The Seven Horns of the Second Birth were a long held prophecy for those of the Avarician faith. It was said that when the horns were heard across the continent, the old world would end, and a new one would rise from the ashes of the frost. The blast of their sound was like the final gasp of a dying giant, echoing through the very marrow of the earth.
All across Avaricia, the diverse races that called the frozen continent home paused in their daily routines, their eyes drawn irrevocably towards the heavens. The aerterna elves, with their skin as pale as the snow, stepped out from the sanctuary of their crystalline cities, their pointed ears twitching with unease. The sturdy Dwarfs of the Eastern and Western Dwarven Federations, who had long ago turned their backs on the surface world, felt the tremors in their deep caverns, their bearded faces etched with a mix of awe and dread. The nomadic demon-kin, their skin a canvas of icy tattoos, whispered prayers to the spirits of the earth as they looked skyward, their reindeer huddling closer.
Even in the most remote reaches of the continent, where the barbarian hordes roamed, the horns' call was heard. It resonated through their yurts, stirring ancient fears within their hearts.
This, was the end of the world.
-The Ethereal Realm-
[All-Sky]
"It's time Avaricia paid for her sins," a voice boomed, echoing through the grand hall of the Divine Council. The god's eyes, a fiery amber, bore into the assembly of deities who sat at the table that spanned the breadth of creation.
"But is it just to punish a whole continent for the wrongdoings of one foolish sovereign?" Another god asked, their voice a melodious counterpoint to the fiery god's rage.
"Foolish," spat a third, "his choices shall bring us all to ruin if swift action is not taken."
"Indeed," a fourth diety added, their voice a gentle whisper that seemed to carry more weight than the fiery god's bellow, "the second birth must commence henceforth."
The air grew thick with the tension of their silent accusations and veiled threats, the very fabric of the universe seeming to tremble with the gravity of their decision.
But amidst the cacophony of the divine debate, there were secrets that none of the gods dared to speak aloud. Secrets that they had carefully guarded with their very essence for millennia past.
"Ah," a mysterious voice mused, the very air around it coalescing into shadow, "it seems the gods have secrets they wish to keep."
Their discourse grew heated, the voices of the immortals rising and falling like the tumultuous waves of a storm-tossed sea. Yet amidst the chaos, one truth remained steadfast. The second birth was upon them, and with it, the promise of a new dawn or the specter of an eternal night.
-A Couple Of Hours Ago-
[Arteus and Hanna's Cottage]
As the night grew darker and quieter, the Montfreed home, usually a sanctuary for Arteus and Hanna, was filled with an unusual silence. It was about two and a half hours since Arteus had left, and before this unsettling calm had taken over. The old, rusty hinges of their oak door groaned as it slowly opened, much like the mouth of a grave in a crypt.
"...you" Hanna's voice quivered, a tremor of terror playing upon her lips as her eyes met the unexpected visitor that stood before her, a ghastly visage from a past she had endeavored with all her might to forget.
The visitor, clad in a cloak that seemed to be woven from the very fabric of the night itself, offered no greeting, no malicious sneer nor sinister utterance. Instead, he extended a hand that was as skeletal as the limbs of the trees that scratched at the moon outside, a silent yet imperative summons that sent a shiver down her spine colder than the grave.
"What do you want?" Hanna managed to ask. A question hung in the air, a feeble echo against the weight of the silence that had settled in the cottage. The visitor's eyes remained unblinking however, the shadows playing upon their features like the flickering flames of a dying fire.
The hand was still in the air, like it was asking a question without words. The solemnity of the scene was so thick you could almost feel it. Hanna felt something really cold touch her deep inside, like a hand made of ice. It was scarier than any cold from the prolonged winter and she knew that this was not the time for idle chatter.
-The Present-
[Mount Kendo, Cave]
Arteus stood at the cave's entrance, his body frozen in time, his breath misting in the air. The weight of the melt flowers in his bag seemed to have increased a hundredfold, pulling him back into the warm embrace of the volcanic chamber. His eyes were wide, unblinking, reflecting the eerie glow of the bioluminescent fungi on the walls. The horns' echo still resonated in his ears, a haunting melody that seemed to be speaking to his very soul.
And then, like a response to the divine symphony, the land around him stirred. A distant howl pierced the night, a mournful cry that seemed to carry the pain of a thousand winters. It grew louder, closer, until it was clear that it was not one, but many. The yeti of the northern ice fields had been stirred from their slumber, their deep, guttural calls intermingling with the haunting melody of the wolves that roamed the forests of Avaricia. The creatures of the night had heard the call of the horns and were rallying to the cause, their voices a testament to the power that had once been lost to myth.
The ground beneath Arteus trembled slightly, the echoes of the horns reverberating through the very bones of the world. It was as if the land itself was alive, a sleeping giant now roused from its millennial slumber. The howls grew closer, a chorus of beasts that seemed to understand the gravity of the moment. They were not the mindless cries of hunger or territory, but rather a collective response to the divine decree, a call to arms for the creatures of the frozen lands.
"Mom." Arteus mumbled into the thick fur of his scarf, his breath steaming in the frigid air as the horns' echo faded into the night. "MOM!" The gravity of the situation hit him like an avalanche, burying him beneath an icy weight of fear and responsibility.
Without a moment's hesitation, he sprinted from the cave, his legs propelling him forward with a strength that seemed borrowed from the very volcano that had provided him shelter. The crunch of his boots on the snow was lost in the crescendo of the stampeding animals that accompanied the horns' final note. It was as if the very earth had opened, and from the abyss came a torrent of darkness foreboding.
A cloud of snow erupted behind Arteus when he run, like a dust trail from a dragon's flight. The yetis' howls grew louder, a thunderous crescendo of power and fury that seemed to shake the very foundation of Mount Kendo.
His thoughts raced through his mind, a tumultuous river of doubt, fear, and determination. "What does it mean? What's going on? Is mom okay?" Each question was a pebble thrown into the vast lake of his anxiety, sending ripples of concern across the surface of his consciousness. He knew the prophecy of the Seven Horns, had heard it whispered in the quiet corners of the village, had seen it scribbled in the pages of dusty tomes in the local scribe's shop. But it was never meant to be more than a story, a legend to tell children when the winter nights grew too long.
Yet here he was, the air thick with the scent of change, the very earth trembling beneath his fleeing feet. As he sprinted through the night, the snow beneath him seemed to part, revealing a hidden path that gleamed like a silver thread in the moonlight. It was as though the universe itself had conspired to guide him, to show him the way home in this hour of need. The path was narrow and treacherous, winding through the forest like a serpent seeking its prey, but Arteus didn't hesitate.
He leaped over fallen logs, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the cold air burning his lungs. His heart hammered in his chest, a rhythmic beat that matched the staccato of his boots on the frozen earth. And with every step he took, the memories flooded back, memories of a time when he was but a child, and this path had been his playground, a place of joy and discovery. The path where he had learned to hunt under his mother, a path where he learnt the colours of man in their purest form.
But most of all, he remembered the day when the laughter had turned to taunts, the playful shoves to cruel blows. The day when the other children, driven by whispers of his mixed heritage, had turned on him, their eyes full of malice and fear.
-To Be Continued-