The New God's Of Avaricia

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotion. The cacophony of the night's battle had given way to a tense, anticipatory silence. The second birth had not ceased its relentless march, but it had paused, as if catching its breath before the next onslaught. Ava, now the symbol of hope, walked the city streets, her every movement a whisper of the divine. The survivors of Sovereign watched her with a mix of awe and fear, their whispers of "The Goddess" following her like a chant. The yetis and monsters that had besieged them had retreated, the prophecy's fury momentarily sated. Yet, the very air was pregnant with the promise of more to come.

One morning, as the sun painted the city a pallid shade of gold, they received a procession from the village of Barley. It was a sight that brought a spark of hope to the weary eyes of the city folk. There were survivors.

The villagers, a ragtag collection of the brave and the desperate, had journeyed through the treacherous lands to seek sanctuary within the walls of Sovereign. They came bearing gifts of food and supplies, a meager offering in these trying times.

Yet it was not the supplies that truly captured the attention of the city's weary souls. It was the figure at the head of the procession. A man of great stature and aura, with a flowing beard the color of wheat and eyes that pierced the very soul. This was none other than the holy man of Barley, the soon to be legendary, Tobias Kingg.

Back to the present.

Arteus woke with a start, the shed's wooden floor cold and unforgiving beneath him. He had found refuge here, his mind and body too exhausted to go on after having to be Barley's survivors guard dog for days on end. The shed, once a storage place for garden tools, now served as a makeshift shelter for the weary traveler. He sat up slowly, his muscles protesting every movement. The air was thick with the scent of fear and anticipation that lingered outside, a palpable reminder of the chaos that had become the new normal.

He had watched from afar as the villagers were ushered into the city hall, their tired faces etched with a mix of hope and trepidation. Yet, his own path to shelter was blocked by the very people he had sworn to protect. Despite his valor and his unyielding spirit, his birth under a crimson moon had marked him as an outcast, a harbinger of ill-fortune. The whispers followed him, a toxic undercurrent that no act of heroism could dispel.

But, Arteus's heart was as unyielding as the steel he wielded. He didn't care for the whispers of the townsfolk or the sneers that greeted him at every turn. He knew that fear often masqueraded as prejudice, and he had seen firsthand how the prophecy could twist even the purest of hearts. So, he remained outside, watching over the new arrivals from the shadows, ensuring their safety from the dangers that still lurked beyond the city walls.

The gods had forsaken them, so why should he care for their worshippers? He had sworn an oath to destroy those who brought about the second birth, and the survivors of Barley had borne witness to his unflinching resolve. Yet, as the days grew shorter and the nights longer, even Arteus couldn't help but feel the weight of their desperation. The prophecy had claimed so much, and it was clear that the gods had abandoned them to their fate.

The whispers grew into shouts, the accusations into demands. They needed a leader, a beacon of hope that could cut through the fog of fear that had settled over Sovereign like a shroud. The survivors looked to the city's leaders, the High Priest and his ilk, but they offered only prayers and empty promises. They had turned their eyes to Ava, the girl with the crimson-lit limbs, but she had disappeared into the heart of the city, her presence as elusive as the whispers that spoke of her power.

The second birth's shadow had stretched over Sovereign like a malicious hand, and the people were desperate for anything to cling to. Yet, even as the city buzzed with talk of Ava, Arteus knew that there were more pressing matters to attend to.

The issue of Tobias Kingg had become his new obsession. His arrival from the decimated village of Barley had brought a glimmer of hope, but it was a hope tinged with suspicion.

In the tales spun by Martin, the holy man was a warrior of the light, a beacon in the dark. Martin's words painted him as a hero, a man who had stood tall against the monstrous tides of the prophecy's wrath. His eyes lit up with reverence as he spoke of the miracles that had accompanied his arrival, the way the very earth had trembled in his presence. But Arteus knew Martin's penchant for embellishing the truth. The teacher's words were a siren's song, designed to manipulate and control.

Castrol, however, spoke in whispers. His account of Tobias was one of darkness and manipulation. He spoke of a man who had turned the desperation of his people into power, using fear as a weapon to carve out a fiefdom amidst the ruins. The village head's voice was heavy with accusation, his eyes gleaming with malice as he spoke of the holy man's rise. To Castrol, Tobias was a usurper, a false prophet whose influence threatened to undo the very fabric of Barley and by extension, Sovereign.

Yet, in the quiet moments when the whispers of the city had died down, Arteus found himself pondering the true nature of the man. Was he truly the savior that Martin painted him to be, or the monster that Castrol feared? The truth was as elusive as the gods secrets themselves, a slippery eel that wriggled away every time he tried to grasp it.

But as the dawn broke, casting a feeble light over the snow-covered streets, Arteus realized there was no need for conjecture. The simplest answer often lay right in front of him, waiting to be plucked from the thorn bush of doubt. He could just speak to the man, hear his story firsthand, and gauge the weight of his heart. With a newfound resolve, he donned his armor and unsheathed his sword, the weapon that had become an extension of his will.

He had barely taken a step towards the city hall, where he had last seen the holy man, when a commotion at the far end of the street drew his gaze. The townsfolk were gathering, their murmurs growing louder with each passing moment.

"Could it be?"

"I wouldn't believe if i wasn't seeing it myself!"

"Our salvation has come!"

The whispers grew to a cacophony as the crowd debated the possibility of what they were witnessing.

In the center of the gathering, Ava knelt beside a figure sprawled in the snow. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration, her breath misting in the frigid air as she worked her healing magic. The crimson glow that once emanated from her limbs had dimmed, now only a soft pulse that resonated in the palms of her hands as they hovered over the injured person.

Arteus pushed through the throng of people, his curiosity piqued by the commotion. As he approached, the crowd parted like the sea before Moses, their eyes wide with fear and reverence. They whispered Ava's name in hushed tones, a mix of awe and dread. He recognized the woman immediately, though she had changed. The fiery spirit that had once danced in her eyes was now tempered by a steely resolve, a hint of the divine peeking through the cracks of her human façade.

It was Millie. Her once-mutilated limbs had been restored, now whole and unblemished as if they had never been torn asunder by the arctic wolves cruel claws. Her skin, once marred by the ravages of God's punishment, now glowed with the gentle light of dawn. She was no longer the broken old woman of yesterday, but a figure of power and compassion, a living testament to the Goddess of Sovereign's ability to both destroy and rebuild.

-To Be Continued-