[M] The Throne of Gods: Divinity's Requiem - IC

[RedKayne]

This is Rated M for violence, blood, gore, language, nudity, sexual content, and contradiction of religious beliefs that might be considered blasphemy outside of creative context

OOC Link - Join the Pantheon

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The Throne of Gods: Divinity's Requiem

Prologue: Tyranny and Freedom

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Background Music - Invasion

Even past twilight, Metropolis sprawled like a gleaming jewel across the industrial landscape of Mechanus, its architecture a blend of angular designs and smooth curves that seemed to defy gravity. Towering spires pierced the sky, their surfaces reflecting the vibrant hues of neon lights that pulsed rhythmically, illuminating the streets below. Automated vehicles glided silently along magnetic highways, while drones flitted overhead, monitoring the city's pulse with mechanical precision. The air hummed with the sounds of machinery and the distant chatter of its orderly inhabitants, each engaged in the harmonious dance of a society built on perfect logic. Yet, beneath this polished surface lay a web of secrets and shadows, where the ambitions of gods and mortals intertwined in a delicate balance of power.

Four deities cloaked in the essence of their twisted domains moved through the midnight streets like wraiths. They were not gods of virtue but harbingers of destruction—gathered by Diz's rebellion to eliminate Harku, the Duke of Freedom.

Marid, the Goddess of Madness, giggled softly, her mind a chaotic swirl of visions and voices that even she couldn’t quite understand. Her messy hair shimmered with unsettling colors as if reflecting the fractured state of her soul. "Shhh... listen. Can you hear them? The whispers of the machines. They sing... they scream..." Marid muttered with an unnerving smile, her eyes wide with an ecstatic madness.

Phyraxis, the God of Whispers, moved silently, his presence barely noticeable. His form seemed to flicker in and out of existence, always in the corner of one’s eye but never fully seen. He was the shadow in the dark, the whisper in the ear, the dread that followed even the bravest souls. His voice slithered through the air like poison.

"They know nothing of what’s to come," Phyraxis said, his voice barely audible, yet the words cut through the quiet like a razor. "Their beloved Harku... his arrogance blinds him. He will never see us coming."

The cold and calculating Aris, the Goddess of Tyranny, led the group of assassins. Her every step exuded authority, and the Horseman's eyes burned with the lust for power. She wore gleaming black armor that reflected the dim light of the streets, a fitting symbol of the iron fist with which she intended to crush all resistance. To her, this was not just an assassination—it was the first step toward conquest, the beginning of a new era under her rule - Diz be damned.

“We are not here to toy with this city. We are here to end him,” the Goddess of Tyranny spoke in a commanding tone, her eyes narrowing as the grand towers of Metropolis loomed above them.

Azazel, the God of Corruption, brought up the rear. His skin was marked with dark veins, his crimson eyes glinting with malice. Every step he took left small pools of blood in his wake, which shimmered and moved as if alive.

Azazel smiled darkly. "When we’re done with him, we’ll be one step closer to completing the revolution, and the White City will be next."

The group navigated past Metropolis's defenses with ease. The homunculi guards posed no challenge, and automated sentries were mere obstacles in their path. At last, they stood before the Monarch’s citadel, its sleek surface glimmered beneath the starlit sky, a fortress of power waiting to be breached.

“This is it,” Aris whispered. “Once Harku is dead, Metropolis… Mechanus will be ours.”

As they approached the citadel’s entrance, the massive doors slid open silently, as if welcoming them into the heart of their enemy. They exchanged wary glances but pressed onward, encouraged by the meticulous planning that had brought them to this moment.

The citadel halls were eerily silent, an expanse of polished marble and glowing lights. There were no guards, no defenses, just a vast corridor stretching into the depths of Harku’s domain. Phyraxis melted into the shadows, scouting ahead while the others moved cautiously, a palpable tension in the air. Something felt wrong—too easy.

Aris blinked, barely registering the blur of darkness that whipped past her. In a heartbeat, Phyraxis was torn from the shadows and hurled across the room. He hit the opposite wall with a brutal, bone-crushing force, the impact echoing through the chamber. What remained of him was an unrecognizable smear of blood and mangled limbs, splattered grotesquely like a twisted, circular painting on the wall.

“You dare enter my domain?” A calm yet resonant voice echoed through the citadel.

The Monarch descended a spiral stairway, his long raven-black hair cascading around his shoulders, contrasting against the deep blue of his flowing robes. These robes, elegantly draping over his lean form, revealed his chiseled chest. The red bead at his forehead glowed ominously, accentuating the fierce intelligence in his piercing sapphire eyes. He reached the ground floor, hovering and arms folded behind his back. "I know why you're here," Harku started. "You think you can kill me in my city? In my Metropolis?"

"Naughty, naughty Duke," Marid’s crazed laughter echoed as she unleashed her madness, trying to twist the Duke's mind. But instead of the Monarch faltering, her laughter was abruptly cut off. Harku clenched his fist, his telekinetic grip freezing her in place, raising two fingers and lifting her midair. Marid’s eyes widened with panic as her mouth was sealed shut, silencing her chaotic influence.

"You think your madness can topple my rule?" Harku’s voice was cold, unyielding. As Marid struggled, her powers turned inward, madness festering without release. Her body began to convulse violently, skin bubbling and contorting as the unstable energy swelled within her. In a final moment of horror, Marid’s body erupted from the inside, a grotesque explosion of blood and flesh painting the walls and floors, consumed by the very madness she sought to wield.

Harku floated forward but a sudden force halted his movement. He glanced down to find black-iron chains snaking around his wrists and coiling around his torso. In his distraction from Marid, the Goddess of Tyranny managed to bind him. Aris stood at the opposite end, grinning with wicked delight, pulling the chains tighter.

“The plan worked, Azazel!" she crowed, eyes gleaming. "The two were perfect bait!” She tugged harder, the chains digging into his skin. "His hands are bound, he can’t use his powers! Finish him—now!"

Azazel seized the opportunity with an evil smile, tearing off his crimson robe to reveal his upper torso, etched with thousands of ritualistic cuts. Blood poured from the wounds, coalescing in midair to form razor-sharp spears. But that wasn’t enough—his outstretched hands reached toward the lifeless bodies of Phyraxis and Marid. Their remaining blood twisted and solidified into even more deadly spears. A barrage of death from three directions. With a guttural snarl, he unleashed them all at once.

Aris’s triumphant shout echoed through the battlefield as the spears closed in on Harku from every direction. For a brief moment, it seemed Azazel’s strike had worked. But then, with horrifying calm, the spears froze—just an inch from Harku’s motionless form. His sapphire eyes bore into them, unbothered, as the spears began to liquefy and swirl together into a pulsating orb. “And you thought you baited me?" Harku’s cold voice sounded offended. “Who do you think planted the rumors of that weakness?”

At that moment, Aris understood—Harku had orchestrated everything. The years of whispered rumors, their carefully constructed plan, several meetings with Diz to gather the best of the best for this assassination—all had been part of the Duke's long con to lure them here, to this fatal moment. Panic surged through her as the obsidian chains slipped off Harku’s body, releasing him entirely.

The blood orb hovered for a moment, then suddenly dissolved into a fine mist. Azazel barely had time to register the shift before the mist surged toward him, seeping into his skin. His eyes went wide with terror as the blood within him began to twist, taking on a life of its own. In an instant, sharp shards of solidified blood erupted from his chest and back, ripping through his flesh and organs, skewering him from the inside out. He choked, a last gurgling gasp escaping his lips as another spike erupted from his open mouth, and he fell lifelessly forward.

Only Tyranny remained, her face pale. She was suddenly entrapped in Harku’s telekinetic grip, the weight of his power pressing down on her, a realization dawning that her plan failed miserably, along with her ambitions of multiversal conquest.

Harku hovered closer, his blue eyes narrowing in cold scrutiny. "You will tell me everything you know," he said, his voice calm yet menacing.

Aris’s face flushed with rage. “You bastard! You think I’ll tell you anything?” she spat, defiance burning in her eyes. But before she could react, an excruciating pressure wrapped around her left arm—the black-iron chain tightening until it yanked her limb clean off. Blood sprayed across the pristine ground, and Aris let out a scream that tore through the air, agony crashing over her in brutal waves.

"You seem to be confusing me with my Noble brother," Harku remarked dryly, his expression cold and unchanging. "There is no mercy here, and you will answer." Another chain slithered around her right leg like a snake tightening its grip, preparing for the kill.

Aris gasped, pain surging through her body, but she bit down hard, refusing to break so quickly. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. But as the chain pulled, slowly twisting, her muscles tore, and the crack of her bones echoed through the chamber. Her breaths became shallow, and the flames of defiance in her eyes dimmed.

"Tell me," Harku’s voice cut through the haze of pain, cold and implacable. "Or we continue."

Her body trembled, the agony gnawing at her resolve. She tried to muster her rage, but it slipped from her grasp like water through her fingers. "I—I don’t know anything..." she lied, her voice weak, wavering. The chain twisted harder, her bones fracturing, and the searing pain shattered her final defenses. Tears of frustration and defeat blurred her vision. "Wait! Please..." Her voice cracked, turning to desperate pleading. "Diz... he's seeking the Titans and Demons. I—I don’t know why, but please... no more..." Harku’s gaze remained as cold as ice, unrelenting. The chain around her leg coiled tighter, twisting her muscles, and crushing her bones. She screamed, her voice raw with despair. "The child! The child of the Apocalypse... he’s crucial to Diz’s plan. That's all I know, I swear! I swear!"

Harku’s expression hardened, his cold blue eyes piercing into her soul as if weighing the truth of her words. "Diz’s rebellion and Baldramort’s bastard child..." he muttered angrily. His grip on the chains loosened, but only slightly. "You were never going to succeed."

Without another word, the Duke of Freedom clenched his fist. Instantly, Aris's body twisted violently inward, folding under the immense pressure of his telekinetic power. Her armor crumpled like paper, bones snapping with sickening cracks as her limbs were wrenched apart. A final, choked scream escaped her lips before she imploded in an explosion of blackened Aether. Shards of her armor clattered to the floor, the only remnants of the once-mighty celestial.

The first Horseman of the Apocalypse, fell.

Harku stood motionless amidst the carnage. Blood dripped from the walls, staining the pristine floor beneath his feet, but he remained untouched, his robes immaculate. His expression remained impassive, eyes gleaming with the same calm, calculating resolve. "I will be ready for you, Diz," Harku whispered to the empty hall. "You will not take my Throne."

With a flick of his hand, the traces of violence vanished, the citadel restored to its pristine state. He turned and strode deeper into his domain, already preparing for the storm that would soon follow.

The rebellion had begun, but Harku would not fall so easily.

[Iwazuma]

The citadel of the Duke rang with eerie silence, not a single sign of the previous one-sided carnage that took place evident in the pristine halls of the shining light of Mechanus. Not a single speck of air seemed out of place; none would know of the failed assassination attempt, nor the grisly, brutal deaths of the four gods who dared attempt to strike down a Monarch. Silence and darkness were all that remained as Harku's footsteps echoed softer and softer, until the entrance hall was once again completely deserted.

And then, the door opened.

Not a soul entered or left, it appeared; the door shut as silently and quickly as it had opened, leaving the automated guards outside who had replaced those destroyed by the agents of Chaos earlier turning to inspect the unexpected presence...only to find nothing. No god stood in front of them, leaving their scans empty. With no intruder visible, the guards turned back to their positions. A small anomaly, but the doors had opened of their own accord before. Perhaps it was merely Harku once again, or an automation glitch. They lacked a god's, or even a mortal's, ability to think critically-nothing sighted, nothing present.

Thus, Harku was left with seeming total victory in his grasp, left to prepare for an expected onslaught of Diz's ruinous rebellion. Not a single loose thread was left, or so was thought. But as the neon lights of an empty street bathed the road beneath in its artificial light, the thinnest silhouette of a god was revealed, only to just as quickly melt away into nothing once again. Jonas whistled once to himself, now comfortably out of earshot of any who might threaten him. He was just a god in the streets, after all, a law-abiding citizen who simply happened to be aligned to the Duchess. No crimes could be pinned on him, no reason to suspect the god wreathed in shadows themselves of any wrongdoing.

"Well, shit..." Jonas muttered to himself. "Not bad." Jonas complimented Harku's penchant for grisly kills to himself, shaking his head as he walked calmly through the streets. Certainly not the most brutal nor the messiest kills he'd ever seen, but ruthlessly efficient nonetheless. He had calmly picked apart the team's weaknesses in no time flat, preyed on their confidence that had blossomed into arrogance. But Diz was no such god to let plans go without contingency. He'd received the orders from the God of Ruin personally-tail the assassination team, but do not alert them to his presence. Observe their efforts...if they succeeded, his orders ended there. But were they to fail, he had an unfortunate report to make...

Best not to waste any more time. The night is no longer young.

Jonas took off running, his footsteps silent despite his urgency, the shadows masking his presence more completely than even Phyraxis' abilities to obfuscate. Through the city streets of Metropolis, where he knew the portal to Carcari would be waiting for him. He silently thanked the empty Throne that Mechanus' portals were far easier to access than those back home in Hades; there were no harrowing journeys, no days-long treks across hostile environments. Just a simple trip to the edge of the city, where it was no real effort to slip into the portal undetected. He let his body be whisked away, back to the edge of chaos, of Carcari. He sighed to himself, looking up at the apocalyptic sky that was perpetually flowing between midnight blue and black. He balled his hand into a fist, sighing to himself. "Welp..." He had a job to do, whether or not he liked it. He still questioned his motive in this scheme. It was far too late to back out now, of course, but he simply lacked the chaotic enjoyment or malicious will for destruction most of his compatriots held. He didn't see the reason behind Diz's schemes beyond a simple desire to burn it all down to the ground, take the Throne for himself. Where did that leave Jonas? On the winning side of history, he supposed. But that was it.

And then there was his mother. Jonas had spent most of his time in Diz's employ avoiding her entirely, but he wasn't going to be able to forever. He'd seen her perhaps once or twice, practicing her aim or simply berating her subordinates. Always going through new minions because she simply couldn't resist popping one or two in the skull every other day, just to see them bleed out in front of her. And with one of the Horsemen fallen, her role would likely only grow. She'd at least be elated the assassination mission failed. She'd said more than once she wanted Harku for herself, likely the exact reason why Diz had not informed her of Aris' mission.

Jonas's sprint took him deep within the Black City. Discord had spread since Baldramort's untimely death, with many gods vying to claim the title of the new Monarch of Carcari. For the moment, none had succeeded, leaving Baldramort's castle empty, but constant conflict and battles taking place in its hellish courtyard. Diz had bade Jonas report to one of the abandoned towers just outside the castle grounds. The location made sense; most of Diz's army frequented the area around the castle but away from the direct conflict, both to hide amidst the chaos as well as maintain a steady supply of resources and intel. It was this tower Jonas now stood in front of, a fell wind blowing the black scraps of shadow that made up what could be seen of his coat.

He entered silently, walking a few feet into the tower's base, his footsteps making no sound nor echo. Though the tower was wreathed in darkness, likely to hide the God of Ruin's presence, he could see plain as day. He could see Diz, completely unperturbed by the unannounced entrance. Waiting for him. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head in respect. "Sir." Jonas was not usually one beholden to giving others this much regard, preferring a more familiar tone, but he wasn't about to disrespect a god he knew full well could end his young existence on the spot with the slightest of whims. He was not suicidal. Usually.

"My presence ought to tell you how General Aris fared." Jonas began, his voice the first sound he had made since leaving Harku's citadel. "The Duke seemed to be aware of our arrival. He was able to detect Phyraxis's presence immediately." Jonas raised his head, his eyes a silver glint beneath the shroud of shadow. "The intel we received about his telekinesis being restricted to his hands was false. Harku stated he had spread that rumor himself for the exact situation that he might be attacked." More silence as Jonas prepared the next part of his report. "All four died with nearly no resistance." A dry swallow. "Moreover, General Aris was subjected to torture and succumbed to weakness. Harku is aware of your rebellion, as well as Damian's involvement." Jonas spoke the name of the child of Apocalypse freely. He was one of the few who knew of Damian before joining Diz; he had been witness to Damian's involvement in the death of Baldramort. Every detail of that battle would forever be seared in Jonas' memory; his right hand clutched his coat a little tighter to his body as he shuddered.

Jonas lifted his head. "However. I have additional information." He figured he ought to at least deliver some news that wasn't terrible. "Harku does not appear to be omniscient. Gen-er...former General Aris did manage to briefly restrain him while he was distracted with killing Marid. Whether this is merely another ploy or proof that he is susceptible to surprise attacks, I cannot say, but it warrants consideration. Every attack either announced or initiated in his view was immediately suppressed and turned against the attackers."

Jonas sighed. "We received minimal resistance up until entering the citadel, though the doors opened automatically upon our arrival. This might be an automated mechanism, or the Duke was aware of our arrival beforehand. Whichever is the case, I was not detected. He should not know you have this information." Jonas did not rise, but continued to regard Diz with a quiet stare. "This concludes the report." So professional, Jonas...what would your brother say? Errant thoughts tormented the conflicted god as he remained on one knee, waiting for Diz to dismiss him-or kill him.

[RedKayne]

Shadow coiled around the figure of Ruin, his obsidian plate armor seeming to devour the light that dared to touch it. Diz, the enigmatic ancient deity, fixed his crimson-red gaze on Jonas, eyes glimmering with malevolence. Initially, he appeared impassive, absorbing the grim news of Aris and her entourage’s demise. Yet, despite the loss of one of his Four Horsemen and some of his finest deities, a smile crept onto his lips.

"Ah, the Duke of Freedom certainly lives up to his reputation," Diz chuckled, tousling his disheveled black hair. "The smartest being in all of Creation. Given that he detected Phyraxis, I wouldn't be surprised if he detected you as well, and allowed you to escape, just so you could deliver your message, Jonas. This could all be part of his grand chess strategy—sending a clear signal that, regardless of our efforts, we are bound to fail."

His eyes sparkled with intrigue as he weighed the possibilities, arms crossed and chin resting thoughtfully on his hand. "To genuinely challenge the Duke, I must adopt his mindset—always thinking one step ahead." A broader smile crept across his face. "That’s exactly why Aris and the others made for perfect bait to divert the Duke's focus while the rest of our plan unfolded."

He stepped closer, gently patting Jonas on the shoulder. "You performed admirably in your role, Jonas. Now that I’ve lost a general, perhaps you could one day step into the shoes of a Horseman yourself?" The God of Ruin planted that thought deep in the young deity’s mind. As he strolled past Jonas, he added, "Of course, there will be others vying for that position. But don’t worry; I have no intention of letting any future generals meet the same fate as Aris. I’ve been aware of her plans to undermine me from the very beginning. And I know you wouldn’t do something so treacherous, Jonas." He shot the younger god a knowing glance.

“And I’m certain your mother would be thrilled to see you rise through the ranks as a fellow Horseman.” With that, Diz turned, the shadows swirling around him like a living cloak as he began to exit the tower. “Now, follow me, and I will reveal the true purpose behind that ill-fated assassination attempt.” As he stepped into the open air, the chaotic horizon of the Black City's courtyards unfolded before them, where deities clashed and battled amidst a backdrop of swirling chaos, flames licking the sky, and the cries of the fallen echoing through the cursed land of Carcari.

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The sun hung low over the Logic Wastes, casting a sickly orange glow across the chaotic expanse several hundred miles from Metropolis. Jagged remnants of twisted metal and shattered gears rose like tombstones amidst the scattered debris, remnants of long-forgotten constructs that had once hummed with purpose. The ground was littered with gears and cogs, some the size of a child’s hand, others as large as a wagon, each a testament to the mechanized wonders that had once flourished in the realm of Mechanus.

Damian stood atop a mound of rusted scrap, his dark silhouette stark against the hazy horizon. The air was thick with the scent of burning oil and the faint whir of malfunctioning machinery, a dissonant symphony that played on an endless loop. His magma-like eyes gazed at the three restrained deities before him, members of Harku's Ten Councilors. They struggled against the chains inscribed with runes that completely suppressed their powers.

Kabuto, God of Honor, growled under his breath, straining against the restraints that held him captive. His once pristine armor was now scuffed and dulled, a testament to his struggles. Nearby, Elayne, Goddess of Knowledge, sat disheveled and dirty from her capture, her gaze locked onto Damian and his companions with a fierce, defiant glare. The vibrant colors of her attire were dulled by dirt and grime, yet her eyes still sparkled with indignation.

In contrast, the beautiful Guinevere, Goddess of Hope, knelt on the ground, her posture serene yet heavy with despair. She bowed her head, whispering a prayer, her delicate fingers interlaced as she chanted softly, seeking solace in the face of overwhelming odds. Despite the grim surroundings, a faint glow emanated from her, hinting at the flickering flame of hope within her heart.

The atmosphere was thick with tension as the three deities found themselves at the mercy of their captors, their divine essence momentarily dimmed but not extinguished.

As Damian surveyed the desolate landscape, a flicker of satisfaction ignited within him as he locked eyes with each deity who aided in the capture of Harku's Councilors. Temperance, Goddess of Virtue; Chisoni, Goddess of Grief; Alatus, God of Punishment; Igniteen, Goddess of Fire; and Inosci, God of Despair stood amidst this graveyard of forgotten constructs. A towering gear, its teeth dulled and corroded, leaned precariously to one side, casting a shadow that stretched endlessly across the debris-strewn ground. Nearby, a broken automaton lay in a twisted heap, its limbs sprawled as if frozen in a final, futile struggle. The faint glow of its dying core pulsed weakly, like a heartbeat fading into the silence.

Diz had tasked this group with capturing these deities while Aris and her allies executed an assassination attempt on the Duke himself. With the Duke distracted, they had succeeded in their mission, finding refuge in this desolate junkyard, safe from prying eyes.

The God of Ruin had been clear: these deities were to remain alive until his arrival. Damian would not fail his leader; disappointment was not an option. He owed everything to Diz, the one who had shaped him into the celestial he was today.

[Azazeal849]

THEN

The fighting demigods had ripped through the town like a hurricane. Buildings stood half-ruined; broken teeth jutting out of inflamed gums. Some had been reduced to little more than scatters of rubble. The street was flooded with stinking sewage, and fire spewed from a ruptured gas main. Cars had been picked up and tossed with abandon, one lying on its roof in a puddle of broken glass. A man had been lucky enough to be thrown clear of the crash, but the other three people in the vehicle had not been so fortunate. The man was wailing, throat raw and hands gloved in blood as he tried to tug a small, limp body out of the wreckage.

A tall figure watched him silently, her long, loose hair twisting in the breath of the burning gas pipe. Firelight ran down her arms and across the fall of her tattered robe, but her face, which should have been flame-gilded, was deep in shadow - an impressionistic blur where eyes and nose and mouth should have been.

The figure crossed the debris-strewn road, steps metronome measured, and knelt beside the man, her hair spilling over her shoulders like a shroud. She reached out to gently lift the man’s chin, long nails brushing his jaw. The man blinked, as if noticing her for the first time.

“Shhh.” the figure whispered. Her voice was low and soft, the whisper of loose earth falling from the spade to land atop a resting coffin. “It hurts, I know. But it’s going to be alright.”

The man’s lips formed silent words. A tear spilled down his cheek, running across the woman’s fingers one after the other.

“It’ll be alright.” she said again. “Just look at me.”

Slowly, the man raised his gaze towards the shadowed face. Something passed between them, more than breath. The man’s eyes became glassy, unfocused.

The figure inhaled deeply, shivering. As she did, the shadows hiding her face darkened just a little more.

“Chisoni?”

The shadowed face looked up, turning towards the voice. Another man was standing there, a golden-skinned man with flowers in his curly hair. He wore an archaic bow across his back, but it was unstrung and undrawn. The shadowed figure rose to her feet, releasing the man who slumped to his knees and blinked around in confusion, as if just wakened from a dream.

The golden man looked at the shadow, his expression one of pain. “Chis…your face…”

A low hiss emanated from the shadows of the woman’s visage. “Why here, Dashura? Why now?”

The golden man’s eyes crinkled. “Because I’m your friend, and I needed to speak with you.”

The woman spread pale-skinned arms, so pale they were almost blue, and indicated the devastation all around them. “A little late, aren’t you?”

The golden man lowered his eyes, conceding the point. “It’s been…complicated. Selrina…” He bit his lip. “It took a long time, but the portals are finally working again. Come with me, Chis. Come home.”

The woman dropped her arms to her sides. Wispy black hair spilled over her shoulder as she cocked her head. “And abandon all these people? Thanks to Baldramort, this whole world is drowning in grief. I want to stay and help.”

“Help?” the golden man repeated, incredulously. “You think you’re helping? I followed your trail to get here, so many people…they’re all hollow.” He gestured at the human man behind them. He had succeeded in pulling the three bodies from the car, and now he was patting them down in search of supplies, as if they were strangers to him. “What did you do to him?”

The woman’s head turned towards the human, and then back towards the golden man. “I took away all his pain. All his loss. I did him a kindness.”

The golden man slowly shook his head. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work, Chis. They need to heal in their own time, in their own way. You know that. You’re supposed to help them make space for their grief, not just…scoop them out.” He held out his hands, palms turned upward as if hoping the woman would step forward and take them. “I’ve seen them, Chis. They’re suffering. They know something’s missing.”

Something hardened in the shadowed face, and long-nailed fingers curled into fists at the woman’s sides. “I don’t tell you how to run your domain, Dash.” She looked around again. “There’s precious little love to be found in this place. Is that why you’re here? Because I’m stronger now and you’re not?”

“No.” The golden man licked his lips. “Luthious sent me, I asked him to let me talk to you first.”

The woman let out a brittle laugh. “Oh, you’re taking orders from Elysium now?” She folded her arms. “What do you want, Dash?”

“I already told you. I want you to come home. Stop hurting these people and come home with me to Avesta. They…” The golden man looked down again, and then raised his gaze once more, searching for the eyes behind the shadows. “Luthious agreed to send me first. He’ll send enforcers next.”

For a long moment, the woman was still. “Ah, I see.” she said at last. “You’re the silk glove to distract me from the handcuffs you’re holding.” A low hiss emanated from the shadow, a viper’s threat. “Tell Luthious that he can try. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.”

The golden man shook his head slowly. “Not strong enough to fight the whole Order faction on your own, Chis.”

The woman turned away, as if she no longer wished to hold the other in her shadowed gaze. “Go away, Dashura. Go away and leave me alone.”

The man’s jaw was tense. “I’m sorry, Chisoni.” One of his hands rose, reaching out. “If you…” He broke off and shook his head, the hand falling back to his side. “I wish it could be different.”

The woman turned her head to look back over her shoulder. Behind the shifting shadows was an impression of tear-reddened eyes, but those eyes were dry now, and set in their purpose. “All love ends in grief, Dashura. One way or another.”

* * * * * *

NOW

Elayne, goddess of knowledge, was weeping. Not from fear, or loss, or even from anger, but from the residue of the black mist that still burned her eyes. It was in her nose too, and in her throat - a subsided pain, but still enough to make her cough and spit, and cause her eyes and nose to stream in undignified trails down her face. Her elaborately patterned robe was torn from being dragged across marble and through steel wreckage. All she had left was her mind, and even that was not functioning as it should. But, as ever, she knew enough.

One moment they were being hurried from the palace at Harku’s command as he announced he was preparing to meet an imminent attack. That was the monarch’s conceit, she supposed - he thought a monologue counted as a conversation. A sign of friendship and trust perhaps, but still tedious to listen to, even to those who weren’t simply baffled by Harku’s opaque plans. The next moment, she and her homunculi attendants were turning down the marble path to the great library she called home, and the world had turned dark - a dark that burned.

Someone had grabbed her by the arm as she stumbled from the blinding, burning cloud, and they had snapped something around her wrist. She had instinctively wrenched against it - and found herself jerked back, as weak as a human in the stranger’s grasp. The something around her wrist was cold, hard.

She should have known better than “something”, but her mind was fogged - connections that should have leapt and sparked were simply not forming. But she still had her memory - an aeon of it. No divine trick could take that away. She searched through her precious memories, blurring through a galaxy’s lifetime of knowledge like a book whose pages were being turned by a gale. Infernal chains, she decided. It had to be. Few other things could render a god helpless at their touch.

And she still had her senses, blurred and stinging though they were. She saw jagged piles of scrap. She heard the wind rushing, dragging shards of glass and plastic across their path. She smelled oil, and metal, and burned-out wires. They were in the Logic Wastes.

She looked up at the goddess who was dragging her, hunting for the next piece of the puzzle. She wondered if it was her still-burning eyes that were painting blurred shadows across her captor’s face, but when she blinked and forced herself to focus, the shadows remained.

“Chisoni.” she named the shadow.

The dark blur glanced down. “It doesn’t matter who I am.”

Elayne managed to smile. “But it is my job to know, hollow maiden. Everyone thought you were still on Earth.”

The goddess of grief looked away. “If it weren’t for your friends, I would be.”

“And now you’re here.” Elayne mused. “And not alone, I think. Nothing about this benefits you, so who does it benefit?”

Chisoni didn’t answer, just continued to drag her along, her footsteps a relentless straight-ahead march. Elayne winced at the rune-etched iron cutting into her wrist, even as she forced her handicapped mind to draw the threads together.

“Now who would be bold enough to strike at Harku and his council, in their own realm? Not Malphas, no. She’s brazen, but not that brazen. And the prince of chaos is dead.” She managed to smile as her thoughts lined up the crosshairs on a conclusion. “The ruiner. You serve the ruiner, don’t you?”

Her captor hissed softly. “Serve is a strong word.”

“But a true one, I think. Where else will you be safe once everyone knows you were a part of this attack?”

“I’m doing what I have to, to keep what’s mine.”

And what might that be? Even through the clouding sorcery of the chains, Elayne thought she knew - but she kept the thought to herself. Knowledge is power, so guard it well.

The hollow maiden dragged her further, towards a clearing that had been shunted in the broken machinery. There a young god stood, grey as ash, with eyes that wept fire. Chisoni put a foot on the lorekeeper’s back, and weakened as she was by the chains, Elayne found herself driven to her knees amid the scrap and rust. She mustered enough pride to glare.

“It’s done.” she heard the goddess of grief say, speaking to the boy who was not a boy.

[Hannelorian]

A lone figure sat quietly upon the rooftop of the Cathedral of Hope. A building that stood out, even in Mechanus for it’s lack of modernity, a stalwart reminder of a world that was or perhaps a world that could have been. With it’s gothic architecture and stained glass windows depicting images of the Monarchs it was a monument to an idea, the persistence of hope. Strands of black hair and the black fabric of her dress caught on the evening breeze. She remained hidden in the darkness and amongst the shadows of stone gargoyles whose names were lost to time, so intense was the desire of Harku to press forward. The past was there to be learned from and then conquered for the sake of progress. A laughable notion.

Temperance, the Goddess of Virtue waited for a time, legs swinging freely over the edge stared at the skyline blazing brightly before her. The sky was electric, full of energy and light. The fast moving denizens of this realm went about their business with a kind of arrogance that only highlighted their vast ignorance for all their talk of learning and knowledge. “Damned fools.” Temperance uttered the short phrase into the wind, taking note as a lone deity fled inside the structure. “Right on time.” The brilliant flash of light that accompanied her presence was only confirmation that Hope had entered the building. Escaping the palace as commanded by her noble leader. A Duke who sought to protect his flock. The attack must have occurred as planned, though Temperance very much doubted the group would succeed. They didn’t take their time, they didn’t plan well enough, they were overconfident. It was all so dreadfully boring. What good was a coup if it wasn’t really a coup at all?

As quietly as Temperance had arrived, she quietly made her way down to the ground, standing then before the grand doors. Doors she had gone through more times than she could count in her millennia of life. Though this time she would not enter as a friend, but rather as an enemy, an assailant, a destroyer of hope.

“What better way to enter than through the front doors?” Temperance commented to no one in particular with a broad grin, her palms made contact with the ancient and weathered wood and pushed them open, a flood of light pouring out and illuminating the street, with a snap of her fingers they silently closed and the Goddess began her procession down the aisle. At the very end was Guinevere, the Goddess of Hope herself knelt before an altar at prayer, fast and furious were her words.

Virtue was silent, the fabric of her dress flowed against the ground, her exposed flesh pale as ever and her once bright and vibrant eyes, some might say, once filled with hope, were now dark orbs encapsulating her fall into chaos. A fall that Virtue had never bothered to fight, nor deny. Stopping mere feet from Guinevere, Temperance began to tap her foot out of impatience, as though already bored of the situation but well aware of her assigned task. Diz had instructed her to capture Hope, and Temperance had no appetite for failure. What Diz wants, Diz gets. No questions.

“Who’s there?” A small voice called back, Guinevere’s words were trembling with nerves, she was not at ease. That wasn't a surprise. That was what Temperance was counting on.

“You don’t recognize me?” Temperance called in a mocking tone. “A shame, truly.” There was a deep sigh that escaped her as she took several steps forward. The two women were the perfect portrait of opposites. Both beautiful, but one blonde, light and full of joy and hope. The other with dark hair and devoid of virtually all happiness and hope.

Guinevere rose from the ground. “Temperance.” The voice was so familiar as if it had been her own. She turned to confront the embodiment of virtue, a rather ironic statement all things considered. “What are you doing here, blasphemer?” The words were cutting, but still spoken with that signature lilt that Guinevere had always possessed. The kind that made her seem innocent and virtuous, bordering on some kind of holy being.
“Those are rather harsh words for a friend.” Temperance let out a serious of disappointed tuts, her head shaking as she crossed her arms before her. “What kind of greeting is that?” Temperance flashed a sinister smile.

“A friend no longer!” Guinevere countered, looking the closest thing to mad that Temperance had ever seen from him. “Now why are you here, Tempy?!” She was demanding now, and that interested Temperance ever so slightly more than the pathetic opening salvo she had been met with.

“See? Tempy. Old habits die hard. You still harbor some affection for this old blasphemer?” Temperance let out a laugh before throwing her hands in the air as though she were shocked at the revelation. “I’m here to beg for your mercy. For your forgiveness and renounce my wicked ways, darling Guin.” Her words dripping with acid and sarcasm. Guinevere began to take several small steps backward. “More lies. We both know you aren’t worthy of redemption, nor do you desire it.” Guinevere seemed hurt, disappointed perhaps, but genuinely hurt to see her former friend like this. “Have you come to kill me?” She finally asked.

The Goddess of Virtue cocked her head to the side and blinked a few times as though puzzled that Guinevere would dare think so ill of her. But really she was trying to determine if she was amused or not by this display. “Kill you?” Temperance asked softly. “Not at all.” Another sigh, it was time to get this over with. “But I wouldn’t relax, I’m going to die far worse than kill you. And when I hand your pathetic little body over to Diz, you’re going to wish that I had killed you.” The smile Temperance carried turned wild as her right hand reached out to her side, Humility’s rapier, a wickedly sharp blade appeared and Temperance laughed in the face of Hope as she dashed forward. The blade make quick yet superficial slashes across Guinevere’s body. She was unprepared.

Temperance had managed rather deftly to grab Guinevere by arm and hold it tightly, pulling her closer as though an embrace and when her lips were close enough to graze Guinevere’s delicate little ear, she began to whisper. The world around the Goddess of Hope would fall utterly silent as the sounds of the whispers drew her in. “Don’t do this to me! You can’t!” She protested but it was too late, the words were already pouring into her head like a vile poison. Temperance whispered the most foul of thoughts and words, thus her power was realized. The Whispers of Virtue were corrupting, and they were endless.

“It’ll be over faster if you give up.” Temperance spoke as Guinevere crumpled to the ground and Temperance followed her. Still whispering.

“Give up.”
“Hope is pointless, an illusion.”
“Hope is an excuse.”
“You are a powerless lie.”
“How much longer can you fill people’s lies with empty promises?”
“You’re better off dead.”
“You serve no purpose.”
“You don’t even believe in what espouse. Hypocrite.”

And there it was, pulling at shreds of doubt that complicated Guinevere’s role. To give people hope was to help them endure, but many a times, hope amounted to nothing but empty promises and broken dreams. To even further fractures of the already weak minds of those who begged for hope to change their lives and save them. Knowing she might cause more harm than good was to be her undoing.

Guinevere endured as long as she could. Yet her doubt plagued her and a feeling of despair was welcomed in it’s place.

“Pathetic and weak.”

Temperance’s influence was unyielding and overpowering, Guinevere could feel her own mind begin to fracture as she tried against all odds to block it out, but more and more the words slipped in and took hold, rooting themselves deep within her mind and cutting her far worse than anything the blade had inflicted. It was Guinevere’s own weakness that gave Temperance power.

“Have you no fight in you?” Temperance asked as she watched Guinevere slowly fade into unconsciousness.

“How pathetic and small. Here I was hoping for entertainment… and all I got was that? What even was that? So insecure for a concept nearly as old as the multiverse itself. So powerless to do anything of use.” Temperance sighed as she set to work to bind the deity and transport her through the shadows to the appointed place. “To think we used to be friends… The mere thought makes me ill.” Temperance rolled her eyes and completed her task.