In the Hall of Gods, a tri-color mote, burning emerald, gold, and gray, emerged from an immense mirror and sank into the body of a man. The man wore sturdy traveling gear, stained with paint. A long brown coat, splattered and smeared with bold colors, hung off his shoulders like an abstract painting. Next to his hip rested a well-taken care of satchel. Paint brushes peeked out the side, in easy reach. Poking out from beneath his coat, its hilt attempting to blend in with the brushes, was a plain sword with spinning dice for a pommel.
The mote drifted toward his face, hovering in front of his closed eyes like a curious sprite. Strands of hair escaped from his loose bun to drift in front of his face, catching on the rough stubble lining his chin. The ball of tri-color flame reached out with tendrils of fire, caressing his brow. It latched onto something underneath and dove through his skin, passing into his forehead like it was water. Color bloomed in his features, adding another dimension to the man. His lips twitched. A god opened his eyes. Irises of gold, emerald, and gray sucked in the starlight like miniature black holes, warping space. He blinked, and the effect ceased, his eyes fading to emerald until they almost looked mortal.
Azarus came back to himself. He felt different after ending [Through Mortal Eyes] this time, like he was pinching off a stream instead of being pushed out. Blinking his eyes like he was clearing away a haze, the god stared around his gilded prison. Familiar pillars greeted him, holding up the galaxy studded starscape as the constellations practiced their eternal dance. His painting was a bright spot in the dull, unchanging prison.
Taking in the cloud covered floor, stretching off down the hall toward something that called to him but stayed out of reach, Azarus turned his attention to the Mirror of Eons, his window into reality. It displayed an exhausted Moka in a blurred edge bubble of focus, the rest of the screen showing the burning outpost in all its glory. Azarus knew the goblin would be up and moving in a few minutes. Her gift of minor Vigor was working overtime to keep her on her feet, hard pressed to keep pace with her will.
Azarus willed the mirror to move, focusing on Moka’s face. He ran a finger across the cool glass, tracing a line of sweat as it beaded and fell down her cheek. She had given him much to think about. He could admit her internal complaints held some validity, even if it stung his pride. He had under prepared her, going as far as deliberately making things harder. She was right. It was unfair.
The fledgling god swallowed his wounded dignity, casting it off. If it did not serve him, he did not need it. He believed that to change reality, he must first acknowledge it. It was a small, but difficult, switch of perspective to realize Moka had done him a favor by pointing out flaws.
Azarus watched his champion gather her strength. Her reverence needed some work, but he could not fault her dedication. In that area, she was everything he could ask for. He felt tempted to use [Through Mortal Eyes] when she started moving again. The way her mind worked fascinated him; her raging emotions held back by iron focus.
He knew he could, if he wished, but there were consequences. The duration would be short and the return for the effort, low. Putting the temptation aside, Azarus checked her with [Divine Insight]. He was wary of getting consumed by watching his champion instead of living for himself. To live, he needed to choose, which required him to be present, looking for opportunities. Going along for the journey was not enough for him.
Moka, Champion of Azarus
Archetype - [Peasant]
Class - [Architect]
Bloodline - Locked
Gifts:
Natural - Minor Vigor, Luck, and Knack
Class - Moderate Reason and Foresight
Major Savvy
Achievement - Minor Violence
Skills:
[Good Enough]
[Course-Correct]
[Deconstruction]
Spells:
[Create: Food and Water]
Reviewing the screen, Azarus concluded that Moka’s gifts did much of the heavy lifting, enabling her successful engagements. The Skills did their share, of course, but her gifts made the impossible merely implausible. Her major Savvy was above and beyond the most useful, allowing her to create weapons on the run with minimal tools and materials. Her natural gifts continued to shine. Vigor, Luck, and Knack had all shown their might, keeping her alive and fighting. If anything, her creativity was a gift of its own. In contrast, her Spell, [Create: Food and Water] was less than helpful, except for allowing Moka to bond with Tevzaga. Azarus could not take credit for that. His thumb did not weigh that scale. It was a lucky coincidence and the bond of travelers.
The god’s emerald eyes sparked, shifting to gold. Azarus allowed himself to bask in his champion’s glory for a moment. She had succeeded without his direct interference. It was a long shot, but his champion had shown she was one to bet on. Taking a step away from her achievements brought them into perspective. A lone goblin raided an orc outpost, killed a powerful [Mage Armor] wielding officer, and set the place on fire.
Azarus glanced at his painting. In the image, Moka was gathering her feet under her, red eyes locked onto her captor through dark hair. She had proven herself more than capable. It was an accomplishment worthy of his name.
Turning back to the mirror, Azarus watched the real Moka catch her breath. The screens kept throwing Divine Points his way. They would encourage him to use them. There was no doubt in his mind things would get harder from here. Each Trial, a new mountain to climb. She would need to be stronger, better, to rise to the challenge.
Moka had her flaws. It was the curse of mortals. Her hoarding tendencies and misplaced anger were things to overcome. They were not the most pressing issues. She had proven her ability to work through and around them. Not that Azarus overlooked her comfort blanket of rage entirely. It was a problem. Debilitating fear covered in a thin veneer of anger made her liable to lash out, and he would address it. However, his mind turned to what bothered him most; the feeling of abandonment sinking its tendrils into her mind. It was wrong. There was no validity to it.
Azarus sighed, scratching some paint from his stubble. Flakes of it fell to the ground like snowflakes forged from colorful stars. They did not catch his notice as he considered the issue. Purchasing [Chosen One], [Followers], and [Memories of a past Life] all lent their strength toward fixing her feelings of being alone. In writing, at least. He would see how they worked for himself before he let the matter drop. That did nothing for him now. The purchases were out of reach until Moka either failed or died. She would have to suffer through this run. He could only hope it would not take root in [Memories of a Past Life].
The urge to spend Divine Points on assuring his champion rose in Azarus’s chest. He squashed it. His eyes bled ghostly gray flames. He felt no regret. The dull spots of burnt out embers in his domain were a constant reminder of the cost. Each [Divine Intervention] he bought became a wasted investment as soon as the run ended. His sacrifice was better spent on something permanent.
The god stood before the Mirror of Eons, his arms crossed and a thoughtful finger pressed to his pursed lips. He shifted his weight, tapping a foot as he thought. His mind turned from Moka’s faults to his own. After experiencing his champion’s wild, untamed emotions, Azarus felt odd, like he did not quite fit in his own skin. It was not to the point of something being wrong, but he was dissatisfied. With his rightful power held captive and the screens mediating his interactions with his champion, there was only one thing he was the true ruler of. Himself. In that realm, he was absolute. He would tolerate nothing less.
After a few seconds of consideration, Azarus moved, zooming the mirror out to lock onto Tevzaga’s battle. He found watching the mortals helped him understand himself. The way they lived their lives, burning like candles in a rainstorm, brought a certain perspective. His eyes burned with golden flames as he watched the two mortals and their companions struggle to kill for their ideals, putting their fleeting lives on the line. Both [Wyvern Riders] and their mounts were already dead. Their crumpled bodies laid broken on the ground like a giant’s discarded toys.
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Two winged shapes remained, jockeying for position with Rascal. Tevzaga fired her [Mage-Killer] from his back with the regularity of a clock’s seconds hand. Azarus smiled at the mental analogy. Moka’s memories of her grandfather were rubbing off on him. The iron slugs flashed through the air with the distinctive pop of the sound barrier breaking. Tevzaga wore her metal-plated coat closed. It split in the back, draping so plates on the lower half covered her thighs as she straddled Rascal. The [Windstepper Griffin] twisted through the air, leaping up and out of the way of the remaining wyvern’s dive, his long tail trailing sinuously behind him. Blood stained his feathers.
Rascal’s tail flicked out as the wyvern passed by, the blue spots on his feathers catching the light. His feathers brushed against the wyvern’s side, sharp edges splitting scales and drawing lines of blood. Rascal pressed himself flat on an invisible platform, reaching down with his paw to swipe at the wyvern with his hooked talons, like he was hunting for fish in a pond. The wyvern twisted away, spinning as it clenched its wings to its body.
With an incredible display of core strength, Tevzaga kept both hands on her [Mage Killer], using her legs to hang on as Rascal treated the sky like a playground. She held her body upright, leaning back as Rascal circled at a forty-five degree angle, keeping his eyes locked on the wyvern as it lifted from its dive and beat its wings to ascend for another pass. Tevzaga’s hair whipped in the wind. Her right palm glowed with muted light, pressed over her [Mage Killer’s] firing chamber. She twisted her body to keep their other opponent in sight. A bolt of lightning lanced through the twilight, ascending at an unnatural angle. Tevzaga pulled fired her [Mage Killer]. Her hair blew straight back as her bullet parted the air.
Azarus watched the bullet’s trajectory. He calculated it would not hit the lightning, its angle dictating it would pass several feet below. It was an odd choice for Tevzaga. In the instant before the two attacks grew close, Azarus flicked his attention back to the [Mounted Gunslinger], viewing her through [Divine Insight]. It confirmed his suspicions.
Tevzaga Spellfist
Archetype - [Hero]
Class - [Mounted Gunslinger]
Bloodline - Orc
Gifts:
Natural - Moderate Vigor, Foresight, and Resilience
Class - Moderate Perception, Spirit, Luck, and Savvy
Major Knack
Skills:
[Quick-sight Sharpshooter]
[Bonded Companion: [Windstepper Griffin]]
[Damage Resistance: Falling]
[Quick Learner]
Spells:
[Imbue: Spirit]
[Create: Iron]
With her gifts, combined with [Quick-sight Sharpshooter], her aim was not an accident, unless it was a Luck fueled one. Her moderate Foresight, major Knack, and the corpses of two dead wyverns and their riders, described an individual who did not make those mistakes.
Azarus’s attention flashed back to the bullet. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he caught every detail.
The lightning bolt and iron slug crossed paths, each splitting the air with their passage. When they were within a dozen feet of each other, arcs of electricity pounced on the bullet like the limbs of a spider, redirecting the lightning’s path. The bolt impacted the iron slug, ricocheting it toward the ground.
Tevzaga pulled her trigger, sending a second slug toward Kenasha’s winged silhouette. A split second later, it hit a barrier in front of the [Mage Armor] wielding orc’s face. Bands of electricity spread out from the point of impact, crossing paths and bonding together like the weave of a net before springing back in place and redirecting the slug. The display illuminated Kenasha’s form, showing her in all her [Partial Transformation] glory.
Her scaled, leathery wings beat in powerful down sweeps to hold her aloft. Arcs of electricity ran along glowing lines of magic engraved into her segmented armor. The armor plates had moved to suit her new form, creating gaps for her wings, spreading to cover her digitigrade legs, leaving room for the curved talons where her feet used to be, and spreading segmented plates across her new tail. She grinned, her elongated snout and yellow eyes the only uncovered pieces of her body. The stinger at the end of her tail glistened. A fresh crosscut split her lower lip, bloodying her jutting tusks.
She called to Tevzaga in a warm, familiar tone, undermined by an undisguisable seed of disgust. Her long ivory tusks and reptilian scales gleamed in the moonlight. The sparks of electricity dancing across her armor cast her in chaotic flashes of light and shifting shadows. Her voice carried with the practiced bellow of someone used to shouting orders.
“Is that the best you’ve got, Tevvy? Davok was so upset when you ran away, but I can see why you would.”
Tevzaga’s eyes narrowed, her finger pausing on the trigger. Her brow furrowed as she looked up from sighting down her gun. She shook her head at the other woman, her lips curling up in a snarl, baring her tusks. Cupping a hand to the side of her mouth, she raised her voice and called out a rebuttal with the shouting experience of someone with a pet that could fly.
“What would you know, Kenasha? You fight like a brute. Your wyvern is smarter than you.”
The arcs of electricity swarming over Kenasha’s armor gravitated toward her legs and right gauntlet, building in intensity. She grinned at Tevzaga’s response to her provocation. Her smile looked stale in Azarus’s eyes, fake. Anger flashed behind her narrowed eyes, disappearing beneath an ocean of killing intent in an instant. With each beat of her wings, the [Wyvern Knight] crept closer toward where Rascal prowled, Tevzaga clinging to his back. Her mocking, singsong tone ran thick with disdain.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you spent those years learning to cook instead of fight. Spirits know you need it.”
Tevzaga squeezed and released Rascal’s ribs with her ribs as she watched Kenasha’s approach. The griffin’s eyes flicked to Kenasha, then back to the wyvern weaving through the air nearby, riding the wind currents. He growled, his shoulders tensing. When Kenasha’s words reached Tevzaga’s ears, her jaw dropped, then tightened.
Azarus watched the scene play out, mentally laying bets. His initial instinct was that the odds favored Tevzaga. She had already taken down two [Wyvern Riders]. However, the [Mage Armor] was a significant factor. Moka’s opponent had been fearsome, if poorly matched. Azarus somewhat pitied the man. [Deconstruction] and Moka’s unorthodox methods were near impossible to train for. The lieutenant’s lifetime of experience had not helped him.
Shaking off the insult, like she was recovering from a punch to a sore spot, Tevzaga prepared her rebuttal. Her face pinched, like she was holding the reins of her emotions in an iron fist.
Azarus pulled up Kenasha’s information with [Divine Insight], reminding himself what the [Hero] was up against.
Kenasha Ironborne
Archetype - [Soldier]
Class - [Wyvern Knight]
Bloodline - Orc
Gifts:
Natural - Moderate Will and Spirit
Class - Moderate Vigor, Might, and Knack
Major Resilience
Skills:
[Wyvern’s Impact]
[Bonded Companion: [Mountain Wyvern]]
[Bonded Ability: Partial Transformation]
[Knight’s Aegis]
Spells:
[Armor-Bound]
Looking between the two sets of information, Azarus decided Kenasha had the edge on paper. Her gifts and Skills were more combat related and less situational than Tevzaga’s. The single Spell she had far outweighed Tevzaga’s two in practical value. One look at her armor proved that.
[Kenasha’s Mage-Armor]
This bespoke, enchanted suit of armor amplifies mana and converts it into electricity under the wearer’s control. While the wearer can manipulate the electricity free-form, several spells such as [Chain Lightning], [Electric Armor], and [Lightning-Step] can be cast through the armor at reduced cost.
Azarus would bet it was a combination of [Knights Aegis] and [Electric Armor] keeping Tevzaga’s [Mage Killer] at bay. It seemed like a perfect counter to Tevzaga’s build. He had not seen the [Mounted Gunslinger] use [Imbue: Spirit] yet, but he remembered her mentioning no good spirits remained in this land, so he imagined results may vary. [Damage Resistance: Falling] seemed useless, unless Kenasha knocked her off Rascal. Then it would be vital. If she could avoid getting fried by lightning on the way down.
Tevzaga’s two other Skills, [Quick-sight Sharpshooter] and [Quick Learner], had broad usefulness. However, Azarus doubts how they would fare against [Wyvern’s Impact], [Partial Transformation], and [Lightning-Step] acting in tandem.
Tevzaga spoke, her raised voice carrying iron at its core. Her tone was sharp and moderate. To Azarus, it sounded stiff, like she was trying to hide her chaotic emotions beneath a controlled facade.
“Kenasha Ironborne, I, Tevzaga Spellfist, have come to kill Davok, my beloved, for the sake of our people’s future. You have heard my arguments. I begged for your understanding, along with the others. Join me now, or join me as a ghost along my journey.”
Kenasha’s taloned feet, clad in yellow-white lightning, twitched. Her right hand looked like she was trying to contain a thunderstorm in her fist. On her left, her fingers flashed out a signal toward her sharp-eyed [Mountain Wyvern]. It screeched a battle cry. Her tail swayed behind her to keep her balance. The stinger on her tail twitched, viscous fluid gathering at its tip. She drifted forward on the sweeping downbeats of her leathery wings, calling out as she did. Her voice was disgustingly sweet.
“We will have such a glorious funeral for you, Tevvy. Davok will weep for days. Women will clamor to wipe his tears.”
With the last word passing between her lips, Kenasha lunged, her wings beating in time as she stepped on the air. Arcs of lightning appeared in the sky, trailing her steps as she flashed toward Tevzaga, her fist held high. The wyvern made a sudden turn, skyrocketing up as it caught an updraft. It ascended a hundred feet in an instant, then dropped like a rock, folding its wings to its body as it dove for Rascal.
Tevzaga pressed her cheek against her [Mage Killer], looking down its sights. Azarus made his bet. The [Hero] would triumph over the [Soldier]. Decision made, he looking toward where Moka rested.
Far away from the aerial battle, a small, green shape emerged from a broken building. The goblin scurried across the street to claim her bag, her knee buckling every few steps.
With a motion of his hand, Azarus willed the mirror’s view to split, showing him both scenes at the same time. He settled back to watch, the feeling of oddity digesting in his chest.