selcouth
everywhere lamb went . . .
Inner Sanctum Nobility
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THE DIVINE CHOSEN
The squabbles of gods were never gentle things; their tempers would sunder mountains, churn seas, and turn the sky itself to ruin. To keep the world from crumbling beneath their divine clashes, the gods, in their begrudging wisdom, struck a pact: no more waging war themselves. Instead, they would each select a championβmortal vessels of their willβto fight in their stead. Their grievances, their rivalries, and their need for dominion would be settled not by their own hands but by the chosen few deemed worthy.
To be anointed as a champion was to become something not quite mortal, yet never truly divine. Your soul, directly tethered to a god's favor, would linger beyond its natural span and could be pulled back from demise so long as your patron willed it. Death was not an end but an inconvenienceβa brief interlude before your broken form was pieced together again, ready to return to the fray.
But eternity comes at a price. Each death chips away at the mind, warping reason and blurring the edges of the self until nothing remains but a hollow puppet of a god's making. To be discarded was the only true release. If your patron grew weary of you, they'd cast you aside to obtain a new pawn. Untethered at last, your soul would drift into oblivion and return to the natural process of being reborn. It was considered a mercy. A kindness.
And kindness from a god is a fickle thing.
To be anointed as a champion was to become something not quite mortal, yet never truly divine. Your soul, directly tethered to a god's favor, would linger beyond its natural span and could be pulled back from demise so long as your patron willed it. Death was not an end but an inconvenienceβa brief interlude before your broken form was pieced together again, ready to return to the fray.
But eternity comes at a price. Each death chips away at the mind, warping reason and blurring the edges of the self until nothing remains but a hollow puppet of a god's making. To be discarded was the only true release. If your patron grew weary of you, they'd cast you aside to obtain a new pawn. Untethered at last, your soul would drift into oblivion and return to the natural process of being reborn. It was considered a mercy. A kindness.
And kindness from a god is a fickle thing.
THE CREATIONISTS
THE SALIENT SEVEN
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