The New God's Of Avaricia

Sam Bower's eyes, once the gleaming pools of a predator, now held the lost, haunted look of a man staring into the abyss of his own soul. His gaze fell upon Ava, a silent plea for understanding, for the mercy that he had so often denied others. The tentacles, now retreating into his body as though ashamed of their brief existence, left behind a trail of viscous fluid that pooled on the floor like the tears of a monster.

Witches.

The very word conjures images of haggard figures cloaked in black, hunched over bubbling cauldrons, casting spells that whisper of malevolence and shadowy intent. Yet, the truth of witchcraft is not so easily distilled into the confines of a fairytale or a child's nightmare. It is a path, a journey, much like the myriad of rivers that carve their way through the vast and ever-changing landscape of the arcane.

Mages, those blessed with the gift of mana, walk a fine line between the light and the dark. Their abilities can be wielded to heal the sick or to rain destruction upon their enemies. But for those who choose to delve into the shadows, the rewards are tempting—power unbridled, knowledge forbidden, and the allure of immortality whispered through the ages. These are the witches, the practitioners of the darker path. They dance with demons and commune with the dead, trading their very souls for a taste of the power that lies beyond the veil of the natural world.

Yet, to label all witches as evil is to miss the tapestry of their existence. Within the shadowy confines of the arcane arts, there is a spectrum of intent and morality. Some wield dark spells as a means to an end, a necessary evil in a world of suffering and chaos. Others embrace the blackness, finding beauty in the balance that is only achieved when the light is cast aside.

Witches are often misunderstood, their practices shrouded in the whispers of the ignorant and the fearful. They are the guardians of ancient knowledge, the weavers of destiny, and the bane of those who dare to cross them. The very air around them seems to crackle with untapped energy, a testament to the power that lies dormant within their very essence.

Make no mistake though, to be called a witch is to be vilified, hunted, feared. It is to have the weight of a thousand accusations hang from your neck like a noose, tightening with every step you take towards the gallows of societal acceptance. It is a declaration of otherness, a mark that sets you apart from the herd of the mundane, the sheep who graze on the fields of ignorance, blissfully unaware of the predators that lurk in the shadows.

Yet, in the frenzied chaos of the chamber, Ava felt a kinship with the very essence of what was happening before her. The arms that had sprouted from Sam Bower's body were not a mere figment of the imagination, nor a trick of the flickering candlelight. They were real, palpable, and undeniable in their malicious intent. It was the very essence of witchcraft, a power that had been whispered about in the darkened corners of taverns, a specter that haunted the dreams of the faithful.

Madam Agatha's reaction was not one of surprise, but of horror and recognition. Her eyes, once filled with the warmth of a mother's love, now bore the weight of a thousand unspoken accusations. For her, the sight of the tentacles was not an aberration but a confirmation of the whispers that had haunted her thoughts since Ava's childhood.

Ava had always been an enigma within the House of Garnet, a girl whose laughter seemed too bright, whose eyes held a wisdom beyond her years. The madam had nurtured her, taught her the gentle arts of healing and compassion, hoping to mold her into the epitome of virtue. Yet, there had always been whispers, whispers of a power that slumbered within the girl, a mana so vast and untamed that it seemed to call to the shadows themselves.

Her youth had been a tapestry of contradictions: a child who soothed the sick with tender touches and whispered prayers to the All-Sky, yet whose very presence seemed to stir the embers of something darker, something that lay dormant in the hearts of those around her. Madam Agatha had done her best to shield Ava from the whispers, to guide her down a righteous path. Yet, in the end, the very fabric of her upbringing had been woven from the threads of fate itself, a destiny that seemed to have been foretold in the stars.

Ava's talents had gone unnurtured, her gift of the arcane pushed aside in favor of the more defined talents that the brothels keep demanded.

Now, in this chamber of horrors, those talents had reared their heads like a snake uncoiling from its slumber. The power within her, once a dormant force, had awakened, slithering to the forefront of her consciousness. It whispered to her, a seductive serenade of dark promise, urging her to embrace the shadows that had been denied her for so long. The tentacles that had emerged from Sam Bower's body were a manifestation of her own power, a reflection of the anger and fear that had simmered within her since the first moment she had stepped into the fate of those intwined with the House of Garnet.

Yet, as Madam Agatha's horrified gaze bore into her, Ava felt a cold wind of doubt and fear sweep through her. The madam's words, "Witch," hung in the air like an accusation, a weight that threatened to crush the very essence of who she had been raised to be. Her hand, which had once been steady with the promise of deliverance, now trembled with the burden of this revelation.

In the corner of the room, Sam Bower writhed on the floor, the tentacles retreating into his body as though retreating from the light of truth. His eyes, once filled with the rage of a cornered animal, now held the terror of a man who had gazed into the abyss and realized his fate was entwined with the very creatures he sought to conquer.

With a desperate growl, he barked at Agatha, his voice a chilling mix of fear and command. "Restrain her! She's one of them! A witch!" The madam's gaze flickered between the two, torn between the horror of the scene before her and the loyalty she had long held for the Bowers.

The chamber's door flew open with the force of a tempest, and in rushed a phalanx of guards, their faces a mirror of the madness that had gripped their master. They bore down upon Ava, their expressions twisted into a gruesome mockery of the protectors they had once been. In an instant, she was overwhelmed, her body pinned to the cold wooden floor by the weight of their accusations.

Sam Bower, his own transformation a grisly testament to the power that had been unleashed, scuttled away like a crab retreating into its shell. He slammed into the nearest wall, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Though the appendages had retreated into his flesh, leaving a trail of gore that painted a grotesque picture of his descent into madness. In the throes of his fear, his eyes remained fixed upon Ava, the hatred in them a beacon of accusation.

"You... you harbored a witch!" he roared, his voice crackling with the strain of his contorted vocal cords. The words were a declaration of his betrayal, a revelation that seemed to echo through the very rafters of the House of Garnet. Madam Agatha's horror grew, her eyes flicking from Ava to Sam and back again, as though searching for the truth in the midst of the madness.

"The full wrath of the Bowers shall be upon you," Sam spat, his body still writhing with the unnatural power that had been unleashed. "You shall all know what it is to cross us!" The guards tightened their grip on Ava, their faces a mask of revulsion and fear.

As the guards dragged her from the chamber, Ava's eyes found Madam Agatha, her mentor and the closest thing she had ever known to a mother beside her own. The madam stood frozen, the weight of the revelation too much to bear. Her eyes searched Ava's, seeking an answer, a glimmer of the girl she had raised. But all she found was a tempest of confusion and betrayal.

With a final, desperate heave, Sam Bower pushed himself from the wall, his tentacle-like arms flailing wildly as he stumbled towards the door. "Take her to the dungeons," he roared, his voice a twisted mockery of the man he had once been. "And keep her there until I decide her fate."

The guards obeyed, their eyes averted from the grisly sight of their transformed lord. They hauled Ava to her feet, her dagger torn from her grasp and her arms bound tightly behind her back. She did not struggle, the shock of the unfolding revelation leaving her numb and compliant.

As they dragged her from the room, Ava's gaze remained locked with Madam Agatha's, a silent apology in her eyes for the chaos she had brought into the woman's ordered world. The madam, once so strong and stoic, crumpled to the floor beside Elara's, her hand reaching out as though to snatch at Ava's retreating cloak, to pull her back into the safety of the light. But it was too late; the shadows had claimed her as their own, and the girl she had once known was now lost to the wrath of the House of Bower.

-To Be Continued-