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The day on which the two hundred and fifty third competition took place was almost perfect. The sky remained clear, spare for a couple clouds gently drifting with the morning wind. Spring flowers blossoming into a kaleidoscopic carpet spanning the surface of this year’s selected pocket universe. Rivers abundant with water so pristine most species could take a sip without filtration.
In honor of such a special day, the already beautiful lands have been further adorned in every color across the spectrum of light. Vendors set up stalls of goods from this universal cluster and beyond, hoping to utilize the occasion and the many potential customers it brings. And the worship - a year in which they fail to live up to the ideal of beauty has yet to occur! Bards and artisans performing their craft for all to see as competitors of all shapes and appendage counts prepared themselves for the grand performance.
All perfect but Vil Schoenheit, specifically his eye shadow. Five minutes have passed, and yet he cannot seem to get it quite right, blue was hardly his color. Imperfection is never permissible, but especially not today. Sitting at one of many tables spread out across the center of attention, peering into an all too honest handheld mirror, Vil could not help but find himself annoyed. Perhaps he should move: the lighting here is far from ideal, and the seats were rather uncomfortable in spite of the intricate craftsmanship.
“I see you are competing once again, Roi du Poison.”
Vil froze for a moment, but was taken out of his stupor upon registering the identity of his companion. Of course, for Rook Hunt was among the few humans of this realm who could scare him like that in the first place. The beautiful young man invited himself to a seat next to Vil, not that the latter particularly minded.
“Why of course. What sort of… devotee would I be, not to engage with the celebration of our beloved deity?”
Rook tilted his head off to the side, “Hmn, I do not believe the others quite see it that way. This festival is but a celebration of our avatar of beauty, the competition is merely so his other domain does not get neglected- not that there is any fault with such of course! Truth be told, this is my most beloved event of the year. Beauty, mortal and divine-”
And there he goes again. And of course it’s about Neige LeBlanche, oh Neige LeBlanche, the relatively popular god of beauty and competition of his home plane and a couple others. A bubbly and kind deity, if a little naive. Every year a competition of beauty is held in his honor, an act of devotion from those that devote themselves to the pursuit of beauty and to their deity. While the actual competition itself is largely a matter of ritual, an act of worship, after all who could beat a God in their own domain? Who would even have the audacity to try? Albeit the impossible odds did not dissuade people from trying, at least in the beginning. But this many years into the Gods reign and still undefeated the "competition” has become little more than ceremony. Except for one, one arrogant fool of a titan who keeps on trying sincerely anyways, that fool being-
“To answer your question,” Vil interrupted the other mid sentence. The response came out strained and brash. How uncouth. He paused, and swiftly nodded his head.
“Yes. I am competing.”
“I see then… I suppose even as a human, you have always been a performer. It is among your most admirable traits, monsieur. I could not even hope to keep up such a life, so I ought to settle for simply observing beauty.”
Vil forced a smile as his fingers dug into the space between the wooden plaques of the table. If Rook were allowed to speak for but a second longer, he will not hear the end of him singing Neige’s praises, as he does every time the deity’s name dares to slip off any poor soul’s lips.
A high pitched squeak overtook the air.
“Vil! Ahh there you are! I have been looking for you my dear devotee! I have been looking for you,” Neiges voice rang out across the courtyard as light and airy as the false god’s sure steps as he practically floated across to where his devotee sat. Speak of the devil, huh.
Vil looked up from where he had just been speaking with the hunter sitting at the table, “Neige.. how may I be of service?” The smile Vil gave Neige would read as polite, beautiful even to most, only those closest to the titan would be able to see the acidic bite in it. Neige does not have the privilege of being one of those people.
“Oh please, don't trouble yourself, I don't need you to do anything for me. I simply wanted to thank you!”
“Thank me?”
Neige clasped his hands, eyes shimmering in that dazzled pathetic way of his, “Why yes of course! You of all my followers deserve thanks! Plus I wanted to be able to do so before the main event of the festival this year. After all these competitions have felt less and less like competitions as the time went by. It is truly a wonder to have someone actually try at these things again. So I wanted to thank you for making these competitions actually enjoyable for me again, I really do appreciate having someone at least attempt to win you know!”
“Attempt to win.. of course” Vil responds sounding strained, trying to keep his voice level. It would be unbecoming to deny the deity proper manners.
Rook cleared his throat before Vil could speak further, “Roi du Poison, what I am sure Roi des Neiges means to say is he appreciates the effort you put into respecting such wonderful domains as beauty and the spirit of competition are!”
“Rook, I didn't notice you there! Do tell me how you have been? I feel like I’ve barely seen you since you ran off to join that.. the Pale Lodge was it?” Neige continues on oblivious as ever to the tension.
“Hardly a problem, I do have a talent for disappearing into the background when I so choose.”
As Rook rattled on about his most recently completed contract against some hitman from Patchwork, Neige summoned a pot of peppermint tea perfectly brewed for their liking, offering a cup to the two devotees. Vil could have sworn Rook hit cloud nine when his fingers brushed over those of his beloved deity.
“I’m surprised a god keeps that close an eye on his devotees, surely it must take a tremendous amount of effort,” Vil narrowed his eyes as he accepted the cup.
“Oh I couldn't keep an eye on all of the comings and goings of all of my followers goodness no! But Rook here has been such a dedicated devotee to Beauty, I would be remiss to not keep an eye on him!”
Ah.
Rook took a sip of his tea, and Vil stirred the herbal blend placed in front of him.
Neige gave a soft smile, “Ah, how time flies, I have to get going. But it was so nice getting to see you guys! Hope you enjoy the celebration, and as for Vil, may the fairest of them all win!”
With a wink he was gone. Neige LeBlanc winked while poking fun at him. Vil stood up from the table, slightly lifted his gown so as not to muddy it, and without even a sip of the tea prepared to make his exit. As he did so, Vil saw something shift out of the corner of his eye.
“Why are you following me Rook, you should stay back and enjoy the festivities. After all you are such a ‘dedicated devotee to beauty’: it would be a shame if you missed it.” Vil says with mild air of condescension and exasperation as he hears another pair of footsteps, lighter than his own join him as he leaves the dedicated festival grounds.
“Why, I thought it would be a nice time to have a walk, the whole of Pyroxine is so beautiful after all.”
“Hmmph. Do as you will then,” Vil tightened his lips.
The pair continued their walk, down the roads, across the glades, further and further as the sounds of the festival slowly faded away. The rolling green hills and clear almost crystalline blue sky certainly lent itself to a peaceful walk. Vil's anger faded from almost exploding down to its usual simmering, yet the undeniable undercurrent of tension that had been slowly growing all morning did not fade with sounds of the festival, if anything it only grew worse the longer they walked.
“You know, I came across the most peculiar of contracts the other day,” Rook says, breaking the tense silence the two of them had built during their short walk, idly playing with a flower he had plucked from the fields. Vil paused dead in his tracks: he knew exactly what the hunter was referring to.
“My Roi du Poison, why didn’t you ask me for help with this little scheme of yours directly?”
“And risk you betraying me for asking you to help kill your Roi des Neiges? Absolutely not.” Vil says with a scoff, collecting himself.
“Do you really trust me so little Mon Cherie? I am hurt!”
“If it were anyone else, no, but I can hardly ask you to help kill your God and not expect a poor outcome.”
“But sending a hit out to the lodge would not risk the same? I did see it after all.”
Vil stops mid stride again, body pulled taut like a bow ready to be fired, his gaze fixed towards the path beneath their feet.
“I did not want to see the look on your face when you realised what I intend to do,” he murmured under his breath, half hoping the other would not make out his words.
“Roi du-”
“Well it's of little matter now, you will either tell your precious Neige or you will not,” Vil says as he abruptly starts walking again, pace much brisker than before.
“Vil I-”
“I suppose all I can hope for is that you don't warn off anyone else who would take the contract if you do decide to keep your peace.”
“Vil, please stop for a moment,” Rook reached for his hand, but Vil batted it away.
“There is no point in trying in trying to talk me out of this, my mind is made up-”
“I took the contract.”
“I refuse to… I’m sorry you what..?” Vil stopped dead in his tracks, turning to look at Rook for the first time since they had departed the festival grounds.
“I took the contract. If anyone is going to meddle in the affairs of Beauty then it ought to be one that is truly devoted to Beauty, no? And who knows Roi des Neiges or you my Roi du Poison better than myself? No, I am most certainly the only hunter capable of taking on this contract and executing it with the care that it deserves.”
Vil could not believe his ears. Had he perhaps gone mad, or his hearing had finally betrayed him. The young hunter continued, flicking the flower he was playing off to the side in a flair of dramatics.
“Senior hunters always say that rule one of deicide is to know your target better than their most adoring devotee, and I cannot allow any other soul from the great structure or beyond to even have the hubris needed to try and best moi,” Rook’s eyes followed the flower as it blew along with the wind, “Nethertheless, I have spent day and night researching any and all weaknesses Roi des Neiges may possess which would be relevant to us.”
Even if Rook may not be all that helpful, hearing him out would not be harmful. He is right, after all, for he knows Neige and Vil as well as they do themselves. Would most likely not lie, either.
“And what have you found..?”
“Why, just the most interesting thing,” Rook perked up, “Appears to be Roi de Neiges is vulnerable to much the same things as mortals like I, due to the nature of his ascension.”
Vil froze over. To think, after all this time, it could have been so easy.
“Albeit in different quantities, but-”
Vil's mind drifts back to the cup of tea Neige had summoned, still sitting on the table untouched. He never did consume anything the false god offered yet practically every time they met Neige would conjure something to eat or drink, if he were to offer?
“I believe I have something that will suffice…”
The last night of the festival the streets were abuzz with charged conversation, as the lanterns lit up the streets as brightly as little suns gently swaying in the breeze. Locals and travelers alike had all gathered in the auditorium to watch the main attraction of the festival, the competition. This festival has been a major event for centuries and the state of the city tonight certainly reflects that fact. No corner was empty of hushed whispers or rancorous cheers of merriment. The vendors calling out selling refreshments for what should surely be a marvelous show, florists selling flowers of all kinds that the audience may shower the winner of the festival competition with.
Many different people fill the streets, moving and flowing together like streams into rivers all rushing towards the lowest point. The view of the streets below leading up to the thearte from the perspective of a bird flying across would give the impression of an army of very colorful ants rushing towards a bit of fallen, forgotten fruit. The thearte stage itself was adorned with thousands of delicate snowdrop flowers, their delicate petals creating an ivory pattern atop the red wood.
Conversation over conversation building up and up to a verifiable drone that can be heard even blocks away and through stone walls. Vil was in his element. The sound that was the background hum of an audience was familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. He hums gently to that drone as he applies the finishing touches to his eyeshadow, a beautiful vivid cool toned purple, the same shade as the inconspicuous liquid sitting in a glass bottle on the backstage vanity, next to a half drunk cup of tea amongst various strewn beauty products. Every movement of Vil’s added more to a calm antithesis of how his mind swirls in anticipation.
Just as Vil is about to scrap the current eyelook he is working on for the third time that night, the bells announcing the mere half an hour before the ceremony begin to ring.
Vil sets down the makeup brush with a sigh.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks, not bothering to turn around or take his attention off the mirror as his companion walks over from the wall he had been observing for the better part of the last few hours.
“If anyone could create a poison strong enough to kill a God, it would be you my Roi du Poison, would it not?”
A grimace that looks rather out of place on a face like Vil’s contorts his features, creasing the carefully applied foundation. He reaches for the bottle, the wet feeling of condensation that had accumulated reminding him uncomfortably of the sensation of sweat that would appear on his hands when he was nervous for a performance back when he was still human.
“This particular poison is your speciality, yes?” Rook asks as he leans over Vil’s shoulder to watch the swirl of the liquid inside the bottle as it's turned back and forth.
Vil hums in affirmation, his thumb dragging across the point where metal cap and glass meet. After a moment's contemplation he stands up and opens the bottle pushing Rook back slightly with the chair as he does so.
“Neige should be here any minute, he comes around every year after the final bell to give his well wishes to all the competitors”
“We should make our final preparations then,” Rook responds casually as he watches Vil pour a small portion of the bottle into the tea cup he had been drinking from earlier.
“I thought you were intending to simply give him the bottle as is- what are you doing.”
The hunter asks as he watches with mild alarm as Vil downs the rest of his now altered tea. The beginning of an idea of a feeling starts to form in the depths of his stomach, a sickly, churning, writhing thing. It clings to his insides and rather makes him feel like he was the one who just swallowed laced tea and not Vil. It's an unfamiliar feeling, he hopes it remains so. And for all Rook is a man ruled by his passions he is not ruled by emotion, so he pushes this unknown variable far down where it hopefully does not disrupt the delicate tight rope he must walk tonight.
“That should definitely be strong enough, has to be” Vil mutters under his breath as he secures the lid on the bottle once more.
“Why… why would you consume-??”
““Oh quit your motherhenning, do you really think I am incapable of neutralising my own poisons? The best way to evaluate my work is to test it. I am surprised I need to remind you of all people that, or is your little nickname for me.. ‘King of Poisons?’ was it? meant only as a figure of speech from you ”
“My Roi du Poison, I have never once doubted your skills and abilities pertaining to your domain, far from it, I have nothing but the utmost praise for your beauty and the beauty of your creations. I had not-”
The hunter cut himself off from his speech at the sound of footsteps light and graceful, unnoticeable to most, but as demanding of attention as the bells five minutes prior had been to those who know how to listen, quickly grew louder.
“Vil! My dear devotee! I wish you good luck in this year's competition! Oh! Rook, I didn’t expect to see you! You know you aren’t supposed to sneak back here”
“Ahh Roi de Neiges, It is a blessing to me to be in your presence as always. I simply could not help myself when presented with the opportunity to interact with such beauty up close, I am sure you understand.”
“Of course, of course, what devotee of mine wouldn’t strive to behold the most beauty they can.”
“Neige, welcome, as a gift not only for good luck but as a gift from a devotee to a deity I wanted to gift you a bottle of a new blend of tea I have been working on” Vil, voice saccharine sweet as he interrupts the two before they can start waxing poetic at each other about beauty.
“Thank you so much! It looks so pretty, I wasn’t aware you made tea!” The ever oblivious God of competition says as he accepts the bottle from his opponent's outstretched hand.
“I’ve always appreciated being able to use things to their full potential and that includes my garden.”
“Oh it's cold, aren't teas usually hot? Neige asks slightly confused as he opens the bottle and smells its contents.
“Not necessarily, I wanted to make this particular blend a coldbrew, keeps the beauty and complexity of the ingredients more intact” Vil explains, lavender eyes never leaving the bottle as the oblivious God looks at it every which way then slowly lifts it to his lips.
Both hunter and titan watch with rapt attention as Neige LeBlanche takes a tentative sip of the pale purple concoction before watching the Gods eyes light up and promptly help himself to half the bottle
“Oh this blend is quite good! not overwhelmingly sweet like most gifts I get, what's in it?”
“Hibiscus, Pea flower, and Monkshood, with some sugar to sweeten,” Vil answers, eyes still following the bottle as Neige once again lifts it to his mouth much in the same way a hawk would watch a rabbit.
“Monkshood isn’t that used for colds?”
“Yes, it's also used to lessen anxiety.”
“Oh, is that why you used it? Thank you so much for your consideration! I don’t have any need for that sort of thing but I appreciate the thought!”
“My pleasure as always” Vil replies with the smile that means he is imagining strangling Neige again.
“As wonderful as this time together has been, if I am not mistaken both of you are required on stage quite soon if I am not mistaken?” Rook interrupts reminding all parties of their reasons for being here tonight.
“Ah yes I should be off! Wonderful seeing you Rook, and thank you for the gift Vil! I can feel my heart racing from gratitude and excitement for the rest of tonight as well! See you on stage!”
The pair watch the God leave a now half empty bottle in hand, neither miss the way the normally perfectly graceful God stumbles and catches himself on the doorframe as he sees himself out.
“Well I should finish getting ready, with any luck he’ll drop before he gets on stage” Vil mutters turning back to the mirror and returning to fussing over his eyeshadow as he was before the bell had rang.
“In which case, I shall get going, keep an eye on how our plan is progressing. But do try to relax mon cher, enjoy the festival's end” Rook says, gently grabbing Vil's wrist and returning the make-up brush to the table.
“Don’t you dare miss the show.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Later, Rook weaves his way through the many hallways and doors that exist behind the stage, the feeling that the hunter had still yet to identify but had been steadily growing since Vil opened the bottle makes itself known more strongly, lodging itself in his throat alongside the pit in his stomach.
Just as he reaches the hall on the opposite side of the stage, where Neige is most likely to be getting ready, the bell tolls once more summoning the competitors on stage.
“shame” Rook murmurs under his breath as he diverts his course so that he can watch the events unfold from the rafters of the stage.
The bell's final toll sounds, requesting the final participant's presence on stage just as Vil is setting down his brush, finally satisfied with his look. All the moves that can be played have been play, all that’s left is to see is whose favour the game unfolds this time.
Vil closes the door to the dressing room behind him and makes his way down the hallway towards the stage, trying to ignore the way his heart feels like it's beating out of his chest. It's been several centuries since he has failed to adequately neutralise one of his own poisons before consuming it but he’s beginning to wonder if now of all times his perfect track record has been broken.
The lights of the stage are blinding, the roar of the crowd deafening, they always are. Vil struts onto the stage with the confidence of someone who's done it a million times before and knows that it's far too late to change the outcome now, and win or lose it's better to do so with a high head.
The crowd's cheers double in volume and Vil's gaze immediately locks onto the cause, Neige.
Immediately it becomes abundantly clear that Neige is not his usual self. While the fans are blinded by admiration, several hundred meters, and the make-up and acting of a professional. The view is much clearer to those on stage, and no amount of make-up or acting can hide the sweat that has accumulated on the Gods brow, the wheezing desperate cadence of his breath, the unsteady tremor in every movement.
Both contestants turn to face the crowd once they reach centre stage, as the crowds cheering reaches its crescendo and Neige lifts an unsteady hand to wave at his followers
Four things happen all at once.
The crowd abruptly drops into an unsettling silence, as silent as a crowd can be at any rate. The sort of eerie quiet punctuated by low murmurs and tense whispers, it is the quiet born of the building apprehension and confusion that happens in the moments before panic strikes.
Vil feels a sudden rush of euphoria, the likes of which he has never felt before. It is the rush of first flight, It is the first bite of the fruit of Eden, The feeling of divinity, of everything you could ever want and more now yours for the taking
Neige LeBlanche collapses, and as his heart stutters to a stop, for a moment the entirety of his domains, all the planes he inhabits, stop with it.
The fragile silence of the thearte is shattered by a laugh. “It worked! It actually worked! Vil laughs, sounding slightly manic.
It worked? A Multiplanar God befalling to poison? He used to be human and his domains would never have granted him a specific resistance but…
Sparse manic giggles quickly devolve into fullblown hysterics, Vil the only person still standing on stage slowly starts to be enveloped by an inky black substance, a scent reminiscent of lemon peel, balsam, and pepper begins to fill the air.
The auditorium's silence goes from confused to panicked, most have never seen a god be killed, nor a new one be created.
There should be no way a simple poison, even if made by a titan with a poison affinity, should have… Where did the calculations err, was it Vil that was underestimated? Or Neige that was overestimated?
Vil can’t stop laughing, he’s aware that he is starting to sound probably more than a little crazed, and while part of him is screaming for him to pull himself together for the crowd watching his every move, the larger part of him can’t find it in himself to care. Neige is dead, actually dead, he won! He finally put that arrogant, condescending, infuriating man in his place! The rush of power and euphoria is as familiar as it is novel. Nothing has ever felt like this, certainly not his ascension from human to titan.
He’s more than won! He had only intended to have Neige removed because he couldn’t stomach the thought of that pompous, pathetic excuse of a God rubbing it in his face that he is more beautiful than Vil, that Vil will always be second place, second choice, always a step behind forever, one more time. But he didn’t just get rid of Neige, he had managed to replace him. The domains of beauty and competition bow to him. Neige fell by Vil's own poison, HIS creation, HIS domain, and that had won him Neiges. HE is the most beautiful. HE is first place finally!
“It appears I have won…”
Vil erupts from the veritable cocoon of ink that had consumed him, transformed, with crazed laughter still on his lips. His pale skin now pure white, the deep night black of the ink still staining around his eyes, his lips, trailing down one side of his face from his eye. That eye now burns alight the same vibrant hue as the flower that bought him this victory. His hands are dipped, stained with that same inky black, the golden claws now adorning his fingers stand out all the more for it. That same gold adorns his head, feathers of gold embellished with gemstone splayed out like an imitation of a peacock's tail. Every inch of his body is furnished with rich purple fabrics, dazzling gold and gems, and the inky black of power stolen.
“I’VE WON! I HAVE BECOME THE AVATAR OF BEAUTY ITSELF! WHY, IT IS NOW TRULY IRREFUTABLE THAT I AM THE FAIREST ONE OF ALL!”
Before the quiet panic can erupt into fullblown pandemonium Vil waves his hand using his newly acquired abilities to move Neiges quickly cooling body from sight.
“My fellow devotees of beauty, please forgive my outburst, that was rather unbecoming of me.”
The auditorium starts to get louder again but not with the grating screams of panic as Rook feared they might, but rather a mix of confusion and frustration.
“We all gather here every year to celebrate the winner of the largest competition of beauty there is in the Great Structure. This competition is held in honor of the God of Beauty and Competition, and every year since it has started Neige Leblanche has won that competition.” Vil pauses, floating centre stage, the tail ends of the gown that now adorns him gently flowing with the breeze.
“Have none of you ever been curious what the outcome would be if someone else won?”
“ARE YOU CLAIMING YOU WON?”
“THATS RIDICULOUS!”
“WHERES NEIGE?”
The crowd's voice rose with various cries of incredulity and disbelief.
Vil sighed and flicked his wrist in the direction of his new subjects, “I know this is most certainly not the turn of events you all expected, yet here, I stand, the domains of beauty and competition, the fabric of this world at my finger tips.”
As Vil spoke, the crystalline white flowers embellishing the stage took on a vivid purple hue, “I won the competition and as such I am now the God of Beauty and Competition. For whoever wins the competition is the God of those domains.”
As the crowd listened to Vil's explanation many calmed down, even so, those on the more educated side could not help being skeptical at the newly ascended God's assertions, and the more devoted of Neiges adherents were reluctant to simply accept the night's proceedings. One pale lodge member in specific. A white wolf’s ear flicks in agitation as he scrutinises the newly ascended god. No, something is not right here.
Nonetheless while many were still unhappy with the outcome, no one could refute Vil’s claims that he was now the God of beauty and competition, what better explanation was there to be offered?
Rook waited in the halls behind the stage for Vil to finish entertaining the crowd. He had left his position from the rafters once he was sure the situation would not spiral to complete chaos to go locate where Vil had hidden away Neige's body. He assumed that Vil would not have disappeared the body entirely or moved it too far. No both of them were far too cautious, far too fastidious in nature, despite the casual arrogance both of them carried to whisk away the body of a former God to somewhere that the work couldn't be double checked. No Vil would not deprive himself of the ability to see his handiwork up close. So now here the hunter stood leaning against the wall, his predictions having been correct, the body of Neige LeBlanche lying unnaturally at his feet.
It was not so much a sound but a feeling, recognition built from years of spending time around the divine that alerted Rook of Vil's departure from the stage and his approach to the hallways behind it. His eyes shifted from staring at perhaps the body of his former God, but maybe nothing at all, to the direction of the stage.
“Rook! I did it! I won, I didn’t just remove Neige I took his place!” Giddy and slightly out of breath Vil chattered at his partner in crime, his almost manic demeanor was far from the usual elegance the former titan usually carried himself with, almost as quickly as the mania had overtaken him it vanishes leaving an unsettling emptiness in its place, “Will you resent me for this?”
“Pardon?” Rook asks confused as he slowly turns to face Vil, his eyes flicking back and forth appraising the newly ascendent Gods form more closely.
“You agreed to help me with this plan out of a sense of possessiveness, ‘ If anyone is going to meddle in the affairs of Beauty then it ought to be one that is truly devoted to Beauty’ was it? You did not want anyone else meddling with your God. Was it a sense of thrill or the split loyalty I forced you into that made you help me rather than try and stop me I wonder. Let us be honest, neither of us actually expected this to succeed"
“The moment I took this contract I accepted that a likely outcome would be our success, only a fool sets out with the expectation to fail Roi du-”
“Then that makes us the two biggest fools in all the great structure,” Vil says as he cuts Rook off with a laugh as he looks down to examine his new form.
“I competed against Neige for centuries and failed every single time, and yet still kept trying to beat him at his own game. Whether it be by fate or luck the first time I pull the game into my arena I win?” The longer Vil spoke more the creeping edge of giddy insanity leaked back into his voice. “This is not the outcome either you or I foresaw, but it seems for once my efforts have finally born fruit!”
“And you…” Vil turned to look once again at Rook and the lifeless body that was once Neige still lying on the floor by his feet. “You helped kill the God you devoted your whole life to because you agreed to a one in a million gamble at the behest of a friend…”
“Vil..”
“I know you loved him… thank you… for choosing me over him, just this once… even if you did not genuinely believe this would be the outcome.. Still, I must ask, will you come to resent me for destroying what you devoted yourself to?”
“Oh my beautiful Vil you misunderstand me yet” Rook relishes in the confused but attentive look Vil gives him in response. The clawing panic that had settled in his heart earlier started to retreat now that the hunter was able to set his sights on the path out of the stormy woods. “I loved Neige yes, but I was not devoted to him”
“Rook, you were his most favoured devotee, you need not lie.”
“I only speak the truth my Roi du Poison, I am not a devotee of any singular being or God. No, I am not so shallow a man for that. If I am a devotee of anything then I am a devotee of beauty itself, my devotion belongs not to any one avatar of its domain but to whoever embodies the concept of beauty the most. For how could any one being encapsulate all of beauty's faces for all of time? How can someone who always succeeded showcase the beauty of perseverance in the face of failure? How can the beauties of the most bitter poison and the sweetest sugar coexist in one being? I am a devotee of all of beauty, all those that embody it, and all those that admire it. My highest devotion is to whoever captures beauty in all its radiance the most for a moment of time.
“And tell me Rook Hunt, who in this moment, is the fairest of all” Vil asks barely above a whisper.
“You, Ma Reine, you are the fairest of them all” The queens huntsmen replies taking Vil's hand in his as he gently presses it to his lips.
Victory surely does taste sweet: Vil muses as he realises that Neiges domains were not the only thing he won this night. His adorning gaze leaves his hunters face to examine the body of his predecessor,
“I believe that there is still a few loose ends for us to tie up” He says as he moves past Rook to go lean down next to Neiges body, The former deity's complexion was a waxy ashen white a stark contrast to the rosy glow that the false god had always possessed in life. Although the body now lay supine, the pale bruising of livor mortis on the side of the former gods face betrayed the original position in which Neige had fallen: Rook most likely arranged the body into the more traditional death pose while waiting for the crowds to calm down.
“Admiring your handiwork?”
Vil hummed absently in acknowledgement as he positioned the sharp point of one of his golden tipped fingers on Neiges chest and began to drag it down, uncaring of the garments still in the way.
“Are such measures really necessary now? There is no doubt your poison did its work” Rook asks as he leans over Vil's shoulder, his eyes tracing the deep red line that was slowly beading with crimson.
“You need his heart for proof of completion do you not?” Vil says as he methodically adds more cuts to the chest.
“The contract is to deliver it to you, Roi du poison?”
“You still need to register it completed with a huntsmaster regardless of who the final recipient is if I am not mistaken. I do pay attention to these things you know”
“As sharp as ever ma reine, that I do.”
“You deserve to be rewarded for a job well done as well my dear hunter.”
“For me, beauty is its own reward..”
Vil reaches into Neiges cold unmoving chest and delicately removes the now lifeless heart. He gently cradles it in his clawed hand, as he lifts it closer to examine it.
It looked completely and utterly average, an age he had spent in the man's shadow but at the end of it all, staring at the lifeblood of his greatest rival now completely devoid of any vitality in his hand, Vil could not help but feel a vague sense of disappointment that the only word the sight could conjure was average.
Vil slowly rises and turns, with both hands he offers the heart to beauty's eternal devotee.
“This was supposed to be the other way around,” Rook says in a joking manner, trying to lighten up the situation.
“Just accept it dear!”
Rook gently takes the offered heart, holding it reverently in his hands. He scrutinised it with awe, as if he stared at it long enough it would divulge all of the secrets of the great structure to him. If Neiges hand brushing his was enough for him to feel as if he had been blessed with a taste of paradise itself, then holding his heart in his hands was holding the match in the ashes of that once great garden.
He was going to be sick.
Rook set the heart down into the pocket of his attire, careful as not to destroy the soon to be rancid organ. He should hurry. Vil, as the one who took the contract out will eventually handle most of the paperwork, all Rook needed to do is prove that he had done it. That he had done it. He had done it. Well, by no means him, Vil did most of the work. Even in death, Neige remained ever so beautiful.
“Well, in such a case, I will get going,” Rook nodded and, before Vil could even respond, slid backstage and took to the first changing room in the hall. He forced the door shut, careful not to make too much noise. After assuring he wasn’t followed (not that Vil would lower himself in such a way, he turned to look at where exactly he ended up.
Four plaster walls, identical if not for the door behind him and a high window in front. A table right below. Belongings of whichever contestant used this room still remained spread across the floor. Not that they will be needing those.
Only a slither of the outside world could be seen through the heavy curtains covering that high window. With all the commotion he almost didn’t see the setting of this universe’s star. Without it or the alternative light sources surrounding the stadium, the sky outside was pitch black. It was truly a wonderful night.
Thanks to the power of interuniversal communications, the news is bound to spread like wildfire. While the killing of gods is hardly uncommon on the scale of the Great Structure, it’s not something any mortal soul expects to reach them. Neige was among the few gods residing over that specific cluster of planes, one that adored him enough to regularly gather for festivals. And now he was no more.
Due to the lack of stars or satellites within this dimension, the only light in the room came from a lantern set center stage atop the table. The light was blue, then yellow, then blue again - shimmering in the colors of the now deceased deity.
Putain de merde, what in the Great Structure is to be done now?
The table was located right below that window, a viable stepping stool. The stage was quite high up, so even if he did get out the window, is that really a risk he is willing to take?
Vil, oh that beautiful, beautiful mess of a creature. It is no secret that the greatest weakness of every ascendant titan is their hubris, but those who become powerful enough to back it have altered their universes in ways beyond what mortals like him could even imagine. What would Vil do with such great power? With the universe itself recognizing him as the fairest of them all?
Powers have shifted now, have shifted indeed.
Ah, no use lounging around now. It is what it is. He should get back to the lodge and register a successful contract completion.
One of the most important things for a hunter of the Pale Lodge to figure out is routes of escape: weak points in the universe, soft spots, interstitial byway. While inexperienced hunters are advised to only make interuniversal jumps with proper equipment in abandoned locations, in practice any passageway could do. The window of this dressing room fit the criteria fine enough. The door isn’t exactly an option, considering what - or rather who - was on the other side.
Rook recited his traversal incantation, and got up to the window. As if on command from an unknown force, the curtains parted and a sudden whirlpool of wind pushed him forth. While this was hardly his first jump across universes he still, even if for a moment, attempted to grab onto the window frame upon getting a closer look. The window seemed to be a solid six meters above the ground, thus if the attempt failed the end result would not be a pretty one.
He braced for impact and…
Landed face first into snow.
Ceremonial clothes meant for a climate of eternal spring is not the most practical attire for this realm, who would have thought.
Rook stood up, brushing the snow off his blouse and wiping his face to get a better look at his surroundings. On the snow were two sets of tracks: one hooved whereas the other was distinctly left by boots, albeit the line between those steps implied whoever left them to not be quite human. Judging by the depth and lack of concealment by the still falling snow, those two must have arrived quite recently. The faint logotype on the boots’ imprint suggested the owner must have gotten them from Patchwork, and rather recently at that.
He looked up. Within about ten meters from his landing spot was a cabin. Fresh snow coated its roof and lush greenery grew at the doorstep. The cabin appeared small to the untrained eye, but those in the field knew it was anything but. Above the doorway hung a plaque ingrained in simple text: The Pale Lodge. Rook was exactly where he needed to be.
As not to run the risk of illness from all the temperature changes, he quickly made his way towards the lodge.
After a couple tries at the rusted handle, the door flew open. A rush of hot air hit his face, smelling vaguely of the smoke only wooden fireplaces produce and whiskey. There was a trail of something metallic, akin to the one coming from his bag.
Voices of all range, volume, and vocal cord constraints echoed from all directions. Long halls and shifting corridors. An empty plaque, barely visible between the antlers coming from the skull of a god whose name was lost to history. Ah, he was undeniably where he needed to be.
Off to the side, as though intentionally hidden, stood a Huntmaster’s desk. It must be his lucky day, Senior Huntmaster Kingscholar showed up for once. His tail flicked as he skimmed the papers in front of him, notably annoyed. He was hardly made out for the job of Huntsmaster, or even hunter in Rook’s opinion - he had no eye for art. Besides, he retired relatively early, barely looking halfway through a mortal’s life now. Rumors surrounded the reason, but Rook truly did not care to pry.
The hunter quickly made his way across the room and sat in front of the desk, with the other instantly noticing him.
“Roi de Lions! How many days, how many nights - I am but so delighted to see you!”
“...It’s you,” Kingscholar’s’s face looked as though he had just bit into a lemon, “Great.”
“Why, have I the news for you,” Rook could hardly contain his excitement as he took out Neige’s heart from his pocket and gently placed it in front of Leona, “My contract is completed.”
The older man looked up from the papers scattered on his desk, raising a brow. He looked closer to check if it notably belonged to something else,even though dim iridescent glow of ivory is not a trait found on mortal organs. However, the heart did pass all cursory analysis, so it was put in a transportable cryochamber to be sent for formal examination in an affiliated laboratory. The contract will not be officially completed until it’s confirmed legitimate and Vil signs off on it.
The huntsmaster sighed, a bit more convinced now, “Didn’t think you’d actually do it, credit where it’s due. But did you have to place it on my paper work? If I have to redo it because of you…”
He trailed off a bit, looking Rook up and down. Having settled down, it only now registered to the hunter that he must look quite odd, with his ceremonial attire and unseemly appearance, though he was sure the older one had seen worse.
“Oui, I’m quite the mess right now,” Rook sighed dramatically, eyeing the rips in wallpaper on the wall closest to him, “I ought to come by Patchwork, soon at that. Clothes, money, work - I’ve been neglectful to myself I fear.”
Kingscholar just sort of stared at him for a moment before responding, “If you’re gonna visit Patchwork anyway I may as well tell ya,” Rook’s interest was instantly piqued, looking back at the huntsmaster.
“There’s a contract that went out today in the area. Some fancy gala, stealing some God’s staff- stealth so right up your alley.”
“Oh my, how very thoughtful!” Rook reached to clasp his hand, which the other quickly pulled away from, wiping the tips on his coat.
“The stridegate corridor is past the main hall and left, the one to Patchwork is basically the first so you’ll see it. Contract should be pinned on the general wall,” the man waved vaguely forward, “Now shoo, I need a nap.”
After sweeping off the bloodied paper, the man rested his head right in their place. Rook sometimes wondered if he worked at all.
“Well, I best start as soon as possible. Always a pleasure to chat, Roi de Lions!” Rook cocked his head with a smile, before grabbing the paper and standing up.
The directions on finding the contract itself were hardly helpful, as the wall spanned multiple kilometers. Finding the listing will probably take a while. Even after such a whirlpool of a day, Rook found himself delighted. What was done is done, all which is left is to look ahead. In his delight, he barely even noticed the pair of eyes whose gaze seemed to burn into his back in its intensity, belonging to a tall figure holding a cup of herbal tea.