Two days had elapsed since the dire revelations at the once-thriving hamlet of Barley, and the dwindling congregation of souls had commenced a trek of desperation towards the sanctum of Sovereign. The world around them lay in ruins, a ghastly testament to the wrathful hand that had torn asunder the very fabric of existence. Yet, amidst the desolate panorama, they had thus far been granted a respite from the malevolent specters that haunted the lands. The air remained pregnant with an unshakeable sense of foreboding, a spectral presence that seemed to cling to the very essence of their journey.
On the third mournful day, their provisions had dwindled to naught, and the urgent need for sustenance grew as insistent as the hunger that gnawed at their very cores. It was then that the notion of the hunt presented itself, an endeavor that would see them pursue the majestic fleur deer.
"Two will suffice, I trust?" inquired Castrol, the village chieftain, his voice a soft rumble of inquiry that belied the burgeoning bond of trust that had formed 'twixt him and the youthful Arteus over the preceding two days.
"Aye," responded Arteus, his tone devoid of the warmth that might otherwise suffuse his words, for he bore no affection for the very people who had once cast him out. "The fleur deer are indeed a bountiful gift from the All-Sky."
These creatures, hailing from the ethereal realms of the elfin race, were a marvel unto themselves. Their hides, adorned with a lush tapestry of vegetation, provided nourishment aplenty for the mostly herbivorous elves, whose physiology and larger mana pools demanded a fare richer in sustenance than that of their human counterparts. To a human palate, the meat of a fleur deer was a feast that surpassed all others, a veritable cornucopia of flavor and vitality.
It was whispered in hushed tones that these beasts were the result of elfin alchemy, their very essence manipulated in ages long past to serve as walking larders for the elusive and enigmatic elves. The very thought of such power over the natural world sent shivers down the spines of those who knew the elves' propensity for interfering with the divine order.
"Yet, I fear they may have grown as maddened as the other denizens of the wilds in this era of rebirth," Castrol mused as they wove a net from the coarse remnants of the barn's contents.
"Alas, 'tis a grim truth we must accept," Arteus concurred, his eyes reflecting the gravity of their plight.
For fleur deer were not the delicate creatures of myth; they were colossi of nature, their heads crowned with antlers that reached skyward like the branches of ancient trees, and their very presence an embodiment of the primal power that once suffused the lands of Avaricia. To confront such a creature alone was to dance with the very maw of death.
Thus, the plan was hatched with the cunning of the desperate: Arteus would serve as the lure, taunting the herd and guiding them to where Castrol and their comrades lay in wait among the gnarled boughs of the trees. There, they would unfurl the net, a web of fate that would entrap the unsuspecting deer, allowing the young boy to deliver the fatal blow to their antlered weakness.
"Life in the elfin lands must indeed be one of unbridled ease," Castrol murmured, lost in contemplation of the creatures they sought.
"Bah!" exclaimed Martin, a man of strong convictions, "If only they knew the folly of their ways, to worship so narrowly!"
"But they do follow All-Sky's teachings," Castrol interjected, his curiosity piqued by the discord in the air.
"Aye," Martin conceded through gritted teeth, "But only through the lens of Mamochisane, the elfin warrior-goddess."
The very mention of her name brought forth a storm of anger from the man, for she had been known to favor conquest and elfin dominion over the land of Avaricia.
"But was she not an elf herself, in the time of the Second Avarician Blood War?" Castrol ventured, seeking understanding in the tempest of Martin's words.
"Indeed, she was," Martin hissed, "A scourge upon this very earth, whose ascension brought nothing but blood and strife."
"It is curious," Castrol mused, "That the elves have not sought to conquer this continent since her rise to divinity."
"The elves," Arteus spoke up, his voice carrying a weight that belied his youthful visage, "Care not for the material trappings of this world. 'Tis a lesson we could all stand to learn."
With finality, Castrol nodded, bringing their discourse to a close. "We are ready," he affirmed.
Arteus, the chosen bait, had long ago honed his senses to detect the presence of fleur deer from afar, and as the shadows of the third evening began to stretch across the frozen wasteland, he discerned the unmistakable presence of a herd. Their haunt was a place of beauty and danger, a waterfall that whispered secrets into the chilly night.
As he approached however, something was amiss. The deer that emerged from the shadows were not the creatures of legend, not the beasts of verdant hue and gentle grace. These were monsters of the abyss, their coats the color of the midnight sky, a stark contrast to the usual dual tones that adorned their kin.
The world had gone mad, it seemed, and even the sacred fleur deer had been tainted by the darkness that had descended upon Avaricia. The fate of the survivors now hung in the balance, as they prepared to confront the horrors that lurked in the very heart of the natural world they had once revered.
-To Be Continued-