Fantasy Champions of the Divine [Main Thread]

[Solirus]

Imprisonment​

The skies were clear blue this day, the sun was past noon, it radiated with an unending brightness and heat. The soil it fell into was dead and barren, overstepped by those who resided upon it willingly or not. The sea glistened with the light, the waves crashing upon dozens of warships docked on the harbor of the camp. These were no mere ships, but instead the labor of carpenters and lucky slaves. This camp was a machine and a prison, one fueled by the ceaseless work of slaves, captured from the war, or bought from others.

Where there was misery, there was opportunity. Many knew that the Mathean empire was guided by war and the glories one could attain from it and yet the empire also valued its community or more importantly on how that community could be used for the empire. In their eyes, it was an honor and a privilege to serve for the empire in whatever form possible. Yet to the slaves who labored their lives away, torn from home and family, there was no honor and duty, the thing that drove them was either hope or despair.

Whether just having been sold to the camp or in the midst of grueling work, few slaves suddenly saw as the world around them slowed to a crawl and halted. Their fellow miserables and even the guards who watched over them were no more mobile than boulders. They themselves however remained unchanged, their ragged clothes remained and the shackle on their right foot held on tightly.

Directly forwards to all who were unaffected by the stillness, a figure appeared, their body appeared as flowing silk, even as the winds did not seem to blow here, and their head appeared as a carved and dull gemstone with antlers protruding outwardly. From the cloth a shadowy figure resembling an arm came out, pointing at those that saw it.

​

“You have been chosen to partake in a contest between the Gods” The voice didn’t seem to come from the individual before them but instead from their own head. “You shall meet with your Patron now” The figure before them abruptly disappeared, enveloped by a blue light and leaving nothing behind.

Now each of the slaves vaguely knew of their predicament and should the words by the figure be true, they would be in the presence of divinity.

 

[Dest]

Callarhan Storm​

---

Callarhan stared in shock at the location the figure had disappeared from, the shovel within his hands nearly forgotten from his surprise. A visit from a divine? Now of all times? Over a decade after he had been ripped from his family and forced into this camp to toil away his life? Why now of all times, was there some plan going on? Callarhan slowly looked around, taking in the sight of the frozen guards and slaves that surrounded him, the whips held within the former's hands frozen in midair and ready to strike at any moment.

"My child, oh how I am sorry for this life you have been forced to live," The voice echoed around him, seeming to come from the ground itself. After a few brief moments a breeze was kicked up, gathering leaves and grass as it did and slowly twisted into the form of a woman made of plants. "Long have I watched you toil and struggle oh young one, ripped from your role as one of my chosen few by your father. But now, at long last, I have been able to draw you back to your true role as one of my loyal servants. You are Chosen, Callarhan Storm, as my champion."

"My lady Saramat!" As soon as the goddesses form coalesced, Callarhan bowed, head bowed deeply as half-forgotten customs and rituals flashed through his mind. It had been many years since he had last prayed, and longer still since his training as a shaman, but he still owed the greatest respect to the Goddess before him. "You honor me my lady, I shall strive to live up to the position that you have given me!"

"I ask only that you try my child, now I must go. But first, a gift," With a drifting movement the goddess bent low, laying a kiss upon the Taur's brow. As her lips left his head Callarhan felt a rush of knowledge begin to flood his mind, the boon of his goddess having been granted. "I shall be watching young one, please make sure that you survive the trials you are set to face upon your new path."

And with that, the Goddess faded away as if she had never been there in the first place, a deep sense of warmth being the only thing left to Callarhan to show it was truly real.
​

 

[jmann]

Andronicus Tryggvi Selander

---

A single suber tree overlooked the arid camp from the comfort of a natural hill, eroded from the shoreline. The coastal breeze gently shook the leaves and rattled the bark. A crack split the quiet of the hill. An axe embedded deep in its trunk ripped free, tearing wood and bark with it. Another few cracks and the gentle shaking of leaves was replaced by a crash and the splintering of wood. Then silence. Joining the hundred other stumps dotting the hill.

A large man stood above the tree with a weathered axe that looked as if it hadn’t been cared for in weeks. The fraying oak handle met equal strength against the man’s cracked and calloused palms. Smaller hands, softer by far and belonging to an officer in their late twenties, snatched the axe from the man’s hands.
“Back to work, icer.”

The man, Tryggvi Selander, was a thick-faced Syuethyrian man. Sweat clung to every inch of his body like he hadn’t had a decent bath in months. The oppressive heat wasn’t helping either.
Tryggvi wasn’t allowed to hold the axe when he wasn’t actively chopping logs. Something about his physique frightened them. He didn’t think too much of it. His days of thinking were over, he was a slave now and that was all there was to it. The smaller officer shoved the handle of a large hook into his stomach. Tryggvi took the hook and pierced the log, lifting it up and over his shoulder. His shoulder ached, it was his sixth day hauling logs without rest. But if it meant he wasn’t sent to the frontlines, he didn’t care.

Tryggvi walked behind the officer, hauling the tree behind him as other slaves were tasked with sawing off branches and stripping the leaves. There was little time to stop for proper dismemberment, so they were forced to do it as they walked. All the while, being careful of the rusted saw blade. If they nicked themselves, they’d die of infection before a physician so much as looked in their direction.
Turning the corner from the open camp gates and towards the lumber yard, Tryggvi felt the sawing cease at the same time as the officer stopped in their tracks. He looked around. The camp was quieter than it should have been, silent in fact. He released the log and watched as it did not fall but instead remained floating where he left it. Tryggvi raised an eyebrow. It was not his place to question the magic of the world. He was a pawn in the game of war now, nothing more.

Then a person figure thing appeared. Its features defied nature, robes like silk but flowing through impossible dimensions in an illusory wind. Tryggvi’s mind refused to comprehend it, yet it spoke anyway. And like it or not, the meaning of the words branded Tryggvi’s mind like hot coals. A flash of blue and it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

The image of a weathered granite stele flashed in front of him, like the religious texts of his hometown, suspended as if held by unseen hands. It looked as real as the sweat on his brow, as if he could hold out his hand and pluck it from the air. On its surface showed a dozen figures of various impossible physiologies. One he recognised as the silken individual. The others were lost on him. In an instant it was replaced by a book with pages fluttering open. On each page that passed was art, at first it was paint on stone. Then rock carvings, then statues of marble and bronze, to slick oil canvases. Thousands of pages passed and thousands of artwork from eons past to the current day. Just as abruptly it changed again to an aged vellum scroll depicting the most detailed portrait of Tryggvi he had ever seen. Like he was staring into his own eyes. He barely recognised himself anymore. The years had taken more than their fair toll, visible in the creases or his skin and the greys of his beard.

The image flashed again. The stele was back. It flashed again to the book, then again to the scroll. Stele. Book. Scroll. Stele, book, scroll. Stele book scroll stele book scroll stele book scroll. Flash.
They were gone.
Tryggvi’s eyes hurt from the strain of the images. They were false teachings. Even if a god had chosen him for a competition, it was merely another machine in which he was a pawn. It was not worth risking his life for. Tryggvi had tossed away ideals of fighting for his faith decades ago.

On the cracked ground in their place was a weathered copper torc. His old Jarl in Orrostr wore one of gold around his neck, and his wife wore two of silver around her wrists. They were the gifts of kings and wealthy merchants alike. Seeing one in the dirt was like a book in the ocean. Yet, when he was thirteen years old his Jarl had awarded him and his father copper torcs for their hard work. They weren’t as valuable, but the message meant more than any amount of gold ever could. And now, here he was, holding another one.
Tryggvi picked it up and quickly tucked it into his shirt.

The gifts didn’t matter. As strange as they were, he would not be another piece of somebody else’s puzzle. The impossible gods, the war, the contest, it all meant nothing if it got him killed. But to say he cast aside all thoughts of war and divine favour would make him a liar. Tryggvi took up the log again and continued on.

 

[YsFanatic]

Vanessa resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the sun as she stood in line with the other new arrivals, waiting to be separated and given their tasks. She knew from watching others that even something as simple as trying to keep the harsh sunlight out of your eyes risked bringing the wrath of the guards upon the slave in question, and she did not want to risk that right now and getting labeled as a problem would only make her eventual escape all that much harder. The former thieve's guild member did mentally grumble about how long it was taking the line to move before she noticed something odd. Nothing was moving, not the guards, the other slaves, or even the grass.

The oddity of situation caused the red-haired woman to take the risk of stepping out of line to more easily look around, only to see that a strange and unexpected figure to have appeared. When it vanished after delivering the strange message, Vanessa couldn't help but mutter a quick "what the hell?" as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"He does that," another voice comments from around her as a dark gray bubble formed around Vanessa, a barrier that would prevent anyone else from listening in or even observing. Of course a number of the gods would bypass it if they really wanted to, but the god who made the dome figured they were too busy to do that right now. "Don't have much time to explain things, at least not yet. Just be aware that the nature of my power means that my gift has some... complications."

"Complications?" she asks while glancing around in an attempt to find the source of the voice, something that she finds herself failing to do. The sensation of someone, or something, tapping her wrists brings Vanessa's attention down to her hands where her eyes widen in alarm. Somehow without her noticing her nails had significantly changed, becoming curved claws akin to that of a predator while the skin on her hands had become a dark purple in color.

"A bit of self defense for now. Your spell should be just enough to hide them for now. Your eyes have changed colors as well, though I doubt the guards will pay much attention to that." The voice hesitates. "I don't have time to give you an explanation you'd be happy with right now, but I WILL keep an eye on you and explain more once I get the chance, including who I am. For the moment the main rules you need to be aware of is not telling other mortals about the contest and no attacking those chosen by other gods. However our time seems to be just about up so you might want to get back in line..."

Vanessa's breath caught in her throat for a moment as she caught the warning in the voice's last statement. If whatever was keeping everything still was about to end, she did not want it to look like she had suddenly shifted locations. That kind of attention would be really bad for her chances to escape. Quickly casting False Hands on herself, making her changed hands look like how they did just moments ago, she shuffles back to her place in line moments before the bubble made by the voice vanished. While she tried to calm herself with some deep breaths, a single thought kept racing through the red-head's mind. 'I don't know what the FUCK is going on here, but I get the feeling that this may be my best chance to escape.'

In the distance an orange cat sat in the branches of a tree, watching everything with keen interest while he waited for the trial to start.