop a throne of solid diamond while servants in gold chains brandish palm leaves to fan their lords and masters while hand feeding them enigma berries from a platter made of more diamond.
Wrong.
Nice try, assholes, but the only thing comparable to real life in that entire twisted tale is how the comfort of a diamond throne probably compares to the comfort of my real throne.
Why, yes, I might say when you ask if I have a throne in my home, I do actually have a throne. I am very important, you know.
Wanna know what it’s made of?
Cave floor. And dirt, of course, can’t forget that.
My bed?
Floor.
Chairs?
More floor.
The rock in this cave would have to be made of Cresselia’s dreams and clouds Ho-oh farted out after eating twenty jars of marshmallow fluff to reach the level of comfort had by a nice patch of brambles.
Seriously, fuck off you shrieking mortal mimsies.