Quest: Kronos taught me - Complete

You are not the first, nor the last to commit deicide. However, few are brave or foolish enough to do it a mouthful at a time.

Like a newborn spring consuming the waters of a stream, your power grows as you claim the strength of others. Will it be your river that reaches the ocean, or will it only contain a fraction of you?

Reward: [The God of Majestic Cloud’s Divinity], [Divine Store Token]

Azarus glared at the first screen in his vision. He had known he had not escaped the screens’ grasp, but to have it flaunted in front of his face was another thing. His goblin mask cracked and crumbled, falling from his face like dry, brittle paint. Spitting a mouthful of purple and white blood to the side, Azarus eyed the contents of the message his captors deemed to share with him. Once again, it was telling him something he already knew and pretending to give him rewards. Kuscal’s divinity was his by right. The screens had no say in the matter.

It did not pass Azarus’s notice that the second reward was an appeasement. The screens wanted him to play their game. It made sense to give him a taste of what the [Divine Store] could do; a piece of bait masquerading as a reward.

Azarus reread the screen. The quests and achievements had notes, more often than not, directed at him. He would have a lot to say if he ever met the author of those notes in person. That exchange would make his conversation with Kuscal seem downright flirtatious.

Tilting his head up at a now practiced angle, Azarus used his peripherals to ignore the screen and look at the gap beneath. He considered dismissing it, but he would bet his favorite paint brush there were more. Keeping his attention on Kuscal’s corpse, Azarus rallied the flames of his domain. In the presence of the screens, his domain moved like molasses. He felt tired now, depleted after putting his all into the battle. Moving his domain felt like forcing effort out of an overworked muscle. He pressed on, seeking the feeling of pushing himself past his limits. He urged his flames to leap from his fingertips to the body.

Azarus’s eyes burned gold and gray as he pressed his will into his reluctant domain. Speed was essential.

The third thing Azarus had noticed was among the listed rewards. Specifically, it was a lack of a certain reward. Kuscal and Azarus had put two things on the line in their fight to the death. Their divinity, and their domains. Anything with a spark of the divine had divinity, but only a god ruled a domain. A domain reflected and controlled the concept a god was born from. Hypothetically, a mortal could reach apotheosis by carving out their own domain and embodying a concept, but that was neither here nor there.

Azarus had no desire to merge his domain with Kuscal’s [Majestic Clouds], as fun as the lightning seemed. However, he still had uses for it. Azarus felt a heaviness in his stomach at the thought the screens may steal his rightful prize. With the screens’ return, Azarus had a foreboding feeling that they would drag him back to the Mirror of Eons soon. He needed to take [Majestic Clouds] with him to the hall of gods, to help him expand his understanding of himself and others. Coincidently, Azarus thought Kuscal’s purple and white would make spectacular paint. Great for highlights and shading.

A mote of tri-flame drifted from Azarus’s fingertips. It danced to its own tune, swaying this way and that with sudden dips and ascensions. Despite its ambling journey, it made its way unerringly to Kuscal’s remains. It alighted on his chest like a butterfly landing on a flower. The instant the mote touched, Azarus expected it to burst into flame, consuming the body and refining [Majestic Clouds] into something useful. He pressed his will into the mote with that intention. Instead, Kuscal exploded into a million tiny squares of reflective, moving cubes that shimmered then vanished. They took Kuscal’s domain with them.

Azarus clenched his fists so hard that they shook. The screens had harvested Kuscal’s domain and were ‘letting’ Azarus have mere scraps of his divinity. He had not checked yet, but he was positive the screens had stripped Kuscal’s divinity before letting him have it. In exchange, he got one [Divine Store Token]. This was a deal so questionable, it made Azarus’s use of his gray flames seem charitable in comparison.

Azarus took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling a tightness in his chest. His muscles felt slightly tense, as if resisting the slight pull of unseen chains. Azarus bet that if he objected to his prey being stolen, it would provide an opportunity for the screens to show him how far their reach extended. He composed himself. There would be an opportunity to act in the future, or he would make one. For now, he had to name his domain and claim himself back. There was no use in antagonizing his adversary until then.

With Kuscal’s body gone, Azarus had no desire to linger in the empty hall. It was more a mausoleum of his own making than a seat of power. Azarus dismissed the notification, intending to examine his meager rewards once he had returned to his prison cell. The next one popped up right behind it.

Quest: When gods argue - Complete

You have measured your domain against a fellow god and have found them wanting.

Reward: Divine Points

Azarus rolled his eyes at the screen. An obvious ploy. Take his hard-earned rewards and shower him with lesser ones to take away the sting and keep him engaged and playing. Azarus had not forgotten how his domain drained of the power he rekindled when he spent points on the [Minor Miracle]. There was a connection between himself, the mirror, and the points. Still, he knew it would be foolish to turn down whatever edge he could get. To win the game, he would need to play, eventually. He did not want to deal with it this second.

Azarus swiped the screen away, closed his eyes before the next could crowd his vision, and held up his hand. Stifling his irritation, he plastered a polite smile on his face.

“Could we do this later? I wish to check on my champion.”

With his eyes closed, Azarus could not see the screens’ response. He got an impression of smug satisfaction from it, regardless. When he noticed his teeth grinding, Azarus deliberately unclenched his jaw. It irked him to allow the screens to believe he was capitulating, but there was no benefit to fighting back right now.

Azarus felt the air shift. Before he opened his eyes, he knew his location had changed. When his lashes raised and he caught sight of Granon, Azarus took a mental note that the screens responded well, despite being infuriating, to him showing affection for Moka. No stress, no hassle, just straight to where he wanted to go. A quick glance around confirmed Azarus was in Granon’s soulscape. Given it was still whole, Azarus could assume Granon, and therefore Moka, was still alive. There was no doubt in his mind that his feisty goblin would outlive the giantkin, if only by seconds.

In his soulscape, Granon was a mere seven feet tall, the size of a child. He sat at a table piled high with thick, meaty slices of gourd, prepared in a dozen different ways. Swinging his head this way and that, his feet dangling off his chair, Granon kept checking the front door, as if waiting for someone to join him. Time ticked by, but Granon remained alone with the feast in front of him. Two empty chairs sat at the table, complete with place settings and cutlery.

Azarus watched Granon from above, standing outside the roofless shell of a home as the giantkin child chewed at his lips. The god stood in the encroaching darkness, watching the scene play out like a theater act. The soulscape was like a stage set. Except, instead of an audience, it boasted an overbearing sense of foreboding lurking in the shadows.

In center stage was the empty shell of Granon’s home. From Azarus’s vantage point, it looked set for an audience to peer inside, with walls and doors as thin as bark, more idea than substance. With a roof of oppressive darkness instead of bundled leaves, and darkness pushing in at the doors, it set the scene with all the trappings of a tragedy. A small fire burned in the hearth next to the table, illuminating Granon in a soft orange light that seemed cold. The fire was dwindling and the rack next to the hearth was empty except for a few splinters.

No shapes moved in the darkness. Nevertheless, a loud, urgent knocking came from the front door of the home. Granon’s childlike features whipped around, his wide eyes fixed on the door. He jumped to his feet, easily absorbing the drop from his chair with his knees. His eyes shone, a slow smile spreading across his face. He made as if to rush to the door, but halfway there, he hesitated. Something washed over his features, leaving a complicated look on his face.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

There was a light scratching at the door, like talons tracing the whorls of the wooden door. Soon after, something knocked again. Granon retreated to the table. With a soft grunt, he stood on one of his chair’s spindles. On the tips of his toes, with his whole body extended, he grabbed a dull knife from the cutlery on the table.

Scrambling to the ground, Granon squared up to the door, dozens of feet away. His hands, each as large as his face, trembled as he held the knife in both hands, tip pointing at the door. When he spoke, his courage sounded hollow.

“Who’s there?”

Soft chuckling and a voice Azarus recognized came from behind the door. The voice was crooning, calm and affectionate. It possessed utter confidence.

“You know who it is, boy. Come. Open the door.”

Azarus could already see the scene playing out in his head. The skinwalker cajoling and threatening Granon’s inner child. Granon, trapped and helpless, struggling with his fears. It had already played out to a large extent, and Azarus was sick of watching.

Vaulting out of the darkness and over the thin walls, Azarus appeared behind Granon, landing as soft as a cat. The quivering giantkin did not notice him. Shrugging, Azarus made himself known. He smashed one of the empty chairs, reducing it to kindling in an instant. Granon whirled, swinging the dull knife in a wild slashing motion. He missed his mark so ferociously, Azarus did not bother to acknowledge him. Instead, Azarus gathered up the remains of the chair and placed it in the hearth. He used a fraction of his domain to stoke the flames. The flecks of gold in the orange flames were almost unnoticeable.

“Who are you?! What do you want? How did you get here?”

Azarus took a deep breath, feeling the strained embers of his domain radiate warmth. The gray aspect of his flames smoldered the hottest, reveling in the situation. He sighed, slow and deep, his shoulders falling back as he savored the moment. This was the sort of thing he had imagined for himself in the quiet moments of his imprisonment.

“I am Azarus. I am here to make a deal.”

Granon’s emotions were as clear as day as they danced across his expression. Surprise, skepticism, unease, hope — they all appeared on his childlike face before he even opened his mouth.

Azarus chuckled and half turned away from Granon, prodding the wood in the hearth with the tip of his sword. The sound of claws against wood had faded. A wet snuffling and a sound like a wolf licking its lips filled the hollow home. Granon shot a look back and forth between Azarus and the door, as if unsure of which was the more urgent threat.

The fire in the hearth gnawed on the broken chair with relish, shedding heat and light into the room. Where the light touched, it grew brighter. The oppressive darkness grew in kind, not retreating a single step. Granon’s grimace and darting eyes painted a picture of fear and confusion. He shifted from side to side, unable to find a comfortable stance.

In Azarus’s opinion, the first step to negotiation was getting on the same page. To do so, they needed to face reality with rational minds. Turning his gaze from the fire, Azarus locked eyes with the fearful giantling. He considered and discarded a dozen questions in a blink of an eye. They both knew who was at the door, and why. Azarus wanted to cut to the core.

“Will you open the door, Granon?”

That question evoked the visceral reaction Azarus desired. Fear, disgust, rejection—Granon’s childlike features lacked the beard he needed to hide a fraction of his emotions. The man, who saw himself as a boy in his heart, gave those emotions a voice.

“No! I can’t. He- It will kill me. Eat me whole.”

Azarus nodded along, his demeanor pleasant. He liked Granon, even though he found the mortal’s moments of weakness distasteful. It was his right to judge mortals, but he would not hold them to divine standards. He would always find them wanting if he did. The mark of strength for a mortal was acknowledging and overcoming weakness.

Mentally embracing the role of a teacher, Azarus prodded the fire, adding a touch more color with each nudge.

“And when he tires of games and breaks down the door, what will you do?”

The dull knife in Granon’s hands twisted under the ministrations of his sweaty palms. Chewing his lower lip with square teeth, Granon glanced around the room. His eyes flitted between the nooks and crannies hidden throughout the room. Azarus waited for him to consider the possibilities. Running or hiding would prolong the game. It would not stave off the end. He knew Granon would come to the same conclusion. Despite appearances, the soul occupying this place was not a child’s.

The soft sound of the skinwalker licking the door, taunting the boy inside, filled the empty home. Granon gripped his knife like he was wringing its neck. His voice was so brittle it cracked.

“I don’t know.”

Azarus smiled to himself. Mortals sought safety and comfort. Perhaps, in another life, another god might have stood where Azarus was. One who provided those things. Of course, no god acted for free.

The hearth sparked with tri-color motes, throwing off long, split shadows.

“What would you pay for the chance to fight back? A drop of power that could help you hold back the tide?”

Granon faltered. His eyes narrowed on the hunched back of his uninvited guest. Through his clouded emotions, a clear-headed beam of intelligence shone through.

“What are you? Why are you here?”

Azarus turned from the hearth, standing to his full height. Behind him, tri-color fire raged, reaching for the rafters. Backlit, Azarus appeared to be a silhouette with swirling, ringed eyes. The tail of his coat spread behind him like wings.

“I am Azarus. I am here to make a deal. You have heard my offer. Can you pay the price?”

Granon fell to his knees. The back of his hands rested against his thighs, palms facing the god before him. His knife tumbled from his grasp. Laughter, shakier than his mental state, rattled out of his chest.

As if sensing something was wrong, the skinwalker increased the intensity of its efforts. Knocking with the force of a battering ram, it demanded entry.

With tears in his eyes and hope in his voice, Granon gazed upon Azarus’s visage. Azarus gazed back, a silhouette with glowing eyes and a white, crescent smile.

“You’re here to save me. I-”

Granon cut himself off as Azarus rested the flat of his blade on the kneeling giantkin’s shoulder. The edge of the blade glistened in the flickering firelight.

“I am here to make a deal. What I offer is a fighting chance. No more, no less. For the third and final time I ask, will you pay my price?”

Granon swallowed hard, his hyoid bone bobbing like driftwood in the ocean. He lowered his head, no longer daring to look Azarus in the eye.

“I have nothing to give.”

Gray flames surged down the length of Azarus’s sword. His pearly smile deepened.

“Sacrifice everything you have left. Spend your life, from now until your final breath, in my service.”

The skinwalker raged at the door now. It pounded against the thin barrier with the rhythmic force of a racing heart. Every few blows, splinters would fly from the paper-thin wood, clattering down steps of dirt packed so firm they may as well be stone.

“I wish I could.” Granon all but whispered, his demeanor downcast. “But I have already pledged myself to the God of Majestic Clouds, like my forefathers before me.”

Azarus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Granon squirmed worse than a worm on a hook. It was as though he did not believe he could rise above his miserable situation. Azarus doubted he could say anything to get through his thick walls of self-doubt and fear. Fortunately, any shelter in a storm was better than none.

“Kuscal is dead by my hand. Your decision is thus: sacrifice yourself to me and fight, or feed the monster that devoured your father with your flesh and indecision. Now is the time to choose.”

The skinwalker burst through the door, sending pieces of wooden shrapnel flying. Like a hundred crude arrows shot from a battalion of archers with more strength than aim, the shrapnel shredded everything they touched. Miraculously, the shrapnel avoided the two figures by the hearth, as if an invisible shield protected them. Mindless hunger burning in its eyes, the skinwalker gathered itself to pounce.

Granon raised his head, his eyes hardening. Not sparing a glance at the skinwalker, he reached up and grabbed Azarus’s sword by the blade. Blood ran between his fingers, feeding the gray flames that ran along the length of the weapon.

“I will fight.”

Azarus smiled. A genuine smile, not the salesman’s grin that had adorned his face moments ago. He paid no heed to the monster hurtling through the air toward his newest follower. Slow and deliberate, he slipped his sword from Granon’s grasp. The gray flame surged, then receded, gold and emerald billowing forth to replace it. He touched the tip of his blade to each of Granon’s shoulders as he spoke.

“You have bet your life on me, so I will bet my champion’s life on you.” The tri-flame behind Azarus spread like wings, consuming everything in its path. Fiery feathers wrapped Azarus and Granon in their embrace, cutting out everything but them and this moment. The sounds of the skinwalker seemed a distant memory in the face of the roaring inferno, pulsing in time with Azarus’s words. “I, Azarus, grant you sight, to see opportunity. Strength, to seize it. And insight, to acknowledge your weakness and grow from it.”

Screens popped in and out of Azarus’s vision. He ignored them, reducing their annoyance to small blinking lights at the corner of his awareness.

Azarus flexed his domain. He willed the raging inferno to collapse on itself, guiding it to rush into Granon’s body. It consumed the boy and left behind a man.