Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights. circa 1490-1510.

When Aroesus cried his final cry, realizing in that searing moment as the poison invaded him, obliterated him, the world stood still, paused pregnantly for a moment. Birds stopped midflight, a woman giving birth suddenly stopped contracting. An old man dying held there, that last breath half drawn. A flame in Caesilinus held steady, the waves froze in their motion. Nasan Falls stopped falling.

Shining Krona, the palace that sprung from the very center of Lake Miphas, was a place of wide arches and soaring towers, of columns forged from the rarest of materials, a place of slick perfection in engineering unknown to the inhabitants of Lymaeus who strove in futility to erect something similar, half seen in hallucinogenic visions in the smoke or otherwise related to them from other sources. Almost all the architecture on Lymaeus was done in imitation of something on Hevas -- a deity might send instructions on how a shrine was to be built, or otherwise prod their followers in such a direction. The Gods strove among each other to build greater and more beautiful temples, many of them anyway. Aroesus' temple in Caesilinus was the greatest of them all, but it was a drop of water in the ocean compared to the vision of Krona that inspired it. The temples fell away and were rebuilt, but Krona was eternal, unchanging and perfect.

Aroesus fell dead, and the world survived the spasm of the moment, though every being that experienced that moment knew that something had happened. Mortals were unable to discern it, the animal world unable to understand it, but the gods? They knew. And in that moment, they knew that something fundamental had changed in Krona. Some, older deities, knew that it was the passing of another age, the pantheon was once more up for grabs. Younger gods, who had never seen the mantle pass thus, had to work on the word given to them from their servitors or the rumors that flew soon thereafter.

Or, the perceptive among them would know this; Krona was eternal, unchanging and perfect, until the moment when the universe stopped, when everything else fell and the first roof tile fell from the top of Krona and splashed into Lake Miphas with a discordant crash that was heard across the planes.

In the weeks to come, Lymaeus was wracked in chaos as the order of things decayed along with Krona itself -- small cracks widened into fissures, and the discordant calls of doom-criers engulfed the City of Aroesus as factions fought among themselves, followers of various deities proclaiming their god the next one ascendant. Cudgel, blade, garrotte, poison, flame, and the rulers of Caesilinus, the forum and the priests, were paralyzed by an uncharacteristic inaction – they were too busy debauching themselves with alcohol, women and other men, or they were fighting amongst each other, or they were simply throwing themselves off the highest place they could find -- and that was just the leadership. The fires started in the second week and smoldered at times, but never quite went out – no one cared to put them out, it seemed.

The defenders of the city were gone at this point, and there was no real possibility that the citizenry, busily drinking, fighting and fucking their way into whatever dissolute oblivion they were seeking, would put up any resistance. But Caesilinus, however bloodied, battered, burned and rudderless, was still a prize among prizes, even to the Gods above and below who watched the proceedings unfold. Caesilinus was not Krona, but it was the most densely populated city in Lymaeus, a place of incalculable power whose prayers helped buttress the power of Aroesus.

And that power lay waiting for the power grab.

---

The Isles of Kaeus were balmy; lush orange and lemon groves, people that fished for much of their sustenance. They were, except for the main island of Cycander, thinly populated. Cycander itself lay in the shadow of Mount Nynos, the largest known volcano in the world, and the rumored resting place of the sleeping flame deity, Sileon, brother of Aroesus, who was patron of the islands chain. Cycander was not a large city, but it had a certain beauty to it, perhaps inspired, unwittingly, by the primal being whose influence reigned – it was a city of minarets and spires, domes and arches that tapered to a point, of gleaming limestone, standstone and red clay brick, of priests in orange robes and braziers lit by night. It was a city of dance and hedonism, of resting meditation, all in honor of the patron of the city. Other religions flourished there, and even had temples, but the people had a special place in their heart for the sleeping Dancer.

They venerated him even though they knew that one day, the mountain, his mountain, would destroy them all. The people of Kaeus lived with the possibility of death every day of their lives, but felt, for they were of a deeply philosophical bent even if they were considered simple in their tastes and pleasures, that the danger added spice to their lives.

Despite the veneration of the people, there was no temple to Sileon anywhere in the city itself. Rather, it sat at the foot of Mount Nynos, well outside the city. It was a cavelike thing carved of volcanic rock into the side of the mountain itself, with bowels extending deeper into the natural rock, where the heat of the mountain made a person sweat, and where the gasses…well, it was said those gasses gave visions, often jumbling, disconnected insights that were among the most esoteric and free-associative prophecies of them all. And yet, the scholars claimed, the Thysian, the Oracle of Mount Nynos was the most accurate of prophets.

It was also known that when she gave a keening cry, when the gasses that sent her the visions changed a certain way to produce that cry, it was the Dancer rising from his slumber again. Every few centuries, never more than once in a human lifetime that was known, Sileon would unfurl his fiery wings as a great bird of terrible beauty and ascend to Krona to hear the will of his brother and then deliver it to those that would spurn a messenger that was less potent, less terrible, than the Dancer himself.

Now the Thysian wailed from the depths of her cavern-complex; the entire island, in honor of the rising of Sileon, lit massive fires to light the night sky.

Eskellon was among the first to discover the body of Aroesus. He examined the body for quite a while. He may not have been a god of life, death or medicine but he was among the foremost magicians among the gods. His power was awesome, and he thought that perhaps, he could answer the question as to what happened, beyond the obvious. Perhaps the answer was not so obvious. Perhaps he was not quite dead. The gods, barring monumental cosmic events, just didn't die. He searched every centimeter Aroesus'es cadaver, making sure that this was true. Eventually, it just become monotonous, even rediculous to search over the corpse for too long, and Eskellon concluded the obvious. It happened. Yes, Aroesus was dead. There was no denying it. At least, not for long. He could understand if the denial of his death could last, even for a long time among mortals. Among the gods, however, no. Denial could not last for long.

There it is again. Someone has spilled blood without cause.

Metanoia twitched as he felt it again, that throbbing in his head whenever someone committed a sin. It was bad enough dealing with the mortals on a regular basis, cluttering the universe with their egoistic cries and selfish ambitions, along with the other, baser gods, who would do little to ease the situation. Their reactions to mortal behavior were quite the contrary than what Metanoia expected: many would do nothing and focus on their own domain. Others would make the situation worse, like Morios and Daeros, those selfish powers promoting their ways. The Holder of Regret had tried reining in the gods' behavior for the benefit of the mortals below, but it seemed as if they would harden their self-assurance of their ways every time he tried to reach them.

Caesilinus was all but lost at this point after the god-kings death; Metanoia's Wanderers were doing everything they could to restore order to the city, but their efforts were proving in vain. It confused Metanoia when these things contrary to his mindset occurred, such as how everyone in the city seemed content to debauch themselves into nothingness, wasted away by their indulgence at the news of Aroesus' death instead of mourning his passing and moving on with their lives. Metanoia had seen pantheons change leadership more peacefully than this, so why hadn't future generations of mortals caught on to the cycle yet? The other cults and churches hardly helped matters, as the other, power-craving divinities let their followers run amok trying to secure their religion's dominance below while the gods fought over the throne above.

The throne itself was conspicuously empty these days, though the other gods never took their eyes off of the throne. Metanoia knew that many of them imagined themselves on that throne, forcing their rivals to kiss their feet and taking what they wished from both gods and men. The God of Guilt, however, would take no part in these petty intrigues, not while lives were still at risk below.

Which brings the invisible god to the current moment. He stood at the mouth of Mount Nynos, waiting for the rise of Sileon, Aroesus' brother. Though the primal god had disturbed Metanoia with his compliance towards his brother's stranger and irrational orders before falling into slumber once more, someone had to inform the deity of the loss of his family. And, being the sentimental god he was, Metanoia had also hoped to spare the islanders' lives from Sileon's waking throes.

He waited, invisible save for the little breeze that seemed to follow him when he didn't take physical form. At the first sign of Sileon's awakening, he would try to stop him from awakening too harshly and protect the people below. It was the only thing he knew how to do in chaotic times like these; after all, he'd been doing this for his whole existence.

“The prince of change will fan the flame,
The oppressed will rise in his name.
Their banner black, their eyes red,
as they scream of the kings head.
no other god will be able to reach him in this hour of might,
he will avenge ever single slight.”

The passing of the God King was like a tidal wave, sweeping across the lands and tearing cults and priesthoods up by the roots like a young birch in the face of the rage of the sea. When the tidal wave finally reach the ruins of a old kingdom, far outside the boundaries of civilization it seemed to unroot the shadows clean off the walls. They moved and writhed as they pooled at the feet of a being who shifted and changed continuously as if he lacked stability to stay within this world. Lefredias stirred and awakened with a smile on his lips, the death of a King was the birth of another. But all kings feared the rebellion of those close. The most hated of all his enemies, had fallen and it was only fitting Lefredias had been idling in the ruins of his greatest triumph when the news had reached his ears.

This had once been a great kingdom, one bent on ruling the world. The King had been one of the great despots of his age, he had mercilessly laid low to his enemies and subjugated his people trough violence and terror. But like any king that caught the eye of Lefredias, he had been brought low. The god had taken a mortal guise and convinced a young guard captain about his kings evil ways, and he appeared In the dreams of a young farmer, told him to take up arms. In a few months time, the god had set the hearts aflame within every young man and woman outside the city gates, a black flame that could only be extinguished with the blood of their betters. And they had marched at the city, superior in number, and the guard captain had opened the gates for them. And the city had burned and everyone rich and oppressive had been dragged out of their homes, had their heads removed from their bodies and bodies burned. A massacre that extinguished every single bloodline of noble birth within the city. But the city had no rulers, and the rebellion that became a massacre turned into chaos and in the end there was no big city any more. And more then a hundred years later, the ruins were still cursed with living shadows and a air of maleficence. A fitting seat for Lefredias to be sure.

Lefredias felt the death of the King ignite something deep within him. His eyes lit up like the black fires that gripped the heart of his revolutionaries. As the God of Shadows rose from the shadows that so often embraced him he let out a scream that tore trough the country side like a howling wind. His sects, many and secretive all felt their god stir and call them to action. All across the country, they poised themselves to take from those who were falling into debauchery. Men with long and crooked knives slipped into the rooms of drunken politicians and slit their throats, charistmatic young leadars called the confused to them on the streets. Lefredias knew not how his father died, but he had prepared for this day. His shadow began to spread from where he sat on a throne made out of broken banners and the bones of fallen kings and queens. Like a wall of darkness it cast itself over the heart and soul of the desperate and uncertain, of whom there was a no sea. He called to them, offered them a way out. He asked for them to throw away their petty gods, to fight for themselves and their families instead.

Indeed, he knew not who killed his father, but they had given him the dominion over people. For he was uncertainty and he was shadows. And now there was a shadow of doubt in every heart, and uncertainty was the only certain thing. This was Lefredias time.

It awoke him from his slumber with a start; the feeling that something - everything - had changed. And, as he rose into a sitting position, brushing sleep from his eyes with smooth hands, softened by oil, there was a smirk upon his lips. As Daeros, Father of Corruption, rose to his feet, he felt elated - now was the time for change; now was his time for change, if what he thought had happened had, indeed, come to pass.

Eyes the colour of the most precious gold swept around a dimly lit chamber; drinking in the sight of various half-naked, slumbering women. The God snorted, lifting a hand and running it through his oil black hair; that self-gratificating smile still painted upon his smooth lips. He stepped through the room with skillful, quiet feet - nimbly tiptoeing past the heads of the two score or so women who were scattered around the large room, bodies saved from the discomfort of the cold stone floor by large, plumped-up pillows.

As the God made his way to the room’s only exit - a section of the wall that looked slightly different to the rest, but only to his own eye - he glanced back at his sleeping concubines; eyes sweeping over each of them in turn, if only for a moment - counting them like precious gems, before glancing upwards towards the roof of the building. Roughly three metres above his head were a number of thick, interlocking wooden rafters - crafted from tree trunks - from which hung the body of a positvely huge serpent - the animal flicking its tongue out of its mouth idly, staring down at its master with beady eyes. “See to it that they’re fed,” Daeros commanded, words soft and smooth as silk - but still with a note of undeniable steel to them.

With that, Daeros turned on his heel - waving his right hand, a large section of the wall - which was crafted from massive, smooth, flawlessly put together limestone blocks - swinging outwards and away from him; revealing the central walkway of his temple, onto which was spilling the new light of dawn. He heard an idle hissing behind him as he began to walk away - the snake, communicating to its fellows - and the hidden doorway slammed shut behind him, sealing flawlessly into the rest of the temple’s massive wall.

As he walked, his naked form slowly became clothed - as the God simply willed the clothing into existence; a spotlessly white toga now covering his torso and lower half, and a pair of sandals upon his feet. After all, today was a day of importance - today was a day to represent those of his followers of a political nature, above all else. After all, Daeros was an important Deity - or the second most important; or so he liked to tell himself. On either side of the God, tapering away from the massive central walkway of the gigantic temple, were various alcoves and niches - in which he could see the dying embers of small campfires burning; and the sleeping forms of his most devout followers. They hadn’t woken yet; they were all likely still high. Daeros rewarded those of his followers who could find his secret home upon their mortal earth, and many of them sought him out purely for the incomprehensible drug trips he could grant them.

His sandals tapped quietly upon the smooth, cold stone beneath his feet - the limestone underfoot having been covered by thick tiles of white-and-black speckled marble. Snakes were everywhere to be seen as Daeros walked towards the exit of his Temple - deciding, for once, to walk the full distance as if he had mortal legs; after all, occasionally it was refreshing to pretend like he was just a normal human.

Eventually, he reached the exit to his temple - a massive archway, decorated with spectacular carvings of snakes against the stone, as well as phrases in every mortal language scrawled against its base, carved into it by mortals who had managed to make it through the thick jungle all around to arrive at Daeros’ Temple.

As he began to walk down the steps that led to the Temple’s only entrance and exit, he allowed his eyes to inspect the dense jungle that surrounded his ‘home’ on all sides - there was a clearing of jungle perhaps four hundred metres long stretching outwards from every wall of the massive, square-shaped temple, where trees would never grow - but immediately afterwards, the clear land became dense jungle; there was no inbetween.

The air was thick with humidity and mosquitoes, and the day was already beginning to become warm. As he stood outside his Temple on the mortal plane, staring up at the sky, Daeros knew the day had come - Aroseus had fallen, and the Patheon’s Throne was ripe for the taking. “I will not be outdone,” He vowed to himself, looking upwards - steeling himself for the challenges ahead. “I will be King of the Gods, one way or another.”

All visitors to Mount Nynos were unexpected, for Sileon was not a political being that was consulted much on matters and few came to see his simple, rugged little domain that he hardly even worried about. And Metanoia was an even more unexpected guest, because Sileon was not a being to dwell on the past, feel guilt or be more than he was -- an elemental thing that lived very much in his own cycle. Even so, if one expected the volcano to erupt and people to die by the thousands, it wasn't to be, at least not today.

Someday, of course, Mount Nynos would erupt and destroy, and perhaps there would be survivors to rebuild in the ashes and tell the tale. The temple itself would be eradicated and the Thysian along with it. The people of the Knaeus islands accepted this fate, just as they knew that once, Sileon handed the first humans the gift of fire -- not because he was compassionately caring about their plight, but to see perhaps what they might do with it. In any case, the act was forgotten soon, though Aroesus and Svanus never forgot it, and many things came of that seemingly innocuous but hugely consequential act. It was paradoxical that the least sophisticated of Ventu's get helped start the fire of humanity, not that it was unexpected that Sileon would start a fire. He wasn't aware of the profound consequences of an impulsive act. Svanus suggested it. Aroesus worked with it.

For a moment, it seemed as if Metanoia's visit might go unheeded as the flaming bird that emerged from the mouth of the volcano shot into the sky, though moments later, it was the man that emerged, stepping forward from a spot beyond the other deity's vision. He wore the form of a lithe young man, a dancer's pectorals bare to the world, glistening with a sheen of sweat beneath a loosely-cinched orange robe, rather than the typical flaming wings, though it was impossible for the likes of Sileon to concentrate hard enough on not being himself to quench the flames that danced over him; a flicker across the hair, or along the arm. Here and there. He never would move with impunity among mortals without being noticed and was never made for such games. And he was not made for the intrigues of Krona; a guileless face held a frown of confusion over those sharp, youthful features -- a younger version of Aroesus; darker-haired and made of bronze rather than marble. He was beardless and boyish, whereas Aroesus, at his apex, was calm and calculating, a being of judicial impartiality. Sileon, here, had the same regal bearing, but with far more ferocity and intent focus. Of all his brood, Ventu was stamped most strongly upon his youngest, who was most and least like that fell first of kings.

He strode, barefoot upon the volcanic sand in front of the temple, disregarding the other eyes upon them, though it would probably become a meeting recorded for the future, a thing remarked upon. It was possible the sandy footprints, which burned for the moment, would be scooped into urns as a treasured religious artifact at some future date.

Sileon was unaware of any of that, of the profound nature of striding along Lymaeus as such -- he almost never did it, but then he almost never had a visitor so close to his resting place. There was a taboo among gods about coming here, for he was the terrible weapon that Aroesus called down upon enemies. It meant that he had few social callers of any sort. And this, understood in its way even as he understood and accepted his roll, piqued his curiosity.

Metanoia wanted something and Sileon was no parser of words, crafter of oratory. There were times where he waxed poetic and musical, artistic and inspired, but it came and went as flames might, flashes and flares, as came his insightful moments of wisdom that could stun the unwary -- but that was not his normal character.

So his question and greeting were simple, but without hostility. His curiousity was naked and direct; "What brings you here, Metanoia?"

"It is about Aroesus." Metanoia began. To all around him, he was an invisible presence, but Sileon was a god like Metanoia was, and they could detect each other's presence at will. Metanoia then took on the form of the general who began his existence, a masked warrior with bandages where he killed himself. The god of guilt kept the usual frown on his face as he manifested, this time simply because there wasn't much Metanoia could guilt Sileon about. Still, he felt that Sileon should have a face tell him the truth, not just some voice in the wind.

"Sileon...your brother is dead." he finished. It had been a while since Sileon had woken up last, and was but a speck to both gods' minds the last time they had spoken, so Metanoia gave him the current truth as to how the god-king had perished, poisoned in both mind and body, soul vanquished where no one could reach him or his paramour. The Lost General gave a mention of that enigmatic twin-deity, Dream, keeping their souls away in the Dreamrealm somewhere, but he could give no more information about that. He told him of how their pantheon's capital city is falling apart at the seams, and lastly, how the faces of the guilty managed to elude even the watchful gaze of Metanoia himself.

"What are you going to do now? It is chaos up there, Sileon." Metanoia crossed his arms and turned towards the coast. He looked at the horizon where the sea met the curve of the planet, and he could see, just on the other side, that the future was more uncertain than ever. Other pantheons had come and gone, but this one was different. This was the pantheon that should have been first when Ventu fell, if it weren't for the chaos that Aroesus and his family had to control.

Now that only two of Aroesus' siblings lived, both uninterested in rule of mortal affairs, what was to become of the world now?

In his thoughts, the god of guilt uttered the same idea again in the last three weeks, almost like a mantra. Whoever killed Aroesus and Lyrikes...they have no idea what they have begun. His frown grew deeper at the notion once more.

They will pay for the suffering they have caused. I'll make sure of it.

Aroesus was dead; perhaps more was expected out of Sileon, or no less -- he processed the information, but gave little indication as to what he thought of it. He didn't stop to ask questions when the grim tale of lust, seduction and treachery was unfolded in words to him by a deity that hardly knew him. There was an unsettling, serenely focused intensity to him as he stood still and heard.

Even Sileon could see that Aroesus was becoming more unsettled in the last days, but he was never one easily swayed by words. In acts did he find his solace and truth. And so there were no vows of vengeance, or even howls of despair. Things died; Sileon saw his father pass, one brother and then another. The Dreams thought they were eternal, and were perhaps right, but Sileon always knew on a visceral level that his flame would go out some day. It was the cycle, the same cycle they'd subconsciously imposed on the world they stood on. The stuff of death nourished the rebirth.

"The first thing I should do is to go to Krona." Sileon didn't plan past a certain point, and he didn't generally say a lot, and so much of what Metanoia thought was true -- he was the son of Ventu least suited to deal with this problem. Another being would say, 'go see Mysia, if not her, Lathunis' and so forth, but Sileon was like the flame indeed-- he knew where he'd go next, but not what would come after, or after, or after. He never did plan beyond the immediate future, or dwell beyond the immediate past.

And it was true, he had no actual plan for how to deal with humanity, or even an interest in doing so. Svanus and Aroesus, humanity was their labor of love. Like a younger brother, not quite understanding the play, Sileon tagged along, always curious, but eternally a child in this regard. The intricacies escaped him. The cities sprouted and humanity flourished, but Sileon played only the parts that came naturally to him.

"Thank you for telling me this, Metanoia."

Sileon didn't pause to consider whether or not there was an agenda behind telling him this, and there were no flowery formalities to stand on; the form of a young man one moment, the flight of a bird the next, and then, the arrival of Sileon on the platform before the gates of Krona, the marble cracking and smudging for the first time that he could ever remember. His entrance was not subtle; he was a being of flaming wings and a savage litheness, and yes, an object of long-held fear. The inhabitants of Krona, from the few lucky mortal spirits made eternal servants to the lesser beings that made up the court, all knew that Sileon was going to wake up sooner or later, and they knew what Metanoia knew and feared; they were entering a time of incredible strife and upheaval. They knew that when the Herald walked the halls of Krona that it was never good tidings...

The Night the God King Fell
A night she’d always remember, Avanid had been in the rush of her life that night. When the God King died it was like a searing hot pain had shot through her. She had been on her way to Avanid Island to check on the warriors who were living there. When Aroesus died, Avanid faltered in mid flight almost crashing into the lake below, but she managed to keep aloft pushing her connection to Aroesus she had gained from Aroesus giving her the duty of bringing heroes to her Isle aside. With a quick turned Avanid veered her course and went straight for Aroesus home. It didn’t take long before she saw the tower in the distance, beautiful white and strong, she saw those archways onto a balcony that were left open for Aroesus to view his lands. She sped for the nearest window and landed casually on a railing and took in the view. No one had arrived yet, and the who had ever plotted and killed the God King seemed to be long gone. Cautiously she hopped down onto the balcony and fluttered into the room.

The scene before her was a shock the Dead Aroesus disturbed her down to her core. It would have taken someone powerful to bring such a god so low. She slowly hopped over to his form standing on his chest and staring at his face. If it weren’t for her being in raven form tears would have been rolling from her eyes. Avanid knew what she had to do though and with a hop forward she was standing on Aroesus chin and she moved in a blur her beak coming down in a pecking motion as her upper jaw with over the top of the God King’s eye ball and her bottom jaw underneath it. Her beak put a light pressure and pulled the eye free before swallowing it whole. Looking to the other eye she did exactly the same to it and swallowed the eyeball. It saddened her to have to do a such a thing to Aroesus, but it had to be done. She lifted her head her beak covered in blood, the eye sockets of the God King now hollow and red with blood.

For what seemed like a long time Avanid just stared at the dead god king. It was at this time she heard a noise, someone was coming. With a quick flap of her wings Avanid took off through a archway and out into the sky just as the door opened and Eskellon came into the Aroesus room. She flew as quick and hard as she could with the precious payload she carried straight for her island. Upon arriving she changed form and entered the huge tree that she called her home. With a cough and a gag, then another cough she spit up Aroesus eyes and placed them inside of a small silver tube that she plugged with a cork. “I can’t leave… Not yet. Someone may have seen me. I have to wait till the skies are clear… Till I can get to Lathunis.”

Present Day

The sun shone brightly across the Isle of Avanid the sounds of hundreds of warriors fighting could be heard off in the distance as well as their shouts of victory and cries of defeat. Avanid smiled at the sound it was always a pleasure to wake up to such exultation. For days now she had sent out some of her ravens to see if anyone had been searching specifically for her, and so far no word of her being a target had been found. It was a good day indeed with news like that she would finally be able to leave her island and find Lathunis, the goddess and friend she considered Queen even though others didn’t. She gathered up her clothes dressing herself in the normal pieces of leather and armor she wore, it wasn’t exactly the most concealing but it covered everything important. She finished her outfit off with a head dress that was made from a giant raven skull with huge black feathers sticking out the back of it. It fit her head quite easily and hid the upper part of her face. Taking a deep breath Avanid shrank in size her body becoming covered in black feathers the headdress she wore melding into her head and by the end of it all she was a raven perched on a side table next to a bit. Using her beak she picked up the silver tube that held the God king’s eyes.

The Raven that was Avanid took flight from her isle soaring high above the lake carrying the sacred items with as much care as possible, she wondered how Lathunis would react to this. She hoped that her friend would not be angry with her. Eyes darting back and forth she watched to make sure no one tried to intercept her on her path and she realized she had closed quite a bit of distance to Kronas the Gardens already coming into view. With the grace of a bird she landed, and neatly folded her wings against her body giving a slight caw as she did so. Dropping the tube she changed once more and stood in the garb she had donned back at her home. With a gentle grab she picked up the tube and began to walk through the beautiful garden. Vibrant colors blossomed from every plant and even the greens seemed to have a glare to them. She stopped as she came to a clearing, why had she come here? She had just felt like she would find Lathunis in this place, something deep down in her stomach said she would find her friend in the Gardens.

Slowly Avanid put a hand to the side of her mouth and shouted. “Lathunis! I need to speak to you it’s important! Lathuns!” She continued to walk through the garden continuing to shout for her friend hoping she would get some reply. Avanid slowly looked down at the silver tube in her hand and gave a deep gulp. She was both excited and dreading giving this to Lathunis hoping to explain herself before Lathunis possibly became angry with her. She stopped as she came to a tree. Here, Lathunis was close she could feel. “Lathunis, It’s Avanid I have a gift for you! You must come see!” She stood there waiting looking around curiously.

The Palace was crumbling, degrading at a far faster rate than would have occurred on the mortal plain, with the passing of its master. Debris was no a threat to the previous Queen of the Gods, but soon it would not be able to shelter her, she had hoped that those events which she intended to hide could have concluded before such a time as she would have to lead, but the biological processes of the gods were not clear or even, she could carry this child for a single day or for the rest of her life. She highly doubted it would be the former, for her to be so fortunate, and would have to plan for the 'growth' to outlive the palace.

Mysia was loathe to hide, even from the ascendant mortal servants who could whisper themselves, it was not in her nature, in the North she was a goddess of bravery, of women unwilling to accept that the men had chose for them, in the civilized lands she was Queen, a purveyor of fashions and elegance, the centre of attention, or at least near. However, she was a mother to, and risking her children was further from her nature, she could sacrificial her ego for that. There would be many who would not be too pleased at the idea of a new trueborn child of the previous god-king, and others who would wish to use them for their own ends. That and the few gods born in the fashion of the mortals below were rarely inconsequential, especially of the King and Queen.

To the outside world she had appeared insane and drunk, turned mad by the grief of her loss. In reality, the passing of her husband was troubling, but not as saddening as it once would have been, before he had twisted deeper into his own monstrosity. She could not be sure whether her latest child would be the product of consent, or one of his forced takings of her, frequent as they had become, and part of her was relieved at his passing. There was still sorrow, mainly from the memory of the brighter days, but it was not enough for anything like the reaction the other gods believed. A few visits from a certain nephew, some mad and loud ramblings and they had been duped, even if they had seen nothing but shadows from her. But most had avoided the apartments of the palace in the first place. Now it would seem, such tranquility was over, with the hurried shouts from the gardens. Having been resting in her draconic form, her body twisted into her 'true' form, loose layers of the finest silk shrouding her form, billowing in a breeze of her own creation, keeping it from pressing into her fecund form. With a thought, she appeared at the steps leading down from the palace to the gardens. She was not entirely alone in the royal grounds anymore, and she could feel a familiar burning presence rushing towards the palace. He would be harder to hide from.

"Why are you here...there is nothing to be found." Her voice was powerful, almost as much force behind it as she had commanded during the life of her husband, although she remember, at the last moment, to tone down the force, replacing it with bitter rage. Her body still felt warm from the ambrosia the gods dined on, filling her form with divine rejuvenation, as did regularly since her pregnancy had began to show, rather than the drink most assumed she was partaking of, but she had to channel what negativity she could muster.

Eskellon returned to his mother's side. "Mother. Please be mindful of our guest. I do not want an unexpected demise of both of my beloved parents." The wizard god said respectfully. He turned towards the rising fire. He thought to himself. "What is it? The slumbering one has awakened?" He stood beside her, hoping to offer her support and comfort. His albino white hair almost seemed to shine, and he was clothed in a white robe. His sometimes aged, worn face appeared more like that of a thirty year old man, instead of the elder he appeared as at other times .Eskellon smiled. "I hope you will come to dine and accept hospitality, rather than having come in disrespect or conflicting intentions.Please inform us why you are here so we may properly address you."

Lathunis craved solitude from the moment of she felt the wave of energy from her father’s departing. The only company she wanted was that of her mother, Mysia, and her companion, Anavid, but neither were anywhere to be found. Her brother Eskellon was too male, too harsh. Instead, Lathunis retreated to the gardens of Krona for her grief. Her reclusion, in part, helped further along the chaos in Lymaeus, people’s prayers for loyalty and duty falling through the cracks. This bothered Lathunis slightly, but her grief for her father and her lack of knowledge of Anavid’s or her mother’s whereabouts put her into an irritated state. She knew her father had been betrayed, and her closest confidents being lacking caused her to feel betrayed herself.

After a week of grieving though, she decided that something must be done. Her solitude turned into one less of grief and more of meditation. She knew which gods disliked her father, which was most of them, but she was not sure who would turn against them in such a manner. She also began to wonder if those that had turned against him, would turn against her, if she were to take up the throne, as was her right. She heard rumors pass through the garden, many of the king’s death and a few of her mother’s insanity, but was moved no closer to the answer.

Lathunis sat in silent thought, eyes closed, when she felt the presence of her uncle enter Krona. Concentrating on his energy, she tried to depict his intentions but was disrupted by the sound of Anavid entering the garden. At first, she did not answer as her name was called, but knew Anavid would have good reason for her absence. She was about to approach Anavid when she felt her mother's presence suddenly enter the garden. All of her thoughts stopped for a moment and she almost quickly appeared before her, but Mysia's powerful voice rang through the garden. Lathunis sighed and appeared before Anavid.

“Anavid, my dear friend, where have you been these past weeks?" she said, smiling. As Anavid began to reply, Lathunis grabbed her arm and started walking in the direction of her mother. It was a sign of respect to approach another god or goddess with physical effort. She whispered quickly "Let us appear in front of my mother before she angers. Her anger is not something to be taken lightly, as you well know."

Deep within his shadowed palace at the shores of Shurzunartes, Mikazliqui rested on his throne in a languid posture. He slowly swirled a crimson-filled goblet, his ruby eyes locked on a scrying pool focused on the world below. As the news arrived of the God-King's death, he had sent messengers to his Vampires in the form of Shades. The dark ephemerals merged with his nocturnal brood to form Revenants, essentially living conduits of his voice. March on the holy city of Aroesus, he had told them, and claim it in the name of your father and master. His children were all too happy to oblige, and had bred and infected others to inflate their numbers for such a conquest. And now, as the pitch of night fell over the anarchic city, its streets would run with blood.

Like a swarm of rats or scarabs, the cursed lineage of Mikazliqui poured from the wilderness and into the city. Like a mighty river, they surged up and over the city walls, scaling the sheer surface in such numbers as to cover them completely. Pounding on the gates was a force of enthralled Ghouls and zombies raised by the Vampire necro-shamans. Nulls, horrifying abominations formed by the forceful infliction of the Pariah King's curse on incompatible beings, threw themselves with bestial savagery at the city's pitiful defenses. What was mere civil unrest hours before then became a storm of carnage.

With fang, claw and blade the cursed brood spilled the blood of the city's inhabitants, and they reveled in it. However, their cruelty was not that petty. Rather than to end lives, they sought to ruin them. Instead of killing, they converted; assimilating the citizens of the city into their horrific swarm. Crying mothers ate their own children, made ravenous by the maddening hunger of being forcibly turned. Screams echoed through the night, and the once shining metropolis now glistened crimson.

With a neutral, almost bored expression, Mikazliqui watched the slaughter unfold. He turned his attention to its goblet, peering into the glistening liquid within. It peered back at him with a sorrow gaze that begged for mercy. He downed the goblet in a single gulp, and held it out to be refilled by one of his passing Shade servants. Things were getting interesting now, and he had to keep well aware of the goings-on above, below and within the mortal world.

He was not much to look upon, as a god, though if one expected to be awed by the presence of a god of debauchery they were as mad as half his followers. Dressed in gaudy coloured nobleman’s attire, he was young with slightly untamed mid-length black hair and a relatively attractive face, though certainly not on par to the form most gods saw fit to assume. Leaning from the balcony of his large opulent room in Kronos, Morios the god of revelry and madness blearily observed the proceedings in the courtyard below. As a god, it was hardly necessary for him to be beside his fellow divinity to know exactly what was being said, or how it was being said which was often more important.

“So the prodigal son returns.” He muttered sardonically, sipping from the goblet which appeared just as he raised his hand. His great uncle had never been awake in his presence or such that he could remember, which was little considering his fondness for alcohol and its after-effects. Down below he was being questioned by Mysia, his beloved aunt, Lathunis lingered nearby as well as Eskellon, that boring old coot. They all looked so serious down below, which worried him more than it should have. Mysia especially was hardly playing her part, she needed more twitching and shaking, it would be difficult now for Morios to maintain her illusion of madness, but still he would try. He sighed, what he wouldn’t do for family. The thought brought him back, three weeks prior, to the death of his uncle Aroesus. It had been a tragedy, of that he was sure, and the subterfuge afterwards required his particular set of skills, Mysia had deemed it wise to hide her pregnancy, and she had enlisted the help of her nephew in such a task to ensure even the gods believed her incapacitated. Morios was not one to look at, but down below the mortals grew mad and debauched in the chaos, and his power swelled in result.

Dimly, Morios felt the pain of Aroesus' city as it was claimed by the night-fiends, servants of Mikazliqui. It was not part of his sphere to be so knowledgeable of far off events, usually, but the thirst of vampires was a very specific form of debauchery, and Morios was more than privy to the ongoing revelry of blood. His hand twitched involuntarily, so much satisfaction was hard to ignore, even if he privately found it unnerving to feast upon life blood. When he raised his goblet to his lips he spat in surprise, red liquid falling to the ground below, he emptied his cup along with it.

“Blood, bah.” He swore, and made his goblet refill with wine. His hand shook slightly as he sipped the liquid, this time the familiar taste of the alcoholic beverage settling his nerves.

Without a response Avanid had been about to give up on trying to find Lathunis and return to her Isle and try again later, but this was not the case as she heard a very demanding voice yell at her from the direction of the Palace. As Avanid turned she saw that Mysia in all her almost hellish glory, she opened her mouth to speak, but stopped as Lathunis appeared beside her speaking quickly and snatching her up by the arm and leading her to Mysia. “I am sorry for disturbing your peaceful gardens, but I had to see Lathunis. It has been a few weeks since I have seen her.” Avanid chewed the inside of her cheek and stared at Mysia, another part of her felt a powerful energy nearby and getting closer. She paid this energy no heed though and pushed it to the back of her mind.

Holding the tube tightly Avanid waited for Mysia’s reply and gently slid her hand into Lathunis and left the tube as she slid her hand away. “That is yours… Wait to open it, and when you do please wait for a explanation.” Avanid gave a visible gulp and looked back as Mysia as she finished whispering in Lathunis’ ear. Avanid was tense she wasn’t sure what everyone’s intentions were, but she didn’t want to give away this secret she was sharing with Lathunis just yet. “I appreciate both of your…” She stopped speaking as a tugging feeling pulled at her, something was going on. Her skin started to take on a darker hue and she knew. A battle had begun nearby, she could see it the vampires crawling over walls slaughtered the innocent as well as soldiers. She saw through many sets of eyes as her mind connected with the ravens that were already circling above the city. “Lathunis… “

With a quick movement of her hands she pulled off her raven skull helm and put it under her arm, thick black wavy hair fell down her back and framed her face, her pupils red and glowing. “It seems something is happening in the mortal realm, a army of monsters have fallen upon Caesilinus. The city is being sacked as we speak. I can only see so much at night when my ravens are sleeping.” Her body posture seemed as if she had the urge to leave to go the battle, which she did if not for more heroes to take to her island then for the mere fact of being around such combat. She didn’t leave though as she stood there waiting to see what the other Goddesses thought of such a situation.

Lathunis felt the cold metal of the tube that Anavid slipped into her hand. She silently acknowledged the exchange with a nod, curious but trusting Anavid. She tucked the cylinder up her sleeve, careful to not think of it too much lest Mysia notice. The growing energy of her uncle disturbed her, but before she could talk to Mysia about it, Anavid mentioned a more pressing matter. She turned her attention towards Caesilinus, feeling the chaos and disorder from the battle. She worriedly watched as Anavid put her helmet on her head.

“These monsters… They are the servants of Mikazliqui, not to be taken lightly. With Aroseus’ protection gone from the city, it will soon fall to those…. Abominations.” The creations of Mikazliqui, the vampires, his children, disgusted her, yet she respected their dedication to Mikazliqui. Her true dislike was directed towards the god himself. His pleasure oriented around destruction and his sudden attack of Aroseus’ patron city ignited a belief that he was a part of the conspiracy. “Mikazliqui is taking advantage of the chaos surrounding my father’s death, it seems. I cannot let him disrespect him in such a way.”

Metanoia would have joined the pantheon at Krona, if Mikazliqui had not made his move on the city. The sheer influx of atrocities coming in from Aroesus' fallen city brought the god of guilt to his knees, clutching his head in discomfort. All thought of joining his brethren above vanished, overwhelmed by his concern for the mortals below. Aroesus was dead, and his family incapacitated. No one was acting against the war god, so Metanoia decided to get involved once more in mortal affairs.

With a cry of anger, Metanoia transported himself to Caesilinus, determined to destroy every invading vampire. A blue light, shining like a comet, struck the city and a group of vampires with a divine wrath, crushing them under its existence. The light and wind cleared to reveal Metanoia, aglow with blue light and with a furious countenance.

"How dare you desecrate the mortals' blood!" he yelled at the vampires around him, who stood shocked at direct intervention against their father's commands. Metanoia remembered the martial skill of the general whose blood he was born from, and prepared for battle once more. If he had to, the Spectre of Sinners was going to kill every vampire in the city with his bare hands. His appearance shifted erratically, trying to find the victim of the worst crime these monsters had committed tonight. When he finally discovered it, that of a woman who was turned and ate her own child in her first primal moments as a vampire, Metanoia stepped forward and struck.

Sooner or later, Mikazliqui will pay for this. he thought, as his hands and feet cut through the beasts like they were paper.

One way or another, I will avenge the mortals. Caesilinus around him shone with burning blue, letting the people know that a god was battling among them. Whether they thought Metanoia fought on their behalf or against them, bystanders and civilians fled at the sight of Lady of Loss.

Daeros had decided to steer clear of Krona for the time being; he had no desire to immediately jump into conflict with the other members of the Pantheon, and he knew that many of his fellow immortals would be all too quick to move to violence; after all, they were childish, selfish beings - and most of them, self-deluded as they were, knew it.

As he often counseled those politicians who prayed to him to do, the God decided to take a path of caution; he’d avoid other deities until the initial shock of Aroseus’ death had blown over, and then he would show himself in the Dead King’s Palace; and set his plans into motion to claim the fallen God’s throne.

In the meantime, there was still plenty to do on the mortal plane - surely even the humans had felt the death of the King of the Gods in their bones; with Aroseus dead, law and order would have vanished, and chaos would reign supreme. Caesilinus would be ripe for the taking; with the devout followers of Aroseus suddenly left leaderless, without divine guidance - they’d be distraught. And Daeros planned to take advantage of that; after all, if he had Caesilinus, and all the powerful artifacts it contained, would he not have a stronger claim to the throne of the Gods? As much as some of the Gods would disagree with him, Daeros knew that whoever had the most power and influence on the mortal plane would have a great deal more leverage in the Kingdom of the Divines.

Now, the question came to him - how was he to take the fallen King’s great city? After all, he was no God of War; conflict was a mystery to him, something he usually strove to avoid participating in directly at all cost. He had no supernatural servants of his own, save for his serpents - and he had no desire to put them at risk; besides, they were busy with a more important task - watching over Daeros’ concubines.

No, while he did not have any great deal of warlike capacity himself, the Patron of Corruption had a different means to conquer the Great City; his influence. Many Politicians were his devout followers, whether they admitted it or not - and they would be all too pleased to put their armies to the task of sacking Caesilinus, if it would improve their standing with him.

He took one last look around the dense jungle that surrounded his temple, a smile forming on his pale lips.

-

The throne room of King Oruous was magnificent in its splendour; it was positively massive, the walls huge blocks of smooth sandstone, held together perfectly by thin, almost invisible layers of mortar. The tiles of the throne room were made from smooth marble, and the King’s throne was massive and plated with gold.

The King himself was a short, fat and indulgent man - nearing his sixtieth year, he’d let himself go completely; he had a positively massive stomach, and an even bigger beard. The fat little monarch lay sprawled sideways upon his throne, head resting upon a large pillow; his court near empty, save for a few nobles conferring quietly amongst themselves, and the guards who stood silent watch at every entrance and exit to the massive room. As the King lay there, gobbling down grapes fed to him by a half-naked thirteen year old boy, he had no idea he was in for the biggest shock of his life; the God Daeros was coming to collect his payment.

With a sound so loud it mimicked a thunderclap, the God appeared; there was no forewarning, there was simply nothing - and then there was him. Daeros looked exactly as he always did, except that he was.. bigger, somehow - drawn up tall and straight, a look of Godlike superiority painted upon his beautiful features. He was surrounded by a thick grey haze, but there was no mistaking that he was not a God; nor that he was not Daeros, by the massive bust of his head, carved from white marble, that sat behind and above the King Oruous’ throne.

As Daeros had appeared, the King leapt with fright into a seated position; his guardsmen and the few nobles who were conferring quietly in corners of the massive throneroom stunned into silence. Oruous opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by the thundering, commanding voice of an Immortal on a mission. “King Oruous,” Daeros rumbled, the King white as a sheet and shaking, “I have come to collect my payment; you owe me a great debt, for the blessings I have showered you with throughout your reign. You are corrupt, a vile man - under deserving of the wealth you now possess. You know it as well as I; and you would be a fool to lie to yourself.”

The God paused - a soft whimper coming from the King’s fat, bearded face before Daeros began speaking again. “I require a favour of you, mortal - and not only will you be fulfilling your obligations to me, but you will be earning my gratitude. Aroseus, King of the Divines, has been slain - and his city left unguarded. You will march on the Great City of Caesilinus, and smite down the army that guards it; and the armies of any of those who plan to take the prize first. You will do this in my name, and with my blessing - and if you succeed, you will be the richest man in all Lymaeus.”

Oruous simply.. stared, for a few moments; stunned by the words that had just come from Daeros’ mouth. Not only had a God just appeared in his throneroom, but he was sending him on a mission - a mission from a Divine! He nodded his head weakly, before opening his motuh to reply, “U-uh.. y-yes, Lord; it will be done. I w-will send out emissaries to my allies, and rally my own armies.” Weakly, the King rose to his feet - standing on shaky legs; smitten by the God who stood before him - drawn in by his addictive nature.

Daeros smiled, nodding his head in thanks. “Do not fail me, Oruous,” He warned - a dark note to his words, before he vanished; gone as quickly as he had come.

-

The Divine watched from above Oruous’ Palace, shrouded in cloud, as the King’s men rushed to rally his men and send word to his allies; Daerps happy to wait, for now, as armies rallied in his name. And if those in Hevas were listening, they would surely hear the dull drums of war as they started to beat from below.

Sileon strode through the halls of Krona unescorted and unimpeded; there was a bit of movement around him here and there discernable to him, but it was not something he took note of. The flaming wings gave him away; a young man with wings of flame was Sileon, and Sileon was an object of fearful legend in Krona. Aroesus, before he started to lose his mind, often called upon his fire deity of a brother to enforce his will, before Aroesus became unbalanced and hubristic. That was what Metanoia outlined, though Sileon saw touches of it from time to time -- it was as if Aroesus stopped trusting Sileon to carry out such tasks. It was a sad thought, really, to think that in the end, Aroesus thought himself alone but for some catamite of a demigod, intent only on the power of a patron.

In the days right after Ventu died, Krona was always the realm of Aroesus, though it grew in power as he did -- even from relatively humble beginnings, it was a place where the other deities, family at first, gathered and planned. Sileon was never quite a part of the creation of plans as he was the one carrying them out -- Svanus was often the one who worked with Aroesus, as they sought to build and protect and tend. Krona had always been perfect, a symbolism of the calm rule of Hevas, though it was also a place where violence was done, the seat of power once Aroesus strode to claim the mantle of King from the various pretender pantheons that came before. His power animated this place, and that was rapidly ebbing away without replenishment. The garden, oddly, seemed more intact than other parts of the palace. But then, the garden was a thing of Svanus, and he ensured the survival of such things by breaking off pieces of himself to infuse them with that divine essence. That was, of course, the suicide of Svanus -- a slow thing, as he gave of himself into other things, so that they might bloom eternal. Sileon had never understood his older brother, but it seemed that the legacy of Svanus would outlast that of Aroesus.

Speaking of legacies, Sileon knew that Aroesus had heirs and that the others in the Pantheon would be ready to fight over the power -- it was the way of things, for the gods did not share power easily and the hierarchy was an imposition of force. Freed from the authority of Aroesus, until another established it, there would be a war for dominion, fiercely contested. These were things to ask about, these where some of the many questions he had. And these were on his mind as he strode into the throne room to confront Mysia, the dowager Queen of the Gods.

Some court attendants continued as they always had, scurrying about. Spirit servitors, even demigods, but no one stopped to impede the progress of Ventu's youngest son, to halt that strong stride of his across the cracking crystal floor of the throne room -- he took in the ragged drapes and the smudged has-been splendor of the place as the light filtered through with a scowl as he looked for the face he was seeking.

"Mysia!" he called out, "It is Sileon. I would speak with you."

Many of the hangers on, the courtiers of the late reign, the sort of yes-beings that Aroesus surrounded himself with scattered at that announcement -- everyone, apparently, was expecting a war, and these were Aroesus' closest companies in the late stages of the King's life -- friends of Lyrikes grown fat on the patronage of the upjumped demigod, the one who had infatuated Aroesus to distraction. They revealed their character in their little stampede.