The crisp air of the temple of Five seemed to vibrate with melancholic reverence as Avaroth stood before the Altar of Eldan. The golden-laced robe that draped elegantly across his broad shoulders shimmered under the flickering of Brágon's flame ahead, but the radiance did little to match the brooding aura he emitted. Beneath his robe, the battle-worn cuirass clinked softly with the gentle movements of his lithe body, chains forged from the memories of a hundred slain demons cascading down, each link a reminder of the burden he carried.
Avaroth thought of himself as a sentinel, the embodiment of vigilance, standing tall like a wise oak against the relentless winds of apathy that swept through the realms of Illarion. His moon-grey eyes, striking yet somber, scanned the sanctum—its ceiling lined with intricate murals depicting the great slayers of darkness. But even here, where faith graced the air, he sensed the shadows creeping in, the indifference of the populace gnawing at the edges of their existence. Each muffled whisper behind him seemed to dull the pulse of purpose in his chest.
“For every heart that turns away, another thread in the tapestry of Letma’s dominion grows stronger,” he muttered, a voice hardened by the weight of years spent staring into the void. There, amidst the earthly trappings of Cadomyr's 'honor', Galmair's 'wealth', and Runewick's 'wisdom', lay a creeping despair. A slumbering rot that offered little resistance against the encroaching darkness.
Avaroth turned from the altar, his booted feet echoing softly on the polished stone floors, and looked toward the unyielding doors of the temple. Across the peninsula lay the expanse of the jeweled city of Cadomyr—once noble and stout against supernatural filth but now a dormitory of complacent souls. Citizens busied themselves with tournaments and idle talk, seemingly ignoring the whispered tales of Letma’s insidious rise, the ever-growing shadows that lurked at the fringes of their reality. At least, that was his observation.
“What folly is this?” he spoke to the quiet corridors, the words a hushed growl. “You look upon the world as if it were a pageant, oblivious to the demons that skulk behind the decorum of your lives.” Avaroth clenched his hands into fists, chains rattling softly—a grim song of his resolve. The chains were trophies, yes, but they were heavier now. Each link carried the weight of those who had fallen while in his care, the innocents oblivious to the encroaching horror.
As he considered the three realms, Avaroth’s thoughts turned to Galmair, the wealthiest of the cities, a place overflowing with luxury yet utterly bereft of vigilance. Its merchants traded in opulence, while the streets thrummed with laughter—a stark contrast to the cries of the forsaken who had already met their ruin at the hands of Letma's loyal servants. “Gold cannot shield against shadows,” he whispered, shaking his head as if to exorcise the foolishness creeping into his heart.
Runewick, too, simmered with unspent wisdom. The scholars buried themselves in tomes, diving into ancient prophecies while the true peril unfolded beyond their sacred walls. “Knowledge without action leaves merely dust on the pages, stagnant and unyielding,” he implored, raising a hand to trace the breeze, searching for the ephemeral guardians hiding amid the sages. “What good is knowing the darkness when you will not grasp the sword?”
Finally, back to Cadomyr, suffocated by its honor-bound nature, bore an even sharper edge of frustration for Avaroth. The warriors, clad in gleaming armor, prided themselves on their chivalry yet turned a blind eye to the battle raging beyond their borders. Their glory lay in tales of bravery and remembrances of victory, but now they feasted on laurels bathed in hypocrisy. “I'm no greater than a keeper of shadows, tossed aside while the light fades,” he lamented, gazing back at the altar, as if seeking redemption from the elder god himself.
With a determined breath, Avaroth straightened, the weight of disappointment halting his heart for a brief moment. "If I am to stand against Letma, I must summon allies to reforge the brittle threads of resolve,” he whispered, glancing back at the altar, where offerings of incense from supplicants still lingered in the air. “They must awaken, remember their strength, and fight before it is too late.”
At that moment, the chains he wore felt like a promise forged in blood—a vow to guard against the burgeoning tide of apathy. He would not falter in his mission, even if the cities around him faded into irrelevance. With the first resolve of the morning sun nudging its way into the sanctuary, Avaroth stepped forward and turned toward the doors, the road ahead fraught with danger yet teeming with potential.
As he crossed the threshold from shadow into light, he resolved to sound the clarion call, to shatter the complacency suffocating his kin. He would not rest until Letma trembled before the righteous fury of the inhabitants of Illarion. The world heaved with a restless breath, and somewhere flickering in the heart of time was a chance to reclaim their honor—a battle worthy of songs yet to be sung.
The Weight of Apathy
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