[IC] The Heavens Aflame - A Civil War Among Deities

[HeySeuss]

Krona

In some parts of Hevas, the death cry of Aroesus still reverberated, and took root in the halls of Krona. For the first time in the memory of the beings of Hevas, Krona knew dust and Krona knew smudges and Krona knew cracks in the still-magnificent-but-formerly-perfect facade. The hushed voices, the scurrying demeanor of the courtiers, the worry on their faces all spoke of what had happened and the imminent changes yet to come, the consequences. And yet, for the moment, Krona held. Not as strongly when Aroesus ruled in person and in later times, it seemed as if the place was cast over with the pall of its ruler's suspicions and rages. These were all the minor functionaries and court flunkies -- some of them were favorites of the demi-deity Lyrikes, raised only on the merit of Aroesus' own lust for the boy. These showed a particular erosion as there was little Pantheon support for such things, and perhaps as a reflection on how unmissed Lyrikes, who had some members in good standing imprisoned in Sharzunates on a suggestion to his patron, would be. But Krona stood. Whether or not it would continue to stand was dependent on several outcomes.

Caesilinus

Caesilinus was a different story from the place it was built to reflect, albeit imperfectly, as interpreted through the hands of the mortals that were guided through their connection to and inspiration by Aroesus. Caesilinus burned. For the last weeks, since the death cry of the King of Gods reverberated through dreams, causing people to wake up screaming and others to drown the voice in their heads with wine and other things more potent, the city had deteriorated; homicide, suicide, matricide, patricide, all sorts of killing. Then there was the debauchery, much of it apparently inspired by the release of Aroesus' essence upon death; a bit of it burned itself out in the frenzied perversions of Caesilinus' denizens. That included the army. The gates lay open, the people lay insensate, and the city itself was aflame, with too few people bothering to put out the fires. The only buildings definitively spared were the small temples devoted to other deities, never terribly popular in Caesilinus, which was the city of Aroesus, the First City of Men, and these were refuge for an equally small number of devotees to other deities, which was a paltry enough number in the center of Aroesus' mortal powerbase, not that he really needed mortal power. And while Caesilinus ate, drank, fucked and burned to death, armies gathered to take it, for even in this state, it was still a prize...

[Terminal]

Summit of Hevas, Realm of the Gods Nasan Ascent The final stretch of pathway leading up to Lake Miphas and the True Realm of the gods lay directly adjacent to the downward flowing stream that was but one part of the great Nasan Waterfall. Though night and darkness were cast upon the path like a pall, eternal dawn sprung from the horizon at the zenith of the staircase. There, the Eternal Serpent Ouroboros rested its massive head, scales shimmering like pearl and opal in the sunlight. Standing as the last obstacle to any mortal that might attempt to achieve Apotheosis, the great serpent did not block the path to Lake Miphas and only bestrode the sacred road leading to the first of that body's many bridges. The challenge was not in overcoming the gargantuan creature, but in resisting its temptations. For the Eternal Serpent was no mere Leviathan adorning the crown of the world, but was the essence of the slain god Svanus, whose body the serpent had shed as a molt. Within its cavernous length lay the corridors and stacks of The House of Books, and All Knowledge dwelt therein. Its traditional location also made The House of Books the single most-visited upon locale in the realm of the Gods, both by divine personages and their servants alike. Even should they merely pass by up or down the Nasan Path, always did they pass before the eyes of Ouroboros. Within the belly of the Great Serpent, the Goddess Dihira breathed a ponderous and heavy breath laden with wariness of that very fact. For though noble and just in her own way, the Dark Librarian had many enemies, now more than ever. As those exiled from Hevas to Sharzunates. climbed the Nasan pathway to once again rejoin Miphas, the first domain of the true gods they would come across would be hers, Dihira's, goddess of knowledge, mother of serpents. She who had helped the Mad God King Aroesus to banish many of them in the first place. That she has subsequently contributed to his upbraiding and downfall was of little consequence in the shadow of her ill repute. Though heavy with wariness as she was, the Goddess Dihira did not stray from her purpose and intent. Aroesus was dead, as was intended. The veracity of the matter could no longer be withheld, and thus Dihira spoke: ~Servitors and Children, attend to me, for the time has come once again to disseminate the Anthologies of all Divine Affairs to Mortal Minds and Mortal Hands. The God King is slain at long last, and as all the world and its bodies tremble at his passage, so too will its minds know the measure of his absence.~ She swept across the tiled ammolite Foyer of the House of Books, cavernous stacks and ribs of bone and book looming in endless, spiraling fractals akin to a gaping chasm in her wake. She settled at the desk of the Librarian at the foremost of that place, making no effort to hide her presence within. Though many might come to chastise her, this was her domain, and the Mother of Serpents was possessed of both draconic might and surety of place. If there was to be a conflict, she would meet all comers in battle...but only on her own terms. As she seated herself she gestured errantly. Several floating paper lamps descended from the darkness of the ceiling, like stars, to illuminate her works. From the shadows, coiling forms of feathered scales sidewinded into the penumbra of light as the Serpentine followers of the Goddess basked in the light and warmth of her knowledge. They stood still and rapt, ready to take in her revelations that might be passed onto the mortal world. Dihira produced a Crow-feather quill as a viper slid out from the folds of her sleeve, and gently sunk its fangs into the bare of her forearm. Divine ichor, empyrean is its luminescence and splendor, dribbled from Dihira's arm and into her inkpot. She dipped the quill therein, and with the very essence of divinity itself, wrote of the Death of Aroesus, speaking aloud for the benefit of nearby transcribers and listeners alike. ~At the waning of the second age of Divinity, Aroesus, whose father was Ventu, King of the Gods and Final Arbiter of Krona, was slain. ~He was slain by the hands of many, among them was... Dihira proceeded to list every single God and Goddess who had partipated in the upbraiding of Aroesus with their daggers, falling upon his prone and naked form mercilessly. ~...though were it not for his vulnerability at the hands of treachery, Aroesus may well have overwhelmed his assailants and their arms. Though mighty, he had been lain low through his copulation with the corpse of Lyrikes, whose body has been corrupted by a great poison fashioned by Odysus, God of Fugue. The essence of the poison was derived from the fangs of the Eternal Serpent Ouroboros, milked by Dihira, Goddess of Knowledge, for the very purpose of weakening Aroesus and laying him low.~ Dihira's eyes and brow neither flickered nor wavered as she invoked her own complicity in the downfall of Aroesus. ~Though much of the Heavens and the Body of Lymaeus trembled and burnt at his passing, the Gods and Goddess and servants and peoples and beings of all of Hevas and of all of the Sharzunates celebrated in joy at the downfall of his great and terrible madness. Thus it was decreed, 'Let forever this day be marked as one of celebration and levity, for though the Aether itself weeps at the death of the Divine, a great Evil has passed from this world, and the fires of change shall bestir the waxing of greater times in the dawn of the Third Age.~ And thus, Dihira's Feathered Servitors flew. They slithered down the halls of the House of Books, and through its twisted geometries found their ways into the realm of Mortal kind. Unseen, they stalked amongst the brilliant and the mad alike, sowing divine inspiration through quarrels from their Epiphianc bows. And so even as Caesilinus burned, its Great Library, one of the few structures to remain untouched and unblemished by the flames, was filled with a surety of purpose. Transcribers and Archivists, taken ahold of by abrupt levies of clarity, began to rush to and fro between the shelves to uncover ancedotal information and passages as word of the accounts of the gods took root in their minds. Not even in that library alone did they strive, but across all the world, in quiet forlorn studies and in the palaces of kings, in the corners of taverns and in the towers of the learned mages. Not only was Aroesus dead, but the day of his death had just been declared a Holy Day of celebration and joy. High upon the foyer of the House of Books, the flow of ichor from Dihira's forearm ceased as the viper withdrew its fangs, and she rose from her desk. Her eyes were calm in their set and shape, though a rancorous gleam raged therein. ~Oh servants of mine, our work is not done. Fly now and go, go to the palace of Krona, and take the measure of the Dowager Queen of the Gods and my mother, Mysia. Fly and find her form, and stand ready in waiting as you follow her. Soon, her heartless essence will join that of her husband's, in oblivion.~

[whist]

The Depths of Lake Sharzunates, Malebazus 5 minutes prior to the Fall of Aroesus

Death. The word called to Paichnidi, a siren's song ringing across the black, suffocating void of Sharzunates. For hundreds of years he had yearned for release from his imprisonment, to return to the realm of light and sanity far above. He remembered the feeling of warmth on his face, the warm glow of another's presence, and the thrill of a well played contest. Now all he hoped for was death, the possibility of absolution for his alleged crimes a laughable fantasy. True death: return to the unbeing that comes before birth. Death would, however, not heed his call, for it is not an easy task to kill a god. That was the nature of Sharzunates, as he had come to learn; it drains and feeds off power, but leaves just enough to continue on, breath after agonizing breath. He was weaker than a mortal, but denied the respite of perishing like one. Paichnidi envied them, with their simple, short lives. Envied them almost as much as he hated Aroesus. That hatred had been the only thing holding his mind together through his tenure as a permanent fixture of the divine prison. It was a white hot, glowing point of focus. His physical form had withered; his once handsome face was now lined with what felt to be an eternity of torment, his body was weak and fragile. His mind, however, was strong - well fed on a rage that had faded little. But, to an observer, he was a broken god: a relic of another time, devoid of followers and influence. Few would remember him as he once was, if they remembered him at all. Trusted counsel to the King, careful politican, master strategist. Once there were great games played in his honor; mortals, demigods, and gods alike came to him, hoping to be favored with wisdom. He laughed bitterly. "Empty nostalgia is a pitiful thing," he thought. "You are nothing. Remember that. Nothing above nor below." He gazed into the formless void around him. Many years ago it had appeared as a cell, dank and damp, the floor covered with the putrid water of the lake and surrounded by the whispers of those imprisoned with him. As his penance dragged on, it began to lose shape as he lost his grip on reality. He retreated further into his mind, into plans and stratagems, carefully laid and considered, plans of revenge and retribution. Eventually his cell lost all corporeal form and instead played out the torments of his mind in spectres before him, a canvas of nightmares. As much as he ruminated, he could never hold the details of a scheme in his memory long enough to bring it to fruition. He suspected this was another quality of his jail; it taunted him with the glimmer of escape then stole it quietly way, leaving him questioning his sanity. He saw replayed infinitely before him Proditus' deception and betrayal. Paichnidi had been outwitted, outplayed. Lost at his own game. He knew somehow, the King of the Gods was behind it. And that was the true source of his ire, far more than his exile to Sharzunates. He had lost. He closed his eyes, wishing for sleep as he had done countless times before, knowing it would not come. And then he felt it. Sharzunates shuddered, and then it groaned. The void around him began to swirl as if agitated, dark spirals forming and twisting in their depths. If any had been there to witness it, they would have seen Paichnidi's dull eyes suddenly burst into a dark green. "Could it be?" The shaking intensified, the darkness around him swirling faster. Was it growing lighter? He felt as if a pressure was slowly lifting off of him, a pressure he had not know to even be present. He began to slowly feel his way through the now grey mist, willing himself to move forward. His feet found cold, damp stone. He moved faster, waiting for the whip of one of Sharzunates' dread guards to fall, sending him back into oblivion. But no crack came, no sound of condemnation slicing through the air. He stopped. Slowly and painfully, he tensed the long unused muscles in his face, his lips pulling back and cracking into a bloody smile. He closed his eyes and lowered himself to lie upon the cold stone. He slept. ~At the waning of the second age of Divinity, Aroesus, whose father was Ventu, King of the Gods and Final Arbiter of Krona, was slain. Paichnidi awoke to words that were not his own echoing in his mind, words that were swiftly replaced by the sounds of sheer chaos around him. Keeping his eyes closed, he stood up and probed out with his awareness as he had not done in thousands of years. There were many lives around him, god, demigod, and ascended mortal alike. Some struggled, overwhelmed by their newfound freedom, and lashed feebly with their slowly returning power. Others were quietly in shock. Paichnidi turned his back on them, and sought privacy among mists now speared sporadically with shafts of light from above. He knew he was near the surface. He angled his face upwards, feeling warmth on his aged skin for the first time in what felt to be an eternity. He willed a white robe onto his nude form, and a simple wooden staff to lean on. Such a trivial expression of power. It was the most exquisite moment of his existence. He knew he lacked the strength to break the surface, but it was only a matter of time. Someone would come, they always do. Someone would venture into Sharzunates from above, to herald the good news, or to sate their morbid curiosity at what remained in the gods' underworld. And then he would come to them, a weak old god with robe and staff, appearing nothing like the young, handsome, and quick-witted advisor of so many years ago, dressed in fine clothes and speaking words of comfort and guidance to the young and naive. He would come to them and they would take pity on him. He would return with them, up out of Malebazus, up to Lake Miphas and his empty and cold estate. And then the game would begin again. This time, he would make sure to have the winning hand. Paichnidi sat, eyes closed, smile serene, and waited. You are nothing. For now.

[Prince Potter]

’When the desires and debauchery of the King of Kings reaches its zenith and he slips from his great throne, know that this is not the beginning of the end; but merely the end of the beginning.’ – The Book of Dark Waters, pg. 13

The wind was flat and silent that particular day and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, at least not around the Icuson Bay. The bay itself was a sharp contrast of green fields and hills leading to a shady beach in a crescent moon formation. The water itself was clear and clean for several meters on the surface, though there was a gigantic circular hole directly in the center of the crescent moon, which parents rarely let their children swim over. This hole was said to have been created by the God of the Deep when he was first born of Ventu and the world was still young, and some even said he still resided at the bottom of it to this very day.

Standing on the beach waiting patiently were two men, though they appeared quite different from one another. One of them appeared to be quiet strong and young, his eyes still ablaze with the ambition of youth. His hair flowed free and wild, and was the color of pitch. In stark contrast to his hair, his flesh was the unnerving ivory of some bloated undiscovered corpse out at sea. He wore the hides of local animals upon his back, and had a bow slung over his shoulder.

The man beside him was much older, old enough perhaps to be his father. He had a stocky build with a round pot belly, with tree trunks for arms that appeared just as gnarled. His skin was bronzed from many long days in the sun, and he wore the water soaked overalls of a man of the sea. His own hairline was receding, though he sported a great beard that threatened to swallow his face. Both his hair and beard appeared to take the color of salt and pepper. He had a cutlass clasped firmly to his side, and a strange faraway look that didn’t disappear when you talked to him.

Before either of the two acknowledged the other, a frail and soaking elderly man waded out from the waves. At first, all they spotted was his head. Slowly he would rise out of the surf, and it appeared to the observers he was wrapped in what once may have been simple white robe, though seaweed clung to him fiercely. Both men concentrated on him intently, nearly drinking in his image. They noticed a circle of local fish had naturally begun to swim in a circular motion around him. Once the elderly man had reached his waist, he stopped. Both men fell to a knee before the old man, and before any could speak an intruders voice rang through their minds.

~At the waning of the second age of Divinity, Aroesus, whose father was Ventu, King of the Gods and Final Arbiter of Krona, was slain.’

The youth gasped and seemed to make some brief gesture over his heart as if in protection. The older and sterner man merely gazed off into the distance towards the open ocean, almost as if he hadn’t heard it at all. Yet as the strange voice of the Librarian continued, it listed Tulkas of the Deep as one of those who had struck down the God King. It was only then that the mortals realized a small amount of crimson life blood flowed freely from a gash across the elderly man’s hip.

”It pleases my old heart to know you young’uns are still capable of following orders. Don’t worry about my wound, it’s barely a scratch. I can promise you lads that if I was actually hurt, I wouldn’t be bleeding your red juice, heh. But I’m afraid time is of the essence, and my old bones grow wary from quiet the exciting day, so listen closely.”

The drowned man of the sea cast his gaze specifically at the elder of the two on the shore, and his eyes had the mysterious color of sea fog at midnight. The seasoned captain stared him back dead in the eye, his own eyes seeming to lack the light of passion.

”It has been too long, Captain. I trust that you are well this fine evening in my bay..?”

”Every evening is a fine one in your domain, your worship. If I may speak freely though, I hope whatever you called me here is worth it. I’ve never been closer to catching that damned bloated parasite.”.

The drowned man allowed himself to smile a smile that was dusty and ancient, and the Captain couldn’t help but briefly wonder if it was the same one men had seen thousands of years ago when speaking to their god. The thought was pushed from his head by the response of the drowned man.

”Oh, it shall be worth it, Captain. Lech shall get what is coming to him soon enough, but I’m afraid I do have something much more important in store for you. Do you mind if an old man recall ldays long past to you, Captain..?”

He nodded without a word, almost seeming to have expected this.

”Long ago when my siblings and I rebelled against our father Ventu, we originally failed and were imprisoned within the darkness of a depth even I dare not venture to.”

The drowned man shuddered here recalling that crushing nothingness, and in turn his discomfort worried his followers on the shore.

”During my time in that place, I got to know several of the other deities besides my only friend and brother, Svanus. Namely, I met the Keeper of the Flood. I believe in your tongue he is called Dinn, and he is patron over thresholds. I believe I have convinced him in aiding you in traveling to the dark and forgotten land of Sharzunate.”

At the mention of such a dark place, the youth beside them couldn’t help but recoil slightly. Surely the drowned man of the sea jested. How could such a voyage be possible, even with the blessing of two separate gods?

”You are to go there and attempt to free an exiled and long forgotten god of cleverness and trickery. You would do well to believe nothing in he says, and very little of what you see. He is a dangerous being, perhaps even more so after his time in isolation. Now go forth, Captain.”

The stocky seaman bowed his head and beard low before standing up from his kneel, and turning to return to his ship, the infamous Grey Ghost. He would have precious little time to prepare, and already his mind raced with the possibilities that lay before him. As he fled from the meeting, the drowned man would finally turn his attention to the other observer.

”You are my son and Herald of my word to the Greenlanders, Aeto. Even if your place is not among the creatures of the sea like your siblings, you still have great purpose in you. Yet the Herald of my word cannot live in isolation like this, as your place is with the people in leading them towards my will. I would have you head straight to the City State of Illium on the coast just a few leagues away from my sacred bay.

Once there, you must rally the Anchors and Devotees at my Grand Temple there. The High Anchor there should be willing to assist you, if you give him this.”

It was here that the soaking man would seem to stoop only slightly, and draw out of the water a beautiful and shining sea star. It glimmered with gold, and appeared to have a number of glorious pearls embedded within it. It immediately caught the eye of the youth, and the elder man tossed it to him with strength unbecoming of him.

The youth rose to his feet and inspected the foreign object closely, nearly feeling the very thrum of the ocean in his hands. He had never been to Illium before, and hoped he could do his father proud in this first task of his. He would nod and begin to take a few steps away to start his journey, when a thought struck him.

”What do you intend to do then, father?”

”I should probably return home to rest, but I fear my work isn’t done yet. I think I owe the Dark Librarian a visit. I never much knew of her before, but she was close to Svanus. If he would trust her, so would I.”

It looked as if the pale Herald wished to say more, but the drowned man had already turned away and began to make his way began into his dominion. For the first time he noticed the bleeding of the drowned man had begun to attract sharks. He felt a instinctual concern for the elder man out in the water, before he came to realize with a small smile that the sharks would probably do well to fear him.