“It is a common misconception,” a deep, masculine voice utters, the sound of it echoing throughout the large stone throne room. “That gold comes from mines. The origins of gold -- true and pure gold is far more divine than dirt.” At the word dirt the man spits, as if attempting to rid actual dirt from his mouth. Torches flicker along the walls all the while, the brilliant flames reaching a little higher as the man speaks. Perhaps the torches can sense the importance of what he is about to say. Or perhaps the torches understand just how powerful the man is. After all, the person who is speaking is no mere man. He is a battle sworn king, a bearded and scarred mass of muscle born of violence, the child of a mother married off to a tyrant as part of a long and complex peace treaty between two nations. He was born of violence, and violence is what he craves. His speech is punctuated by a soft squelching sound and a much louder cry of pain. A gloved hand twists a knife into a gap between armor and leather, piercing tender flesh and creating a deeper wound with every cruel twist.

“Gods bleed gold. But you knew that already, didn’t you, godling?” the king continues, laden with sharp scrutiny softening into that of sinister admiration as the godling’s golden blood spills faster with every twist of blade. The holy blood stains his gloves, the floor, his boots -- everything it touches. He kneels before the injured and dying god child, pushing the knife ever deeper as he does so. The godling’s eyes, once pale blue orbs, flash gold as they bleed to death under the cruel king’s hands.

Their breath is shallow, voice raspy as the godling uses their dying breathe to retaliate, “King Nicolin Dumais? What a grand title for an undeserving man. You are nothing but a beast -- a heretic who will be smited by the gods.” The godling’s words spark a loud, amused laugh within Nicolin.

“Perhaps I am both heretic and king. After all, only heretics are brave enough to defy and attack gods. That is what I have done to you. And that is what I will continue to do. It is true I have betrayed the gods, but the gods betrayed humankind first.”

Nicolin pulls the knife free from the godling’s ribcage with a small but nevertheless satisfied grunt as the light finally leaves the stubborn godling’s eyes. However, instead of using a clean rag to wipe the blade clean he licks the weapon clean. The taste proves addictive, the king soon licking his gloves and boots clean as well. Servants and maids eventually trickle into the grand throne room, helping restore the grand hall to it’s stain free and wrinkle free glory. Although allows his servants to remove the godling’s body he doesn’t let him touch the rug. He perches on the rug like a dog, resting on his hands and knees as he laps at every golden drop that stains its surface. Although the stain fades from the fabric it doesn’t fade completely. Instead it shifts to his body, green eyes turning gold and fiery curls turning a brilliant blonde. He killed a godling and drank its blood. The godling’s blood has changed him, for better or for worse.

He is still licking the rug like a starving and pathetic pup when his political ally and good friend King Derrik Heviel, ruler of the frigid north enters. “I saw the body,” Derrik notes in place of a proper greeting, removing his hat and many layers of furs so Nicolin can see his whole, cold chaffed face as he speaks. His cool, serious demeanor falters, face becoming pinched and confused as he notes Nicolin’s odd position and coloring. The confusion soon fades away into a soft and relieve expression as he connects the dots.“Your eyes, your hair... You drank the godling’s blood, didn’t you? How does it feel?”

Derrik’s words earn a low, thoughtful hum from Nicolin. After a moment of pause he replies, “it feels divine.” Laughing at his own, poor pun, he rises back onto his feet and approaches Derrik. A gloved hand give’s Derrik’s shoulder a soft pat as he adds, “I feel, strong and healthy. I feel well rested and sharp as a whip. I feel...” his voice trails off as he struggles to put his grand emotions into words. “It feels like I killed a god and became one. You should try it sometime.”

Now it is Derrik’s turn to laugh. With a low, hearty chuckle, he replies, “that is the goal, isn’t it? To make the gods regret abandoning us in our time of need. War, famine and plague... If they will not help us, we will help ourselves. And if they will not help us, then they have no use. We shall kill them and take their place.”

With a small nod of agreement, Nicolin replies, “That’s the spirit! We shall kill them -- stab them and twist the knife. It makes their blood taste sweeter.”

Umber brown skin clad in golden, complexion complementing soft fabrics glow shines in the early morning light of the divine realm. Warm brown curls tumble over the goddess shoulders as she leans over her stone sink. Her face is flushed and warm, tears streaming down her cheeks as she leans over her sink. Her crying, although reduced to an upset whimper due to the hand she uses to muffle her mouth is soon interrupted by the soft knock upon the bathroom door. “Vierene? Are you alright? You have been in the bathroom quiet a why. You are normally only in the bathroom for this long when you are washing your hair.” When Vierene fails to reply, the voice on the other side of the door emits a heavy and audible sigh. “You just washed your hair yesterday... Something is wrong. I’m going in.” Without waiting for a reply, the concerned voice allows herself in.

The woman that enters looks both similar and dissimilar to the crying Vierene. She has the same umber brown skin, the same dazzling golden eyes... But unlike her soft and crying sister she is hardened, both physically and emotionally. She sheds no tears. Instead all she sheds is sweat and blood. Vierene is the goddess of peace and she is the goddess of war, lean and agile muscle decorated with a scattering of freckles and scars.

“Meyline,” Vierene murmurs in between shoulder shaking sobs. ALthough initially hiding her upset from her sister, once her sister is also standing in the bathroom she clings to her, crying into her armored shoulder. “I woke up because I felt a sharp pain, a twist of knife. I felt it, the moment a mortal killed a godling... The moment a mortal declared war on us all.” The pain, the realization came as a shock to Vierene, the goddess of peace. However... However Meyline doesn’t gasp or blink at her words. In fact, she doesn’t act surprised at all.

Saddness quickly shifts to bitterness. With a disgusted huff of air, Vierene pushes her sister away from her. “You knew. You knew and didn’t tell me! Does Seraphine know? She should. She is the goddess of negotiation. She should know. She also should know because she is our sister.” Vierene, Meyline, and Seraphine... The goddesses of Peace, War and Negotation. They are triplets -- an inseparable group of three. Or so Vierene thought.

“She does know. But not for the reason you think,” Meyline rather sheepishly explains, acting like a bird who caught the canary. Her chin, normally held high and proud is pointed toward the ground, gaze avoidant of her distressed sister’s.

“Sisters are not supposed to withhold such vital information from one another. What reason could you possibly have for telling Seraphine but not me?” Vierene’s tears have been dried by her fury, cheeks stained with dried lines of gold and salt.

“Today is a dark and auspicious day. The mortals have declared war upon us and it seems a ominous prophecy is about to come true.” Her shoulders sag, and her hands curl into white knuckled fists as she pushes back her own, vulnerable emotions. She hoped this day would never come... She takes a few deep, steadying breaths before continuing. “You are no fool. You know how our mother was created by the mothers of all living beings -- by The Fates. The Fates are a powerful set of three. The Fates foretold of this war of heretic kings, of these bitter and dangerous set of three mortal men. They also foretold of an even more grim fate... Of gods and godlings aiding the mortals in their quest to destroy us all. It often takes three to create and three to destroy... We are a set of three. And Ahnvae, the goddess of courage has children... Triplets like us. Someone helped that disgusting king Nicolin kill a godling. It has to be someone from the prophesied three... It has to be one of Ahnvae’s children who helped him.”

Vierene’s eyes widen at the weight of Meyline’s words. “I never knew of this prophecy... You knew that we had an important fate to fullfil as sisters and you didn’t tell me. You told me that Seraphine knows of all of this but why? Why tell her and not me?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Meyline raises her head to finally gaze in her sister’s eyes as she speaks. “Seraphine knows because both she and I are strong enough to do what needs to be done. Worry not, sister. Mother, Seraphine, and myself will keep us safe.” As she speaks she walks backwards, returning to the bathroom door.

Gone is the sad and sniveling Vierene. Instead is the angry and hurt Vierene. “So everyone knew but me? What is mother going to do? Who is Seraphine negotiating with? What are you planning? Tell me! Tell me and I will forgive you!” Her voice is loud and demanding as she attempts to order her sister to give her every answer she seeks.

There’s a soft click of doorknob as Meyline starts to open the bathroom door as she replies, “that I can not tell you, Vierene. What I can say, however, is that I would rather you be alive and I unforgiven than you dead and myself forgiven.” Before Vierene can reply she steps out of the bathroom and slams the door closed, locking it with a series of soft clicks.

Following in her sister and goddess of war’s footsteps, Veirene balls her hands into fists and bangs on the door. “Meyline! Let me out this instant! Myeline!” She bangs and shouts until her voice goes hoarse and until her hands become sore and bruised. She gets no reply except loud, echoing silence.