Elsewhere.

“You really have lost hope,” the god Galatirion frowned, resplendent in his silken finery. At his feet a young priest kneeled, head bowed and raising up a silver platter, upon which was dressed the fattest, roundest grapes.

Across the small room, slumped somewhat into a throne-like chair the white haired being known as Vitruvion glared back. Like Galatirion he was beautiful, gorgeous and had an attractive scent around him, but unlike Galatirion he was dirty, dissatisfied, and looking exhausted.

“I have not 'lost hope,’ as you put it,” Vitruvion snapped at the Raiaeran god of immortality. “I've never had much in the first place, little thanks to you, but I've not 'lost hope.’”

“You are here, in my temple, moping in my court, eating my food, resting on my chair, using my subjects and asking for my help.” The god plucked a grape and pushed it between his lips. Taking a small bite he chewed, then swallowed as Vitruvion stared at him, dull eyed and glaring, before he finished. “You should really be grateful.”

Vitruvion growled at him. “Grateful? To you? One of the bastards who reduced down my essence into this pathetic meat sack?” He looked down at the priest who held up the silver platter, who had been there kneeling for over an hour now in the exact same position. “Shouldn't you give him a rest?”

Galatirion paused for a moment, looking confused. Brow furrowed he looked around. “What do you mean? Who? What?”

“Him!” Vitruvion waved an irritated hand at the priest. “You know, him.”

It took a moment for the god of immortality to understand. He leant back to peer around what he could see - the grapes and silver chair - and blink at the still but swallowing being, who had his eyes tightly screwed closed.

“Oh. Him. No,” dismissively Galatirion waved the point aside. “He is one of mine. He knows his job. He will be fine.”

The look on Vitruvion's face was one of sudden anger. “You cannot treat one of them like that,” he hissed, pissed off. “They serve you, they are not your slave.”

“Says the man who tortures and rapes young women,” Galatirion snapped back. Vitruvion stared like he was mad. “And you know - enslaved that little pet of yours.”

Slowly Vitruvion sat forwards, tension building through his body as his face became a twist of fury. “Never tortured. Raped, yes, I will admit to that. Not like you have not done such. As to Stare,” his hand became a rolled fist with a single long finger. “You fucking keep her out if this. Everything I have done, however wrong is to keep her at my side, to protect her from the likes of you lot who forgets why we are what we are. I had to re-remember that fact, relearn it all, no thanks to you bastards, and it took a bloody bird to do it.”

Galatirion paused as he surveyed the god sitting forwards now in the seat, poised at the edge of it, eyes full of passion. Leaning over he plucked another grape as he curled his lip. “Boy, I have always tried to remind you what gods are here for. I even rejoiced when you began that little project of an empire you call the Hollow, even if I did not entirely agree with everything you did - do there. I thought, here Vitruvion is, looking to make his mark on the world, but thirty years later what do we have now.” He rolled the grape between his fingers. “A pathetic grump of a creature who has lost his pride. Who is unable to keep a small half god away from those who serve him, who comes here begging for me to help him find his half-sister. You're back to how you were when you first came here, Vitruvion; less naïve, certainly but still too curious, too hopeless, too miserable. Too obsessed with his own subjects - sorry, subject, and become weak. So weak that you let your - your feelings for her cloud your judgement. I was proud of you,” he looked back at him with distaste. “Now I am sick of you.”

A silence passed between them. Vitruvion found himself reaching and clutching for his cane. He held it, tight in his hands, fingers curled around the pommel of the owl like he was going to rip it in twain. Slowly he breathed, but it was ragged breath as he fought the temptation not to get up and fight this disgusting god before him. A man who willed a mortal to sit there for hours, only to be a piece of furniture. Oh yes, Vitruvion himself was guilty of crimes similar. Images of Stare bound like nothing more than a package still burned in his mind, only to satisfy his lust. Of course, as the weeks had passed she had become more willing, and the sexual encounters had become more easier. It was so much so that he had waited until the newest girl, Sable, was ready. His heart beat heavily when he thought about his crimes, and what he might pay for them, were he in a more moral society. But this was it; he was a god, in Raiaera, where behind the curtain of beauty this thing was a commonality every day. He was just another dark wheel in the machine, desperately holding onto the few things that mattered to him most.

Raevin, who was still recovering from his demonic attack. Ventrua, who had disappeared, and whom he had come to this temple for to try to find some news. Stare, whom he refused to admit he had become obsessed by, despite still legally owning her, despite making her immortal so she could live with him into eternity, despite telling her, to her face, that he would never let her go. Stare, whom Galatirion had mentioned 'feelings’ for …

Feelings. “It was a mistake coming here,” Vitruvion said slowly, standing. “I let you get into my head once, let your way of life, my father's way of being a god rule me. I am not blaming you for the crimes I have committed, but you are wrong. I am not weak. I am not pathetic. I know exactly what I want, and that is still to rule, to be a god, but with those who respect me. Not fear me.” He gestured angrily at the priest. “That, is something I would never do. Now I came here to see if you had heard of my sister, clearly you haven't, so I will move on. But know this, Galatirion …”

He drew himself up to his full height, taking step forwards. “My kingdom will be greater than yours.”