Two moons had waxed and waned since the small procession had left the icy embrace of Barley, their footprints a fading testament to their desperate march towards the Holy City of Sovereign.

The journey had been a silent symphony of despair, the once-vibrant landscape now a mournful ballet of ruin and destruction. The prophecy had not been kind to the small settlements that dotted the path, each one a tragic tale of lives cut short by the relentless march of the frozen apocalypse.

On the third day, as the horizon remained a stark line of white that promised nothing but more of the same, the group gathered around the dwindling fire, their breaths puffing out in small clouds of despair. The supplies they had brought with them from Barley had begun to dwindle, the once-plentiful packets of jerky and dried berries now a precious commodity, rationed out with a miserly hand.

It was Lilly who spoke up, her eyes shimmering with the spark of an idea. "We need to hunt," she said, her voice a clear bell in the stillness of the morning. "The gods have abandoned us, but they've also left us their bounty."

Castrol, his gaze on Arteus, nodded solemnly. "Will two be enough?" he asked his eyes flickering with the ghosts of battles past.

"Two will do," Arteus said, his voice firm with the confidence of a man who had seen the world beyond the confines of his village. "The flesh of a fleur deer is rich with nutrients," he began, his eyes taking on a faraway look as if he were recounting a cherished childhood tale. "It's lean and flavorful, with a hint of sweetness that belies its true nature."

These creatures, hailing from the mortal realms of the elfin race, were a marvel unto themselves. Their hides, adorned with a lush tapestry of vegetation, provided nourishment aplenty for the mostly herbivorous elves, whose physiology and larger mana pools demanded a fare richer in sustenance than that of their human counterparts. To a human palate, the meat of a fleur deer was a feast that surpassed all others, a veritable cornucopia of flavor and vitality.

It was whispered in hushed tones that these beasts were the result of elfin alchemy, their very essence manipulated in ages long past to serve as walking larders for the elusive and enigmatic elves. The very thought of such power over the natural world sent shivers down the spines of those who knew the elves' propensity for interfering with the divine order.

Castrol looked at Arteus with a furrowed brow, the weight of his thoughts as heavy as the frozen snow that crunched beneath their boots. "Do you think... the horns could have driven the beasts mad too?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath them.

"I don't know," Arteus replied, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "But we'll face whatever comes our way together." His words were as firm as the ground they stood upon, a promise that seemed to hold the very essence of fate within them. "We can't let fear dictate our path."

For fleur deer were not the delicate creatures of myth; they were colossi of nature, their heads crowned with antlers that reached skyward like the branches of ancient trees, and their very presence an embodiment of the primal power that once suffused the lands of Avaricia. To confront such a creature alone was to dance with the very maw of death.

Thus, the plan was hatched with the cunning of the desperate: Arteus would serve as the lure, taunting the herd and guiding them to where Castrol and their comrades lay in wait among the gnarled boughs of the trees. There, they would unfurl the net, a web of fate that would entrap the unsuspecting deer, allowing the young boy to deliver the fatal blow to their antlered weakness.

As the two hunters, along with Wyatt, set off into the frozen wilderness, the others remained behind, their eyes following them until they were swallowed by the horizon. The silence was a living, breathing entity that wrapped around them like a shroud, a stark reminder of the world that had moved on without them.

Castrol, his thoughts as heavy as the pack on his back, couldn't help but voice his curiosity about the life of those who dwelt in the lands beyond the reach of the prophecy. "Elfin lands must be an easy place to live," he murmured, the words hanging in the air like a question. "To be able to manipulate the very essence of creation for food and shelter..."

"Bah!" exclaimed Wyatt, a man of strong convictions, "If only those elfin witches and warlocks knew the true path, perhaps we wouldn't be so at odds with each other!"

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"But they do follow All-Sky's teachings," Castrol interjected, his curiosity piqued by the discord in the air.

"Aye," Wyatt conceded through gritted teeth, "But only through the lens of 'Mamochisane', the elfin warrior-goddess."

At the mention of her name, a shadow fell over the trio, a sudden chill that seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. Her name was a sore point for the superstitious man. He spat to the side, his eyes narrowed to slits as if the very mention of her name was an affront to his very being. "She's a fickle creature," he groused, "Favoring those who already have more than their fair share."

But Castrol's curiosity was not so easily sated. "Is that not why she is revered?" He asked, his voice calm and measured. "The gods are often fickle, choosing those who are strong enough to bear their burdens. Perhaps it's because she was an elf herself before she ascended."

Wyatt's eyes flashed with anger at the blasphemy, his hand tightening around the grip of his weapon. "Indeed, she was," he spat, the words venomous on his tongue. "But that does not excuse her favouritism and bloodlust!"

Mamochisane's ascension brought forth a tide of dark memories for Wyatt, memories that had been buried beneath layers of frost and fear. His voice grew louder, his words a shout that echoed through the desolate landscape. "Her rise to power brought nothing but blood and strife to our lands!" He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, the sound a stark counterpoint to the silence that had once again descended upon them. "The elfin lands may be rich with their unnatural growths, but their hearts are as cold as the ice that now entombs our village!"

Castrol watched the exchange with a mix of fascination and horror. The thought of a creature so powerful, so unpredictable, was almost too much to fathom. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder why the elves, with such a formidable being in their pantheon, had not sought to conquer all of Avaricia. He turned to Arteus, his eyes searching the young man's stoic face. "Why," he asked, his voice barely a murmur, "have they not sought to conquer us?"

Arteus' eyes never left the horizon, his gaze unfocused as he considered Castrol's question. "Elves do not crave power in the way humans do," he said, his voice carrying the wisdom of the ancients. "They do not amass wealth or seek dominion over others. They live in harmony with the world, taking only what they need. It is our own greed that has brought us to this."

"We could learn a thing or two from them," Arteus mused, his eyes never leaving the horizon.

With finality, Castrol nodded, bringing their discourse to a close. "We are ready," he affirmed.

The trio ventured into the frosty expanse, their breaths leaving misty trails that vanished swiftly into the biting air. Arteus's eyes, a shade browner than the earth beneath their feet, searched the landscape with a focus that had been honed over years of solitary living. His nose twitched, catching the faint, floral scent that only a fleur deer could leave in its wake. His ears, attuned to the whispers of the forest, picked up the faintest sound of a distant rustle of leaves, the telltale sign of a creature moving through the underbrush. His heartbeat, slow and steady as the drip of an ancient glacier, grew stronger with every step, each pulse a silent drumbeat that matched the rhythm of his ancestors' hearts that had hunted these lands before him.

As they approached, however, something was amiss. The creatures that emerged from the thicket were not the majestic fleur deer he had hoped for. Their antlers, once a crown of nature's beauty, were now twisted and sharp, as if corrupted by some malevolent force. Their eyes, once gentle and wise, burned with a hunger that seemed to devour the very light around them. Their fur, once a lush tapestry of life, dual coloured to represent the flesh and vegetation, had turned a sickly eclipsing black, and their once proud gait was now a hobbled lurch, a testament to the prophecy's pervasive corruption.

The world had gone mad, it seemed, and even the sacred fleur deer were not exempt from its chaotic embrace.

As Arteus watched the corrupted beasts approach, their antlers like blackened spears and eyes burning with a hunger that seemed almost human, a plethora of questions raced through his mind. Would these creatures, once the gentle giants of the elfin lands, now behave like the monstrous beasts that had plagued Barley? Would their actions be dictated by the same madness that had gripped the animals of his village, turning them into mindless instruments of destruction? Or was there something more, some deeper corruption at play that had twisted the very essence of these majestic creatures into this grotesque parody?

Just as he pondered this, his keen eyes caught movement in the distance. A group of humans, their forms hunched and weary, stumbled into the clearing before the waterfall. They were a stark contrast to the sleek, predatory grace of the deer, and yet they seemed drawn to the beasts, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination.

Arteus tensed, his hand reaching for his axe. Castrol, ever the observant leader, noticed the change in his posture and followed his gaze. The group of humans grew closer, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they approached the waterfall. Inexplicably, they carried no weapons, no signs of the hunters they so clearly were. The question hung in the air: what had driven these men so far from the safety of the city to risk their lives in the frozen wasteland?

As the strangers grew closer, Arteus murmured, his voice low and tinged with suspicion. "They must be from Sovereign," he said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the newcomers. "But why would they leave the city's protection?"

-To Be Continued-