Asmareth, the god of hope or as the people of his faith now referred to him, the god of false hope. Blinded by their faith in him, quite literally in fact, their hope, the very foundation of his strength, was dwindling. And so, as he sat on his throne, a shining beacon so bright that not even angels could see him in its splendor, the god chewed on his nails as his very existence was being threatened by his half sister, Athenia.
"Just do as I say and I’ll grant you anything and everything that you may desire!" He screamed into the ears of his chosen, Frazer.
As the words reached the hero, however, they were much more muffled, and the hint of desperation was replaced with an authoritative tone thanks to magic and the power of manipulations, something Asmareth was quite known for.
But what he couldn’t hide was that same desperation from himself and his angels, for the clock was ticking on his reign, and with the death of Batimos and Hamleth doing nothing at all to aid him, Asmareth knew that it was him against an army with nobody but his chosen to carry out his decree.
Even though everything was going as planned and the hero seemed to be under his control, something felt off about the way he was acting and paired with the silence from the other gods, he knew that he wasn’t the only one moving his chess piece. The gods had their plans, and they’d simply abandoned him. A sacrificial lamb to lure in the enemy, assess their strength, and once Asmareth had tired them completely, only then would they surface and claim victory over Athenia as well as him.
’I need someone, at least one of the council members, to be on my side!’ He thought to himself, but it was already too late. Nobody would help him; besides, he wasn’t that well-liked for another god to stick out their neck and dampen the blow for him.
"My lord, I’ve come back with a message from Lady Fortuna," the bowing frame of a horrific angel drew Asmareth out of his raging mind, "And forgive me, my lord, but these are her words and not mine."
Casting his luminous gaze down on the angel, Asmareth burned the very skin of the messenger just by looking at him. Swallowing the hurt, however, the angel clenched the many jaws across its body and only spoke through the one infested with human fingers tipped with cackling babies instead of any teeth.
"Oh, brother, can’t you handle this one thing? I’m busy with a hand, pester me later, half-sibling." His mouth held open, the messenger spoke with Fortuna’s voice, mimicking it perfectly down to the inflections. "Oh, and don’t bother sending another messenger to Wolcenya or Mesmerazia, we’re playing cards together and the bid’s climb–"
Before the message was finished, Amaranth stomped angrily on the angel’s body and kept on stomping until every bit of its flesh was turned to burnt mist. Squeezing his armrest, he grunted in frustration and screamed.
"AUGHHHH!!! FUCKK ALL OF YOUUU!!" Abandoned due to his reckless plan to attack Athenia with the otherworlders, the god of hope was now truly hopeless. There was little chance of him defeating the army, but with nobody watching his back anymore, he had no choice but to struggle like a hooked fish.
His anger, for the most part, was taken out on his immortal angels. They perished often under his rage, but the ever life fountain brought them back the very same. Made to serve, they did as they were told, but not even angels were free of vices, as many of them knew what the other gods were up to but refused to speak, as they would meet the same fate as the ashen messenger.
Even if revived, the pain would sizzle through their skin until it turned to coal, and with loyalty dwindling, nobody wished to hold. Not blind to that fact either, Asmareth raged and raged and raged some more, all until his vision turned blurry and harsh thoughts took hold. A betrayal of his own people, perhaps, defaulting to Athenia was the play? She accepted Elenaria, so why wouldn’t she accept him as well?
Asmareth could’ve answered his own question, but desperation had blinded him. So much so that he couldn’t see how far his boat had sailed and to join forces with the enemy while also plotting against them, poisoning them...wasn’t quite as bright an idea as he’d assumed.
"What the fuck am I even thinking? If I do that, the rest will get to me first!" Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he had no way to get out of this situation. Thus, casting his gaze down to his chosen, he hoped that everything would go as planned and the army would perish.
His hope, however, didn’t last long, for Linkle had already worked out a cure. One sip and the immediate effect of the poison would disappear. Although recovery will still take time and the effects of the sickness would persist, at least for now, as soon as enough antidotes were made, the army would be mostly cured.
The god pulled his hair to the sight; his powers were useless if nobody had hope. Dwindling day by day, he was withering like a tree struck by lightning. But in his case, nothing was random; instead, he’d axed his foot himself. Regret welled in his chest, and the once golden light began to dim, revealing a skinny god with a pale drape across his body, as well as a golden circlet that was losing its light.
’I...I don’t have much time. DO SOMETHING QUICKLY!’ He screeched into the ears of his chosen; however, his voice no longer reached him. The holy order had swept up the debris from his temple, and thus the little influence he had left on the kingdom had completely withered away. Now, if the hero were to fail in his task, the god of hope would be forgotten, and to be forgotten as a god was a worse fate than death–one Asmareth was fighting with what little strength he still had.