Far away, further than any mortal had any right to know, a god with a shifting form stood before a tribunal. Fourteen gods sat in a heptagonal room, two on each wall. One from the hells and one from the divine realms on each edge of the room. Their attendants stood behind them, awaiting any orders their god imposed upon them. In the center of this room stood an unknown entity. Miamora.
“I must say, I am quite surprised to find you before us.” A bearded god with a gruff voice spoke down to the shifting form. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail that ended at mid back and his beard was gray with braids crackling with electricity. The beard ended just past the gods sternum. He wore armor made of a gleaming gold and silver metal, armor that held enough weight in magic to squash most mortals by simply being in its presence. On the front was an etched carving of a raven beside an eagle, back to back perched on the same branch. The symbol of Elandrus the god of might, King of the gods. Sat on his head was a crackling crown, lightning weaving between the tines and the gems that adorned it. Sapphires and rubies and diamonds were embedded into the gold crown, and this too held more magic than a mortal even at the peak could hope to wield. Mortal bodies simply did not have the constitution to handle such power.
“It would be rude to not introduce myself while I hover around your realm.” The shifting god stated matter of factly. “Ah, but before I introduce myself I was under the impression that one of you was especially good with curses?”
Before anyone else could say anything a woman stood. She was tall, unnaturally so, with long limbs. Hands that scraped against the ground as she stood hunched over. Her eyes, owl like, were narrowed in curiosity. She was humanoid but still her nose turned into a beak and her head tilted and twitched as she observed the shifting god. Then she spoke, her voice raspy. It sounded as though she had not had a drink of water for some years and had smoked every day during. It wasn’t quite grating, but her voice was almost painful to the ears. “Why does the rogue god seek cursed knowledge?” She stepped towards him, walking down from her raised throne.
A throne marred with symbols of witchcraft, many ancient and lost to the world. The skull of a bat tied to a stick from an elderbarin tree. The teeth of a lynx strung together with three eyes of a saber cat. A doll of mysterious make that gave off a dark aura, filled to the brim with needles and scars. A candle half burnt, unlit and emanating dark energies. This was just the beginning of the hodgepodge collection covering the chair.
Miamora approached her cautiously. He was no new god, nor a dumb one. He was in the domain of an entire pantheon. A pantheon that, while each member was individually weak against him, could eviscerate him with the slightest bit of provocation. With his hands up, one of them girly and feminine with nails painted pink the other with only two large strange fingers - for now - , he spoke in a soft, at first, voice. “I myself am cursed. I wished to beg a favor of ye, Kravda of the third and fourth hells. Attempt to undo my curse, to free me from the agony of a shifting visage. Free me from the torment of forever being an abomination.”
A third god, a male who was tall and skinny, spoke next. He wore furs and leathers, and bore a bow on his back and a flute on his hip. He had on a ring with a small miniscule blade on it curving in towards his palm, made to harvest herbs quickly. A necklace with green and gold filigree and gems rested atop the fur tunic. It was shaped into a buck with antlers formed of the gold wires. His hands were dirty, shocking for a god. Soil hid beneath his nails and the fierceness of the hunter hid behind his smile. “Careful Kravda, this one smells crafty. Be sure to pay attention to his riddled words.”
“I can quite well care for myself, Protole. Worry next about your hunts, and not on Kravda.” The hag spat in the direction of the hunter. She turned back to observe Miamora before closing her eyes and feeling towards him, sensing the deeply seated curse. It was powerful, more powerful than any curse she had seen before. Her fingers twitched as she opened her golden eyes. She wanted to study the curse, to feed from it. It was powerful and so she knew it would be valuable for her to help with it but she was not about to do a favor for an unknown entity. “Tell me, rogue god, what is it you would offer for this reprieve?”
“Ah yes, the crux of the world. A service in exchange for a service, then?” the rogue god replied jovially, his voice in that moment sounding cacophonous, the sound of many people attempting to speak at once but somehow in such a way that the other gods heard and understood them. “In exchange for you temporarily removing my curse I shall answer questions three!”
“I hardly believe that's-” The owl like goddess began but was interrupted as Elandrus rose to his feet.
“Do it, Kravda. Once he has a taste of this freedom he seeks he shall seek it more. And I have a feeling transactions will be the only way to communicate with the rogue.” Elandrus’s voice brooked no argument. His tone offered no sanctuary for those who didn’t obey his orders. He wasn’t quite a tyrant, ruling with fist or claw, but he was certainly respected and feared. Even by his fellows.
There was silence and tension for a few breaths. Kravda, the witch and She Who Feeds on Curses, stared at the king of the pantheon. She glared at him for the duration of three breaths before glancing back towards Miamora, the strange cursed being that stood within their halls. “Fine then, shall ye approach or must I come to ye myself?” Her long wiry arms crossed and nails digging in slightly to her biceps.
The shapeshifter chuckled idly, stepping forward and extending a hand. Before she could say anything more, he reached out and used her own nail to pierce his hand, eeking out a few drops of blood. “I imagine you'll need this to help with the curse?” the voice changed throughout the sentence, moving from a deep masculine voice to that of a female child.
“Aye. Ye have knowledge of curses then?” Kravda, she who consumes curses, withdrew a vial and took the extended hand, poking it once more as she dripped his blood into the container. She then stepped away and began to examine it, her mana flooding the droplets and her face forming a frown. Her feather like hair bristled after a few moments as the frown continued to deepen. After several moments she looked back up, the rest of the gods silent as thy let her work. “I cannot remove it permanently. At least, not yet. And not without a greater fee.”
Miamora nodded, having expected such an answer. He shrugged slightly and simply smiled. Well, half of his face did the other turned downward. Briefly he looked like the symbol for the theaters, two masks side by side with various expressions.
Kravda took this nod as affirmation to proceed and began whispering a dark chant. Her long, overgrown fingers wiggled over the top of the vial as more and more of her black mana seeped into it. The blood began to bubble and suddenly it was aflame, but once it was quenched the shapeshifting god no longer shifted shapes. His form was stable at least for a moment and he let out a deep sigh of relief. “You have my thanks Kravda of the cursed realms. I can tell it should only last for a number of hours, but even still my torment has been abated for the first time in a while. Now then. Questions three.”
Elandrus observed the god before him. Once a shifting shape and voice, now the god was featureless. A mannequin if one were to see them in public. A golem depending on the world. Yet the king of the gods of Ravos could sense a deep, thirsting power within the god before him. He could feel the divinity that had been gained not by followers or faith but by merit and dedication. Any who made it to the divine realm had to be the best of their worlds, after all. The king god stood, his mighty form shaking the ground beneath his feet even as he took what he considered a gentle step towards Miamora.
Before he could speak, however, another god spoke up. He was large, burly. Muscles bulged at the forearms, and ashes and grease coated the ends of his calloused fingers. His eyes were bright and inquisitive, full of curiosity. At his hip sat a hammer of gleaming black, made of a metal that before being enchanted gave off waves of energy, but after the enchantment would have knocked many mortals unconscious simply from the pressure it emitted. Embers singed his beard and pockmark scars marked his arms and bare chest. His head was shaved and frown lines and smile lines adorned his face. By mortal standards he looked to be in his forties, with a slight bulging beer belly contrasting his musculature.
“What is your purpose for coming to our realm?” Ertai spoke in a deep rumbling voice. Within it held power, within it held the strength of a hammer and a forge. Elandrus turned to his compatriot with a twinge of irritation on his face. Ertai simply smiled slightly and tilted his head. “My king, were you not set to ask the same question?”
“I was, but your interruption may give our... guest the wrong impression, Ertai. I ask that you hold your tongue the next time.”
“Oh but we so rarely have visitors, and even rarer do they petition the pantheon as a whole. Coming here on our scheduled assemblage has piqued the interest of more than just you, my liege.” There was a hint of sarcasm and levity in the forge gods voice.
The large king simply sighed heavily. He sent an apologetic glance at Miamora, the strange god who had somehow found himself in the pantheon of Ravos, amongst the fourteen gods of the realm. “Well, he is not incorrect. Answer the question, rogue god.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
There was a faint hostility to the gods voice, but Miamora had expected it. The mannequin like figure simply smirked, a mouth appearing on the otherwise flat face. “Answer you I shall. Patience, young godking.” Now stable, there was a hint of condescension in Miamoras voice. He slowly spun in a circle, taking in each of the gods before him. He didn’t truly pay them much mind, but could feel their curiosity and impatience as he twirled slowly. “I am here in your realm for an experiment. I gifted a young, weak mortal with a seed, you see, and am simply waiting to see how said seed grows.”
There were some soft murmurs emanating from around the rotunda. The act of a god giving a seed was typically deeply considered, not simply done on a whim. For most gods, they would have only a few seed bearers at a given time. Part of the reason was that to form a seed a god must sacrifice a portion of their own power, their own divinity, in the hopes that the individual who bore it would reach great enough heights as to repair the gods power. None of the gods, in their aged wisdom, asked a second question. They were more than aware that doing so, no matter how mundane it was, would use up a portion of their prize.
Miamora smirked, the smile creepy and unsettling on the otherwise featureless face. He looked at each of the gods with a tilt to the head and a toothy grin. Each one had narrowed eyes as they tried to discern what his motives could be, certainly he was not trying to grow in power simply from a single mortal who was yet untested. Within the archives deep in the hidden plane of Terrasoul were stories of mortals being gifted a seed early. Not one made it past the first threshold, the power that attempted to change them too great for their mortal bodies to handle.
It took several moments for the king of the gods to speak again, likely considering his next question. He could feel it in his bones, and even deeper in his very divinity, that Miamora was dangerous. The very fact he would appear before them so cavalierly was tantamount to insanity even for most deities. “So you are here for an experiment. What are the goals and purposes of said experiment?” Elandrus growled at the man below.
“The purpose and goals aye? There are plenty. Firstly, amusement. Mortals are ever so entertaining. The second, to grow my power as one does. Granted, that one only works if they are able to survive their evolutions but I am certain this one will. The third goal, to study the seed. To determine if there is a way to define the seed prior to its planting, to manipulate it into taking the form I wish.” Miamora stopped for a moment, musing on his next words. “The last is the most selfish, I seek a permanent cure to my curse, and to find it I feel I must study my energies. It is easier to do so on mortals that contain my energy than to dissect myself. I must wait until the mortal grows powerful enough, but I shall have my results.”
“I will be honest, I did not expect you to answer so thoroughly,” a goddess commented as her eyes narrowed, wondering what the foreign gods game was. Miamora turned towards her. Her throne was a plain white marble with a few golden specs spread throughout. She, similarly, was adorned with golden jewelry that shimmered with magic. Holy magic, as far as Miamora could tell. Her hair contrasted heavily with her simple white dress and golden eyes, it was black as night and flowing over her shoulders. Her lips were upturned in a kind smile, and no marks of aging graced her face. No frown lines, crows feet, wrinkles or blemishes. At her side was a marble scepter with rings of different metals dangling beneath a radiant gemstone, one that Miamora couldn’t quite place unless the magic within was expelled. It was a dark green stone, perfectly cut, and shimmering with holy magics.
“Luma, I presume? It hurts my weary heart that you’d think me a liar or manipulator.” The gods voice was dramatic as he bowed toward her. Even as he teased, his mouth turned even further upwards. He was enjoying himself, messing with this small pantheon. This young group of gods. “I promised to answer questions three, and three I shall answer. After that, we can always make a new deal if you wish, Goddess of light and knowledge.”
She bristled slightly but her smile never wavered. Her reply came in the form of a swift nod, and she turned her attention back to Elandrus. He cleared his throat, his eyes on the foreign god filled with curiosity, disdain, and wariness. The king of the gods of Ravos was not one to underestimate an opponent and though Miamora had yet to act with hostility, Elandrus was appraising Miamoras strength with great care.
“Tell me, Miamora of the foreign lands - “
“That title does not suit me. Miamora of the Shifting Chasm, he who conquered the maelstrom. Or Miamora, It that unstitches. Miamora, the harbinger of change. Any of those would do.” The god interrupted the king, not missing the flash of irritation that crossed Elandrus’s face.
“Tell me, then, what detriment will this experiment bring to our realm?” Elandrus’s voice was strained. His dislike for the god standing below was simply growing, and the godking wanted him out of his halls before he lost his temper.
“Hmm. That is a difficult question to answer. I do not know if it will affect your realm as a whole. The boy I gifted my divinity, he is only now waking from a long - by mortal standards - nap.” the conqueror of the maelstroms arms crossed behind his back as he started to walk in a circle around the base of the chamber, not looking at any god in particular as they all listened raptly. “The last time I conducted this same experiment, the mortal perished before their eleventh year and she was unable to influence her world. The boy I delivered to your world just nearly died before their sixteenth birthday. Or was it fifteenth? I am unsure. I will say, that should it be successful, he may shake things up within that tiny country he’s in. what was it called, Jury? Jorlan? Jordan?”
“Jorial?” A new voice, a pretty voice that felt as though there were a song hiding behind the single word, suggested after painfully watching Miamora butcher the name for a few moments. Her hair was red and curly, cascading down over her shoulders and down her back. Weaved throughout it were vines with flowers at their ends, crowning her head. Freckles spread across her face contrasting nicely with her pale skin and green eyes. The freckles were intentional, of course, as when one grew to that level of power they could manipulate their form quite easily, at least for minor things such as that. She neither smiled nor scowled, taking a neutral expression. Not even Miamora could tell what she was thinking about his visit, whereas he could feel tension from most of the others. Save for Kravda, who was gleefully breaking down the essence of the curse he had had her consume.
“Yes! Ferune, I presume?” He observed the woman who had just spoken, taking in her leaf dress and the sapling staff beside her. Her chair made of sticks and roots and padded with moss. “Jorial, that was the countries name. The boy is there, and he is still asleep. Although, I feel he will wake soon enough.”
“All of this display for a mortal who may not even live? Very intriguing.” Luma intoned and stood up. “I shall go find and observe this lad, Elandrus. Worry not I shall ensure that the foreigner is not fibbing.”
The godking turned to her, ready to attempt to stop her before she left, but she vanished in a flash of light. Before he could call a halt to the exodus, their annual meeting was adjourned with the other gods quickly returning to their realms. Finally the only two who were left were Elandrus and Miamora. The godking sighed heavily. “Luma... how are you to find the boy?” He muttered before glaring at the foreign god. “Well then, I suppose our time is had. Leave my halls, boy.”
Miamora gave the godking a taunting, almost theatrical bow and vanished himself, a grin across his lips. His goal accomplished for the time being, he returned to his own divine realm to continue to observe the boy. In the back of his mind he considered inviting the curse drinker to his realm but tabled it for later.
__________________________________________
Arabelle panted as she stumbled into the dark, sterile room that her group used for an infirmary. Her colleague, Number Six, had guided her there before bolting off to make a report to the leader. She heard a rustling as the man within the chamber stirred, rising off the crinkly bed upon which he had been sitting.
“Come, come, I can smell your injury! It must be quite dire for you to see me miss Number Nine.” The mans voice sent a shudder down Arabelles spine. Even still, she stumbled into the dimly lit room and quickly collapsed onto a nearby bed.
“Hurry, I have lost much blood and can hardly breathe.” She wheezed desperately It didn’t help that she had to continue to wear her mask. Her amber eyes were dimming, and she felt faint. She finally allowed herself to release the puppet strings she had been using to carry herself so far. Her body had stopped wanting to respond when that bastard sent a concentrated blast of electricity through her body. To be honest, she was lucky to be alive.
As she collapsed onto the bed, her breathing labored and pained, the doctor approached. He was one of the few, alongside the leader, who were allowed to reveal their face within their group. Only non combatants were allowed to share their identities, on the caveat that they never left the hideout. Heirick didn’t seem to mind as he raised a toothy smile, his nose scrunched up and eyes lit.
“Curious. You have indeed lost a lot of blood but you were luckily able to use those strings of yours to suture before you lost too much. Good. “ He muttered just loud enough for her to hear. She braced herself for what was to happen next, not looking forward to the next part. He opened an enchanted flask at his hip and a stream of viscous blood streamed out. He then used a long, powerfully sharp nail to poke a hole in her chest next to the wound that he promptly sent the blood through.
What Arabelle had been expecting though, the tremendous pain that often accompanied his diagnosis, didn’t come to pass. She barely felt anything at all as his blood explored her damaged body despite being fully conscious. She was reluctant to sleep at least until she was partially healed or was told she had to sleep. Instead of being painful the blood flowing into her chest was simply cold, like a wet snake writhing around inside of her. Definitely not a pleasant experience but better than the alternative.
“Oh my. What happened to you deary? Its like... your lung and one of your kidneys were absolutely destroyed. They are beyond my capabilities to repair I’m afraid. I can heal you to a certain extent, but the two organs I cannot.”
His words took a few moments for her to process. The kid had destroyed not one, but two organs? If his sword had pierced her even a couple of inches up... She shook her head weakly. “I see... thank you Doc...” Her voice was weak. She was weak. She couldn’t believe she had nearly died to a boy decades her junior at least, one without even a shred of facial hair.
“I will do what I can but I see that you need rest. Sleep now, Number Nine. I shall inform the leader of your condition and he will likely wish to see you when you wake, you will need your energy then.”
Arabelle didn’t protest. Her eyes were already so heavy so she let them drop. Quickly sleep - and nightmares - found her.