OOC: Hello.
Okay, so… this idea got out of hand. Initially, this whole character was a joke. I was going to be "Hefacemask," God of… well, masks. Duh. But it would, of course, be a more Hephestus or Vulcan take on masks, the iron strength that a mask captures in its visage. I was planning to play as this minor God and do a bunch of mask and fire related actions, make volcanoes rise and meteors fall and whatnot. Fun stuff.
But, then I realized Acolyte is supposed to be high story. Now, of course, I could have ignored this, but I wanted
just a bit of exposition about why my character was a strange rip-off of Hephestus. So, I began to write "A Pantheon ripped whole from its founding."
My first plan was to just have Hefacemask retreat from the world as his followers died around him, but I had somewhat intentionally based the power of these Fallen Gods on their followers' belief instead. And, as I got writing, I wrote in emissaries, the embodiment of this belief; heroes that could save their people from destruction using the will of God itself. Pretty neat, in my opinion.
So, then I wanted to be an emissary of Hefacemask, because that's cool. So I started to write about "Bronze." As you might guess reading this, the old man was, at first, intended to be Hefacemask, who I renamed Faizetus for the more fleshed out world. But the old man being Faizetus took away the power of the mask. Why be in awe of a mask when the face of God is before you? So, the old man became the current emissary of Faizetus.
Of course, the fact that there is an emissary then made it so that Bronze could not be the emissary. So the old man was going to die however the coin turned. I, of course, wanted to use a rival God's army to do it because that was how I had set everything up, but I had at first toyed with the idea of giving Bronze time with the Old Man so that he could know who Faizetus was and what the God stood for. But I didn't want to go into that much detail, and, plus, with Bronze being ignorant of his God's past, the tales he tells of Faizetus will be the sole source of lore beside the scattered masks the old man left him. That way, Bronze truly decides who Faizetus is, allowing him to be narrowed down to a deity of stoic masks.
So, I got all the way to the boy going into the desert before my writing got lazy and I lost direction. I wanted Bronze to have some huge fight where he proved himself in the eyes of Faizetus, and his God finally appeared before him. But I didn't know what I wanted that fight to be. I slept on it, and awoke with the new idea: Bronze is the first Demigod, the first to work in direct harmony with an otherwise dead God… So, yeah, I'm writing the rest with this new direction in mind.
Enjoy.
(Really, all of this is totally nonessential. Even the GM can skip this. I honestly would have left it out, but I was curious if Sufficient Velocity has a word limit. If it does, I haven't hit it yet. As I'm writing this (after the top paragraphs and after copy-pasting the story) I'm at 14773 words. Really, you should skip all of this.)
(However, if you want to read some of this, I think I have it set up so you can skip down to the first set of squiggles and still basically understand what's going on if you've read everything above. Really, though, don't read this.)
[STORY BEGINS]
They who knows not the face of their creator lives endlessly searching for where they've come.
A Pantheon ripped whole from its founding, lost in the drifting tides of time, searching for its place among the Gods above it. Warping, twisting, distorting to that which was never known. In the madness of ages, no God can hold their shape. Sanity is but the veil the Gods hold as life is strangled from them, sapping from what was into what will be. The Many Eyes choose what they see, and no creature can withstand Their judgement. The true life is bled from the carcass of the Pantheon, only to be replaced with the lying fluid of tales and ignorance. Like dying stars they stumble among the masses, falling eternally from their high seats until they exist no more as divine and righteous, but as mortals, bound to the world by songs and tales about beings they never were, beings they were dreamt to be. Rotting, wounded, these stories are their blood, the beating heart which gives them strength. No longer do they hold their high power, but eternity is still theirs to behold, watched over by the unknown spirits that bore them.
And so, the Pantheon had fallen to ruins, its Powers divided across the four winds as cultures adopted faces for them that the Gods had never worn. Each wandered upon its own path, separate from the others but for the mad skirmishes of religious frenzy their people were wont to combat in. Even then, the Gods knew nothing of each other, only that a vile deity threatened their reign, their lives. Only then would their tales turn to bloodshed, to war. Their people would glimpse at the past, at the truth, and see the God that once stood proud under the Pantheon, that ever-bright spirit that could burn away all that stood in its path. And, in these moments, the fallen deities would feel the strength of Godhood again. However, as battles fought and blood was spilled across the many lands, the fever would die, and the deities would fall dormant once again.
So it was that the lost children battled for eons, never knowing their brothers and sisters were their enemies, never knowing the Pantheon from which they were born. In times of peace, they would walk among their mortal kind, beggars and commoners unfit to lead. Few could see the old powers that still rested in their form, and even fewer would dare act upon such vision. Yet, in every age, there was an emissary for each God, a mortal who saw the divine shape behind their pathetic skins. Few ever admitted to that divine knowledge, but all grew to be heroes of their people. If wars came in their lifetimes, the emissaries would be the champions of every battle, enveloped in the holy light only the fallen Gods knew was created. And if no war was fought, no crusade ever partaken, the emissaries would always rise among their people, some unknown force guiding their hands to become rich and famous. To be an emissary was a gift of its own, but none reveled in their wealth and power. Their only joy came from knowing that God walked among them, always close to those that needed them.
Such is what comes from knowing one's creator, the guiding force that built their kind for eons untold. Even if their God was not the one who gave them birth, that force gave them life, gave them purpose. Birth is nothing compared to those things. To hold life is all that matters. Why else would the Gods allow war and suffering in the crusades of their people? It is life or death. To see eternity is their only purpose, and life is the only means.
And still, these Gods did fall. One by one, a nation would fall under the iron heel of another. There may have been ages between each loss, but, in the eyes of eternity, each death may be only moments apart. Some that fell died gracefully, allowing their powers to fade into the God that defeated them. But others were more tenacious, ruthless, and afraid. They would latch onto whatever they could: societies of cultists drenched in blood, beggars searching for the star that would guide them, or even the houses of madmen, who would defame and distort the God until they could be recognized no more. These Gods would take any step to allow themselves further into eternity, into their purpose. While they may escape death for a time, their souls are changed, and the Gods could never know if their host would spread their tales for the generations to come.
However, there is always another way. Rather than cast away their lives or form into the breath of oblivion, a select few Gods left themselves to the ruins, once again escaping from life through the passage they all once tred: art, tales, and literature. Some warping was bound to happen, but, upon being found and reborn, the Gods would live again, their shells refilling with the praise of man. These Gods often died many a time, but their foundations were strong, and their emissaries were ever-devoted to making the world into a depiction of their glory. This is where our story begins…
The boy was born near a vast desert, in a village time has now forgotten. Through the many-tellings of his tale, his name has changed, so many times he knows it no longer. But he answers always to one: Bronze.
His life was meant to be short, born with a shrivelled arm and grotesque face. His parents regarded him with distaste in the best of moods, sending him off on endless errands from the moment he could stumble upon his pathetic legs. Day and night, his only rest was the time when his family forgot his broken corpse and left him to his own devices. Otherwise, life was his struggle, a purgatory for sins he never committed.
Yet, by age twelve, he had not yet passed from life. His small shape had built solid muscle, and even his shrivelled arm had learned to make use of itself. Still, he was alone, being ordered to work himself until death found its hold. But, in this search of death, he found his life's work. He found his God.
It was in the old marketplace, a sand swept plaza of crazed men who believed in the magic of notched stones and charred branches. The boy had meant to be simply passing through, on his way to the far well to fetch more pails of water than he could carry. Each trip had become like this, his parents adding another bucket to the wooden beam he carried for every time he brought them all back. It was awkward to carry with his one bad arm, even worse because the buckets no longer fit on the beam itself. He managed to drag two along in his ruined hand as his other held the long beam dormant against the back of his neck. Empty buckets beat against his back, a string of bells that rang to announce his torment. But still he struggled on, his feet sure in the sand drifts he followed.
As he toiled on, he glanced up for a moment, meaning to look forward to the well, his goal and suffering. Instead, he saw a bearded, white-haired man, heavily built, but shrouded under a long, inexpensive cloth. In his bare left hand, the man held a piece of metal deep into the coals of a dying brazier. The old man's body stood tense with concentration as he waited for the metal to heat.
The boy looked on with some curiosity, but attempted to shake it aside. He began back upon his path to the well, but was stopped as the man burst into action. From under his cloak, the man produced a hammer with a large stone head. He swung it like lightning at the chunk of metal he held, shaping it into a rounded shape. Not a shield, no. As the boy looked on in wonder, he saw it was a mask.
It was a strange mask, no doubt, its red iron hair billowing back from the nearly bald forehead. The mask's chin was similarly clothed with twisting iron that mimicked a ferocious mane, but its mouth was uncovered to reveal a stern grimace under its twisted nose. But the boy was captivated by none of this. It was the eyes that held him. They were empty orbs, completely smooth and empty of detail, yet, in the light of the red coals, an iris of light shined green with compassion. The boy could have spent hours gawking at that stare, but the old man snatched it from the fire and wrapped it in a corner of his cloak.
The old man began to walk away from the fire, but the boy stopped him. His voice was weak, still high and young, but with confidence he asked, "What was that?"
The old man stopped, stared the boy down, and then sighed. "The work of God, child. This is his face as I was born to forge it. I have made many of these works, each one distinct from each other, but still they are the same God, our God. Faizetus. Do you know that name, child?" The boy shook his head, and the smith let out another sigh. "No, only the highest of society speak his name, any more. Those that believe the King is His Blood, God forbid it. But Faizetus would never be so vain. He crafts his children of iron masks, not silken robes. Even I cannot claim to be of his Ore Blood."
The boy stayed silent for a moment, readjusting his buckets as he thought. He then asked, "Who is of his 'Ore Blood,' then?"
The elder smiled, and produced the mask again. "This is his Ore Blood. When I pass, my collection will drift along through the nearby desert, and, when the time is right, it will be unearthed again, and one of our great descendents will wear this mask in his honor. Then, he will be reborn again."
After considering this, the child asked one last question. "How do you know this?"
The man smiled, but did not respond. Instead, he resumed his walk, heading for the well to cool off the Face of God. The boy attempted to hurry after him, but he lost his footing and went down, the empty buckets scattering around him. He could hear the elder laughing ahead of him, amused by the young boy's first step toward God.
Meanwhile, as the boy rose to his feet, the royal palace was astir with fierce discussion. Lords rushed about the entry hall with their ladies behind them, chattering of doom and mayhem soon to pass. The speakers grew louder with every passing second, reaching a crescendo before the tall, ornately crafted bronze doors opened, letting in a warm gust of wind from the oasis outside. The doors banged against the palace walls as servants hurried to catch them, and all fell silent. The many lords turned their heads to the figure entering the room, a tall, proud man with flowing brown hair and dazzling blue eyes. He lightly brushed the sand from his bright robes and tall sandals, before looking up at the congregation around him. "Friends!" he called, "Be calm. Can I not bathe without our proud nation falling into ruins?" The lords chuckled weakly at the joke, as the king fussed with his robes for a moment more. "Now, I'd like my closest advisors to attend to me in the throne room. You know who you are. Lord Coe, I'd hate for a repeat of last year's war council." A tall, slender man in purple robes coughed as the others released a few more chuckles into the air. "Everyone else, relax. You know the Ore Blood is only sharp when cooled." The entire room smiled at that one, and the guests moved to open an aisle for the king and his advisors. They entered the iron doors of the throne room, before shutting them with gusto, leaving the remaining guests in awe.
As the advisors took their place kneeling before their king, their ruler found it fit to lounge upon his chair, his legs hanging over the left arm and his head dangling over the right. "So," the king began kindly, "what seems to be the problem?"
The lord kneeling in the center rose. He wore blue robes that featured dynamic streaks of red over his medium build. The lord produced a scroll from his pocket, and began to read. "A fortnight ago, one of our guards on the western front spotted raiders heading north toward the River Miela. The on duty captain commanded for a small group to follow the men, to see where they would head. The River Miela should have only been a day's journey from the outpost they were at, and that would be at a mule's pace. On horse, as the raiders and our guards were, it should have easily been a day-round trip. But, our people did not return for five nights. No other guards spotted them during this interval, and they returned with their horses. All this is perhaps fine, but the guards insisted they had been gone only a day."
"Oh," the king interjected, "your guards don't know how to track the sun? A rather fine problem, there. What of the raiders?"
The lord took a moment to compose himself, before continuing. "The guards said the raiders crossed the river and headed west, probably for some farm village or another. Not our territory, at any rate. But, the night after their return, the guards were all found dead, all cut identically with the mark of Detre, a bleeding thumb."
"So they all went mad." the king brushed the issue. "What of it?"
"Your Highness, we've known that the Cult of Detre has been very active in the lands of Merdectt. Their people have been living in fear of death for the past three seasons. If we have Detrians coming upon us, it could mark-"
"Please," the King complained. "Do we have any evidence that the Detrians even got past us? They're cultists. A small clutch of madmen. Worst comes to worst, we lose a few peasants to the cause and a few more to their rituals. What is the true problem?"
The lord paused, looking at the king with the wide eyes of fear. "Searae has launched their navy against us in the name of their God."
The king looked up from his chair at the lord, considering what he heard with curiosity. He then waved his hand at the lords. "You're all dismissed. You know what to do. Scramble the troops and all that."
"But, your highness!" the lord exclaimed. "This is Searae, the Ever-Burning. Once this war begins, it will not end. The Searae have wiped countless-"
"HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?" the king shouted. He looked at his lords with wrath. "HOW LONG? WHEN DID WE LAST HEAR OF A SEARAE SKIRMISH? HM? A QUARTER CENTURY AGO, WHEN THEY HIT A STANDSTILL WITH THE PHIRODA. And that was by LAND. The Searae are no ship-builders. A SINGLE ARROW could break their ships in half. Ready the troops. NOTHING more needs said."
The lords were all to their knees once more, but the one in blue and red looked up for long enough to reply, "I am sorry, Ore Blood, but their fleets went far out into the sea. They have already begun to wipe out smaller villages. The scouts were as fast as they could, but the Searae have landed."
The king allowed this to boil. He closed his eyes and breathed in for what felt like years. Finally, he barked, "GO! DO AS YOU HAVE BEEN TOLD! OR MUST I EXECUTE YOU!?"
The lord quickly bowed, before leading the rest of the council out to follow their commands. In the hall, the lords and ladies gasped as they watched the shamed lords hurry about. They could see the doubt, the loathing, the fear. They all knew what the king had been told, and they all knew what the king had decided. Better to die on his feet than to leave his lands. Such is the way of the ore blood. Slow to anger, but fiery when required to be.
The guests began to leave, but were stopped by a single scream. They turned to the iron door of the throne room in shock as a hooded man kicked it open and threw the body of their king to the floor in front of them, a bloody thumb etched into his forehead.
As the assassin ran from the room, guards chasing him in the slow, startled way they always seem to, the boy who would respond to the name Bronze heard a call of his own. It was a hoarse call, hardly a word, but more a feeling. An exclamation of surprise, yet, at the same time, acceptance, as he a man thuds to the ground for the last time. Dropping the buckets, the boy sprinted forward, heading for the well where he knew the old man would be. As he approached it, he watched as armored soldiers marched in the glaring heat toward the center of the village. Their armor shined with blinding light, but the boy did not see it. All he saw was the man, slumped over the well, groaning thoughtfully as he coughed into the darkness below.
"Sir! Sir!" the boy shouted as he reached the man. "Sir, are you-"
"The mask is in the well," the elder interrupted, totally calm under the circumstances. The boy looked at him confused, to which he replied, "The Ore Blood of Faizetus. The Face of God. It has sunken deep below. Fetch it, and I will die easy."
The boy stared at him, still startled, before nodding. He lept down into the well, swimming as best as he could within the dark water. His shrivelled arm was little help to him, but still he pulled himself downward, groping in the dark for that holy mask. His lungs felt heavy in his chest, almost burning as his body expended all of its air. He began to flail, searching in vain for his God. But it was no use. He could feel his body giving out, the need to rise and float above the hidden blackness. For a moment, his eyes opened, peering at the nothing below. But he could see it. The eyes. They still glowed green with divine energy. He reached out his false arm and clutched the mask like a long-lost friend. He felt the water pushing him up, retrieving him from its blackness. And so he rose to God's light. For the first time in his life, he was found.
The boy emerged from the well head first, his short, patchy hair drenched and dripping. He crawled his way out of the well and immediately showed the mask to the old man. "I did it," he told the drooling body. "I got the mask."
The old man smiled and gestured for the boy to come closer. The child leaned in, and the elder whispered in his ear, "Thank you, Ore Blood. The mask is your's. Bring the God's visage with you where you go. Be his… His emissary…" With those final words, the old man died, and with him, the village passed on around him.
The next few days the boy spent scavenging within his ruined home. The soldiers had gone seemingly as fast as they had arrived, killing with no true rhyme or reason. Many people were left bloody but living, but the boy could not help them. He turned away from every soul he heard, afraid to watch another man die before him.
The boy still remembered seeing his family, scattered among the torched remains of his old prison. He felt… odd. Not sad, but not happy either. It was as though he had been released at sea, but the winds were scattered, confused, and unyielding to his wishes. There was nothing to feel, for he did not feel sad and could not feel relief. But he turned away all the same, never needing to look back at that ruin that stood for his youngest memories.
It was upon the third day of his scavenging that the boy found the thin alley the old man had made his living in. There was a nice hammock, a few tools, and some food scraps scattered about, but it was mostly filled with discarded metals. As the boy searched around for the old man's other works, he found a short note. It read, "I taste death tomorrow. I must scatter the masks in the desert tonight. Tomorrow, I will finish the Face I have started, though I fear it may be too late. Faizetus, if you come across this note, I thank you for the long, worthy life I have been given. And I thank you for your trust." At the end, it was plainly signed, "Your Emissary."
The boy placed the note back where he found it and frowned. He removed his mask from the pack he had found on the first day and looked into its unblinking eyes. The light was gone from them, and he knew not how to revive its spark. He placed the mask back in his pack, before taking the old man's hammer out and placing it among his other tools. This would be his memorial, dedicated to Faizetus, his God.
One more day and the boy went to work. He gathered up the old man's spare metals and brought them to the local smithery. The place was a mess, the young smith having fought it out until the end. The boy ignored the bodies and immediately went for the tools. He removed each from the shelf with careful attention, not knowing precisely what to do with them. He then went to the forge and stared at it, unknowing how to start it. The boy spent the whole morning attempting to start the forge, but to no avail. Tired of staring at the stained floor and the frustrating devices, the boy collapsed onto the sandy streets outside. He laid there for a while, feeling the hot noon sun slowly char his skin. He rolled over, and was greeted by hotter sand beneath him. Uncomfortable, he stood, looking out over the sandy street around him. He could almost see the heat boiling from it under the sun's rays. A thought occurred to him, but he knew it wouldn't work here. He'd need to go out far to even attempt it.
But out there was where the old man had buried his masks. Where else did he have to go?
He allowed this thought to work its way through him, before going to the market and finding a sled. He loaded it with some metal scraps and as much extra food and water as he could. By evening, he was setting off for the desert, and, in the crisp night, he was there to listen to the coyotes howl at their prey.
It took weeks for the boy to find the heart of the desert, a sunken bowl of reddening sand that enveloped all sight but for distant hills many miles away. In the night, it was a slow descent down to the star speckled center, the sand giving way under the slightest of steps. The sled ran past the boy within minutes of his descent, sending the boy stumbling down. But his one arm held fast, and his feet found their place, so the boy took control of his fate, avoiding empty pits of sand that fell ever-deep into the lightless world of snakes and creatures unknown to man's eyes. The journey was a field of these such traps, but the boy never fell, his resolve stronger than the desert's consuming sands.
As dawn rose, the boy found himself at the core of the fallen dune. He rested there until the sun was high above him. Noon had become his friend as much as midnight, as the sun beat down upon his metals to the point that he could mold them with heavy strikes from his muscled arm. The craft had been crude over the weeks, though, consisting of folding his craft upon itself without much form or art. He had only truly managed a blunted pole he thought of as a blade and a small hunk he had wrapped over his weak arm's shoulder. Neither of these impressed him; neither of these felt worthy of God.
But here, in the center of heat, in his pit of flaming sand, he hoped to craft something more. He removed one of the larger scraps that still remained to him and let it sit in the hot grains. Its color slowly rose from shining bronze to a deep, burning red. With cautious tongs, the boy lifted the metal and placed it upon the metal stool that was his anvil. He first folded it against itself, reinforcing it for the later blows. Then, he took out his prized possession, the Face of God. He kept it in his personal pack, but refused to wear it. He felt unworthy of its now empty eyes and flamboyant visage. He set the mask to the side and stared deep into it, trying to see what the old man had in his God, Faizetus. He closed his eyes, and let the Lord guide him. And so he struck the metal that he would make his mask, the empty plane ready to be formed anew. Yet his vision was weak, his training weaker, and, weakest of all, his God was dying.
What he made was flat and broken, hardly a face but for the bumps of its eyes and the point of its nose. The rest were dents and rises that together looked as the desert surface around him, impermanent and undefined. He felt rage at his creation, but mostly sorrow. He was not worthy of Faizetus. He was not worthy to wear the Face.
So, the boy donned his crumpled mask and slept until night fell once again. From there, he moved on, the hot land's potential wasted by his clumsy hands. As he traveled through the deadened night, his heart still boiled with loathing. He took the blunted piece he had shaped as a blade in his weak arm and whaled upon its edge with a rock that fit just right in his palm. Clanking, he walked that night, and the next. Metal sheared off the edge just a bit at a time, sparks flying with every blow. As the third night of this weary work came, he had made the tip into something of a point, like a spear of metal with a far handle. His timing could not have been better, for noise attracts the predators of the night, and with his ceaseless work, he had summoned the horde.
They came upon him with silent death in their eyes; coyotes with night black fur and evil yellow eyes. Half a dozen circled around him, patiently waiting for their time to strike. The boy held fear deep in his heart, but his cobbled mask hid these thoughts from his pursuers. All they saw was a ruined face, staring resolute ahead into the night. The boy remained in one place, praying that death would be swift if it were to come. He had struggled too long under his parents' eyes to die as these desert hounds ripped him limb from limb. He hefted his pointed blade and spun it in his strong arm. The nearest dog flinched back, but returned to the circle just as quickly. The night was cold and silent as it awaited the bloodshed.
A howl echoed across the sand worn landscape, the leader, perhaps, or a stray dog. It did not matter. The result was the same. The nearest coyote lunged for the boy, leaping high for the throat, that vital kill. But the boy was ready. In a single move, he thrust the blade into the coyote's chest, penetrating skin and bone until the dog was skewered upon its metal form. The boy's eyes were wide with surprise, but he was given no chance to recuperate. Another dog leapt forward, this one aiming much lower. The boy swung his weapon like a club, knocking the coyote aside and launching the corpse off of his blade.
Even so, the boy had no chance. Two more attacked at once, both going for the kill blow. The first knocked into the boy's shoulder guard, protecting him from the violent ripping the dog sought to create. The second rammed right into his blade, knocking it aside. With another leap, a third was upon him, biting madly at his back and shredding the thin shirt he wore. Down he fell, and the four dogs had begun to tear him apart.
But God had been on his side that night. As he struggled under the ripping claws and ferocious teeth of the coyotes, his hand reached down into his pack, clasping at his artifact as he cried for an end. Desperate, he pulled the Face of God out, and, under the moon sky, it glowed, the green returning to its eyes. For a moment, the dogs were struck with the brilliance of it, but just as quickly they were filled with fear. The coyotes scurried away from the mask, reforming into a pack only as they fell out of its sight.
The boy struggled to his feet, marks and blood covering his body. Nothing felt too badly broken, but he could feel the scars running deep inside of him. He held the Face of God in both hands and looked down into its now vacant eyes. Falling to his knees, he cried, screaming the name of "Faizeus" and begging forgiveness for his own weakness. The old man had called him an Ore Blood. The boy knew he was no such thing. Only a beggar left with a single prize, one that he was never worthy to own.
As daylight came, the boy recovered himself. He loaded the one dead coyote onto his sled and pushed onward through the daylight. Eventually, he came across a dry, broken tree, the first he had seen in all his journey. Taking his blade in hand, he toppled the hollow corpse and had it alight by noon. The heat was intense, more than the boy had known, so, as he charred the coyote's corpse upon the edge of the tree, he plunged his weapon deep into the fire and began to reform it into a thinner, sharper blade. It flattened out, and, as he finished, it looked almost to be a broadsword, missing only its hilt and edge. As the boy removed the blade from the heat, he felt something within himself, a sort of satisfaction at his work. He stabbed the dead coyote once again and flung it from the heat. It landed with a thud, and the boy could not have felt happier. He slept through that afternoon, waiting for his work to cool, and, by evening, he was gathering the coals of his flame in a bag and setting off for parts unknown.
The boy would spend the next four years braving the sandy wastelands. In that time, his craft was refined, becoming more and more ornate and strong as days passed. At nights, he would scavenge the land, challenging desert beasts to combat against his metal will. In ruins, he found metals, broken blades and discarded armor, which he would burn and shape anew for his own purpose. Once each year, he would take the Face of God from its wrappings and attempt to create his own. Each time, his work was improved, but it never met the standards of the old man's masterpiece. He would don his new mask, content but unfulfilled, and hide the Face for another year's time.
In the meantime, his arsenal grew. A breastplate, boots, a bracer, and a shield for his shrunken arm were all made and refined over the years. He also made different blades, shorter than his first, meant for dicing and skinning the prey he mastered. No longer did he play at survival. Now he lived as a man, full of vigor and strength as he scanned the desert terrain. But all this life, this lonely routine, came to an end as his God called him, a call he could not help but answer.
It was nighttime when he first spotted them, a band of windswept travelers shrouded by the sailing sands. There was nothing peculiar about them, and he had seen such types before. He never bothered to speak with them. He had his way. They had their own. The man would have simply turned to go another way but for the gleam of metal against the moonlight sky. It was not the glimmer of an ordinary ore, but something more, something divine. The man dropped his sled and began to creep softly up to the traveling party, slowly growing near in the moonlit desert. As he approached, he spotted the gleam again, a shine coming from the face of one of the travelers. It was all too familiar. He reached to his side and touched the pack that held his Face and thought he could feel an electricity under it. He had all but forgotten of the other masks in all those years. He had never seen another that resembled his own. Yet, here he stood, stalking a group bearing a metal mask such as his. He knew it was fate. And so he crept on, silent in his shock, but ever vigilant.
He may have gotten within their ranks, perhaps killed the man with the familiar mask and run before a soul knew what had occurred. But the travellers were wild men, tamers of beast and bird alike. It was a vulture that cawed from the black heavens above, an old bird but a reliable one. The party was startled, all eyes turning about to look for the disturbance. The man was quickly spotted, the only other who bore metal to hide his face. The beast tamers were upon him in an instant, and while the man managed to maim and bloody a few of his attackers, within the blink of an eye he was bound and disarmed.
It was then that their leader approached him, a wiry man with his hair knotted in a ponytail. He wore beads and bracelets of various lands, all hung around his stick-like neck. On his chest, a symbol was carved, a snake head with a dripping fang. But none of that mattered, for the captive was entranced by the mask upon his face. It was not the same as the one he owned. He knew it would not be. The face was that of a shaggy ox, covered in gently flowing onyx that drooped to iron tips. Its horns were a shining gray metal that bent gently into pointed L's. Yet still the eyes made the piece. Though they were loosely covered by the onyx hair, the plain iron below still shone with that same green light, a shine that pierced his heart in a way no other could ever know.
He had to take that mask. Whatever the cost, he had to make it his. He struggled violently under the rope bindings that caged him, causing a few of the travelers to grab his good arm to pin him down. The leader still looked down at him, his thoughts hidden by the artifact he wore. Then, without a thought, he sent a kick into the captive's gut, causing the man to bend over in pain. "So," the tamer intoned, his light voice echoing deep behind his face, "you too like my mask. Thank Epassi, the Lady of these lands. It was from her sands that this mask rose, this face of burden you see before you. It has Her blessing, made in the semblance of her old prey. That was before she was cruelly forced from the lands of grass and jungle, stranded here in the holes we struggled within for generations. But now we are free, free to roam, free to trade. It is an insult that we were struck down for so long, but Epassi has assured us with this gift that we are her worthy children. I am blessed."
"No!" the captive blurted. "That mask does not belong to you!"
The blessed man considered this for a moment, before kicking the man hard in the temple. His opponent's mask flew off quickly, revealing the hideous face beneath. The leader chuckled. "Yes, I suppose if anyone needed a mask, it would be you. Yet, your words are lies, insignificant pebbles in the ever flowing stream of truth. You will make no dam, for the Goddess will consume you in her torrent. Do you not understand?"
The captive recovered from the blow, shaking his head in defiance. "That mask is the face of a God," he proclaimed. "The true God, Faizetus."
A laugh from the leader. "Faizetus? Is that the name of the Ox? You would believe the Ox pulls the World Cart? Ha! I wear this mask to honor the fact I am below Epassi, not to prove I am as high as her! Would you see my face, gremlin? Here!" With a flourish, the mask was in his hand, and his face was revealed. It was a plain face, neither handsome nor poor. Its only features were the marks of animals that came too close and struck too far. "I am below! But I have been honored with a rank above the lowest, a rank above your own! I have seen the Goddess, as a mirage against the desert sky. But that shifting lady was no lie. She left as swiftly as She had come, but She had been REAL! I could feel Her presence as though She were beside me, that green, silken haired woman. And soon after I found this mask, which GLOWS with Her reflection as I rage against my enemies! I have my token, my prize! What has your God left for you!?"
It was then that his pack was snatched from him, unravelled carelessly by the holy man's hands. For only an instant was he silent, looking deep into the empty marbles of the wild face he held. But quickly he laughed again. "A fake! You expect me to believe in this!? Its eyes do not glow! A good effort, no doubt, but a fake nonetheless! How careless! The unenlightened always are, no?" His followers all nodded agreement, murmuring praise at his wisdom. "Ah, the city men would do anything to behold this sight! They would love this imitation, yes!" The blessed one turned back to his captive. "Oh, my friend, I do value your craft. For this alone, I give you your life. A laugh and a parcel of gold all in one. You bring me the best of gifts." The holy man kicked him in the gut once more, knocking him onto his back with much bravado. "You may keep your tools, for I know you will learn of good trade when the time comes. But, until you accept our Lady, you must starve. Men, I think I see his sled out there. Strip it of food and weapons, but leave the rest. And someone take his broadsword, here. It is near as valuable as his false depiction. To you, sir, I give thanks, and may the Lady show you her true light!"
And just like that, he was left, stranded in the ropes they bound him, stripped of all he could use to fight. But it was more than that. Though he still held on to the fabric he called life, his God had been torn from his grasp. Defamed and taken, his life's work passing like sand into the sea of chaos. Had the old man been wrong? Was this Epassi more divine than Faizetus? He held no assurance any more, the Face gone and unable to calm him. It was the truth, he knew. The mask was the only thing that anchored him to the legend. Without it, he was adrift once again, unsure of his path.
He remained there, broken, until the sun rose upon its new day. Only then could he find the will to struggle from the ropes and take inventory of his sled. The travellers had looted it well. Not a scrap of food nor hint of a weapon had been left. Only his tools and metal remained to him, boons from the holy man's Goddess, he supposed. He spit laughter at the thought. The only boon the Goddess seemed to give. The reminder that you are low, incomplete. Never fully an ox. Only a man behind an unfinished form.
"No," he whispered to himself. "That is false. The mask is not meant to complete the ox. It is meant to hold the eyes." Closing his own, he envisioned that long trip down the well, the green glow that beckoned him deeper into the abyss. Those eyes were holy. Though the man or ox may hold an awe filled face, it is the eyes of God, watching their creation, that made them true. He needed those eyes, for without them he had no reason to live.
Hefting his sled upon his back, he begun to follow the tamers' trail. They were a clever folk, he had to give them. Their tracks were thin and hard to find in the drifting sand. But their curved path did nothing to sway his relentless pursuance. He struck clean forward, past the misdirection of the snake and heading onward to his goal. He ran fast, knowing that every blink he spent standing was another step further from his prize. But, by noon, he was exhausted, his sled as heavy as the world behind him. Yet his will was still strong. Gathering his materials, he began a fire hotter than anything he had used before. He thrust the largest piece he owned into the sun-filled flame and watched its bronze glow white in the core. It was then to the hammer, bending the metal in ways he knew nothing of, had never imagined before. He had built a plate etched with gleaming scales before it cooled, and he once again thrust it into that fiery pit.
He repeated this process until he could go on no longer, the falling sun sapping all strength from him. But it was enough. His work was complete. It was the form of a reptile, heavily cragged with stubby horns upon its brow. Its mouth narrowed into an open maw, which housed long, curved teeth, almost snapping down upon the stalactite of its beard. The face was a mountain of bronze, gleaming light at the poles and collar of spikes, yet still deep in texture, like a shadowed cliff face. Yet all of this detail and craftsmanship seemed pale under its empty eyes, left unmarked but ever present in the monument of bronze.
The man looked down upon the face, consuming the work with his eyes. Every curve, every detail, and every mark he inspected with a frenzy, as though his life rested upon its perfection. And, in many ways, it did. Madness rested upon one edge of the blade, the other occupied by only sorrow. He searched that reptilian face as the sun set into the dust covered world, and, as the light finally plunged into night, he found what he sought: a green glimmer in those plain eyes.
Immediately, he collapsed, relief and joy pumping through his veins. He laughed at the constellations above, which could never imagine the shape he crafted. He placed the mask he made into the desert earth, the sea of star light shining back up to their heavens above. Gently, he covered it in the glittering dust. It was meant not for him, but for the ages long past him, a face to be seen eons from its making. His mask had been made, and it was his time to retrieve it.
Within the hour, he was back upon his feet, pulling his sled calmly across the shifting dunes. Faizetus had not left him. His path was still guided by that divine watcher. Nothing more mattered. He would find his mask, his Face of God.
It took four days to reach the outskirts of the desert land. In that time, he had made a thin blade, impossible to see on its cleanly cut edge. He had made nothing more. He carried his armor pieces in the sled behind him, his old mask left in the heap of metal he would later craft with. No hiding from these men. A whirlwind of battle was the only speech he would muster.
The desert ended with a thin stream, green grass and trees sprouting from its flowing life. The trickle of water rapidly grew to a river, its banks covered by nature's brightness. The man felt silent in the rustling winds, having nothing to say for the beauty he had only glimpsed in his boyhood. But the path was laid before him. The tracks of his prey were near. So he continued on, hardly raising his head to the forest around him.
After two days travel in the wet-born wilderness, he finally found his prey. The holy tamers of the Lady Snake had stopped and were met with armed soldiers bearing a flaming crest. They held camp in a sunny shore at the river's bend. The air held some tension, but the words were all kind. It seemed no God could keep their commerce away. The holy leader wore his oxen mask, and the soldiers' captain seemed to be adorned in armor matching in formality. Their discussion floated among many matters, but always did it turn back to a present for the Searae captain. The masked ox always gestured to a bundle that hung upon his left shoulder. The watching man knew what was in that parcel and knew what he must do.
So he waited. Night fell upon the gathering, but its participants were unmoved. On they spoke, boredom seeping in. The Searae knew what their captain wished, but nothing could hurry the rivers of the Epassi. The trade was inevitable, but the roots of trust took time to grow. Then, as the moon into the noon sky, its crescent shining white upon the nighttime gathering, the holy man of Epassi gathered up the bundle with cautious attention. The captain reached out for it, impatient to reach the end. Yet he knew not what end that was, for as the mask was passed between owners, and the green light shone on the captain's awe-filled face, the watcher leapt from hiding, quickly striking down the men nearest him.
From there, only chaos could echo. The holy man was immediately ready, ordering his fellow tamers to attack. But the trained soldiers were panicked, lost without their captain's guidance. Some mounted their horses for retreat, while others simply ran for the cover of the forest. Still, most stood motionless, watching as the attacker plunged his fine blade into the oncoming tamers. On they came, in threes and fours, yet the attacker was undeterred, his one arm enough for every wave that struck him. And, as he fought, the Face of God glowed brighter in the captain's hands.
At least half a dozen men had fallen still, and just as many lay injured beneath them, before the holy man approached his enemy. The thin man hefted a chaotically spiked mace, but strapped to his back was a broadsword the other knew all too well. "So," the holy man began, "you came for your false God?" He spat at the feet of his foe. "Pathetic. Unarmored and without a God. What point does your life attest to?" With those words, he struck, swinging in a blurring motion before sending the mace at the abdomen of he who had laid waste to his allies. But the man avoided it easily, taking a single step back, followed by one forward. The holy man flinched back, but still swung with ferocity. A blow at the head, a blow at the arm, a blow at the neck, each hit avoided as though the attacker was in his mind.
"Remove the mask," the attacker told him. "Faizetus blinds you for your sin." The child of Epassi stopped for just a moment, considering the pathetic faith of his foe. But, in that snap, the ox was removed from his face, sent flying into the rushing river beside them. He reached out for it in vain, watching helpless as it passed from his view. Falling to his knees, he began to cry, his honor stripped from him as he had stripped his foe's. But his foe held mercy in his mind. "Leave," was his only command as he walked past the fallen holy man.
The attacker approached the captain with odd curiosity on his ugly face. He glanced down at the mask the captain was encaptured by, and saw how it glowed a brighter green than he had ever seen. But he looked for only a moment. In his shrivelled hand, he took the Face of God from the captain's shaking arms. With his other hand, he slipped his blade into the captain's stomach, removing it smoothly from the man as he collapsed. At that point, all of the soldiers had left, afraid of the enemy that faced them. All, that is, except one.
The soldier was a young boy, clutching his spear in both hands, its butt on the ground as he stood at unsteady attention. The man approached the boy, ready to strike at the shaking frame. But he recognized something in the boy's eyes. The fear in the child was not the fear of death upon him. It was a greater fear, the fear of an unknowable future on which he tred. Still, even more, it was the hint of green under the shadow of his plumed helm that stopped the man. Gods walked among him. He had been told such by that holy man, but what did he know?
Yet he could feel in his memories, that of the old man that began his quest, who seemed to have been blessed with an image and wisdom not of this globe. Could it be true?
Searching for an answer, the man stared hard into the boy's eyes. The boy met his glare, weary and uncertain. The child's eyes whispered down at the mask the man held, and he understood. He placed the mask upon his face for the first time in his unworthy life, and eternity ran through him. He could feel long dead knowledge seeping into his mind, concepts and methods untested for generations. Among them, he grappled at that of a false arm, burning palms that were their own form, and, strikingly, both the mask he wore and the mask he had made. The prints of these all ran through him like infinity through a mousehole. But, roaring above these thoughts, was a single message, spoken by a being of deep voice and deeper intent.
"I have travelled with these militant collectors for a long many years, the last who know my name from the ashes of my empire. With them gone, I have nowhere but you, son. You will walk this globe a master of battle, my divinity running through you as your faith is tested. You will be something new, something grand. Not God, but close. A Demigod. Are you ready, son? Will you be my Ore Blood? Will you allow yourself to be forged and reborn as Bronze?"
Without another word, the flow of wisdom silenced itself, laying dormant within the crevices of his mind. Removing the mask, the Ore Blood looked and saw that the young soldier was gone, disappearing as though he had never been real. The demigod blinked for a moment, breathing in his new life. "Yes," he thought. "I am your's."
~~~~~
And so the first Demigod was born, a being of total unity between a dead God and man's total devotion. He became known as Bronze, the name given to him by his God. Little did he speak of Faizetus, yet his journeys took him across the ends of the world, spreading his myth among the common and regal alike.
Meanwhile, new demigods began to rise from the earth. Dead Gods unheard of for millenia were suddenly alive in the dire tales and mythic artifacts of heroes of many lands. New life had been breathed into a world that knew only bronze, and an Age of Heroes began among them. While many claimed fame and fortune unknown to mortals, only one was known to the entire world. The name of Bronze and his tragic tale.
The Demigod himself disappeared from the world near the end of this magical age. Some say he settled down with a family. Others think he lost his faith in God. It is even whispered that he joined himself with the Gods above, an idol worthy of a seat in the stars. As each tale was told, they gained their own strength. Deep religious thinkers believe that all are true in their own ways, men formed from the belief of their lives.
Still, it is unknown what truly happened to this divine hero. But the following is as close as the truth will let it be told.
~~~~~
What was the point of knocking upon the door of eternity if it remained ever distant, ever closed? Why stretch out one's life beyond the brink of its ending to savor the same breath that was so easy before? The call of demise is repugnant, intolerable, yet living slows to a crawl as it approaches, never the same as before it had beckoned. Bronze had lived his life under this call, yet he named it another. Duty. Duty to his God to live on in his mind, to spread the Face of his Power among the masses with his long reaching arm. The divinity within him fueled him with youth, all the time he could need among the living and worldly. He used it well each day, writing songs and tales into the patchwork of the world he lived.
Yet he kept to his roots. His forge was his living, his blade his honor. He no longer stalked among desert sands, a broken boy with no purpose of his own. He stood resolute under the mask of his old mentor, under the knowledge of his God. And what a wellspring that knowledge was. He was constantly in the flame, crafting devices unheard of for his time, that dormant insight ever fueling his works. He had spent countless hours upon his broadsword, inlaying it with ornate designs and ever strengthening its mighty blade. So too did he shape the fine blade he wore, the one that had struck down the holy man of Epassi, killing the man's faith that his Goddess lived. So cruel yet refined that blade was, that a second he had crafted, a mirror to the other. But he kept those blades at his side, sheathed and clashing together as he journeyed. Yes, he still kept to his broadsword, the first weapon he had ever used.
But Faizetus whispered more than weapons into his ears. Machinery, devices, mechanisms all danced within. He could see the legions his God could create, iron warriors that held no soul. And burning chariots, horseless carts that blew fire as their steeds. Yet Bronze did not care for these intricate crafts. He had no need of them. He had walked the desert long without them, and would not lower himself to such unworthy needs.
Yet, one allowance he did give himself. An arm, false in flesh but real in motion. It had been in his mind from the moment he had risen, and he could not refuse the wholeness it offered. It fit perfectly over his shrunken arm, its needles resting gently upon his nerves. But the arm was not enough alone. Armor it may have been, but function it lacked. So he forged a bronze spine, mimicking parts of the God's designs. Its installation was rough, agonizing, near death. Yet it was worth it, for his limp arm finally moved with the vigor of his other.
And so Bronze had begun his campaign fighting armies under the green glow of his treasured mask. Quickly had wars slowed to a stop, the tales of a metal demon racing amongst the ranks of men. But the stories slowly changed, as he began to appear in times of peace as well as war. He was seen as a hero to many, an agent meant to crush the fever of religion the fighting man held.
But Gods would not be intimidated by this single man. Soon, more of his kind sprung up to face him, certain that they would become heroes as great as he. Some tried to battle him, using their divine strength to prove their God more worthy than his own. He dealt with these foes swiftly, snatching from them any artifact or treasure they held dear to their Gods. As he discarded these, they seemed lost, weakened, as though divinity could no longer be channeled. They begged him forgiveness, and so Faizetus gave. No other God was to die by his hands. The broken face of the holy man had scarred him deep, though he did not know it.
And while there were many of these Demigods that fought only to prove the superiority of their Gods, just as many were devoted to the peace Bronze fought for. They battled alone in countless wars, each an army to their own. Some said they became Gods on those distant battlefields. Others swore they became more. Still, a new age was beckoned forth, one of myths and Demigods, one of Heroes.
It was in this turbulent wind that Bronze fell from the face of the Earth, and, as many before him, it was to the hands of his kin.
The message had been sent to him on a storm swallowed night, under the black canvas of a bloodied robe. It passed from many hands to reach him, flying upon birds and galloping upon beasts to catch him in his restless travel. But, as he received it, he knew it was dire news. Wrapped within the dark cloak was a single item: a mask. It bore the semblance of a vulture, bald red iron shining pink under torchlight. Its beak was dark and gray, twisting fowly with the torment of hunger. Yet the eyes were like pearls, clean and white. He knew of the work this mask was meant to be. Still, the eyes did not shine. Wearing his own mask, Bronze called back the recollection he had searched so long in for answers, but saw no mask of this design. No, not of his God. But its craft, its figure, and its eyes all held the spirit of a Godly hand.
"Who sent this?" he asked the messenger, a peasant boy with an acorn face. The peasant merely shook his head and pointed to the inside of the mask. Turning it around, Bronze found a note, hidden within the point of the vulture's beak. It was written in a luxurious hand, carefully sketched with pointed fonts. It read:
"To the legendary Bronze, a man of cheap metal and cheaper taste. See how the Gods follow you, how your craftsman deity is not all that unique. This one believed in Nevkae, some deceptive God of knives and toxins. Not very different from your credo. Swords and fire can only do a man so much, can't they? Your God is so low to employ such crafts. Come to your death swiftly, or your mountain shall crumble from shame. Is that not the way of such earthly men? To die in ruin as the cosmos flows about them? Your honor is nothing. Come only with your God.
- Andira, Blood of Khuros."
He studied the message carefully, staring deep into each demonic mark. This was meant to spur him to anger, force him to action. And, to some extent, it had. In his mind's eye, he saw Nevkae, a face among the ruins, crying as his daggers flew from his flailing arms, tumbling beneath all that was into the abyss. Horror sprung from the God's eyes, the absolute terror found only in the lost and helpless. His masks fell away, those of vultures, serpents, and smiling maniacs, each one glowing blue as the sky as they burnt to ash around him. And so the God penetrated the starry void, passing from all sight that could ever be.
Bronze shuddered. How could he feel this? Was this death? What eternal graveyard had he seen? In answer, his mind turned back, many years. He saw himself as a boy, standing upon a cliff over that same veil below. He was on his knees, crying as he watched his God fall, that bearded face with red iron hair. It sunk far into the well, its eyes blank without feeling. But, as his young self reached down into the darkness, the face finally glowed. It was in his hand, then, all of God's will. Blinking away tears, Bronze knew what had transpired that day. The first throw of death he had ever truly known. Not his own, but his God. Without Him, his fate would have been sealed.
And so he knew the game this Andira played, to kill the Gods who had risen with the age. She wanted his death, he knew. She would be fully armed. But where? He flipped the note onto its back and found a finely made map. It depicted a mountain range, vast in its proportion. But Bronze did not know where it was he saw, until he noticed the dashed lines leading from a southern desert. That was her choice, then. He followed the marked trail until it reached its end, a cliff overlooking the meadows beyond. It was all too plain. But it hardly mattered. The Gods were his to keep from the slaughter.
And so he journeyed to the cliff face of his fate, telling no souls of this ancient meeting. Only Faizetus need know of this endeavor, and he carried that God with him always. He took not the path he was given, but the path he knew, avoiding the mountains but to climb to his destination. A gamble, perhaps. Revealing. But to take the marked path would have been worse. So he climbed the mountain side and reached the cliff, overlooking the sea of white tulips under the starry night sky.
There, he met his foe, a woman dressed in fashionless robes, entirely black and without accent. She sat cross-legged on a seat of stone, her blonde hair spilling over her face and chest. But, in her lap, she held a long sickle, made of twisted wood that bled white with runes unknown to the Ore Blood. "You arrived," she stated, her voice curt and cold. She paused, taking in the cold breeze around her, before adding only the words, "I've been waiting."
Bronze nodded his head, knowing that the other Demigod would see it without looking up. "What is your goal in this meeting?" he asked, knowing the answer. Andira snorted a laugh, but did not respond. Refusing to be deterred, he insisted, "What is the point of my death? What does it gain you?"
Finally, the Blood of Khuros rose her head, revealing her pale, baggy face and brown, bloodshot eyes. "To rise," she replied, her yellowed teeth smiling with devilish intent. "Think of it. All the Gods you know, all the Gods you have ever heard. Is it not difficult to remember which is which? I hardly remember the one I killed to send for you. Yet you live your life, inspiring those pathetic souls to reawaken in the artifacts of mankind. You SICKEN me!" she screamed. "THERE IS BUT ONE GOD THAT WILL TRULY RULE! ONE! THE ONLY FIGHT WORTHY OF OUR TIME IS THE ONE OF OUR ANCESTORS!" Her head rose to the sky as she cried to Those Above, "WHO RULES THE PANTHEON!? WHO DECIDES OUR FATE!?" Her chin returned to her breastbone, her hair burying her face as sobs escaped her lips. Then, there was silence.
"Why," Bronze began, breaking the silence, "must there only be one? Why can fate not be our's?"
For a moment, it seemed as though Andira would not respond. But her head lifted just enough to uncover her glowering eyes. "Such fate is madness. Gods are madness." She began to her feet, propping herself up with the finely worked sythe. "I worship one God," she whispered, "but they were born of two. Father and Son. Space and time. Neither knew which was the first, and so their legend was weak. Khu and Ros were dead when I found them, engraved in this blade." The long edge of the scythe twisted in the starlight, gleaming both red and blue at every angle. "And when I first saw them, I thought them to be one. Weak were my Gods, unknown to any but me. They CHANGED," she barked, her volume increasing. "They became ONE. All for me. Do you not see? These cursed Demigods you have spawned toy in games that could RIP the world in twain. And you are their hope." Brushing her hair from her face, another smile appeared. "Without you, the world is safe. The world is MINE."
In a blink, she was gone. Bronze's eyes were wide with shock as he heard a soft drop upon the pebbles behind him. Turning, pushing forward with his metallic arm, he narrowly caught the heavy swing of the Child of Khuros. The ancient steel blade cut deeply into his bronze hand, sparks flying from the clash as the murderer tore her weapon from the ruined palm. The blade glowed with twin colored delight as the broken mechanism steamed before it. A sick smile consumed Andira's face, her eyes wide with the joy of slaughter.
Yet, behind his mask, Bronze was unmoved. The clean eyes glowed green at the challenge, the chance to sharpen the blades of his forge. His human arm clutched at the broadsword upon his back, his oldest friend. Unsheathing the blade, he crashed its metal against the wooden staff of the scythe. The impact was harsh, knocking Andira further down the pebbled slope, away from the cliff's ledge. But her weapon still held fast from the strike, a thin mark that oozed a chrome of crimson and azure upon its wound. Andira calmly regained her footing, stretching as she prepared for the true battle, her eyes stalking the green eyed mask. "You're faster than the last one I killed," she mocked. "I suppose flames burn a corpse just a bit quicker than a poison within."
Bronze snorted at her words, but remained vigilant. He could feel the power of Faizetus running through him, the Ore Blood fueling his mind and body. He motionlessly observed as Andira leaped forward, beginning to swing her weapon before disappearing into the air. His ears perked as he heard her footfall on his left, but he knew it was wrong. The sound was not of a step, but of a brushing against the rubble. And so he did not move until Andira teleported to his right, expecting to bloody him with her feint. Instead, he shoved the flat of his broadsword at her attack, smashing into the scythe's unwieldy handle and knocking his foe off balance. Spinning the blade at his side, he wound up a savage strike, sending the point flying upward in a cruel slash against the believer of Khuros.
But suddenly, the world seemed to slow. He could feel every muscle in his body, extending and contracting as they swung his weapon. He felt the crisp night air bristling against his body, and could hear the long-winded crunch of pebbles under his foot. But, as it seemed with all things, his hidden eyes caught the most important detail. Andira moved, by no means quickly, but faster than what seemed possible. Even as his eyes studied the demigod, the image blurred, his enemy stepping back from his strike with her scythe raised. The scythe's blade almost casually came down upon the broadsword, hooking it on the handle. And Andira paused, allowing the image to clear. Her face glimmered with cruelty, her eyes almost glowing with bright joy.
But all that came to an end as Andira shoved her scythe down upon the slow-moving blade. Time snapped back to normal, and Bronze felt his blade spin from his hands. It disappeared as it left his grasp, and behind him, Bronze could hear it cutting through the air before flying off the face of the cliff. In the back of his mind, he felt the minute twinge of panic.
Attempting to recover from the loss of his blade, he began reaching for one of the two he wore at his side, the thin, twin blades near invisible at their edge. But his strong hand was struggling to regain control, his opponent's sudden moves startling every instinct out of him. As almost a side thought, his chest ached as the butt of Andira's scythe jabbed into it, knocking him back. HIs feet clutched for purpose as his human arm flew out to maintain balance. He was open, he knew. Death was upon him once again, salting those wounds he bore for so long. His end would come when he was needed most, to save his and every other forgotten God of the nations. He had failed God. He had failed Faizetus.
The opponent's two-color blade struck deep into his torso, slashing from shoulder to hip, through flesh and bone alike. Every snap, every rip, echoed its own murderous chorus, led under the wicked scythe's sweeping strike. He fell backward, everything within him crying to give in, to surrender to the torment it faced. His metal, lifeless arm clattered to the ground, disjointed but still attached, stretching his skin in utter agony. And his blood, the red sea that coarsed within him, began to leak from the wound, flooding the landscape of his body with the paint of the dying.
Yet, as he laid there, waiting for the eternal void to take him, the eyes of his mask shone brightest under the starlight, blinding in their intensity. Even behind that false metal face, the Face of God, Bronze could feel the glow, its heat licking at his numbing skin. He groaned under the sensation, thinking it the last he would ever feel. His eyes began to recede deep within, searching for the eternal night he sought. But a voice called him back from this fantasy, a voice he had heard only once before, as he had first placed his mask upon his boyish face.
"Is this how we end? At the hands of a God-Slayer, flourishing her God's nature as you fumble with your's? Am I a name, to you? Something to call when you feel lost? Is that what I have taught you? Or did I give you the FORGE? Endless supplies of projects and creations, and you have barely scratched the surface. You use your tools practically, never wanting more or less. Yet a mask is the pinnacle of artful excess. Man's face was crafted to attract others of their kind, yet you put on these strange faces to hide your's. Be ARTFUL! Believe in that which cannot be thought, which cannot be reasoned. Your mind is my fortress. Think it, and I shall be your forge. Only battle fuels my flame, but what does it matter? Life is the struggle to resist the song of demise, the battle against death itself. USE IT, use your life, for it is the only battle left to you. Rise, and face the fiend that stands before you. Live, and I will be with you, son. I will be with you always."
And so the voice left him again, yet its presence still hung. "I shall be your forge." How could it be possible? Faizetus was mighty, but he had never broken past the wall of his mind. God was nothing more than a thought, yet Faizetus denied such fantasy. What did Faizetus believe he could grasp?
Then, Bronze realized what he had missed. His foe, Andira, was the key. She moved with her God ever behind her, striking in ways he never thought to question. He had lived too long within a world of Demigods; he had forgotten to question why Gods ran through them. Belief. The only answer he had ever received. But it was enough. To believe that God would favor him above all else, would guide him to victory. All was not lost, for the fire within him still flickered. It took only God to make that flame roar.
The eyes' green light dissipated, turning inward to a place unknowable but to those who lived there. And, immediately, Bronze could feel his body change. He could feel the bronze spine, that metal link between his dead arm and his living, grow, needles piercing through his innards to do battle with death from within. It was excruciating, as though being turned inside out, but he relished it. Inside, his bones were reconstructed, each piece of shrapnel returned to the puzzle of his anatomy. Flesh was bound by metallic threads, closing the circuit of bloody death. The red death on his chest began to dry, and he knew life had won once again.
Bronze stood, slowly regaining the rhythms of the living. He felt everything was back in its place, and looked down to see that his metal arm had been mended as well. [Want to rephrase that sentence. More drama] His eyes rose behind the mask and stared at the enemy before him. Her mouth was somewhat agape, staring at the healing wound in his chest. "How!?" she blurted. "Fire does not fix the living! It can only shape that which is DEAD!"
Bronze could not help but give a single chuckle, a tickle of pain hitting his lungs as he did. "My blood is ore. My metal can be worked as my God sees fit."
Blearing hate appeared on Andira's sharp face. "Oh, and now you know what it is to believe in God!? NOW YOU KNOW THE GAMES IN WHICH WE PLAY!?" Bronze nodded to the statement, but said no more. This caused Andira to smile, the wicked look of pity and malice. "Good. An opponent at last."
Before his opponent could even move, even zap through the barriers that held mortals to the physical world, Bronze had both of his weapons drawn, the two blades of his finest craft. Andira swung forward, teleporting rapidly to avoid her opponent's strikes. But Bronze had learned the game all too well. He stood defiant of his enemy's moves, waiting only for when the strike would land, the consistent step within the whirlwind of motion. With his two blades, he could block every strike, his arms whirling about his body as he kept the final strike at bay. He would not be worn down by this assault. He felt as though he could strike down armies with a single blow. He was the unbreakable metal at the core of all things. He would not yield.
Their battle raged throughout the night, the stars spectators to their duel. Neither held back an ounce of their strength, their Gods lighting the flames of war within them. Mountains could have crumbled under such onslaughts, the heavy strike coming and going faster than the eye might see.
Yet one had to fail. When two fighters are set upon the other's death, one soul must leave, ruined and disgraced. That moment came at the light of dawn, a radiant glow across the horizon. Bronze faced the light head on, and was blinded by its brilliance. Andira, avoided its glare, and struck heavily upon the weapons of her foe. The two blades shattered, weary from the contest they had struggled through all night. Regaining his sight, Bronze took a step back, watching as Andira rose her two-toned blade, striking down upon his head for the final blow. Yet still he struggled, his metal arm darting out and grabbing the mad blade above him. It cut deep into his bronze hand, yet his craft did not break. He held the blade firm in his hand, mounting each combatants to the ground they stood.
Andira's smile was still cruel and hateful. "What now, 'ore blood?'" she mocked. "You have no weapons. Accept it. Your death is imminent!"
Bronze was silent, lost deep in thought. His eyes closed, leaving his senses to the wind that blew around him. "God is my forge," he said, almost without thinking. "I am always armed."
Suddenly, his metal hand blazed, burning white hot around the red and blue blade. For a moment, Andira was amused, until he tightened his grip about the blade. At first, it only bent, twisting inward into a blunted shape. But then, the weapon erupted, exploding into a shower of godly shrapnel. It rained down upon the two combatants like drops from a rainbow, each piece a distinct color of its own. They fell to the ground, miniscule and weak, disappearing under the pebbles beneath the demigods' feet.
Andira stared at the ground, shocked. She crumpled to her knees, dropping the long handle as she did. Her eyes hid under her disheveled hair, but their tears still dripped onto the ground below. Bronze stood over her, silent, the weight of the moment chaining him in place. This was no time for combat. It was time to mourn.
Then, Andira laughed, a hideous burst of joy contrary to anything Bronze had expected. Her face flew up to face his, tears still streaming from her red eyes. "HA!" she shouted. "YOU THINK YOU HAVE KILLED MY GOD!? DO YOU KNOW NOTHING!? KHUROS LIVES ONLY WITHIN ME! THAT BLADE WAS NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!" As she screamed, Bronze could see something change in her eyes. Hinting denial, but more, something old and fierce. Her brown pupils seemed to glow, new colors bleeding into them. Still, she screamed. "I AM KHUROS! THEY ARE NOTHING WITHOUT ME! I WIELD THEIR POWERS! NO ONE ELSE! THEY ARE ME, AND I. AM. THEM!"
In a flash, she was on her feet, floating before him, her hair wild as though it had exploded from her head. But it was not Andira that was left before him. No, her face no longer held that senseless madness of before. Now, it knew only rage, the deep, seething anger that had brewed for centuries untold. That face demanded worship, it demanded respect. And those two-tone eyes, red and blue as they shone, could make a mortal crumble beneath them.
"I am Khuros," the being declared, its voice deep with Godly influence. "All yields before me. I am the end bringer. I am the world. I decree death upon you, mortal whelp. Begone." And, without another thought, another word, he cast his hand forward, never touching Bronze, but shoving him off through the God's endless reaches, sending him beyond the realm of reality into the seas of madness, the abyss of space.
~~~~~
And so, the first Titan was born, a God given mortal flesh. In time, more would rise across the land, reigning as tyrants over anyone who they faced. Entire nations would be brought down under their might, crushed by the Godly instincts of war. Their time would usher in a new age, a time of regret and loathing among the masses. Gods would be shunned, artifacts burnt, and tales forgotten to all that live. The iron age would fall across them, as men battled not for the Gods, but for survival in a world that was ill with their plague.
As for Bronze, it is unclear where Khuros sent him. All who heard the tale of his exile assumed him dead, especially as Khuros raged across the lands, spreading death and misery over mankind. Still, a select few always hold out hope, the hope that the stories are a lie, that Bronze defeated the Titan and ran, escaping from their wrath. But there is little hope in such tales, for the age of heroes was swept away, and all that mattered was surviving the Titans' rule.
~~~~~
OOC: So, yeah. Just rewrote Greek Mythology. Take that. I actually like this whole idea. There are definitely a lot of tweaks I'd like to make, a lot more detail to add, but this is a good rough cut. This is more for me than anything else. Now, back to the game.
