When a god is born, the fabric of the universe weaves paradox and divinity together, turning a concept into a sentient embodiment of power. Few entities have witnessed this phenomenon, and even less have worked up the nerve to pester a god on the details of their existence. Under normal circumstances, the process itself defies description.
In a realm of nothingness so complete it made the void seem vivacious, beyond and between the celestial planes, a concept became a god. Despite lacking form or shape to call his own, the newborn wished to see, so he did. The universe, mother and host of all things, sensed his desire and wove it into reality. Indistinct, ethereal shapes swam far across the vast nothingness, shedding a kaleidoscope of soft, colored energy. Satisfied with his first sight, the god blinked his formless eyes and the shapes vanished.
The godling wished to speak. Without a mouth to do so, he shook the essence of his being, causing it to resonate with itself. He used his burgeoning divinity to shape the vibration into words.
“I am Azarus.”
The statement was brimming with such power it shook the nothingness with its pressure. It shaped Azarus as he shaped it. His essence-filled words traveled through the nothingness and into the endless realms. They touched the soul of each entity that carried the slightest hint of the concept he embodied, using their experiences to form his domain.
In the nothingness, as Azarus felt his essence transform, a small ding chimed. The ding drew Azarus’s attention to a notification blinking in the peripherals of his awareness.
Moments stretched as he regarded the notification. Despite being born with vast knowledge, imparted as instincts from the universe, Azarus did not know what the notification meant or how it could reach him here beyond the realms. He fixated on the notification, his developing domain momentarily set aside.
With the unbound curiosity of a child, Azarus acknowledged the small blinking light. It expanded into a screen before him.
Quest: Claim your birthright - Completed
You are a god. Speak your truth aloud for the universe to hear.
Reward: [Trial of Gods], Divinity Points
Azarus regarded the screen with some bemusement. A reward from an unknown entity for stating his existence seemed strange. To dare give a god a trial seemed even stranger. His instinctual knowledge advised him that to receive tests was not the purview of gods. Gods gave trials to their worshippers, and he worshiped none but himself. No quest or rewards could change that.
Still, it made him uncomfortable. He questioned why this thing would appear before him, and what it could gain by doing so. With his immense will, Azarus reached out to his developing domain, intent on using its power to find answers. He found nothing but a fluttering sensation.
Mind blank, Azarus froze. Disbelieving, he tried again. Still, nothing. His thoughts raced as he sought a solution. The first solution he latched onto was to deny there was a problem. He had only turned his attention away from it for a moment. Azarus was a god. He, of all beings, could solve this problem just as quickly as it had arrived. Naming his domain, claiming it as his alone, should fix everything.
“I am Azarus.” The essence of his being roared his name into the nothingness. “God of-“
The words died in his throat. The nothingness went dormant once again. He did not know. The truth of his existence was gone from his mind, and his domain was unreachable. It should be impossible. Every god had a domain. A god was the very concept their domain ruled over; one and the same, inseparable.
When Azarus spoke again, it was as if the vibration of his essence was an insecure whisper, faltering and faded. Murmured words flowed out of him like water.
“God of Death, God of the Harvest, God of…”
There was a pit of ice at Azarus’s core that threatened to consume him. He was disconnected from his domain. Even as he listed any concept he could think of, hoping it would be the catalyst to grasp his birthright, he knew it would not work.
Exercising his will, Azarus squashed the rising feeling of despair. This was an impossible occurrence. A god could not exist without their domain. Interference was the only explanation.
Scowling as only a formless being can, Azarus accepted his current reality and moved on. Answers would come. He was a god. The universe would bend to his will in time. Besides, he suspected the culprit was already here.
Azarus regarded the thing accompanying him in the vast nothing. It was the first to reach him after he announced his birth. The screen winked at him with cheer, the letters of the reward pulsing with an alluring light, begging to be acknowledged. Azarus scoffed at it. He continued to do so for what felt like an eternity. Then the boredom set in. It started as an uncomfortable itch, then an increasingly insistent sensation that he required a physical form. He endured for as long as he could, but with the screen as his only companion, he inevitably gave into the temptation of escaping the nothingness.
With a heavy conscience, Azarus made his first compromise. He discarded his stubborn pettiness as useless, for now, and clicked the flashing [Trial of Gods] button. As he did, he assured himself he wasn’t merely submitting to boredom. He was making the choice to move forward and face adversity. The thought rang hollow.
As Azarus acknowledged the button, the screen collapsed on itself, forming a shifting, prismatic cube of light. Without fanfare, the light exploded, consuming everything. Azarus blinked.
When his awareness returned, he was in a grand hall, built for gods. Pillars of earth held up the night sky like a ceiling. Infinite stars, and the worlds they gave life to, gathered in great galaxies that formed a gargantuan nebula. The sky was a window into the twinkling tapestry of the universe.
Taking in the ceiling, held up by pillars comparable to planets, Azarus moved across a floor of clouds. He found himself inexplicably drawn to what awaited him at the end of the hall, just beyond sight. It was something that belonged to him. He could feel it.
Alas, no matter how fast he willed himself, he never seemed to move forward. Vibrating in frustration, Azarus cast about for something to aid him on his journey. When his awareness shifted behind himself, he stilled.
It was as if the grand hall was an infinite corridor, endless and symmetrical in both directions. Something about the stars drew his attention. Moments later, he realized that the formations of nebulas and galaxies mirrored each other.
Piecing the puzzle together, it was not long before he noticed there was a frame around the mirrored hall. The frame looked carved from pressed together chunks of thick stone, engraved with crude golden runes. Dark roots, shimmering as if polished, held the stones to the mirror’s surface with a crushing grasp. Their curling reach formed dark runes opposite the gold.
It was a mirror. His instincts whispered it was the Mirror of Eons, an entity comparable to Yggdrasil, the world tree.
On the surface of the mirror, Azarus saw an ethereal form in the vague shape of a humanoid staring back at him. It looked like a ghost formed from tongues of emerald, gold, and gray flames.
The vague shape wiggled in displeasure, echoing Azarus’ mood. This was not his form. It did not represent him. He blinked, and a god stood where the shape had lingered.
She was tall and imposing in her golden, battle scarred armor. Her hair, reminiscent of molten gold, fell down one shoulder in curling cascades, like fields of wheat ruffled by the wind on a summer’s day. Luxurious lashes framed brilliant gray eyes that seemed to challenge the world and look down on it for being weak. Sleek muscles bunched under her green skin; a crown of emerald horns jutted from her brow.
Azarus and the golden goddess glared at each other. This was not his form, either. He blinked again, willing the warrior goddess away. When he opened his eyes, he saw a sly man in a dark green suit. His suit was embroidered with gray thread, forming words in a language Azarus could not quite put his finger on despite its familiarity. The man had styled his short, dark gray hair, not a single strand out of place. In his golden eyes was a spark of cunning and cruelty.
The merchant crossed his arms, bringing a hand up to stroke his short goatee. His brow furrowed in thought, his long, pointed ears twitching. Azarus felt an indescribable urge to haunt a crossroads as he looked at this form.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“This form does not represent me,” Azarus said, his tone almost idle as he tried to decide if he enjoyed the feeling of the goatee beneath his fingers. “It is closer, but I am unsatisfied.”
Azarus tapped a finger against his lips, examining his reflection. With a blink, he switched back to the golden warrior, his form flowing from one to the next with a single thought. Two armored figures regarded each other in the reflected hall, galaxies twinkling overhead.
Azarus considered his forms. He was not a merchant, trading power to the desperate with great and terrible pacts. Nor was he a warrior, changing the tides of empires with his might. They were pieces of him, but not the whole.
“First,” Azarus said, pointing at his reflection with an incriminating finger. “A weapon.”
He held his hand out and plucked a thread of his soul, forging it into a great spear. It was long and ornate, with a staff as long as he was tall and a blade as long as his arm. He hefted it in his hands, giving it an experimental twirl.
With a thought, he dismissed the spear, forming it into a heavy war staff. He planted the staff’s metal capped butt into the ground, feeling the tremble of the clouds beneath his feet.
Azarus picked the staff up a few inches, then let it fall back down. Something about the motion felt right, but it was like catching the scent of a lingering flower as snow fell. He repeated the motion, the large war staff transforming into a walking stick just as it hit the ground.
Azarus regarded the walking stick with curiosity. It felt closer. He was in the right vein. Hefting the stick up, he swung it down as if to strike the golden warrior in the mirror. Mid-strike, the stick morphed into a hatchet, the kind a traveler carried to clear a path and cut firewood.
Staring at the hatchet in his hand, Azarus smiled. In the mirror, the form of the golden warrior flickered, becoming the emerald merchant, then back again.
“I am a champion and a dealmaker,” Azarus said, his form beginning to change, the warrior and merchant melding together, motes of light rising from him to reach to the stars above. “But more than that, I am a wanderer. You may find me at the enemy’s throat, or in a parlor. If you seek me, I will be on the road, searching for those who deserve my presence.”
Azarus looked up and stared into his own eyes. His irises were pale green, surrounded by dark emerald rings speckled with moving motes of gray and gold. He wore a long traveler’s coat. It was a worn and faded gray that may have been green once upon a time. If he looked closely, he could see dim threads of gold weaving runes around the trim of the coat. His hair, dark and long, was bound in a messy bun, with several bangs hanging down to frame his clean-shaven face.
Opening his coat, Azarus saw he wore common traveling clothes, a mix of cotton and sturdy gray leather from an unknown beast. Glancing over his apparel, his eyes went to the sword at his waist. He unclipped the scabbard, holding it up to examine it.
Unlike the previous, grandiose spear and staff, the sword was remarkable in its plainness. He thumbed the scabbard open a few inches, examining the blade. After a few seconds, he snapped it shut. It had a leather bound hilt, a plain leather scabbard, and looked to be mundane steel. Except for the pommel, Azarus doubted the sword was any different from a mass produced metal stick meant for civilian use. It was perfect.
On the pommel, two six-sided dice danced an eternal ballet. They spun with no regard to things such as entropy or gravity, intent on never giving their judgment. Azarus felt a pull of fondness toward the dice. With a smile on his lips, he looked up and regarded his current form, finding it somewhat suiting.
Quest: Step into existence - Complete
Create an Avatar for yourself using the Mirror of Eons.
Reward: [Rules of the Game], Divinity Points
The screen sprang into being, mere inches from Azarus’ nose, causing him to break his focus away from the spinning dice. [Rules of the Game] flashed at him, demanding to be accepted. Azarus’ eyes narrowed at the screen. He did not enjoy this feeling of being trained. Push the button, receive the reward. The screen was treating him little better than a beast.
With a wave, Azarus dismissed the screen from his presence. It continued begging for his attention, an irritating blinking at the edge of his vision. He ignored it. Instead, he devoted his time to examining the mirror. Running his hands over the roots and stone, he walked to the side, intent on studying the edges and seeing the back side. To his frustration, the hall kept him locked in place. No matter how long he walked, he never moved from the center.
Minutes, hours, months, Azarus could not say how long he struggled with the quick-sand like power that kept him in its grasp. He walked, he ran, he struck the mirror with his sword. He meditated on his domain, trying to reach it. Nothing he did altered his surroundings, or let him get in touch with his innate power. In frustration, he slammed the pommel of spinning dice against one of the stone runes. It left a small dent, but by the time Azarus went to examine it, the mark was gone.
As if tired of his continued refusal to play along, a new screen appeared, invading his vision and refusing to be removed.
[Rules of the Game]
A new Pantheon has been born. It is time to determine your place among the gods. Claim your Champion(s) and rise to the top of the Tower to become [King of the Gods]. As King, you gain the right to create a world where your [Domain] holds sway.
The game continues until a King is crowned.
Winning means the power to decide.
[Choose your first Champion]
As soon as Azarus finished reading, the screen snapped shut, giving off a distinct air of irritation. Before Azarus could ponder the wisdom of making an enemy of the screen, three pillars of white light descended from the starry sky above. The great hall rumbled as they crashed into the ground, burning with unabated fury.
Azarus could feel a distinct pull from each of the pillars. His domain called out to him. It pulled him toward whatever was contained within the burning white light. Azarus clung to that feeling, searing the feel of his domain into his mind and soul. A sense of relief flooded him. His domain was muted, but not gone.
With the easy steps of a man used to wandering, sturdy boots clicking against the clouds, Azarus strode toward the first pillar of light and laid his hand on it. It parted beneath his fingertips, allowing him to walk through.
Azarus stepped into a stone hall with soaring wooden rafters. Fresh blood painted the polished wood floor with aesthetic sprays of red, looking almost like a piece of art. Long, ragged banners hung down from the ceiling, covering the walls with a cheery variety of color. Large furred bodies laid scattered in heaps, adding their lifeblood to the flowing rivers of red over polished wood.
Azarus picked his way through the building, carefully avoiding the sticky pools. A thunderous bellow and the sound of battle came from the far entrance. He walked toward it, curious who caused such mayhem.
Thick doors banded with metal, built for a siege, swung on their battered hinges, moments from collapsing and crushing anything unfortunate enough to be beneath them. Azarus stepped out, ducking beneath the hanging corner of one of the heavy doors and into a world of white. Snow coated the ground, burying it in drifts of white, a mirror to the snow-laden clouds that were descending from the sky.
Following a sudden cry of pain, Azarus slipped around a large log house. Rounding the corner, he came across a man cradling something in his lap. Azarus judged the man to be about eight feet tall when standing. Almost of height to Azarus’s current form. The man’s skin was covered in thick fur. A large horn sprouting from his skull, the stub of its broken twin jutting from the other side. The god noted that the man’s face elongated to the point of being bovine. His fur was reddish-brown, but Azarus could not be sure that it was natural, or if the blood that coated his arms and face dyed it.
Minotaur. The label popped into Azarus’ mind, unprompted. Treading closer, Azarus saw more furred heaps, staining the once pure snow. The minotaur lifted his head and howled to the sky, his voice filled with pain and longing.
Azarus could hear a gentle murmur swell in the air like a chorus, rising in harmony with the mintotaur’s grief. The falling snow froze in place, suspended in time. The murmurs grew louder until Azarus could hear begging pleas for salvation, chanting in unison.
Azarus felt a sense of beauty in the moment.
The chanting was rhythmic, like a hymn or a prayer. Snow hung in the air like a million branches of fate, waiting to see how they would fall. The minotaur’s cries of grief were the only sounds louder than the choir, echoing in the frozen world like they were the only thing that was real.
Azarus walked toward the broken man. When he moved, he broke the spell that held the world in place in a bubble around him. The snowflakes swirled away from the force of his passing as he neared. As soon as he passed out of range, the flakes froze in time once more. Closer now, Azarus could see that the minotaur cradled a head in his lap, her face frozen in fear and agony.
Looking to the minotaur’s side, Azarus saw a thick blade, closer to a butcher’s knife than a sword, soaked in blood and gore. Azarus thumbed the dice on his own sword, making a silent bet that the cut that severed the head in the minotaur’s lap came from the butcher blade. The man’s dirge faltered and fell, his emotions clogging his throat until he could only sob.
Azarus spoke in the silence, his voice cutting through the muffled cries. An undeniable curiosity burned in his ringed emerald eyes.
“What would you change?”
For a long time, the man did not speak. He acted as if Azarus was not there, too consumed in his grief to notice the god before him. Azarus did not repeat himself. He waited.
Eternity stretched as the man cried. Azarus had a god’s patience, and boredom was a distant threat here. When the sobs choked out and the tears dried, Azarus’s patience was rewarded. The man spoke, as if speaking to himself.
“If I-” the minotaur said, cutting off as his hoarse throat caused his voice to break. When he spoke again, it was with conviction. His watery eyes blazed with passion and righteous fury. “They made me do this. Them and their wretched games. If I could go back in time, I would slaughter them before they could speak. I would do it with my bare hands.”
Azarus considered the minotaur’s words, pity filling his soul. This man needed redemption, but Azarus could not offer it to him. This was not the champion he needed. He could feel it, like a writ set in stone.
Azarus stepped out of the scene, leaving the broken man to his grief, and reentered the Hall of Gods. Taking a moment, he looked up at the sky that made him feel small. With a heavy heart, he made a wish to the universe above that another god might choose the minotaur and give him a chance to change.
A strange thing, for a god to make a wish. However, until his domain returned to him in full, it was the most Azarus could do.
Despite the wish, deep in his heart, Azarus knew the minotaur would have to seek his own redemption. When he was free of these screens, he would have many curses to lay at the feet of those who dared to make him dance to their tune, and kept him from acting how he saw fit. Until then, he would endeavor to beat them at their own game.
Azarus turned to regard the remaining two pillars of light. He stepped toward the next one, hoping it contained a champion to represent him.