Azarus knew himself in three parts. The warrior, merchant, and traveler. He had thought these aspects of himself were incomplete parts, representatives of him as a whole. Now he knew it for a fact. Gray and gold fire swelled inside him, finding harmony with the emerald. Part of him meant part of his domain. He sought to understand the whole through the parts. So, he surrendered his reasonable mind and let the pieces fall where they may.
His desire to fight, to stand against the odds, surged to the forefront of his being. In response, the gold flames of his wings grew a darker hue, almost burnt orange. They did not flare in size and power, instead conveying a sense of deep alignment and powerful resonance.
Kuscal’s scepter grew closer, blotting out half the room. Its immense size made Azarus feel as if he was hurtling toward it, and not vice versa. Azarus let his wings extinguish, funneling his limited power into wrapping his sword in tri-color flames from hilt to tip. As he plummeted, the scepter approaching far quicker than he could fall, Azarus raised his sword to challenge the oncoming blow. He braced with both hands, his eyes swirling rings of color.
Gold dominated the other two colors burning on Azarus’s sword and in his eyes as he took Kuscal’s strike head on. Azarus’s sword met the sunset-made-scepter with a deafening sound, shaking the hall and causing a pillar to crumble into mist. The scepter contained all the force of a lake falling from the sky. Azarus felt breathless as he accepted the strike. He savored the way his muscles tensed, the way his shoulders slammed back into their sockets. He marveled at all the small things. The way he had to twist his body, mid-air, to generate force without the ground or his wings as an anchor. How his sword tried to swivel in his hands. The way his skin pulled as the shockwave washed over him. With every ounce of his being, he pitted his strength against his foe’s, and immersed himself in the experience. The other god was far stronger, but that only made Azarus’s smile grow wider.
Azarus pushed his body past its limit, then asked it for more. Only when his bones cracked and muscles tore was he satisfied.
The gray aspect of the tri-flame leapt forward in a burst, burning in all the shades of the gray scale, from black to white. The gray flame matched the molten gold fire in intensity. In the depths of his mind, Azarus made a careful note of which flames flared and when. His sword burned with a ring of flickering gray flame surrounding a core of molten gold. A warrior’s fortitude to withstand the blow, and a merchant’s cunning to cut a deal. Motes of incandescent emerald drifted through the two other flames, like migrating stars. A bit of luck to bring everything together.
The gray flames increased in intensity, flickering so fast that time seemed to move in a series of still drawings. Azarus embraced himself and asserted his domain. He was a merchant god. So, he accepted Kuscal’s offer and traded the scepter’s momentum for his own. He claimed withstanding the blow as the price and the momentum as the product received in exchange.
Azarus’s miniscule domain struggled to bring his perception to life. It flickered and strained, like a spark trying to consume a log far too large for it. Azarus did not relent. He used his will to make up for what his domain lacked.
A flash of gray-scale light froze the world for a nanosecond, outlining Azarus and the stormy scepter. In that frozen world, the gods were mere two-dimensional sketches. The sound of battle went silent. Azarus froze, a gleeful grin on his face; a trickle of blood hanging mid-motion from the corner of his lips. Then the world resumed.
Deal complete, Azarus left the scepter in a moment of stillness, rocketing to the side in a blur as Kuscal overbalanced and stumbled. He pulled his domain from his sword, letting it wash through his body. Tri-colored flames flickered along Azarus’s skin. He could feel his blood turn to fire as his domain reforged his wounded flesh, leaving it stronger than before. It was not a significant difference this time. Nor would it be the time after. But the thousandth time?
Azarus let out a throaty laugh, the wind snatching it from his lips as he blasted toward a distant pillar. Even with his power stolen from him, he was strong. All he had to do was push himself past his limits, time and time again, until he was reborn in fire. He felt a shiver pass through him that left him lightheaded and sent his heart racing. It felt good to live.
Azarus focused his domain between his shoulder blades, then pushed it out. His domain flowed into shape like water filling a container. Azarus’s wings burst from his back in a flash of emerald flames. He spread them wide, catching a fortunately placed air current that sent him flying towards Kuscal’s face; a bit of luck to ease his journey. The sort of thing a wanderer might pray for.
Kuscal’s long, flowing hair and beard lit up like a forest of lightning bolts, as the god prepared for Azarus’s strike. Azarus did not mind too much. It gave him the chance to get a closer look at the lightning. After a brief inspection, he noticed each bolt had a unique aspect to it. One was thick and brilliant, like a pillar of lightning. Another branched like a resplendent tree, each branch growing in Azarus’s direction. When it clicked, Azarus could not help but giggle. Each lightning bolt was magnificent. Kuscal, God of Majestic Clouds indeed.
Emerald feathers, edged in gold with gray specks, floated in Azarus’s wake as he ducked and weaved through the lightning strikes. He did not bother seeing where the lightning was and then avoid it. Rather, Azarus flitted this way and that as it struck his fancy, riding the strange winds that followed the giant’s every movement.
A purple and gold bar of lightning struck out from a braided cluster of clouds in Kuscal’s hair. It shot toward Azarus with air-shattering fury, only to strike an emerald feather as it drifted in the wind. The resulting explosion caused an updraft that carried Azarus toward the bridge of Kuscal’s nose.
Azarus touched his wings to his sword, forcing his domain into it. His wings dispersed and his sword burned with a golden flame, verging on molten orange. He twisted his body, concentrating all of his momentum to a single point as he tumbled through the air. Sparks of emerald surged through the sword’s golden flame. The unreal size of Kuscal’s nose made it seem to move in slow motion as the god flinched. For a moment, the emerald flames overtook the gold.
Azarus spun through the air, completing one last rotation before passing just above the bridge of Kuscal’s nose. He held his sword in front of him with both hands. It happened so fast, he only had a fraction of a second to adjust his strike. He intended to cut Kuscal, not bash him with improper blade alignment. It just so happened that he was in a perfect position and did not need to adjust. The gold flame retook the emerald as Azarus sliced through the bridge of Kuscal’s nose. His burning sword went clean through, leaving the bottom half of the giant’s nose limp and sagging. The edge of the wound smoldered, eating at Kuscal’s domain and fueling Azarus’s.
Kuscal’s hand was already closing in. His eyebrows surged with devastating bolts of lightning. Purple and white clouds seemed to lift off his skin, turning into thunderheads that bore down on Azarus. To Azarus, it felt slow. As if he and Kuscal were moving in different dimensions.
Switching to his wings, Azarus zipped away. Kuscal’s scepter chased him, using its length and size to combat Azarus’s speed. Azarus could feel a hundred thousand eyes peeking through the clouds, tracking his every movement. The combined reach of Kuscal’s arm and the scepter could be counted in miles. Kuscal swung at Azarus over and over with unerring accuracy.
Again, the image of a furious man chasing a fly with a swatter came to Azarus’s mind. It amused him to no end. He felt amazing, being the fly that challenged the giant.
Azarus was a storm of tri-color fire as he traded blows with Kuscal, using a bit of chance and courage to come out on top in most exchanges. His domain surged with each clash, flooding him with the desire to use it, to assert himself and put this arrogant giant in his place. Yet, when he reached for the power to act upon the desire, all he could feel was an empty ache where it should be. All he to use was the dregs remaining inside him. It was not enough to enhance his sword and manifest his wings at the same time. Consuming Kuscal’s domain replenished Azarus’s, but he could feel a barrier keeping him from growing his connection, and therefore limiting how much of his domain he could use at once. These were the shackles they forced him to overcome.
That thought settled inside Azarus, causing him to relax muscles he hadn’t known were tense. It felt right this way. Part of him was the lesser, forced to surpass incredible odds.
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The fledgling god roared with laughter as he parried another blow in a flash of black and white fire, burning gray together. The exchange sent him flying off toward another one of the cloud pillars, suggesting Kuscal was angling his strikes for that purpose.
As Azarus flew, in that brief instance of peace during the battle, Azarus mused that fighting felt much like how he envisioned striking a bargain. Kuscal delivered a point, Azarus deflected and pressed a counter argument. They both probed, searching for that tipping point; the place where their opponent would have no choice but to bend. Azarus found a sense of unity in the similarities. His eyes flared with gray and gold as he traded directions with a sweep of gray-dominated wings. He shot toward Kuscal, a ball of color in a purple and white world, intent on delivering a bold counter offer.
Kuscal shielded his face with one hand, using a single hand to swing his gargantuan scepter to intercept the comparative mote of color hurtling at him. Azarus got the distinct impression that the other god had not played all of his cards. His demeanor was far too arrogant, slightly north of casual. That suited Azarus just fine. He was having a blast. There were so many things he wanted to try. He needed to push his limits. His domain was far more than what he was using it for. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. Right now, he was playing with the pieces, unable to put them together.
Azarus shot toward Kuscal’s open palm, letting his wings disperse and relying on the momentum he had traded for to keep him on track. He did not bother trying to twist around the hand to strike at Kuscal’s face. Other things were on his mind. His signature tri-flame burned along the length of his sword as he drew back to strike. He flexed his will, gathering his domain at the very tip of the blade. Manipulating his domain, manifested as the tri-flame, was like moving a body part. He did it without conscious thought. To Azarus, it felt like being able to take a deep breath for the first time. It was liberating. There was no other way he could describe it.
Azarus flew through the sky toward Kuscal’s wall of a palm, a raging inferno erupting from the tip of his sword. It swirled like a tornado of fire, reaching out as an extension of Azarus’s sword. The flames licking around the edges lengthened as the blaze grew. Then, as one, the flames all wrapped around the core of the inferno. Moving as a natural fire could never dream of, the flames tightened, forming a bar of tri-color plasma. Unsatisfied, Azarus willed the bar to shrink. If Kuscal wanted to use his domain to be the size of a malnourished continent, then he could make his domain as small as he liked.
Azarus felt a twinge of satisfaction as his domain strained to condense down to a single point. The sensation was almost identical to pushing a muscle past its limits. He felt those limits fast approaching as he focused his will into shaping his domain. Eyes blazing, he pressed his will against the restraints of his power. Pain shot through him as he felt an incredible tightening in his domain. Azarus knew the pain for what it was, a warning. He did not heed it. Instead, he pushed himself harder.
Something gave way. A part of Azarus ripped.
The clouds in the distance rippled and shuddered as beams of tri-color light shot out of the tip of Azarus’s sword. Azarus’s domain collapsed in on itself, going from a pillar of plasma to a single, shining spark. It was as if a hundred crazed lighthouses dwelled in that speck of fire, each intent on causing the most chaos possible. The clouds smoldered with tri-color embers wherever the light touched. Some patches of embers flared to life, spreading tri-flame that ate away at Kuscal’s domain.
Sweat beaded Azarus’s brow, which was promptly pulled into molecules by the force of his passage. He asserted his will on his domain, demanding it become putty in his hands. The light show dwindled, then disappeared as he forced the light back into the spark, containing its energy. Azarus focused his being on the concentrated piece of his domain, pressing his divinity into it and commanding it to transform. It felt like trying to control the flow of a river with his hands.
A massive wall of craggy, stone-like skin loomed close as Azarus hurtled toward Kuscal’s palm. The giant’s fingers, mountainous pillars in Azarus’s eyes, began to curve and descend, aiming to trap the fledgling god. Azarus gritted his teeth, bearing down on his spark with his divine will. He had a feeling that making his domain as small as possible was not the answer. It did not represent him. He wanted something more.
Azarus’s domain resisted his will. It sparked like mad as it gave a halfhearted attempt to obey, throwing off thousands of tri-color motes in the blink of an eye. The sparks left a streak of color following Azarus across the cloudy sky, like the tail of a comet.
Azarus closed his eyes, sinking into the feeling of his domain. He put aside the three aspects and took it in as a whole, basking in its heat. The fire meant something. A fourth aspect, perhaps, or a clue into his concept. His domain and how it represented itself were as much a part of him as he was it. This was an undeniable truth. Another truth was that Azarus could hold any form he wished, as long as it represented him. Such was the nature of the divine.
Thus, Azarus reasoned to himself, with all the charm of a seasoned snake-oil salesman, his domain could take any form he wished, as long as it represented him. He relayed his argument to the stubborn, condensed spark of his domain, doing his best to convince it to turn to paint. A frown tugged at his lips as it resisted, each fraction of a second wasted bringing him closer to his inevitable collision with Kuscal’s palm. With his eyes closed, he could not see his domain stop sparking and fold in on itself, its form stabilizing into a drop of liquid. However, he could feel the waves of heat buffeting him. The tri-flame took a more molten form, but not paint.
Azarus pushed it harder, feeling the imminent shadow of failure looming closer. His domain pushed back, forcing a growl from the back of his throat. It no longer felt like pushing a muscle past its limits, but more like trying to bend a joint the wrong way. To Azarus, it seemed a simple mistake. The joint bent this way. It always had. Azarus was drawn to the artistry of life, poetic deeds and situations. His first, and only, creation was a painting. If he was the warrior, merchant, and traveler, then he must be the painter as well.
Something in Azarus’s domain clicked into place. It was not the comfortable release of tension Azarus had expected from enforcing his will. Instead, a lancing feeling of pain and wrongness coursed through his being. His instincts screamed at him, claiming he was misrepresenting himself. He rebuked his instincts and his domain itself.
“I am who I say I am.”
It was as simple as that. And if he was a painter, then his domain would take the form of paint and be happy about it.
As he held that thought in his mind, Azarus felt the pain lessen to a mild discomfort. There was a lingering sense of wrongness, but Azarus shut that out of his mind. The first thing a god ruled was themselves. Except for a certain wayward goblin, he was the only thing he had dominion over. For now.
Opening his eyes, Azarus wielded his sword like a brush, not sparing a single glance to see if the flame had changed to paint. His mind raced as he decided what to paint. With such a limited palette, he had to be creative, leaning into what he knew about the aspects of himself. He spun in the air, painting a gray cloud that sparked with gold and emerald around himself. With a nudge of his domain, he traded himself for the flames on a distant pillar.
The world seemed to twist and distort around Azarus, a feeling of wrongness descending with enough force to make reality shudder. Shoulders back and chin raised, Azarus pushed back against the feeling. He was a piece of the universe itself. How could it reject him?
“I am trading my place with the flames born of my domain, a piece of myself and therefore equal to me. For the cost of the flame’s inconvenience, I offer this painting to consume.”
Azarus stared down at the distortions. One looked on the verge of cracking. Azarus would wager an aspect that something unfortunate would happen if it succeeded. But that did not matter. The deal was fair. There was no reason the universe should object. In fact, Azarus felt a bit irritated he had to explain himself.
As expected, the distortions unfolded, and Azarus appeared on the side of a majestic pillar. He stood in a massive hollow where his tri-flame had been. Partially consumed, the great column still gave off the air of an ancient, powerful ruin. Kuscal was true to his title, even in decor.
Azarus put a hand to his head as the lingering sense of wrongness manifested as a headache. He felt like reality wanted to punish him for his actions. For the life of him, Azarus could not figure out why the universe objected to his machinations. It was possible that it was because he was using paint as a medium, but that was a thought for another time. Whatever it was, Azarus had the feeling he had put the issue to rest for now with a bit of discomfort as a warning.
Through the lingering headache, Azarus watched the fire he had switched places with consume the painting of smoke he had left behind. It formed a massive ball of fire, big enough to eclipse half of Kuscal’s palm. Despite Azarus’s expectations, Kuscal did not flinch back. Instead, his hand surged closed in a swell of purple and white. Thin trails of smoke rose from Kuscal’s fist as he turned to look at Azarus. With Kuscal’s face no longer obstructed, Azarus could see his eye was whole and his nose was being stitched back together by thin purple and white clouds. Azarus could tell the other god was looking him in the eye and sending a message.
Kuscal had been messing around until now.
Azarus heard his contemporary loud and clear. That did not stop him from smiling as he painted an emerald door with gold hinges and a gold doorknob set in a gray frame. He wanted to try a few things. The more of a fight Kuscal put up, the better.
In the back of Azarus’s mind, a lone thought surfaced. It followed a quick train of thought and landed on a pertinent question.
Was time stopped or was Moka still battling the skinwalker?
Azarus hesitated as his worn boot passed the threshold of his painted door. Making a quick decision, he nodded to himself. Change of plans.