The New God's Of Avaricia

[Mount Kendo]

In the shadow-draped recesses of Mount Kendo, where the very breath of the earth spoke in fiery whispers of ancient secrets, there stood a figure, motionless as the very stones that surrounded him. This was Arteus, whose eyes, akin to twin portals to a spirit haunted by the whispers of a world long forgotten, remained steadfastly uplifted to the zenith of the cavernous chamber. The spectral illumination cast by the melt flowers, a botanical rarity born of the volcano's fiery embrace, danced in a ghastly ballet upon the rugged walls. It was within this sanctum of antediluvian whispers that he murmurred the words, "Falls...springs...melt flowers."

These peculiar floral entities grew in a manner most contrary to the natural order, as if in silent protest to the laws that governed the world above. Their inverted posture, a silent testament to the whimsical caprice of the underworld, served as a stark reminder of the fiery maelstrom that once had dominion here. They drew sustenance from the steam that arose from the depths below, a lifeblood that percolated through the very arteries of the mountain.

Barley, the village that clung precariously to the mountain's base, regarded these melt flowers with a complex blend of reverence and fear. For within their petals lay a potency so profound that it could rekindle the fires of life in those afflicted by the venom of the white serpents or those lost to the relentless grip of winter's icy embrace. This elixir, known as "flare ups," was crafted with the meticulous skill of an alchemist, a potent draught that could grant salvation to the most forsaken souls.

Yet, to harvest these botanical marvels was fraught with danger, a destiny that had befallen none other than Arteus to master. His skin, tempered by the volcanic fires, bore an unearthly resilience to the heat that would reduce lesser beings to ash. Hannah, his valiant mother whose courage was as boundless as the heavens above, had imparted unto him the sacred art of navigating the scalding stones, teaching him the macabre dance performed over the earth's bubbling cauldrons.

With a heart that beat in unison with the fiery lifeblood of the mountain, Arteus emerged from the cavern's maw, the precious cargo of melt flowers clutched tightly in his hand. The nocturnal air, cold and biting, greeted him like a specter's chilly embrace as he descended the volcanic slopes. Yet, his thoughts were not of the celestial bodies that watched over him from afar, but of the warm sanctity of his home, and the mother whose sacrifices had ensured the village's survival.

"Perchance," he murmured to the unheeding night, "these will not be needed for a time to come."

But fate had conspired otherwise. As he approached the village, a cacophony of horns split the tranquil darkness, a sound so primal and ancient that it seemed to resonate with the very essence of Avaricia. The Six Horns of Second Birth, silent for millennia, had at last been summoned forth, their clarion call reverberating through the cosmos.

All-sky, the ethereal realm wherein the divine held sway, had decreed that the time of reckoning had arrived, and the world trembled beneath the echoes of their proclamation. The horns, once mute for eons, now bellowed forth their call, a sound that resonated from the frozen wastelands of the north to the fiery crucible of the south.

In the lands of the demon-spawn, the elfin domains, and the realms of the dwarfish kin, the air grew thick with anticipation. The gods, it appeared, had not abandoned them as had been feared. The Vow of Birthright, a pact sealed with the lifeblood of the ancients, was to be invoked once more.

The very earth quivered as the abyssal gates were flung open, releasing a tide of darkness that swept over the lands like a pestilential shroud. The faithful fell to their knees in supplication, their hearts alight with the hope of deliverance. The godless, however, felt the icy talons of dread close about their throats, for they knew not the benevolence of the deities they had scorned.

Yet, Arteus felt no such peace in the face of the divine decree. His heart pounded in his chest like a frenzied beast as he thought of his mother, his thoughts consumed by a single, haunting syllable: "Mom."

He ran with a fervor born of desperation, the cries of the terrified fleur deer and the howls of the arctic wolves fading into the cacophony of his own tumultuous thoughts. His eyes remained fixed on the distant beacon that was his village, the world around him growing indistinct as he sprinted through the forest.

A decade prior, in a modest abode nestled at the outskirts of the very same village, a similar scene had unfolded. Young Arteus, his body shattered by the cruel jests of those who had deemed him an outcast, lay weeping in the embrace of his mother. It was then that she had imparted unto him the solemn truth of his Birthright.

"You must never forget, Arty," she had whispered to him, her voice tremulous with emotion, "this is your Birthright."

Indeed, it was a gift that allowed him to recover from the most grievous of injuries, a gift that marked him as one apart from the common folk. But it was a gift that came with its own burdens, for the Vow of Birthright was not merely a boon, but a sacred pact with the gods above.

As the horns of doom echoed through the heavens, the deities of All-sky gathered in solemn assembly to deliberate the fate of Avaricia. The youthful king's follies had brought the continent to the very brink of annihilation, and now it was time to decide whether salvation or damnation would be the lot of the souls that dwelt below.

"The hour of Avaricia's reckoning is nigh," one of the gods intoned, his voice as icy as the glaciers that cloaked the northern lands.

"Does it not seem hasty to judge an entire world by the transgressions of one?" another posited, her gaze suffused with a glimmer of mercy.

"Foolish," spat a third, "his choices shall bring us all to ruin if swift action is not taken."

"Indeed," murmured a fourth, "the second birth must commence forthwith."

The air grew thick with the tension of their silent accusations and veiled threats, the very fabric of the universe seeming to tremble with the gravity of their decision.

But within the heart of the volcano, where the embers of creation smoldered, the whispers grew restless. The long-dormant secrets of the gods began to stir, and the deities grew wary.

"Ah," a mysterious voice mused, the very air around it coalescing into shadow, "it seems the gods have secrets they wish to keep."

Their discourse grew heated, the voices of the immortals rising and falling like the tumultuous waves of a storm-tossed sea. Yet amidst the chaos, one truth remained steadfast. The second birth was upon them, and with it, the promise of a new dawn or the specter of an eternal night.

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-To be continued-