Unrepentant

Tharon, the God of Labour, was the first to step forward. His massive hands, forged from the very essence of strength, dug into the fabric of the void. From the Nothing, he carved the foundations of the world. He reached deep into the blackness, his fingers tearing at the endless expanse. Where his hands touched, stone and earth sprang forth. Tharon labored tirelessly, his breath heavy as he shaped the continents, the mountains rising under his guidance, valleys forming as he molded the land.

With each motion, he pushed the earth together, his strength bending the terrain into place. His sweat mingled with the stone, creating the rivers that would one day give life to the creatures that would walk the world. The earth groaned under his effort, but Tharon was relentless. He built the bones of the world, solid and unyielding, his creation the very foundation on which all else would rest.

"The paralytic also serves as a nice sedative," Silas said, his voice calm and detached. "You should not be feeling any pain."

Umbres's silent scream echoed within his mind, a cacophony of agony that only he could hear.

Silas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Or was it a stimulant that enhances the experience? I was not in my right state of mind when I brewed some of these. Panic, you see, it gets to us all."

His expression remained neutral as he leaned over Umbres, his fingers gripping the sides of the Inquisitor's temples. With a swift flick of his wrist, Silas popped open the top portion of Umbres's skull, revealing the delicate meninges protecting his brain.

Silas grabbed another scalpel from his array of tools. "Why exactly is this happening to you? Bad luck," he said nonchalantly. "Why am I telling you a story that you already know while I do it? To make sure you remember it, after all… what kind of Inquisitor or Priest forgets such a thing."

He began to cut again, the scalpel approaching the membrane.

''Now, where was I?''

Selia, the Goddess of Life, watched as Tharon worked, her eyes filled with excitement. Once the land was shaped, she danced across it, her feet leaving trails of greenery in her wake. With a soft hum, she stretched her arms wide, and where her fingertips grazed the air, plants sprouted—trees, flowers, and vast forests. She breathed deeply, exhaling a soft, warm wind that swept over the land, filling it with the essence of life. The waters Tharon had created stirred with movement as fish and creatures began to fill the rivers and seas. Birds took flight from the trees, their songs filling the sky. Animals of all kinds roamed the plains, forests, and mountains, each one a part of Selia's creation.

Her laughter echoed across the world, the sound a symphony of vitality. Life flourished under her touch, the world coming alive with a vibrancy that radiated from her very being.

But Valira, the Goddess of War, sneered at the peacefulness of it all. To her, a world without conflict was a stagnant world. With a single swing of her hand, she created storms that whipped through the skies, lightning cracking against the earth. Her presence was fire and fury, and wherever she walked, chaos followed. Volcanoes erupted from the ground, spewing molten rock that would burn the forests and reshape the mountains. Tornadoes spiraled into existence, tearing through the land. She carved rivers of lava through Tharon’s solid stone, daring the others to restore balance.

“Nothing beautiful comes without struggle,” Valira declared. She scattered the seeds of war and conflict, ensuring that the creatures of the world would fight, adapt, and evolve.

"If you are curious why you are still conscious, it is an unfortunate necessity of modifying the mind. It is not so much you that I find useful, but what you shall become." Silas's voice was a low murmur, almost tender, as he leaned over Umbres.

Drool pooled at the corner of his mouth, but Silas knew better than to mistake this for brain death.

"I am quite aware that you are still more than capable of hearing me," Silas continued, his tone still conversational. "Believe it or not, I could once do this with my bare hands. No cutting or tools required." He gave Umbres's brain a gentle poke with a finger, feeling the slight resistance of the tissue.

Silas chuckled darkly. "Don't you worry now, a little Energy coating will make sure this doesn't spill into a pasty mush." He reached for a tool that looked like a retractor. In his other hand, he held a vial half filled with a green liquid containing a single squiggling maggot inside.

"Hmm, justice and honor come now if I recall the yarn…" Silas mused aloud as he adjusted the retractor around a segment of Umbres's exposed brain. The maggot inside the vial wriggled with an eager anticipation.

Oren, the God of Justice, stepped forward. His face was a mask of calm, but his hands trembled with the weight of his task. He touched the world Valira had scarred, and where his fingers pressed, balance returned. The molten rivers cooled, becoming fertile ground for new growth. The storms subsided, but not completely, for conflict must exist for justice to have meaning.

He raised his hand, and the scales of justice hung in the air, unseen by the creatures below. Oren decreed that for every act of chaos, there would be an equal measure of order. His law was not one of peace, but of fairness. Those who took from others would find themselves judged. Those who waged war unjustly would feel the consequences of their actions. Oren’s justice was sharp and swift, like the edge of a blade. The creatures of the world would know that their actions would not go unnoticed.

Probitas, the God of Honor, followed, a solemn figure. He stood beside Oren and spoke not of laws but of virtue. His voice echoed through the mountains and plains, and the creatures heard him. He whispered of loyalty, of bravery, and of sacrifice. His words were carried on the wind, filling the hearts of all living beings with the desire to stand tall, even in the face of adversity. Probitas’s honor was the unbreakable oath, the promise that no matter the chaos or the conflict, there would always be those who would uphold what was right. His essence infused the world, giving strength to the righteous, and guiding warriors to fight with dignity.

"It does look like an insect, does it not? Yet, it is nothing more than a liquid given a small spark. I don't have many of these left, so it is a sort of honor, no?" Silas's voice was steady, clinical, as he observed the writhing 'maggot' burrowing into Umbres's exposed brain. The creature, a grotesque alchemical creation, gnawed at the exposed lobe.

Silas watched with detached curiosity as the maggot performed its grim task. It chewed away at the part of the brain responsible for memories on one side and regurgitated fresh brain matter seemingly untouched by time, as if Umbres was a newborn.

"I do believe you can hear a bit more before we have to begin rebuilding," Silas continued, his tone matter of fact. He leaned closer to Umbres, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the process. The maggot's work was efficient. It was a marvel of alchemical engineering, one of Silas's more ingenious creations.

Silas straightened up, wiping his hands on a cloth. "You see," he said softly, "memory is such a fragile thing. Easily taken apart and just as easily reconstructed." He glanced at the maggot again, noting its progress with satisfaction. "But first, we must clear away the old to make room for the new. Which coincidently brings us to Hiran and our favorite Most Knowledgable..."

From the shadows, Hiran, the God of Death, smiled as his brothers and sisters shaped the world. He knew that no matter how vibrant Selia’s life was, or how strong Tharon’s mountains stood, death would come for all. With a flick of his wrist, he wove the threads of mortality into the fabric of existence. The creatures of the world would live, but their time would be finite. Every life would have its end, every battle its final breath. His touch was cold, but it was not cruel. Hiran gave meaning to the struggles of the living, for without death, there could be no urgency, no reason to cherish the fleeting moments of life.

Jrekisa, the Goddess of Luck, danced through the newly formed world, her laughter light and whimsical. She scattered her influence like seeds in the wind, touching some creatures with favor and leaving others to chance. Luck would be fickle, she decided. Some would rise through fortune alone, while others, despite their strength or wisdom, would fall to misfortune. She spun the threads of fate, tying them loosely, letting chance rule where skill and strength faltered. Her touch ensured that not all outcomes could be predicted, and that the world would forever be a place of surprise.

Rovinius, the God of Knowledge, stood apart from his siblings, his gaze deep and contemplative. He reached into the core of the world, embedding hidden truths and ancient secrets into the very stone. Knowledge would not be freely given; it had to be earned. He planted the seeds of curiosity in the hearts of mortals, driving them to seek, to learn, and to uncover the mysteries he had hidden away. Some knowledge would lead to enlightenment, while others would bring madness, but all would fuel the endless quest for understanding.

Silas gently lifted the brain from Umbres's skull, tugging slightly on the stem. He brought his face closer, inspecting it with a meticulous eye. No abnormalities presented themselves, but he blew a soft breath over it, dislodging a fine layer of dust.

"Well," Silas rasped, his voice low and amused, "I suppose it is fitting for an Inquisitor to have a dusty brain. But now it is time for you to become a Priest."

He released the brain, allowing the stem to pull it back into place. With a deft hand, he pinched shut the meninges and doused them in one of his healing brews. The liquid hissed softly as it made contact, sealing the delicate tissues seamlessly.

Silas moved behind the unmoving Umbres and carefully grabbed the top portion of his skull, resting it back atop his head. He took a moment to think, his mind wandering, "A few more minutes before I have to tell him who he is," Silas thought to himself. "May as well finish the story while I wait."

As the world took shape, Ithaera, the Goddess of Craft, brought order to the chaos of creation. She took the raw elements Tharon had forged and shaped them into tools, weapons, and structures. She taught the creatures of the world how to mold their surroundings, how to build and create. Her hands worked tirelessly, crafting wonders that would last through the ages. She gave form to the formless, and in her creations, the creatures found purpose.

Feyren, the God of Mischief, was not content to let the world settle into routine. He flitted between the others, adding touches of chaos wherever he went. He whispered tricks into the ears of mortals, turning noble deeds into folly and simple tasks into grand misadventures. His laughter echoed in the minds of the living, reminding them that not all was within their control. Feyren ensured that even in moments of peace, there would always be a spark of unpredictability, a reminder that the world was not to be taken too seriously.

Above them all, Serahiana, the Goddess of Fate, and Chronamos, the God of Time, watched in silence. Serahiana’s hands wove the threads of destiny, her eyes seeing the paths of all living beings, from the moment of their birth to the hour of their death. She bound them to their fates, ensuring that no matter what choices they made, they would always end where they were meant to be.

Chronamos, silent and eternal, turned the wheel of time, watching as the world spun into being. He did not interfere, for he knew that all things would come to pass in their own time. He was the keeper of eternity, the one who would outlast even his brothers and sisters.

And so, the world was created—a place of beauty and terror, of war and peace, of life and death. Each god and goddess had left their mark, their essence woven into the fabric of existence.