Eluriand had once been a great jewel, shining as a diamond in Raiaera's bright crown. With the great glass palace that could be seen to some degree by almost every point at the city, there was a sparkling brilliance that gave rise to fame. Once the entire outer wall had been decorated with frescoes, created by the finest artists and craftsmen. Only the mighty towers of the university and the palace had extended above these walls, extending the glorious light further. It was a place of elegance and learning, philosophy and civilisation, with beauty that championed even the work of the hardiest dwarves and the fairest faerie hand.
Now, however, the glass had faded and broken, and the frescoes of the walls had tumbled away after too many battles. The towers and other buildings of the university were in disarray, with roofs collapsed inwards and lichen spreading on the brickwork like a virus. The glory of the glass palace had fallen, so that no longer there was a shimmer constantly across the cityscape - yet … yet, the city still survived. Still, the council met in hallowed halls, still the university taught and overflowed, and still there was worship for the gods.
In a portion of the Velice Arta, the seat of the High Bard Council, there was a grand temple. White washed and generous in size it was suited to bring worship to every one of the seven deities of Raiaera. Huge windows, stained glass and plain, dominated much of the wall space. Age had wrought its natural damage, with a growth of thick ivy dominating one entire wall. At the front cracked but stable pillars held up a mighty, fine stone verandah, part of the roof that extended further beyond the ordinary foot or so. Behind these columns was a double, arched, teak wood door that was wide open.
Inside was a vast hall, lit by the vast windows in a multicoloured fantasy of illumination. More pillars, each a white monolith, supported the heavy, peaked roof and separated the temple into sections, each with its own stained glass fenestra. At the end was a generous dais, a set of ten steps leading to an altar.
Between the pillars, disappearing into secret doors and appearing out of known ones, were a myriad of priests in seven colours of robes. Some bore religious icons, others had jewellery with symbolic relevance, and others still had the headpieces pertaining to authority. The vast majority of them were elves, and that was true for the worshippers as well.
Which made the appearance of a self-conscious kenku and a handsome man, who all presumed was born from angels, striding down the centre of temple a very atypical sight indeed.
As they headed for the dais Vitruvion began to slow and he twisted his head slightly to the left, catching Stare just in his periphery. Raising her mentally exhausted eyes to him she waited until he gestured with a point of a ringed finger to the side.
“Wait for me there,” he told her.
It was not a request, and Stare did not take it as one. Tugging her woollen cloak tighter she grunted before halting in her step. She watched as he continued on, seeing him take all of this worship to other gods in his stride - proudly, resolutely, with no shame. In all likelihood he would go directly to a place where he could contact the Raiaeran gods and get an answer. As far as she knew this was the very place he had come to to ask for assistance in making her immortal.
Vitruvion approached the dais and began ascending it with no pause in his step. There were a few murmurs and shocked gasps as he took the few paces to gain to the top, where the holiest of priests usually only were permitted - all with a demeanor of pride and purpose. As he strode closer to the altar a high priest, dressed in deep blue robes and with a circlet of silver resting on his temples looked at him with wide eyes, then hesitantly approached. Stare watched as the man whispered quiet words to Vitruvion, who seemed to smile in his usual, egotistical manner. Then, the oddest thing - Vitruvion was then led away by the priest, out through a side door.
Stare was left blinking in surprise, and stood for a while until she found the ability to shift her posture. Solemnly, moodily she rolled her eyes before skulking over to one of the broad windows.
This one was particularly elegant. It showed an image of a champion on a pegasus - a knight by any other name - with silver hair and a beautiful visage. He lunged forwards with a long, golden-tipped spear, striking down a wild-haired, firey-eyed enemy. One who bore a wicked crown made of bones and talons, and was dressed in the haunting armour of a clear villain. Behind them was a serene sky filled with a bright sun beating back black clouds, with the air full of doves who carried well wishes. As the real sun's rays sparkled through the pale glass fragments of the face hero, Stare was reminded of every time she had truly seen the god behind the icey blue eyes of Vitruvion Elssmith.
“Do you know the story?”
A deep, sudden voice. Twisting around sharply, Stare was faced with a tall and elegant, but bold figure. He had bright skin, as if it had been polished, sharp ears and intense, bright green eyes. Silvery hair draped over his shoulders in a cascade if beauty. As she looked she found him strangely young, with a clean shaven face and smooth features - aside from his eyes. His eyes were ancient and piercing, as if they had lived through the many ages of the world and still survived. In them she felt she could lose her soul, her essence, her every identifying feature into their grass grasp to keep as a hostage until the end of time.
“I asked if you knew the story?”
Quickly, she shook herself, dragging her interest from the realms of imagination and bewitchment. What she realised others must experience when they were under the influence of her own eyes. She saw the thin lips finish off the words, whistling out the last questioning syllable. Sucking in a solid breath she glanced him up and down, taking in the long grey robe he wore, the many golden rings on his fingers and the delicate embroidery upon his collar and hems. Drinking him in she deliberately dug her own claws into her palms to bring herself back to a full understanding of reality.
Only then did she deem herself able to answer, and she gave a short shake of her head. “I do not, no.”
“Ah well, that,” the man raised a finger to point at the hero. “Is Entiri the Rider. He is striking down the Death King atop his steed Valarie. It is a myth, passed down through the Raiaeran people.”
Stare slowly looked back over to the window, taking it in a second time. She found that she could now understand it a little better, given the names of the individuals.
“And it is in a temple?” she slowly asked.
The mysterious man nodded. And he spoke again. This time when he did Stare found it quite mellow and charming.
“The goddess Cuarye, the Swift-Star, is said to have been present during this battle, when he of great power vanquished the Death King. Of course,” the elf dropped his hand and pulled it around his back to cup it closed with its partner. “No records have ever been found of such a king. Some say it happened actually, on another continent altogether, and Cuarye brought the story with her after travelling there. What is truth … well. We still enjoy it as a good tale.”
The kenku paused for a moment before turning her head up to the man. Tilting her head she eyed him, curious as to why he had chosen her to talk to, and not the other gawking worshippers and tourists.
“It is a good tale, nonetheless,” she said slowly. “Some people like those.”
“A good tale can mean the difference between life and death for some,” the elf shrugged slightly. Then he grinned and a gleam sparked in his eternal eye. “Of course, that in itself is a captivating tale. One where a storyteller must speak to save his life.”
“Spin a tale of the like that has never done before,” Stare grunted, following his eyes to look back at the picturesque statement window. She traced the curve of one strand of Entiri’s flowing hair.
A noise of appreciation came. “Indeed! Exactly, dear one. Now, tell me. Do you know of any other Raiaeran legends?”
Dear one? Now that was eerie. Close to what Vitruvion called her, yet not with the same tenderness and months of meaning behind it.
“No, not many,” she admitted. “I only came to this country a little over a year ago.”
“Well then.” The man nodded slowly, his eyes focusing also on the window. “Some might say that is not an excuse to not learn the culture of the country you now live.”
At that Stare felt a mild irritation. Almost immediately she replied, “I have had other things on my mind.”
“Of course you do,” the man smoothly said. “Like your god.”
Stare instantly froze, a feeling like the blood stopped flowing around her body. Her breathing stopped for some seconds as she held it in distress and dismay; a feeling of dread creeping up her spine. ‘Her god,’ he had just said. He couldn't mean - he could not mean Vitruvion. No, certainly, he had to be presuming she was one of the devoted worshippers of one of the gods here. That made far more sense.
Thus, she inhaled again and opened her beak slightly to reply.
“Ah. Ha. No, I mean Vitruvion.”
At that recognition at the name she swerved her head up to stare at the elf. Eyes wide like dishes she remained in that position, watching the smile on his face slowly extend. Gradually grow. And his bright eyes that were as seemingly old as the universe began to shimmer with a deep knowledge. And a hint of amusement. For quite some time he let her wrestle there in shock and uncertain turmoil, as thoughts raged through her head.
Because no-one should know. It was only Raevin, after he had guessed, Ventrua, Vitruvion's half sister who had come with him to Althanas, and herself who knew. With the added exception recently of Nevin, that made only four on this rocky piece of chaos who knew who he was. What he was. His capability of immense, immeasurable power. And that was only in his human-bound form. If he was full god - and a god of literally everything, one had to remember - he would be near unstoppable. It was one of the reasons why the pantheon gods of Althanas had-
The pantheon. Ansaldo's balls, they were the other ones who knew. Knew about him, his world, his past and present - everything. And if this person was - was saying the most secretive information about Vitruvion, was looking into her mind, then they had to be associated with … or even be.
A creator. A god. Right here, come to her. Now. In this, his temple.
Immediately Stare forgot every emotion that she had been feeling. Instead, it was all replaced by a profound feeling of awe. Slowly and steadily her breath continued its pace as the man with the shimmering skin finally twisted his face around to face hers. A young face, but ageless eyes. Ageless because he himself had taken part in the creation of the elves here, gifted them with great beauty, reflexes, extraordinary long life.
She did not know which one of the gods he was - at least, she was sure he was a 'he’ and not a 'they’ - yet, that hardly mattered. All that did was that here was a second holy individual striding into her life, lips now fully curled up into a smirk, silver hair coming alive as it genuinely seemed to flow.
“Come, we shall go see what he wants. After all, he came here to seek me,” the deity said, and he leant forwards to slam a hand into Stare's shoulder.
It was a shuddering gesture, alarmingly sharp and controlling. Stare had a brief moment to look around and notice no one else was watching them at all, as if she and this god existed inside their own pocket universe. Then, the walls of reality were wrenched asunder, and they were there no longer. It was less as a portal of Vitruvion's design, more of a blink in space. Gone was the vast temple, the people and the great stained glass window. Gone was the bustle of noise. Instead these facts were replaced with a small, neat room, quiet, and a much better feeling of warmth.
Only to be punctuated by a very terrified gasp.
