The New God's Of Avaricia

Ava's eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. "Birthright?"

"Yes," Arteus said, his voice low and gruff. "But i guess i was wrong, you can't help me."

He turned to leave, the snow crunching under his boots, when Ava's voice stopped him cold. "Wait," she said, the command in her tone unmistakable. He paused, his back to her, the weight of his robe and the burden of his quest a heavy presence between them.

"I know of what you speak," she continued, her words carrying the weight of ancient knowledge.

Arteus felt a twinge of surprise. "You do?"

Ava nodded solemnly. "Yes," she said, her voice carrying the echoes of distant memories. "I just didn't think i'd hear about that after so many years."

Her eyes searched his, looking for a glimmer of understanding, a spark of kinship in the stormy depths of his gaze. "Please," she whispered, her hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. "Shall we speak in private?"

Arteus nodded, his hand dropping to the pommel of his axe. The crowd had dispersed, leaving only a handful of stragglers who cast furtive glances their way. What he sought to discuss was not something that should be heard in the open, not here, not now.

Ava gestured to a nearby stable, shrouded in the early morning shadows. Her movements were fluid, almost ethereal, a stark contrast to the brutal efficiency he had heard about her. They walked in silence, their boots echoing off the narrow, stone walls. Lilly, unable to resist, stole a glance at them from afar, her curiosity piqued by the gravity of their conversation... and, relations perhaps?

The stable door creaked open, revealing the warm embrace of a space that smelled faintly of hay and livestock. The horses stirred in their stalls, sensing the presence of new visitors. Ava led the way, her eyes flicking to the animals with an affectionate fondness that softened her features. Arteus followed, his mind racing with questions and the weight of his axe a constant reminder of his duty.

They stepped into a stall, far enough from the door to ensure their words remained private. The dim light cast by a solitary candle revealed Ava's face, now etched with lines of solemnity. She faced him, her emerald eyes searching his own, seeking a spark of understanding amidst the storm clouds of doubt.

"What is it you wish to know?" Ava's voice was low and steady, a stark contrast to the tumult that had become their lives.

"When did you first learn of your birthright?" Arteus's question hung in the air, the candlelight flickering across her face as she considered his words. Her grip on her staff tightened, the wood creaking slightly under the pressure.

Ava's eyes took on a distant look, her gaze drifting to the shadows in the corner of the stall. "It was a morning much like this," she began, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to carry the whispers of long-forgotten secrets. "My mother was... not herself. The wine had loosened her tongue, and she spoke of a destiny that would one day be mine to bear."

"But you didn't believe it?" Arteus's voice was gentle, coaxing the story from her.

Ava chuckled, the sound tinged with a hint of bitterness. "I thought it was just the madness of grief, the whispers of a heartbroken woman. My mother hadn't an easy life, her mind had become a tapestry of pain and loss. I took it as the ramblings of a drunk old woman trying to find meaning in a world gone mad." Her gaze returned to his, the emerald depths unyielding. "But when the six horns blared, i thought, just, what if? Yknow."

The Pledge of Birthright.

One morning, as her mother nursed a brutal hangover from the day passed, she had summoned Ava to her side. The candles flickered wildly in the draughty cottage, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. The woman's eyes, usually tired and resigned, had burned with a fervor that sent shivers down Ava's spine.

"AVA!" She called.

Her mother's voice was urgent, a stark contrast to its usual soft lilt. Ava looked up from the fire she was tending to, the crackle of the burning wood a comforting backdrop to their quiet lives. The candles on the wooden table flickered as she hastily wiped her sooty hands on her apron, leaving smudges that she would scrub at later, her heart racing.

"Sit," her mother ordered, her voice low and urgent. The command was unlike anything Ava had heard from her before. The woman's eyes were wild with a fervor that sent shivers down Ava's spine, and she obeyed without question.

The cottage was cold, the only warmth coming from the crackling fireplace. Ava took a seat at the small wooden table, the candle flame casting an eerie glow across her mother's face. The woman reached into the folds of her tattered dress, withdrawing a small, leather-bound book. It was worn with age, the pages yellowed and the corners bent with time.

"This," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "holds the truth of your birthright."

The book was ancient, its pages brittle with age, and as Ava took it into her own hands, she felt the weight of destiny settle upon her shoulders. The script within was written in a language she didn't understand, but the images depicted were unmistakable.

The Pledge of Birthright was a covenant, a sacred promise carved into the fabric of the universe, an eternal bond between man and the divine. It was whispered into the ears of prophets and scribbled onto the pages of forbidden tomes, a secret known only to those who were privy to the information.

In the land of Avaricia, gods and men had once walked hand in hand, their bloodlines intertwined. From these unions came the Pledge of Birthright, a child born with the power of the gods and the wisdom of mankind.

This sacred covenant, detailed in the ancient tomes, bestowed upon the chosen ones a series of rights and responsibilities that stretched beyond the ordinary.

For example, the Pledge of Birthright claimed that such children had the right, the power, to claim dominion over the lands, bending reality and the elements to their will.

The pledge spoke in riddles, but it was clear that all-sky was not a mere concept. It was a tangible place, a realm of divinity that could only be accessed by those who 'BORE' divinity within them. It was a place where gods dwelt, a realm that held the very essence of creation itself.

The Pledge of Birthright was not just a myth or a tale to be told around campfires, it was a divine law. It dictated that a child born of such a union would bear the weight of that legacy, a legacy that stretched across the heavens like a golden thread and gave them a place in all-sky.

Most significant of all though, the pledge granted them the right to claim a seat on the Council of Gods, a right that had not been invoked since days long past. 

-To Be Continued-