Chapter Text
Typically, when a god chooses one, it is quite rude to say 'No, thank you', but in this instance, a bit of rudeness might just well be called for. Especially so now, as Orlana has found that the choice had been taken from her long before birth, and she was rather intent on spitting in the face of her parents' plans. She was naught but freshly twenty years of age- her birthday was just yesterday, for Galun's sake!- and she was already being told, 'Marry the literal King of The Gods, He's really rather fond of you'.
So yes, while typically to say no was rude, or more often a death sentence, Orlana was having none of this Godly scheming. Before she was born! Before she was even an idea in her parents' heads! It all makes her wonder as she stalks across the wet grass in the early morning, her curly pitch-black hair aloft in an elaborate bun, wearing the lavishly beautiful wedding gown that was foisted upon her mere hours ago. Liras would not look for her before the ceremony, following mortal traditions for mortal peace of mind. Orlana was taking this opportunity to make her getaway. Though frankly, it was hard to make a grand escape while running from a Temple through wet plains in the early morning. In heels no less.
“Feck- Shite- Oh Damn it!” She stops her stomping to roughly tear off the heels- oh, they really were rather nice, but Gods be Damned if she keeps wearing them in these conditions. The spindly heel of each pretty little shoe was caked in mud anyhow, and likely the white material beneath was stained to the high heavens. “Gods, but I just need to keep going- The treeline,” She whispers, breathless. “Just make it to the treeline, and you're golden. Fuck Mom and Da, they don't care a bug about you, Orlana. Showed that by sellin' you off to a God before you even had arms to wave and legs to kick. Bastards.”
And so she marches forward with a somewhat steadier gait, halfway across the vast field- and getting faster by the second when she hears voices behind her. Dread fills her stomach even as she breaks into a jog. Her hands are rather busy keeping up the wedding gown's skirts, but the voices grow closer. She hears them, her Mom and Da, their voices were wrathful. Orlana can only wonder why they seem so desperate to marry her off like this as she violently tears at the dress. Adrenaline spikes through her, and that spark of momentary strength lets her rip through the skirts like wet parchment.
The time she has now to get out of sight is slim. They'll see her passing through the treeline and come after her, so she has to keep running, running until they can't catch up anymore. Running until the woods grow dark and deep and the beasts of the Deepwoods lumber overhead. Even if she never sees the light of day again, it would be better than being the pet mortal of an uncaring God.
The voices get closer; she has no time to dwell.
Her feet soar under her and draw her further away from the temple, from her unhappy wedding, from her family and friends. She's close to the treeline now, and she doesn't look back even as the large hands of her Da grasp at her dark curls. Her Mom scratches against her arms, and she moves just fast enough for neither of them to quite make purchase. She is deafened by the blood pumping furiously through her ears, and so she doesn't hear the desperate, angry pleas of her parents. Doesn't hear her brother's confusion, her best friend's cheers for her to 'Run! Run and don't look back, Orlana! RUN!'
The trees and bushes catch and tear at the dirtied, tattered wedding gown, but she pushes herself so furiously that she barely loses speed. She thinks she can hear crashing behind her. She does not care. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she just runs, runs, runs away from everything. Orlana will not wed today. She will Not be the pretty bird in a gilded cage, nor sitting on the lap of some immortal that cares not for her true.
Orlana runs. She runs through the cuts and scrapes and bruises and heaving breaths. Through the burning muscles and welling dread as the forest goes ever darker around her. Orlana runs battered and bleeding into the endless dark, the faded black, the sunless lands. She runs and runs and runs until her feet bleed and she trips over a turned log, face-first into a pile of rotted leaves.
She lies there, exhausted, elated, terrified, breathing deep even through the stench of decay. Orlana is still for a long moment as the adrenaline finally leaves her body and aches of all kinds make themselves known. She feels where her Mom scratched at her, the cuts deeper than she thought, and oozing hot blood slowly onto the forest floor. Hardly a thing can be seen around her, sitting at the very edges of the pitch-black that is at the center of the Deepwood. Few have survived treks here, she notes tiredly. None has entered the pitch-black at its core and returned alive, or whole.
Pain shoots through her as she finally heaves herself upward and staggers on bloody feet to stand. She looks like the very picture of weak and frail, she imagines, a battered bride-to-be, lost in the Deepwood and stumbling about like a frightened lamb. Something within her feels oddly calm, however, almost accepting. She had thought that death here would be preferable to marrying a God. And she still believes it. It was... she had just thought that she would be a bit more frightened about it than this.
But it didn't matter now. It would only be a matter of time before some nasty creature would come to call and swallow her whole. The time she has left is better spent enjoying her freedom. Yes, perhaps she could try just to leave, go elsewhere. But a God would be searching for her soon, likely already is. And she is tired, and hurt, and trying to leave the Deepwoods is harder than getting in. All the written accounts describe it as flowing with and then fighting against a powerful tide. This.. This was better.
This was freedom.
Orlana takes in one, two deep breaths. She still smells the rot of leaves on her face. “Eugh,” Her face scrunches up in disgust. “'Least I can do is not smell like leaf litter before I go and get got.” She mutters to herself as she stumbles around, looking for a source of running water. She thinks she hears some in the distance and follows the sound, wincing at every painful step. It felt like a bunch of tiny rocks and splinters had burrowed into her soles. Likely that is exactly what happened.
Stepping closer to the noise, she hears something else. A low, thrumming rumble that jostles her core. “Shite, what-” A soft gasp escapes her as she passes through a bunch of massive, twisted bushes. “Gods above, what in Galun's left tit is that?” Her speaking voice sounds like a distant whisper to her own ears, drowned out by the sounds coming from the hulking dark mass that lay- sleeping?- far beyond the tinkling stream.
It is large, as expected of a Beast of the Deepwood. It lies curled up over itself in a strange position, breathing heavy and even, as though at rest. Orlana can only see its back, and the oppressive darkness that surrounds it prevents her from making out too many details. She thinks she sees a long, possibly scaly tail and- Feathers? Wings? All she knew for absolute certain was that the beast was large, of the Deepwood, and most certainly dangerous. Were it to wake up and see her, just the thought sends shivers down her spine.
Instead of sticking around, she follows the sounds of the stream out, far enough that the rumbling is distant and the faded light of the outer forest helps her make out her immediate surroundings. It is so very, very quiet. Eerily so. She feels as if she is being watched, has been since she came out of her adrenaline-filled stupor. But she had to stay as calm as possible. Long enough to wash and find a dry place to rest and wait out her inevitable end. Not too hard, she thinks, dipping a foot into the stream and pulling off the tattered wedding gown.
It really had been a beautiful thing. Sown by her Gram, Da had told her, with threads and fabrics from the wedding dresses Mom, Gram, and three more generations back had worn. All so sweet Orlana would look beautiful on her 'special day'. She would have been glad to wear it under different circumstances. But as things were, she could only feel cold, hard contempt. Instead of being the lovely gesture it should have been, it was tainted by Divine Schemes and her Parents' stupidity. She doesn't think she would ever have been able to forgive them.
Orlana sinks to sit in the stream, her aching wounds eased by the cool water, arms outstretched as she lies back with a sigh. Grime washes away with her blood, and she feels calm. For just one small moment, she is at peace. It washes over her, just as the water flows gently over her bruised, freckled skin, pains deeper than physical were eased and at rest. She will die content, she thinks, she hopes. It all depends on what gets her first- and if it likes to play with its' food. Ah. And there goes the moment.
Sitting up, Orlana rips a piece of somewhat clean fabric from the skirts of the wedding gown and wets it before beginning to wipe at her skin, the pink of her cuts and scrapes stark against her skin. The fabric, though soft, still catches on the edges of cuts and scrapes and brushes at raw skin with a sting. It's hard to avoid flinching, but she tries, wanting to stay as steady and clear-headed as she can for as long as she can. The scratches on her arm, at least, have stopped bleeding. They sit there now, red and raw and hot with pain.
“Maybe there's some herbs around here to help patch me up a bit. Just enough that I can sleep through my wait.” The thought is nice, but she sighs a moment later. “Ah, but I don't have my gear.. Miss my room, miss my Bub. What a day, why'd Mom and Da have to go and turn out to be such Fucking bastards? Whole town, really, besides my Bub and Lamelie.” Orlana silently hopes that her brother and friend are okay, safe from this nonsense.
Hours seem to pass as she tends to her most basic needs. Orlana isn't hungry, so she doesn't bother, and she dare not set up a campfire here of all places. So just the washing, water, and checking her injuries. All seems well, really, aside from the occasional thundering shriek in the distance or the movement of dark and looming shadows in the trees. Nothing seems to have spotted her, though, the beasts keeping their distance from the stream. Odd.
Deciding to search for a dry place to wait the rest of her life away, Orlana steps carelessly on her still aching feet, and one foot lands upon a sharp branch. It spears her foot, and she stops. The sudden pain spikes through her leg and up her spine with such speed she barely registers the loud agonized screech she lets out in response. Orlana falls to the ground and shakes in pain when her haze is parted by the sudden and terrifying absence of sound.
The water still makes noise as it passes through the stream, yes, but the rumbling that came from the sleeping beast has abruptly ceased. And as much as Orlana has come to accept her looming demise, she cannot help but feel fear at the oppressive silence. For such a large creature to make absolutely no sound, even at rest, is a horrifying prospect.
And it only gets worse as she looks up in the direction the beast was in, her heart dropping at the sight before her.
The beast, looming just ahead and staring at her with void-black eyes and pale skin. Even from this distance, it looks deadly. It has a human-like face with an impassive expression. It just. Stares at her like she's a strange bauble. Then it walks forward, inching closer on lumbering feet. And she swears for a moment that the damned thing shrinks as it gets closer.
As it reaches her, close enough to touch and barely illuminated by the distant light, she finds that it has indeed shrunk in size. Through her haze of pain, she takes faint notice of its appearance. It looks.. Humanoid, tall, with massive feathered wings and reptilian feet. She had been right about the tail, too, long and prehensile, thumping hard against the ground in a slow rhythm. Deep black pools stare at her as the beast crouches down close to her face. Its wings encircle them both from above, blotting out most of the light. She can no longer see what was going on. Fear crept into her heart alongside the horrendous pain.
A long, quiet moment passes where the only sounds were of her own shuddering breaths and the pounding in her skull. She feels the cold breath of the beast over her, feels its clawed hand touch her in a way so gentle it startles her. “Wha-” Orlana begins, before another howling scream rends itself from her throat as the beast suddenly tears her ragged foot from the branch, impaling it. The fog of pain encompasses her every thought, and she goes limp from it. Barely coherent, sobbing into the shoulder of the beast as it carries her further into the dark, to who-knows-where. She doesn't know, she doesn't care, she just wants the pain to stop.
Soft rumbles radiate from deep within the beast's chest, vibrating her whole body with its strength. It does nothing to soothe her agony, all feeling focused on the throbbing white-hot pain in her foot. It hurts. It hurts so very, very much.
Orlana whimpers as she is placed upon a soft surface. Oddly warm despite the cold surroundings. Wherever she is, it smells faintly of... of buttercups and honey. She feels delirious. Surely the beast would have eaten her already? It must enjoy watching its prey suffer. How long would it leave her in agony like this, before finally blessing her with death?
Her scattered thoughts were interrupted by the thumping of heavy feet coming close, clawed hands pulling at her leg, and punching out short, harsh little sobs. Why, why? Just kill her already! But then something happens that leaves her dumbfounded. The beast, hulking and menacing as it is, tends to the wound on her foot with care and gentleness.
The large, clawed hands carefully clean the wound, pulling out splinters and washing away dirt. Her whimpers of pain are met with a strange, low chittering noise. That horrid fog of pain over her mind begins to fade as a soothing balm is rubbed over the wound, cold and tingling as it eases the throbbing ache. By the time her foot is finally wrapped in tight bandages, she is leaning up on her elbows, watching what the beast does in confusion. Sweat still sticks to her brow, and she feels ill, but for now, she seems alright.
“Why?” Orlana's voice is small and shaking, her throat raw. She can barely see around her in the oppressive darkness and startles when she spots a large figure moving around the space. Pinpricks of white spark a foot away from her face, illuminating the pale features of the beast. It clicks its tongue and opens its black maw. Her first thought is 'Oh, here it is, the end,' but then she finds herself alarmed as the beast instead speaks.
“Why, little mortal? Because I am King of the Deepwood, and I am feared by all. Approached by none. Thou, little mortal, were oh so very lucky to be within my reach.” It- He? Stands tall and imposing, white fire gazing down on her through those eyes like void. “Surely without my very presence, thou wouldst have been devoured the moment thee entered my lands. For the beasts of the Deepwood are without mercy, without care. Gluttonous and putrid are my subjects, and I despise every single one.”
Orlana's heart stops, and a feeling of cold, dark dread washes over her. The King of the Deepwood. “Fuck,” She whispers, crawling backwards until she hits a hard stone wall. “Oh, by all ye Gilded Gods, what have I gotten myself into? Galun, spare me.” A dark chuckle turns her attention back to the face of the King, the sound shaking her to her very core.
He stomps around the undefined space, the wind kicked up by his movement hitting Orlana in the face with every step. “Galun cannot see into my Wood, dear child. They cannot spare thee of whatever fate thou must imagine I am to give.” His voice grows dark, sinister. “I, the Alldark, the Accursed one, am all who can grant any mercies here.” A sudden shift, the bright white pointing towards her, a large black-toothed smile on the King's illuminated face. “Fear not, child, for I am never without a shred of mercy, even on a bad day. Thou art in the tattered remains of wedding wear, dear one, and I suspect thee to have run far from thine betrothed. Tell me, little mortal, why run so far that thine fragile self would enter near certain doom?” He draws close, form shrinking again so that he can crouch before her, eyes staring into her very soul.
For a moment, all is silent. The air is still, and the King is as a statue. Then, she hiccups, tears falling suddenly and fast down her face. “Oh Gods-” She whines as all that has happened catches up to her in the worst of ways. “My family- My Mom, my Da, my Gran- Sold me off.” Her words are slurred as she heaves and sobs. She cannot seem to stop talking now that the floodgates have opened. “Divine Bride, they said to me, a blessing, an honor to wed a god- hogshite! I'm not here to be any mortal pet to some- some immortal bastard!” Her breathing grows harder as her sorrow begets anger, and her hands grip tight to her scalp. “I don't care a damned lick if the God demanding my hand is Oh-Most-Holy Liras the Gilded! My parents, Liras, everyone in that horrid town can go and get got by a Skag for all I care.”
Her words trail off, and all that is left are tears. She shakes and shivers and sobs her heart out in this dark place, this hopeless land where death is inevitable and beasts eagerly swallow bone and marrow. She had accepted death, was content with it if only to secure her freedom from Divine Marriage. But now, here, her tears hot and free-flowing, she realizes it was just the freedom she wanted. That she'd take it however she could, but really, truly, she didn't want to die.
The moment is broken as a low growl sounds from above. She peeks- sees that white has turned red. The King's teeth are bared and dripping black ichor. Rage is etched into his face; a wild and violent thing now stands before her. The voice that comes from the Dark Being makes her want to run and hide. “Liras... Liras the 'Gilded'. He and Divine Marriage? I never believed such a thing would ever come to pass.” The red of his pupils vanishes, and they are left once again in near absolute darkness. “I should not be surprised, however. His scheming has never ceased to be vile and unnerving.”
“What? What do you mean?” She asks, confused by this reaction.
No reply comes, but she is quickly taken off guard as a massive hand grabs her, lifts her up, and she comes face-to-face with the King of the Deepwood. His pupils light up white once again, so that she may see his face. When he next speaks, it is soft, cordial, and almost kind.
“All who know me now know me as the King of The Deepwood, the Dark Mass, the Black Woe, among other things. They know not of my origin, and they care not to learn. I am more, I was more, and I shall be more once again.” His tone grows imperious as he goes on, expression hardening even as his dark gaze remains soft. “Thou shalt be the first in five millennia to know me true, little mortal.”
“I am Argnymeas, God of Shade and Whispers, King of Greyhollow Deep, Lord o'er all that be hidden from sight, and Father of the Sirens. I am Keeper of the Hammer, I am Void and I am Gilded with the cutting shards of obsidian found in the bowels of long-dead volcanoes.” He shifts, and for a moment the world feels as if it is hanging on every word. Orlana certainly is. “I am the Blackforge Incarnate, the Void-Dweller. But thou, Mortal Woman, may simply call me Argnymeas the Endless.”
Orlana laughs awkwardly, awed and frightened and unsure of how to react. “H-How about just Argnymeas?”
“Very well, little mortal. Tell me now, then, who art thou?”
“My name- My name is Orlana. Orlana aft Wythraine.”