Godstuck - War of the Gods (CLOSED)

A lone mortal troll walks the dreary hallways of a well aged fortress, always awash with the eerie violet of its master, and stained with streaks of his red tears. Outside, the sun shown brightly... though from the clouds that surrounded this place of mourning, all that could be seen of it was a hateful crimson glow.

All of your life you have known your God to reside here... always in a constant state of grief, holding back his rage for periods of time before he would ascend to the clouds, and raze the earth wherever the others resided. Many always died, though it was not his fault. He was a God, and a child, broken by insanity and the grief of losing the only person he ever cared for. It was not expected that he could see beyond his rage to know what he does... he was forgiven because he had suffered enough, and knew not the destruction he causes.

You have heard all of his stories. You have listened to his every silent cry for help, and every time you were one of the many who came to his aid.

"CAATE|!" A roar filled the cavernous hallways, broken up by a wailing sob. The Destroyer had awoken, once more from his never ending nightmare. You find yourself running towards him, even as the heat rose. You were very near to his chambers, today you would be the first to respond to his wailing.

When you open the doors to his rest chambers, a suit of armor glowing red with heat, burns through the velvet drapes surrounding the throne. Gauntleted hands gripped a four-horned helmet, as a red glow clings to his body. This is how he maintained his power, by encasing himself in a shell only barely capable of containing his awe inspiring fury of power.

You begin to sing a familiar tune, a tune once played by a girl to calm a moirail from frothing spasms of fear... a tune no longer sung by her. Steam begins to rise from the eye sockets of the helmet, as the wails of pain turn into quiter and quiter sobs.

In the halls of a citadel in great disrepair you walk.  You are one of two trolls that tend to the young god of time. Looking at the walls seeing how they are covered in moss and ivy vines. Weaving in and out of the bricks on the wall. Also on the walls are beautiful tapestries of his predictions which like the rest of the citadel ,have fallen into disrepair.

Outside of the citadel it is nighttime and the stars are shining. On nights like tonight your master takes walks through his garden where he keeps memorials of his fallen comrades, except for one. The one who destroyed what bound them. These memorials are the only things that he cares about and wishes to not fall into disrepair. You spot him through one of the many windows weeping silently at the memorial to his deceased moirail, Ninten the hero.

He has told you many stories, yet not all of them. He won't tell all of them until his older keeper dies. A sad existence must be his, being a child cursed with immortality. Fighting the ones he would have called friends ,in a war with only a one day truce every year.

You look out of the window once more. You see that he has fallen over crying at the sight of one of his prophecies. He yells out " NO, StoP! LeavE MY SighT! I HavE BeeN WronG BeforE! I KnoW I HavE!" He begins clawing at his eyes in hopes of ripping them out and blinding himself. His older attendant has already rushed to his side calming the prophet. Removing his hands from his eyes before he tears them out. Saying a nursery rhyme from the god's old planet which calms him.

Slowly he falls asleep in his attendants arms. Still crying in his sleep, the attendant simply picks him up and carries him gently back to his chambers. To think of what horrible things he must have seen. Tomorrow you should be prepared to give word to the people of his lands of another battle happening. Or could it be something else happening? Something worse by the cries he made? Only time will tell.

You are the Attendant. It is you. Not that the title means anything with this Goddess, the Maiden came to serve, not to be served. Nevertheless, The Empty Cottage is a Holy place and it is your job to make sure that not even a single speck of dust appear on any surface in this tiny abode. The Caretaker is rarely here, however when she is, you better hope this place is to her satisfaction.

The Cottage is a tiny, humble abode of simple black stone with but three bedrooms and a basement housing its only consistent occupant. It is far away from the bustle of the main cities, or the paths of pilgrimage to the other Holy Sites, on one of the most northern snow plains, meaning that it is almost constantly covered in snow.

You carefully carve a slice of prepared raw meet, making sure that it is perfectly proportioned. Not that he'd complain. Not that he could. You take special care not to get blood on your beautiful outfit, they say that the outfits of the attendants were sewn by the Caretaker's own hands and you can tell why they say that. The beautiful outlines of brown over black compliment the rust colour of your eyes and lips. It's worth spending sweeps of your life cleaning and preparing meat just for the beautiful dresses.

As you season the steak, your thoughts turn to the Caretaker. She is, of all the Gods, the one whom acts most like a traditional Goddess. Un-empathetic, never present and yet benevolent. She grants protection and boons from afar, fixing and building wherever there are few prying eyes to see her. In fact few have ever met her in person, never mind even talked to her. You wonder if she is like the other Gods, childish at heart, forever paused at the edge of maturity by the curse of immortality, or if she truly is as cold and detached as she presents herself.

With great care, you return the rest of the meat into the Meal Vault and put the knife into the washing basin ready to be cleaned. With calculated movements, you take the plate of meat and go to the basement.

==> Attendant: Descend

You're descending as fast as you are able while also been as careful as possible. You might as well stop being coy and say who this meat is for.
Yes.
There he is.

Jack Noir.

Chained to the back wall in half light, he looks at you with eyes that hold no more light than those of a beast. Apparently, once long ago he was a cunning yet murderous official. How he came to be little more than a pet for the Caretaker is known to none but the Goddess herself. Tentatively you retrieve the plate from yesterday and place down today's rations. He reacts almost instantly, tearing into the food with his sharp teeth. You can't help but wrinkle your nose in disgust.

Wanting to remove yourself from his presence as soon as possible, you turn and walk back up the stairs, ready to begin the rest of your chores.

However as you reach the hallway, you are met with a sight that causes your eyes to bulge and the porcelain to fall from between your fingers and shatter against the floor, your ears death to its sound as all your senses are filled with naught but terror.

There she stands, as beautiful and mysterious as the rising moon, those eyes of yellow with blue gazing down at you, set in a round and gentle face with a child's nose but women's lips, a deep cobalt blue. A smear of blue has been wiped towards her cheek that could either be lipstick or blood, if the stories you've heard are true. Her straight black hair is cropped short and set windswept, though even in this messy state it seems to frame her face perfectly. You try not to let your eyes glance at her body and fail. She has the body of an athlete, tall and slender with little in the way of curves. What little she has is accentuated beautifully by her dress of cobalt and black, even more beautiful than the one you're wearing. Around her neck is a simple scarf of black, trimmed with white and with the symbol of her Godhood emblazoned at its end where it is settled near her lower back.

Her lips part gently and you cannot help but be transfixed as a sliver of mist floats from her as do her words sung by her voice which fits her in every way, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Y0u will 8e cleaning that up, I h0pe?" She speaks, nodding her head emotionlessly at the wreckage at your feet.

You suddenly feel very uncomfortable with this situation.

You would like to say you are an attendant. The Attendants are often the highest positions of the holy professions. They get to interact with the gods, speak with them, care for them, be their confidants and many other things. You had been raised to see the position as glorious, a life filled with fulfillment as you directly served those that created your universe. The legends painted the gods as great warriors and people of immense power, and though their grief was widely known, you had always thought it would have been exaggerated. Surely no divine being, whose age was older then the universe itself, could let something so mundane as grief cripple them so.

You were wrong to assume this. While the gods put up amazingly powerful fronts of solidarity on The Blood Rememberance festival, the one day a year where the quarrels of the divines meant nothing in the face of honoring the dead, every other day with them showed their true state of being. All were broken in some way it seemed, at least all except for the Caretaker. The Broken was wracked with grief constantly, his anguish cries always needed to be calmed to stave of his rage and keep him still in the nights. The prophet was plagued by their horrid visions of the future, and eternally trapped in a depression that seemed to cover their temple.

And the Harbinger? The goddess of Light and knowledge that you yourself were given the task of attending to by your predecessor on the day of their death? She is consumed in her work, constantly searching, remaking, and reclaiming the artifacts of the lost gods. Her caravan, massive mobile wheeled structures that carried shrines dedicated to her fallen comrades, was a testament to her obsession. Recreations of their old hives before their ascension, museums containing all they had ever possessed in the trials and before. Many of your predecessors had tried to figure out why she did this.

Originally, it was thought that she was merely honoring them, but it went beyond that as the centuries went by. It grew more and more fervent, and consumed her more and more. Now she rarely slept or ate or did anything to take care of herself. What was once the well maintained and beautiful creature was now a mess of gathering grime and dirt. She kept her hands and feet clean, but only so she may avoid dirtying the artifacts she tended to with her touch.

Yes, you would like to call yourself an attendant, but realistically, you were no more then a Lusus or a cleaner to the Goddess. This thought brought a wave of regret to your mind, thinking briefly what could have been had you not sought this station out as hard as you did. But it's quickly wiped away, for you did not want to insult your goddess. She always seemed to be able to know what anyone was thinking, such was her power.

You stepped into the Shrine of Heart, and immediately stared upon your goddess. Her hair was beginning to tangle, as it always did. It was long an unkempt, seemingly to cascade messily to the ground. The clean feet of the goddess poke through this veil of hair, she being on her knees as she scrubbed the floor thoroughly. She had likely been doing this for hours, obsessed as she was to keeping the shrines perfect. Many Attendants had tried before to take on the tasks before, but the goddess never let them, guarding the chores violently whenver someone tried to aide her. SO now, the Attendants merely watched, forcing the goddess to stop only when nessasary.

Now was such a time. "My Goddess, it is time. Please, take a break. The Shrine has been cleaned enough for now..." You say carefully, walking forward in your clean and well kept robs. The Goddess quickly shot back to stare at you, her dirty face and wide eyes showing the goddess in her current state pretty well.

She shook her head, turning back to scrubbing the floor "No....No no...I-I have to keep scrubbing. The floor is still dirty. After I finish I'll take my break....after I finish the floor....oh, and dusting her shit, and making sure nothing fell over last night...." She continued to mumble, until the attendant placed a hand on the Goddess' shoulder quieting her.

"Goddess, you have already done that. And the floor is clean enough for now. Come, let's get you clean and rested, before you make mistakes..." she said, going straight to the most effective means of getting the goddess to listen. The Goddess looked at her hand, and while they would heal within a short time, blister had formed all over her hand and some blood had start to come from wounds she had worked into her hands.

The Goddess was quiet for a second, before standing up and nodding, before being lead out by the attendant, who hummed a song quietly. The song was old, but familiar to the goddess. One she used to sing before the game, that would always bring in customers for her to scam out of their possessions with her tricks. The happy memory calmed the goddess and bit.

You stand beside the young god, who was now calm and whose tears ran dry. He was silent for a long time. For all his rage and endless fury, there was something about his silence which told you there was more to him, greater depth, than baseless destruction. Though for centuries his hatred burned across the world, in these lapses of stillness, you could see past the shell and see the boy who wept beneath. The boy who once knew how to care for someone... care enough to know what love was.

Even now that love remained. It was the pain of loss that perverted that memory of affection into the fuel for an eternal inferno against the cosmos. You knew that if given the chance, he would trade all of his hatred for the other gods to see her again, he would extinguish his fury.

There was further pain however, of even that. The Broken was emptier than the mere wrenching of his heart. A part of him had been ripped out, destroyed, killed... Hope was dead, and all that was left was Rage. It was the fault of the "Caretaker" that he was so unbalanced, the sole basis for his senseless destructive tendencies. His hatred for her, above all others, burned like the core of a sun ready to explode.

"WHAT NEWS HA\v/E YOU OF DREAR?" Drear was the land you called home, what many of your people called home. You and everyone you knew relied on the Crimson Lake, and made settlement surrounding the edges of the Glass Desert. Legends would have it that long ago, the Glass Desert had been fruitful once, until a battle unleashed The Destroyer's desolating wrath... the battlefield was reduced to sand, and the sand melted into glass.

"Böutez \V/illagers ha\V/e been hard at work, preparing the Shrine of Caatel for you... readying the Festi\V/al of Blood." You could feel the sinking depths he fell into whenever her name was called, even in honor. It was always something he dreaded every year, yet invariably attended.

"We also belie\V/e, that the Cult is hiding somewhere in Drear. Waiting for the day's respects to proceed." A monstrous low growl began reverberating against the gods metal carapace. A gauntlet resting on the armrest of the throne, began to squeeze tighter, slowly and effortlessly cracking the stone as he descended into a prepared rage waiting to be unleashed.

"! W!|| ATTEND THE PROCEED!NGS PERSONA||Y. ! W!|| HA\v/E NO D!SRUPT!ON !N DREAR... NOT ON TH!S DAY OF A|| DAYS." At that moment, you watch him rise from his throne, demonstrating his impressive height for a man stuck in adolescence. His feet then rose from the floor, and you cannot help but to stand in awe of his presence.

Then, you were left alone, and you could only wonder what the god - the boy -  would do.

Hours pass and you encounter the older attendant who finally got your god to cease their crying. They walk past you, not even acknowledging your existence. So you speak up wondering what the prophet must have seen. "M4d4m, h34d 4tt3nd4nt! Wh4t did th3 god und3r our c4r3 s33?" You voice drops off near the end of your sentence as she turns slowly towards you.

She opens her mouth slightly but your eyes are affixed to the piercing yellow of her eyes. "Y0U WILL ASK N0 QUESTI0NS 0F HIS VISI0NS, JALGA0. N0T UNTIL Y0U TAKE MY P0SITI0N. N0W Y0U WILL HEAD T0 EP0CH CITY AND AWAIT HIS ARRIVAL." She says this menacingly but still did not open her mouth more than a sliver. She seems to only show any care for him but serving a child broken by grief and cursed with immortality would cause one to act this way.

You nod and walk away meekly. Towards the gates of the citadel, that like everything else have fallen into disrepair. What horrid thing did he see this time, is the only thought you seem to be able to think.

Currently you are walking along the path to Epoch city which lies in the verdant greens. One of the two greatest sources of resources in Ninla. It is a lush grassland that is great for farming and has plenty of land to be farmed. The other largest source is from the Quiet Sea.

You finally arrive at Epoch City as the sun rises. It seems that the entire town has been preparing for the festival of blood by adorning the entire town with the symbols of the fallen heroes, and erecting temporary memorials to the different fallen gods. All surrounding the Cathedral of Ninten, this city's most important building. This will be the hub of today's festivities.

As you arrive at the grand doors of the beautiful cathedral everyone stops their preparations and look up at the top of the cathedral where your god is seated. Immediately they all fall prostrate and begin to pray. " PleasE MY PeoplE StanD UP! AnD EnjoY Today'S CelebrationS!" His voice sounds like he is happy but you see that  his body tells a different story.

You are The Caretaker's Attendant once more and you have just recently finished cleaning up the mess you made yourself. That didn't stop being a thing or anything. However currently you are sat on a stool stock rigid as The Caretaker herself brushes your hair wondering how ever the fortunes brought you to be in such a situation, a deep red-brown blush adorning your young grey cheeks as she caresses your hair with masterful fingers. Just moments prior she had changed her clothes with but a snap of her fingers - into what she called her 'w0rk cl0thes' - and had summoned a brush from nowhere, declaring your hair in need of a good seeing to. Say what you want about The Caretaker but she knows how to make a Troll look good.

With another long and gentle stroke of the brush, she places the brush down beside you and turns you around, procuring a mirror. As expected of her, she's tamed your long and wild hair making it frame your childish face nicely and flow around your rather sizeable horns like a gentle stream.
It takes all of your nerve to nod sheepishly to her in thanks.

"N0tala." She speaks, intoning your name in that beautiful yet antiquated accent of hers that seeks to soothe and yet also chill you to the bone.
"Pray tell, h0w d0es my 8eautiful kingd0m fair?" Her words are lofty but her tone is void of emotion and of the tone that might otherwise have made it regal.

"Lady Caretaker I -" Barely have the words left your lips when she interrupts your faltering sentence.


"Please N0tala, d0 n0t call me by my title. I w0uld rather y0u call me simply 'Amaira.' It 0ften saves time. Y0u may even call me 'Amy' s0uld y0u s0 wish." She says without expression, motioning for you to continue with your sentence.

"04 course Amaira, I did not mean to o44end. Your land is much as you le4t it, indeed it has grown effer more beauti4ul. Your people grow prosperous and happy. These are good times and much ffanks to yoursel4. Alffough..." You bite your tongue immediately. The Caretaker - Amaira, you mean - need not be troubled with such needless factors. Besides, there were only rumours. Not solid facts. Your slip up can be attributed to the fact that you were just given the express permission by the highest authority themselves to call them 'Amy.' Your heart happens to be beating rather hard.

"Alth0ugh? D0 n0t 8e afraid t0 8ear me 8ad news, N0tala. I can fix m0st anything. Pray tell, what ill 8rews here?" The way she talks, the way she says your name. It all conspires to set a shiver down your spine and a blush on your cheek, keeping you in a state of constant terrified embarrassment.

"My apologies, it is that there are rumours that the Cult o4 Mirff4ul Messiahs Two4old has taken root wiffin your land and are planning to cause problems during the various serffices on Caatel day. But they are only rumours, Amaira, I did not wish to waste your time wiff them." You tell her, trying to keep your voice steady in your presence. The last attendant tried to give you elocution lessons to rid you of your quirk however as is plainly obvious, they were not successful.

Amaira bows her head and looks off to the side with a thousand yard glare for several minutes which you dare not interrupt. It is with a speed that is alarmingly fast that she turns her head and begins talking again.

"Very well, my thanks f0r y0ur h0nesty. I think my 8est c0urse 0f acti0n will 8e t0 attend the cerem0nies myself t0 ensure n0thing is d0ne. If they refuse t0 appear then I will hunt them d0wn and if they d0 appear then I will 8utcher them where they stand." She speaks, standing slowly, drawing herself to her full height, painting an impressive picture of herself.
"If y0u would n0t mind, please spread the news 0f my attendance as far as y0u are a8le." She adds as she moves towards the door.

"It would be my honour and my pleasure, Amaira." Y0u speak, standing and bowing as you were taught extensively. "I will do efferything I can to spread the news."

Amaira says nothing, merely nodding politely as she leaves the room, her asymmetrical horns fitting perfectly under the frame, unlike yours which you have to duck to get through.

However as you turn away to begin your newly given job, Amaira's head pops back around the frame offering you her final words before she disappears once more. This time for good, leaving you blushing hotly with inked honkbird feather in hand.

"8y the way; y0u 'haff' a cute accent."

You're fairly sure you're going to need a cold shower.

Speaking of showers, the Harbinger of Light now sat in her own absolution trap, her light gray skin slowly being revealed from under the grime and dust that had caked her body from how long it had been since her last cleansing. her hair was wet, covering her face as the attendant tended to it to try and remove the dirt that had gotten itself in there as well as brush out the tangles. Normally, the goddess wouldn't have been so compliant about it, usually complaining about getting back to her work. She knew the day it was though, the Blood Festival, the day where the whole of the world comes together to honor those who fell to create this universe.

The goddess hissed as a particularly nasty knot was hit with the brush, and began to be focused on by the attendant. She began to fidget a bit, as the tugging on her hair hurt slightly, but she was quieted when her Attendant placed a hand on her shoulder. "Goddess, stop fidgeting. You'll only make this more difficult if you do." She said, not seeing the slight blush on the cheeks of the goddess beneath her waterfall of hair.

The goddess nodded, and the attendant continued their job quietly, only the sound of water flowing being heard as new water washed out the dirtied water of the tub like a fountain. While the attendant was content with the silence, the Goddess of light couldn't say the same. Before it hadn't been that much of an issue, with her so focused on her work she merely tolerated it. Now though, lately, she had been considering what she was doing with her apparent godhood. She tended to shrines, working herself harder and harder to the point of inflicting damage upon herself. She also had never taken to guiding the people she had been placed over, her obsession taking over the entirety of her time. She had to be forced to stop, to clean herself and make herself presentable, where as before she would tend to it personally and often.

Attendants did that for her now, brought back the beauty she once took pride in. Each Attendant had been different in handling it, but her Current attendant did it in possibly the best way she felt. She was firm, and didn't care for any fidgeting or complaints. She wanted to get the job done perfectly, and not even the goddess herself could really get in her way of it. This strength had an effect on the goddess, and she had begun to flush diamonds for the Attendant. However, she was hesitant. Their whole relationship thus far had merely been one sided, with her acting like a child and the Attendant doing her job. She frowned, feeling a sinking feeling as she realized she really had nothing to offer the Attendant in terms of a pale partner.

Feeling a bit flustered, the goddess spoke, clearing her voice so it wouldn't show her hesitation. "So, Jiurna, how have you been lately?" The Goddess asked the Attendant, who paused briefly at the sudden question.

The Goddess rarely spoke during their sessions, and never about anything other then returning to her work cleaning and maintaining the shrines. Part of Jiurna felt excitement, thinking that a possible path to bring the goddess out of her grief was opening. Another part, however, feared what it could mean. Legend tells that in the past, an Attendant and the Goddess entered a relationship, though of what sort it was unknown. During this time, the Goddess had quickly began to return to what the fables depicted her as before the loss of the Blood God hit her. It was a period of great happiness, and hope for those who worshiped the goddess. Then, decades passed, and the days of hope slowly began to dwindle as the people came to a realization. The Goddess could never die, unless killed Justly or dieing heroically, while her quadrant mate was mortal through and through.

The goddess's happiness began to turn to panic before the eyes of the people, as she devoted more and more of her energy to try and save their quadrant mate from death, but in the end it was beyond her power. While Fortune, knowledge, and chance fell under her sway like clay to a sculptor, Death was absolute. She could merely stave it off from her Quadrant mate, granting him such luck as to allow him to live far beyond the average life span of a troll.

But in the end, luck can only go so far. The Attendant died, replaced with a newer younger troll to tend to the Goddess, whose grief came torrenting back after losing another Quadrant mate. She blamed herself heavily, and after a long period of depression, threw herself once more into tending the shrines, working harder and more desperately then before, and completely abandoning her people to her toil.

This tale was told to all who would become an attendant, as a lesson of just how much they could affect the goddess. Weather it was true or not, only the Goddess would know. But she never spoke about anything besides her work. That is, Until now. She had parted her hair, looking at you with her bright blue eyes with confusion and slightly worry due to your silence. You had spaced out it seemed, the surprise and following train of thought removing your perceptions from the world.

You cleared your throat and looked to her. "I have been well Goddess. Things have been peaceful for such a long time. Also, you seem to be much more cooperative today when it comes to your cleaning." You say kindly, but still maintaining the tone you spoke to her normally in. One of detached respect and showing you knew of her godhood.

She seemed to blush, which is another thing that catches you off guard. It's actually a little cute, but of course it would be. The goddess was a beautiful young troll, at least, when she cleaned herself up of course. Or when you did more accurately.

"Yeah well...Since I did so well with my work, I think enjoying this time isn't so bad of an idea...." She said hesitantly, sparking interest in the sudden change in the Goddess from the Attendant. The goddess then looked back more confidently "Also, I don't wanna know about your work, I am your work. I mean, how are you? What are things like when you're not doting over me?" She asked, her voice rising in confidence as she turned to look at you, taking a posture that matched her confidence like in the old legends.

~~~~~~~

Jiurna was taken seriously off guard by the sudden change, and you knew this. You weren't really all the confident inside, but you remembered how you did it back before the game. Make them talk about themselves, and show interest, and be confident. That what you needed to do, and then you could get them talking. It had always been to manipulate them before, but now you were trying to show you care, and maybe start something to get you out of this horrible place in your life.

Your Attendant seemed a little flustered, likely unused to you breaking your normal behavior, as she simply grabbed a clump of your hair and continued to brush, tugging at a knot and making a wince a bit. "Oh...well uh...I guess I've been fine personally. Things haven't been to hectic as of late, with fewer visitors coming due to the blood festival approaching. I've managed to catch up on a book I've been meaning to read, and just haven't had time to due to the visitors and my duties." Jiurna began, and you listened as she brushed your hair. It had been awhile since you actually spoke to someone, and the familiar feeling of listening to another speak of their time was oddly comforting. It made you feel like the world extended beyond the room you were in, and made you feel better knowing much had continued while you toiled away.

You smiled as you picked up another brush and began to help with your hair, catching a slight jump in surprise from Jiurna as she saw you brush parts of it yourself. You were pretty rusty at it, and by rusty you of course meant you had no idea what your were doing anymore, but your reasoned you could figure it out to help Jiurna. You responded without pause, showing more of your interest in what she had to say. "Well, it's sort of an old novel, written a couple centuries ago. Sort of like, a story written based on your journeys. Although, with different characters and such. It's rather extensive, and possess quite more characters. It's been pretty alright so far though." Jiurna said with a small smile, and would have continued it seemed if you didn't suddenly dunk your head under the water and thoroughly scrubbing you hair in the warm water before popping back out, finally clean.

You looked to her with a smile as you pushed you hair back, so it fell straight behind your head. It had been awhile since you actually took some time to appreciate the feeling, but the clean hair that was now falling from you head and rolling like silk over you body felt rather pleasant. You then Looked at Jiurna, and smiled "Sounds actually pretty interesting. Would you be willing to let me read it with you some time?" you asked, rising up from the water slowly.

As you rose from the water, dripping what liquid had tried to come with you from the bath, your eyes glew bright yellow, before in a flash you were in your clean and pristine God tier cloths. Your bright reds shoes shone in the light, and you once more took on the appearance of a true Goddess of Light.

You looked to Jiurna, seeing a look on her face that betrayed how you had just made an impression on the Attendant. She nodded, and stood herself. "Of course, that sounds quite pleasant my goddess. We'll try to do that when we return from the Festival." She said to you, you floating down and grabbing her shoulder.

"Sounds like a plan." You said, before teleporting her and yourself to the location of the festival, a smile on your face as you seemed to shine brighter then normal.

The Blood Festival, was the most important celebration in all of the world. Of any of the four territories more or less held in the jurisdiction of the gods, Drear celebrated the Blood Festival the most seriously, the most fervently, the most religiously. This Festival, of all others, held the highest sacredness, because it was held so sacred to The Broken.

He confessed to them all, long ago, that he had flushed red for this dead god. That she to him, was more than his moirail. To lose a moirail on its own, was tragic... to lose a love? Worse. The grief for this god did not end there though, and the ceremony of Hope would be among one of the rituals that celebrated and respect those lost who were important to the god. To lose half your mind before losing your soul mate, would break anyone, no matter how much power they had in their possession.

No one could blame him. No one even dared to think of it.

No one, beyond the gods, and except perhaps those stupid enough to follow The Cult. There were rumours, whispers, fears that they were looming. Waiting, for the Festival to reach its apex, before assaulting the shrines. The Cult grew bolder each day, though never before had they dared something of this magnitude on the Day of Caatel.

Perhaps today they would discover why...

In the distance, a villager spots two angels rising over the mountains, their black hides highlighted in the blood-glow of the Sun...




YOU ARE HESTUS VASSTE, GOD OF RAGE, AND THE BROKEN DESTROYER.

YOU RIDE THE BACK OF HIDRADALA, THE WRATH OF ANGELS, AND DESCEND UPON THE LAND OF DREAR TO STAND AMONG YOUR PEOPLE. YOU SAY NO WORDS, MAKE NO SOUND, AS THE ANGELS HERALD THEIR KING.

IN ROARING SCREAMS, YOUR ARMORED BODY DESCENDS WITH A FURIOUS GRACE, LIKENED TO THE THREE ANGELS WHICH SWIRL ABOVE YOU. YOUR BOOTS TOUCH THE SURFACE OF THE GLASS DESERT, AND IT SHATTERS BENEATH YOU.

AS YOU APPROACH, THE PEOPLE OF DREAR HALT, AND EACH HOLDS OUT ONE OF THEIR PALMS UP, THEIR FACES IN REVERENCE AND EMPATHY. WHEN THEY WERE NO LONGER IN YOUR SIGHT, THEY RESUMED.

THE VILLAGE IS SILENT.

YOU ENTER A CHAPEL.

SHE IS BEAUTIFUL. THIS YOU ALWAYS KNEW, EVEN BEFORE YOU GREW PALE FOR HER. BEFORE YOU NOTICED HOW YOU LOVED HER. HOPE HAD ALWAYS BELIEVED YOU HAD A CHANCE... OR AT LEAST, TOLD YOU AS MUCH. YOU NEVER DID KNOW IF HE MEANT IT, OR IF HE PITIED YOU ENOUGH TO MAKE A KIND LIE.

THE RAGE WHICH NORMALLY RADIATED FROM YOUR ARMOR, SEEMED TO WASH AWAY IN THE PRESENCE OF HER STATUE, LARGER THAN LIFE, AND GRACING YOUR PRESENCE WITH OPEN, WELCOMING ARMS.

YOU KNELT BEFORE HER, YOUR ARMS RAISED ABOVE YOUR HEAD WITH YOUR PALMS TO THE SKY AS YOU BOWED. YOU HAD BEGUN TO NOTICE OVER THE CENTURIES, IT WAS SOMETHING WHICH THE MORTALS HAD BEGUN TO ADOPT FROM YOU.

YOU REMEMBER A TIME, WHEN YOU HAD ONCE USED THE BOW IN PLAYFUL MOCKERY OF YOUR MOIRAIL. YOU DO NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU HAD BEEN "MOCKING" HER FOR, BUT YOU BELIEVE IT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH YOUR VIEWS OF HER SUPERIORITY TO YOU. SHE HAD FOUND IT "CUTE", HOW CHILDISH YOUR FITS OF "RAGE" HAD BECOME, AND IT HAD BECOME A JOKE BETWEEN BOTH OF YOU...

... NOW? IT WAS A GESTURE OF GRIEF, CALLING BACK TO AN ANCIENT AGE OF HAPPY CONTENTEDNESS.

DIALOGLOG:

YOUR ARMS SUDDENLY FALL TO THE EARTH IN A SHATTERING CLASH, AND RED STEAM ONCE MORE RISES FROM THE EYES OF YOUR HELMET.

A BUILDING ROAR EMANATES FROM YOUR THROAT, AND THE USUAL GODLY PRESENCE WHICH SURROUNDS YOU ONCE MORE RADIATES FROM YOUR BACK IN BLACKENED HATRED.

YOUR THRUST YOUR HEAD UPWARDS TO LOOK UPON THE STATUES FACE, PERPETUALLY SET IN HER YOUTHFUL BEAUTY.

"! W!|| K-!|| A|| OF THOSE BASTARDS FOR TRY!NG TO DEFACE YOUR MEMORY. ! W!|| DEFACE, THEM A||. ! W!|| DESTROY THEM A||."

YOU RISE FROM THE FLOOR ABOUT TO FLY OFF INTO THE DISTANCE TO RAZE A MOUNTAIN TO THE GROUND... WHEN SUDDENLY YOU STOP. AND YOU DON'T.

YOU JUST STAND THERE, FACING AWAY FROM HER.

THERE WERE NO WORDS TO BE SPOKEN.

YOUR PROMISE IS AS SILENT AS THE VILLAGERS WHO CONGREGATE BEFORE YOU. YOU WALK PAST THEM WORDLESSLY, AND YOU RISE TO THE SKY.

"P|EASE FORG!\v/E ME..."

BELOW YOU THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN WITH YOUR LEAVE.


ON THE BACK OF HIDRADALA, YOU SPEND THE DAY FLYING, SEARCHING FOR SIGNS OF THE CULT. YOU FLY DEEPER INTO THE GLASS DESERT, A PAINFUL REMINDER OF A BATTLE YOU HAD LONG FORGOTTEN. WHEN THE DESERT IS SCOURED COMPLETELY, YOU HEAD BACK TO THE CRIMSON LAKE.

THE LUSSAR SHIRE CELEBRATES QUIETLY UNDER YOUR INTENSE GAZE. EFFIGIES OF NINTAN LUSSAR AND THE BLACK KING. A BONFIRE WOULD SOON START THAT WOULD OUTLINE THE HEROIC SACRIFICE OF THE IDIOT, BY CONSUMING THEM BOTH BEFORE THE TEMPLE OF TEARS.

THOUGH FOR THEM IT WAS A FUN DAY OF GAMES AND INTOXICATION, IT HAD EXTREMELY SERIOUS UNDERTONES AND A VERY SPECIFIC MESSAGE IN MIND LAID OUT PLAINLY BY THEIR GOD: BE THE HERO, BUT DON'T BE STUPID, OR YOU SHALL BE BROUGHT DOWN WITH THE ENEMY.

THE VASSTE CITY, A GLISTENING GEM ON THE EDGE OF THE CRIMSON LAKE, WAS BUSTLING WITH ACTIVITY, IF THERE WAS ANY SIGN OF THE CULT, HE WOULD GUESS IT WOULD BE HERE. THE MAUSOLEUM OF HOPE WOULD BE IN THE GREATEST DANGER OF THESE THUGS... THEY WOULDN'T DARE TOUCH THE SHRINE OF CAATEL IN THE VILLAGE, AND THE TEMPLE OF TEARS WOULD NOT HURT YOU.

THAT WAS SOLELY THEIR AIM. TO REMIND YOU OF YOUR PAIN AND VULNERABILITY. TO MAKE SURE YOU NEVER FORGOT THE ASSHOLE WHO STOLE YOUR LOVE AND THEN LET HER DIE... HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN EATEN BY HIS LUSUS.

ULTIMATELY, YOU SPEND ALL DAY WATCHING THE FESTIVITIES FROM ABOVE BUT ULTIMATELY THE CULT NEVER SHOWS. OBVIOUSLY THIS FRUSTRATES YOU BUT YOU BECOME RELIEVED.

YOU WOULD BREAK NO PROMISE TODAY.

AS THE SUN FALLS, YOU RETURN TO BÖUTEZ VILLAGE WHERE THE FESTIVITIES HAVE ENDED BUT THE HONORIFICS HAVE NOT. TROLLS WERE MOST ACTIVE AT NIGHT, AND THUS, THE MOST IMPORTANT CEREMONY OF THIS ONE DAY TRUCE WOULD COMMENCE AS THE FIRST MOON RISES.

ONCE MORE FALLING FROM THE BACK OF YOUR FAVORITE ANGEL, YOU LAND AMONG YOUR PEOPLE WHO ASSEMBLED IN A CROWDED PARADE WHERE THE SHRINE OF CAATEL HAD BEEN MOVED ON TO A PLATFORM, FOR THE TRIP TO THE OBELISK.

YOU DID NOT WANT TO SEE THEIR FACES... BUT YOU HAD TO FOR THE SAKE OF TRADITION.

FOR THE SAKE OF THE TRUCE. WITHOUT THE TRUCE, HOW WOULD YOU ALL STAY SANE? WITHOUT TRADITION, THAT TRUCE WOULD HAVE BEEN BROKEN LONG AGO.

SO YOU WOULD MAKE THE PILGRIMAGE, JUST AS THE OTHERS WOULD, ALLOWING THOUGHTS OF THE CULT TO BE SUPERSEDED BY YOUR HATRED FOR THE OTHER GODS.

ESPECIALLY ONE IN PARTICULAR...

epoch city. the town host to your deceased moirails shrine in the land you claimed after arriving in this new universe. you remain above your people who have been slowly raising up, some even crying at your presence.

you stay there smiling and acting happy. as you slowly descend to be amongst your people. they all rise up and continue the usual festivities of the festival of blood for the people of Ninla.

they approach you smiling and cheering for their god. unlike the other trolls the people of your land are more active during the daytime. yet there are still the few who follow the more conventional troll habits. such as those of the cult.

as you walk into the cathedral of Ninten the people stop following you and allow you to stay alone. light shines through the stained glass windows coloring the ground. as you approach his shrine and final resting place of what remained after his heroic sacrifice you hear whispers from around the cathedral.

ignoring them you sit down and light three candles. two colored green with the symbol of doom on it, and one in his yellow blood color holding the symbol he was born under.

horrid images begin to fill your vision. another prophecy so soon. you see the symbols of light, rage, breath, space, and time. then lands devastated by another great war with bodies and fires throughout the lands. finally the outline of her being held by the fallen as the outlines of you and the other gods are kneeling before him.

you feel your hands slowly move towards your eyes and you feel the hand of someone familiar. lovingly moving your hands back. " JalgaO? AttendanT? I MusT GO... I WilL NoT BE BacK UntiL... WelL... IM UnsurE! HahahA... I AlwayS HateD ThiS... KeeP EverythinG IN OrdeR UntiL I GeT BacK... HeH WhO AM I KiddinG..." you look at the young attendant and smile then slowly rise up.

first you must stop by tempo harbor and pay respects to Caroll. then to the synagogue of prophecy to pay respects to Caatel and hopeful hestus. you sigh as you use your time scissors and travel to each location and finally to the agreed upon place of meeting.

you will need to tell them of your prophecies. if it does not degenerate into argument like many of the previous years.

//Author's notes: I'm in a bad mood so TRIGGER WARNING: Amaira won't be holding back against the highbloods.\\



Oh come now, no need to coy about his black feelings. We all know whom it is that Hestus hates above all others, with a hatred that borders on the unconditional.
I w0uld recipr0cate but I feel I w0uld have t0 ap0l0gise. Why can't he m0ve 0n?
In case it was obvious by the almost critical levels of apathy overtaking you, you are now the Spiderbitch and you have are currently stood in a pool of murky and slowly darkening purple. You felt that not-so-furtively sowing the seeds of desire among the fertile fields that are your newest attendant painted far too good a picture of you to the audience.
I can say that s0rt 0f thing 8ecause I'm a G0d.
So to balance it out, you killed a Troll.

Ok, a few Trolls.

Ok so a whole group of Trolls.

Hold onto your horns because Aunty Amaira's gonna spin you a tale. When it comes to stories, I think you'll find that she's simply the best that there is.

You left your humble abode, once again changing your clothes with a nimble snap of your fingers into one of your favourite dresses. Your Doomsday Ensemble. You wear it for special occasions, you know; weddings... Armageddons.
It am0unts t0 the same thing if y0u're the gr00m.
With the same motion, you arm yourself. Your usual poisons and daggers appear along your belt which is hidden neatly under your flowing dress, however for these particular trolls you're going to use something a little newer. A spear ending in two points (A bident?) made of a sleek black material with lines of your signature colour running down it in a web like pattern, crossing the surface in an intriguing way.
Weap0ns 0f death are 0ften very 8eautiful.
Not usually your style. You can thank a certain Hero for this little work of art. And so can those cultists when its edge is turned on them.

You know them well, better than the other three Gods do anyway. You care just about little enough to allow them to continue existence. So long as they keep themselves on the down-low that is, which they just so coincidentally stopped doing.

They think of you as a vain Goddess, what with your posturing and acting. The dresses you make, the buildings that you design and make on your own. With your actions, you paint the image of a Goddess and a Queen. Vain and cold. It keeps them afraid.

To get to the point, this means that rather than targeting a shrine or anything to do with the other Gods, they will go after the statue of you. Its one of those annoying, garish golden statues that one of your more devoted servants made. You don't care much but if they plan on ruining the one day you can get royally sloshed without consequences then they have another thing coming.

Your spacey powers thankfully extend to teleportation which is a grey area and in an instant, you're stood on your own head and... Yep.

Yeeeeeeep.

There they are.

How many? You count about ten? No more than fifteen or so. Already, you can imagine the examples you can make of these upstarts. With another quick glance, you identify the civilians. Goddess though you are, you'd rather not make more of a mess than necessary.

You step off and float slowly down.

You keep your face blank and close your ears to their startled cries of fear. With a gesture of your hand, the civilians that they had been holding hostage are warped a block away, disorientated but safe.

Less can be said of these highbloods whom are already h0nking and drawing their various mirth based weapons.

This is where the blood starts flowing.

Let it never be said that Maids are a non-fighter class.
What? 0h, n0, we t0tally are n0n-fighters. I admit, I am destined to be one of the weaker fighters am0ng the G0ds.
Closer to the ground, you count them properly. Thirteen. Of course.

You draw two knives and begin your dance.

Two steps right, close eyes, step left foot and extend arms into a pirouette. Your blades turn three Trolls into purple ribbons in but a moment. They had been too eager, too greedy.

The others back off, beginning to understand just whom they are dealing with as you finish your swirl, bow down, eyes still closed as you straighten out and twist, throwing your knives off, adding just the slightest hint of space magic to increase their velocity.

The first shatters a Troll's skull, splitting their head in half underneath that nondescript hood and he thuds against the ground as the second knife lodges itself in the stomach of another.

Your nimble fingers run along your belt as you skip, flinging your head back as you take two bottles.
With another spin, you drop them and aided by your own graceful movements, the poison spills out onto the floor and mix together, creating a toxic gas.

A few purple bloods are smart enough to cover their mouths and noses but a good five die almost immediately, choking on their own blood as the poison destroys their lungs and shatters their hearts.

Time to add a little spear to this equation, don'cha think?

Drawing it from your back and adding the motions to your dance, you take two steps back that account for almost leaps as one of the highbloods swipes at you with a club.
Impale him on the wrong end of the spear and tear off his head, flinging the body against a wall and shattering the skull against the ground.

Keeping your momentum you turn towards the other but pay him little regard, with but a snap of your fingers, you separate his head from his shoulders leaving the headless body to flail and fall as the last of them turns to flee.

Your dance has brought you full circle and with an immense throw, you lob the spear at him.

The bifurcated blades pierce straight through him and pin him to the floor at the base of Golden you, thick purple blood spilling onto the floor.

Your ears are deaf to his screams and your mind is closed to the idea that any of these clowns had faces. Just another bunch of dead, useless cultists.



You rise a few feet into the air, allowing your dress to blow elegantly in the wind and raise your arms, concentrating all of your magnificent Space Powers. If there's one thing you've learned from your fights, it's this: Never turn your back on a body.

You raise the cadavers upwards and, opening your eyes wide with a yell, you shred them apart, blood raining from their still-warm cadavers.

As you allow yourself back onto the ground whence the blood of your enemies has gathered into a veritable pool. You allow yourself to smile and bow as if to some non-existent audience, and as you straighten your back, all you can think about is the beautiful thought of Hestus' face when he sees you like this.

Stoking black feelings in the heart of the Son of Rage has always excited you and you know just how to push all his buttons.

Seeing you stood in a pool of blood his colour with just the right seductive smile on your face...

You shudder just thinking about it.

His spades are always so... Delectable.

You simply can't resist.

The festivities were in full swing, with many of the attractions, food stands, and performances beginning to get into full swing. It was when the Celebration was beginning to swell in power that Bevlea came, in a massive flash of light as she lead her caravan of cathedrals to surround the western edge of the Village. The magnificent shrines, which shone in the colors of the gods they were dedicated to, towered over the villages tallest buildings.

Their coming was harkened by church bells, tolling festive bells that represented the joys of life. Flying through the sky, in her golden Home wagon, Bevlea flew towards the town, waving to the people as she seemed to beam with energy and smiles.

Her Attendant was next to her, surprised at the change from the normal entrance the goddess made. History had always shown the arrival of the light goddess had the affect of slowing the jubilation of the day time part of the festival. But today, she seemed to give fuel to it.

The Goddess stood on the seat of her carriage, waving to the people as they were at first confused, then began to cheer as they went along with the entrance. Bevlea heard the cheers, and began to lose herself to the old showmanship instincts she used to have, now reawakening within her. With a flick of her wrists, streaks of light flew into the air, before exploding into bright fire works that could be seen plainly despite the day time sun filling the sky.

The crowd went wild, and the Goddess of light took to the skies as her carriage still floated to the ground, flying over the crowd and continuing her show. Streaks of multi colored light shone behind her, and more fireworks shot into the sky, filling the air with color and sound as the festivals music started up again and swelled.

The first half of the festival, which usually quieted in the presence of the light, now grew and shone brightly. It bloomed with this display, and like never before, the festival celebrated. The Goddess, who would before tell stories as eulogies and bitter sweet memories now spoke them as fond memories. The children were entertained before displays of holograms and shadows that painted the picture of the goddess' rise to power, their silly child like antics, and their great victories.

The goddess joined in the festivities, enjoyed the food, the games, and the people like no god had ever in all recorded history. It was if she sought to make up for all those millennia where she merely watched and shared the stories of the past. Never before had any seen the Goddess of light radiate as she did that day, her mere presence bringing warmth to everyone around her.

This warmth and energy seemed to disappear partially when the sun finally fell behind the horizon, and the final half of the festival began. With Attendant in tow, The Goddess Bevlea made her way towards the Obelisk. Where she had once stood victorious, she would now stand in grief and solemn respect with her.....

The goddess slowed her pace, her jovial time in the festival making her almost forget one of the greatest tragedies of the gods. They were all enemies now. No longer friends, no longer quadrants mates, and no longer united. A shiver went down her back, as a wave of despair briefly flowed over her, but she quickly steeled herself, repairing the dam she had built to keep it back.

She would move on, and she would help the others do so as well. This would be the final day of their grief, and the beginning of their true lives. She would lead them on to finally feel warmth again, and maybe finally find ways to make new friends and new lovers....

AT LONG LAST HIDRADALA AND HER ANGLES CIRCLED THE MASSIVE CONICAL MIDNIGHT GASH THAT ROSE OUT OF THE CENTER OF THIS WORLD. THE WORLD OF CAATEL AND HER GODS. ON HER BACK, YOU, THE DESTROYER, RODE. YOU DESCENDED SLOWLY TO THE BASE OF THE OBSIDIAN STRUCTURE.

AT THE SAME TIME, YOU WOULD LOOK TO THE HORIZON AND WITNESS THE UNCANNY PRESENCE OF THE CARAVAN OF SHRINES PEAKING OUT AS THE FIRST MOON CRAWLED TO ITS APEX... DWARFING THE PRESENCE OF YOUR OWN SHRINE, OF WHICH YOUR PEOPLE CARRIED TO THE OBELISK. YOU HAD AN ARMY OF ANGELS WORKING AS STEADS TO PULL THE MONUMENT ALONG. THEY WERE AMONG THE ONLY CREATURES YOU COULD TRUST TO DO THE TASK, GIVEN THEIR ABSOLUTE LOYALITY TO YOU AND ONLY YOU.

A PANG OF BLACK JEALOUSY FILLS YOU AS YOU SEE THOSE FAMILIAR MOBILE MONUMENTS RISING HIGHER AND HIGHER INTO THE SKY. THOUGH YOU LOVED YOUR SHRINE TO THE POINT OF NEARLY UNHEALTHY OBSESSION... YOU COULD NOT IGNORE ITS QUAINTNESS IN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH A GAUDY PRESENTATION OF POWER AND GRIEF.

WHAT DID SHE HAVE TO GRIEVE OVER, TO GENERATE SUCH A DISPLAY OF RESPECT?

YOU ATTEMPT TO SWALLOW YOUR FLUTTERING HEART, AND QUITE THE ADRENALINE IN YOUR BLOOD. YOU HOWEVER, WOULD FAIL AS THE GOD OF TIME WOULD RIP THROUGH SPACE AT THE EXACT MOMENT THE FIRST MOON WAS  DIRECTLY OVER THE OBESLISK. NO DOUBT FROM HIS FORESIGHT, HE ARRIVED EXACTLY ON TIME...

UNLIKE ONE OTHER GOD.

YOU SAY NOTHING TO BEVLEA, AND STARE DAGGERS AT ATHLAI, AS YOU WAIT FOR SEVERAL MINUTES THE TARDY GOD TO ARRIVE. THEN HALF AN HOUR. THEN ALMOST A FULL HOUR. THEN YOUR RAGE BUBBLED OVER TO THE POINT, THAT THE SILENCE HAD TO BE BROKEN, AND YOUR GRIEVANCE WOULD BE ADDRESSED. BELOW THE GODS, THE SHRINES HAD BEEN SET, AND THE TROLLS FROM ALL CORNERS OF CAATEL MET AND CONVERSED.

"!F ! WA!T ONE MORE GODS DAMNED SECOND FOR THAT B!TCH, !M GO!NG TO TURN A MOUNTA!N RANGE !NTO A FUCK-!NG F!REWORK-S D!SP|AY. !D ASK- YOU ABOUT !T ATHLA!, WHEN SHE M!GHT BOTHER TO FUCK-!NG SHOW UP, BUT OH WA!T, ! FORGOT YOUR S!GHT !S COMP|ETE BU||SH!T WHEN NEEDED MOST. BEV|EA WHY DON'T YOU MAK-E YOURSE|F USEFU|| FOR ONCE !N YOUR FUCK-!NG |IFE AND DRAG THAT B!TCH HERE SO ! CAN BASH HER BU|GE-SN!IFF!NG NOOK-WAGON !NTO THE S!DE OF A HI|| TOP."

JUST ANOTHER LOVELY REUNION.

as soon as you step out from your cut in time and space you see him. hestus... feelings of hatred fill you but you push those feelings out of your think pan. this is not a place for bloodshed or violence. this is a place meant for respecting those who did not make it. you doubt one labeled the destroyer will be able to do the same.

you watch the shrine be arranged and finally congregate with the other two who have arrived. after a half an hour of the three of you standing in solemn silence hestus finally speaks. degrading both you and bevela. this is how it was every year, you three would show up, hestus would insult you, and await the arrival of the spiderwhore, or bitch, or whatever else she can be called. today you decide to respond to him, not by a snip of your scissors to his throat but with words.

" MaybE YoU ShoulD SpenD A DaY IN EitheR Bevela'S OR MY ShoeS... AnD ShuT YouR IgnorancE TunneL... AnD IF YoU WisH TO CulL HeR SO MucH TheN WhY Don'T YoU FinD HeR YourselF... " your voice falters multiple times while attempting to yell at hestus. and finally you just stop speaking holding your scissors even tighter.

these reunions are always so lovey.

Bevlea had arrived after her display in the day festival, and despite having forced it all, to maybe convince everyone she was changing, she herself felt a little better. The Explosion of energy, the looks of peoples awed faces as she worked her magic once more, it made her remember when she was just a little girl, wondering the lands of Alternia. She remembered laughter and joy, the kind she gave and the kind she received. Even now, when she was surrounded by sadness, anger, grief, and hostility, she held onto that. It would aide her, and lead her to her ultimate goal.

She looked to Hestus, and then watched Athlea appear. Her tone sent a slight shard of anger that harmed whatever damn Bevlea had, but she quickly calmed and kept herself together. Now was not the time to lose it, now was the time to repair what she could.

She calmed, and then smiled to Athlea "It has always been a choice for us to be here, never a requirement. And we chose to wait for you, because we knew you would come." She said, calmly and casually. She then waved "Welcome, I hope you had a good year Athlea." She said, trying to have small talk be the route towards calmness.

She only hopped that Hestus would not lose it as well, so she decided to try and include everyone "How was everyones year rather? I know we've all been dealing with what we can, but has anything interesting happened? Any good news or rumors from your lands?" She said, thinking if she can get them calm, and having good thoughts on those they protect and guide, they could possibly begin to heal. They had to, all she had to deal was work at it and it would happen. It had to.

THE FALTERING VOICE OF ATHLAI, CAUTIOSLY CHALLENGING YOUR SPLITHERING RAGE USHERS ONLY A GURGLE FROM YOUR THROAT. NOT QUITE A CHUCKLE OR A CHORTLE, BUT CLOSER TO A CHORTLE THAN A CHUCKLE, AND MORE LIKE A GROWL OR AGGRESSIVELY SUPPRESSING THE DESIRE TO GAG.

CRIMSON EMBERS RISE OFF YOUR BLACK METAL CARAPACE AS YOUR HAND MOVES TO ACCUSE, IN TANDEM WITH YOUR VISCIOUS REBUTTLE. IT IS JUST AS QUICKLY EXTINGUISHED BY THE UNTIMELY ARRIVAL OF THE TOPIC OF DISCUSSION. YOUR HAND FALLS, AND THE EMBERS GROW IN BRIGHTNESS, THEIR GLORIOUS SHEEN REFLECTING OFF AN INCREASINGLY GLOWING SHELL OF ARMOR.

YOUR WORDS ARE SILENCED AND SWALLOWED BY A CONGLAMORATE EMOTION OF DISDAIN, JEALOUSY, AND HATRED. THE FUEL OF RAGE ONLY KEPT BACK BY BARED GLISTENING WHITE FANGS OF TEETH, LOCKED AWAY BEHIND A MASK OF NIGH-IMPREGNABLE STEEL.

YOU HEAR HER SPEAK, SEE HER EYES SENDING YOU SOMETHING LIKE SPADES, BUT YOU DO NOT LISTEN, DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE HER BLACK SEDUCTION. IN THE EMPTY HOLE OF YOUR MIND WHICH USED TO BE HOPE, ONLY MURDER REMAINED, AND THE ROT ATE SLOWLY AT YOUR SENSES EACH YEAR.

EACH YEAR YOU HAVE COME CLOSER TO GIVING IN TO THE ROT... GIVING IN TO THE MURDER WHICH MURMURS IN YOUR EAR FOR INGLORIOUS VENGENCES AND RETRIBUTION OF THE MOST UNHOLY KIND. THE SORT EVEN THE TYRANTS OF ALTERNIA WOULD FEAR IN ONE OF THEIR SUBJECTS. THE KIND OF PREDATOR YOU WISHED ONLY EXISTED IN NIGHTMARES.

YOU HAVE SPADES TO SPARE FOR EVERYONE WHO SURROUNDED YOU... BUT THERE iS AN ARSENAL FOLLOWING BEHIND AMAIRA WAITING TO PIN HER LIMBS TO A WALL AND UTTERLY DESTROY EVERYTHING SHE HAS EVER CREATED... UP TO AND INCLUDING THAT REVOLTINGLY REFINED RAIMENT CAST UPON HER SHOULDERS.

THE MAID OF SPACE HAS THE POWER LIKE NO OTHER TO CREATE... LITTLE DID SHE KNOW SHE HAD CREATED THE VERY MONSTER WHO JUST MIGHT SNUFF HER OUT.

YOU FIND YOURSELF IN A DUMB-LOOKING STUPOR OF BLACK FANTASY, WHEN FINALLY YOUR FUMING TRANCE IS BROKEN BY BEVLEA'S ATTEMPT AT SMALL TALK. YOU ARE SUDDENLY REMINDED, ALMOST TO YOUR HORROR OF THE CULT AND THE RUMOUR SURROUNDING THEM.

YOUR NOSE FLAIRS, AND YOU COULD SMELL THEM ON THE SKIN OF AMAIRA, FRANTICLY YOUR EYES SEARCH AROUND THE OBELISK... THEN DESPERATELY TO YOUR SHRINE.

"THE CU|T..." YOU SAY TOO LATE, AS AN EXPLOSION ROCKS THE EARTH. EMERALD ENERGY CASCADING FROM THE POINT OF THE OBELISK OBLITERATES A PATH THROUGH THE AIR, AND YOU COULD SEE EVERY SHARD OF HER FACE TURN TO DUST AS THE SHRINE OF CAATEL IS UTTERLY DISINTEGRATED ALONG WITH A NUMBER OF YOUR MOST TRUSTED ANGELS.

THEN THE WORLD GOES RED, AS A TORRENTIAL ROAR FILLS THE HEAVENS FROM YOUR THROAT, JUST AS THAT DESTRUCTIVE ENERGY FROM THE OBELISK CURVES TOWARDS THE CARAVAN OF SHRINES.

THE WORLD OF THE GODS WOULD KNOW ITS LAST WAR, AS A BLAST OF RAGE EMANATED FROM YOUR HANDS TO STRIKE AT AMAIRA.

And on that day, it is written, the Gods knew pain. And they did not see it good.


Before you can even react in your own mind, your powers activate of their own accord, forming a simple invisible barrier; the kind any God can create with enough practice. But creation is your territory as destruction is his. The perfect black lovers like yin and yang art thou and he.
An honest smile plays your lips, showing off the bloodstained teeth that lie beneath, both yours and others.

A knife is all you need for you know well your skills and you know well your enemy. The others matter not. Your eyes and your sight is set. Passion blazes in your soulless heart as your eyes light up.

Perhaps this is all that is needed to end their devotion to the dead.
Perhaps this is what is needed for them to move on.
Perhaps this is what is needed for you to catch your prey.
In this deadly dance of spades.

You let the rage flow past you like a river and walk forwards. What is emotion to she without a heart but sight to a blind man.
Step after step, your eyes alive like rarely before.
It is said that those who have seen light in Her eyes know true terror.

Your toy stands before you, in that tacky - ever so tacky - armour of his and you are deaf to all else, your heart giddy and free.
What is love?
What is hate?
You long to know, to taste it. You gave him an inch and now it seems he wants to take a black mile.

While all else despairs, you laugh. While all else weeps, you rejoice.
While he roars in pain you smirk and grin.

Because their can only be one winner in this game.

This deadly dance of spades.

"Shall we dance?" You speak, a tender caress to your voice, eager and knowing.

Knowing that you have delivered yourself unto him.

Knowing that this is all your fault thanks to you.

Knowing that you are both exactly where each other wants.

In this deadly dance of spades.

Bevlea saw nothing of the sudden fight, nor did her mind even spare a second on the fight of her former comrades. Her mind only looked at the destructive maelstrom that was fast approaching her caravan. The citadels, the chapels, the shrines, everything she had spent this past eternity building was at threat. A massive explosion of light came from her body, aetheric wings of gold blasting from her aura as she took flight and flew towards her caravan, the atmosphere shattering as she broke the sound barrier.

Her mind was a panic, and she could only see the Caravan. She could not hear the screams of the dying, or the cries for help. Only the caravan existed in her mind, that and the force that flew to consume it. Tapping into the godly energies that had so long laid unused, a tear in the sky above the Caravan formed, resplendent sun light pouring out and illuminating the caravans.

Slowly, a massive shield begin to form around the caravans, massive constructs of light and color forming to defend the walls of the shrines and all the precious artifacts held within. Those nearby saw this, and ran as fast as they could to enter the closing shield, blissfully ignorant to how little their goddess of light cared for them in this situation.

CAATE|... CAATE|... YOU HA\v/E D!ED A|| O\v/ER AGA!N... BECAUSE OF... BECAUSE...

... OF HHHHEEEER

"RRRRRRRRRGGGGHAAAAA!!!" FEAR. RAGE. MADNESS. THE MIDNIGHT CARAPACE BURNED MAGENTA UNDER THE UNDYING FURY OF THE GOD OF RAGE, LORD OF DESTRUCTION, INSANITY INCARNATE, THEN WHITE AS HIS BLASTS OF DESTRUCTION REDOUBLED AGAINST A PERFECT SHIELD.

VISION BURNED IN FLAMES, BLINDING HIM UTTERLY BEYOND ANY MORTAL FORM OF TUNNEL VISION... HE ONLY SAW A SINGULAR PUPIL OF AMAIRA'S LEFT EYE, AN ABYSS OF SPADES OF DARKNESS. HIS BODY IGNITED IN LITERAL FIRE, AS THE VIOLET FURY THAT LEFT HIS BODY CEASED ONLY MOMENTARILY FROM ITS PERFECT ASSAULT.

THROWING HIS ARMS BEHIND HIM, COMBUSTIVE RAGE EXPLODED INTO TWO RAYS OF NUCLEAR POWER, INCINERATING ALL SURVIVORS SURROUNDING THE SCORCHED REMAINS OF THE SHRINE OF CAATEL. THEIR GOD HAD REACHED THE APEX OF HIS LEGACY, AND NONE WOULD SURVIVE SO LONG AS HE FOUGHT.

PROPELLED OFF THE OBLITERATION BEHIND HIM, THE GOD CUT THROUGH THE SKY LIKE A BLISTERING WOUND, TURNING THE NIGHT INTO DAY MOMENTARILY AS HIS SCREAM ROARED ACROSS THE HEAVENS LIKE TUMULTUOUS THUNDER. ONE FIST ROSE TO THE AIR, BURNING ITS OWN PATH THROUGH THE SKY LIKE A METEOR, COMING DOWN UPON AMAIRA'S SHIELD OF BENT SPACE AND STUFF. HELLFIRE AND MADNESS WOULD RAIN FROM THE FIST OF HESTUS VASSTE, SEEKING HER BODY LIKE A BLOODHOUND.

MEANWHILE, THE EMERALD BLAST OF ENERGY SETTLED UPON THE CARAVAN OF SHRINES, TURNING THE MIDNIGHT SKY INTO AN EERIE GREEN AS THE ENERGY WASHED OVER BEVLEA'S SHIELD OF LIGHT, BEARING DOWN UPON HER WITH ALL OF ITS UNKNOWN MIGHT.

WHILE THE GODS EMBROILED WITHIN THEIR OWN CONFLICTS (SAVE, PERHAPS, THE GOD OF TIME), WITH THE DESTRUCTION DESOLATING THIS SACRED PLACE OF CAATEL, THE CULT ROSE FROM THE SHADOWS AND RUSHED TO THE OBELISK WHICH THEY HAD OPENED THROUGH SOME MIRTHFUL WITCHERY... NOT EVEN THE GODS KNEW WHAT THEY INTENDED TO DO UPON REACHING THIS DOORWAY OF ABSOLUTION AND DEATH.

Through hate, may you know love. Through destruction, may you know creation.

That which is known as the Goddess of Space.

That which is know with detachment and fear and hatred.

For none loved she.

None.

Let there be no pity, for even in the face of rage incarnate, she stands in all of her glory, the air shimmering blue and black around her as her powers beyond mortal comprehension begin to work.

That Goddess is you.

Amaira Riadne.

You look into his eyes and give him an innocent smile full of black intentions, your cobalt lips parting just far enough to form those words you've longed to say to him forever.
'I hate y0u.'

Look at him; so flashy, attacking you in that tacky armour with Hellfire. It was funny when he used to do that whole 'I can be your angle or your devill' schtick but now he's like a stuck record.

Oh well.

Just another thing to add to the list of things to hate about him.

Unlike him, you're subtle and toxic. Your influence slips between the cracks and breaks things apart.

Just like you broke him.

Not like you're going to stop.

Case in point.

You reach out a hand, and in an instant, both of you are far out of the way of your planet. Nothing here to destroy but some big glittery baubles and the two of you.

How romantic.

Time to dance, then is it? Your shield likely won't hold so much longer.

You reach out your arms and then step to the right. Space is your game and you make a fool of physics, dancing on the void as if it were polished wood.

You allow the shield to go down and watch with satisfaction as Hestus propels himself half a light-year away, while preparing yourself for his inevitable return.

Because when he does, he'll be angry.

And you couldn't be happier for it.