They say Mythics are creatures born from the rage of the lands, dark beasts forged from hatred and transgression. Yet every time I hear those words, it feels as though the earth itself is whispering old wounds—reminding us that anger has a shape, and that hatred grows teeth when left to fester.
The Mythics rise from that bitterness, twisted shadows molded into living nightmares, beasts that carry the weight of the world's grief in their snarling breaths.
And the knights… the knights are the brave ones ready to fight these beasts and claim back lost lands. But bravery is never just bravery—there is always fear trembling beneath the armor, always a memory of what once belonged to them and was stolen in a single night of darkness. They stand anyway, weapons trembling with purpose, marching toward the creatures that were shaped from everything humanity tried to forget. They move not only to reclaim ground, but to reclaim hope, to rewrite the story carved into their homeland by wrath and ruin.
I wanted to be one, but here I am... Behind the counter, selling, collecting and giving.
"This is the last height potion in my stock, please use it wisely," Fareith said evenly, her calm and dead tone betraying the irritation she fought to hide. She extended the small glass vial toward the man before her—a stout, armour-clad brute whose metallic clanking and pungent scent of old wine could have emptied the room on their own.
The man barely reached her shoulder, his beard greasy and his cheeks flushed from the drinks. He snatched the potion from her hand, his voice rough.
"Give it here already, woman!" he barked, clutching it like a lost treasure. With a sudden burst of undying glee, he hopped in place. "At last! I got it, an elixir that will increase my height!"
Fareith blinked, trying her best to fight the demons that held her back when she chose violence as she watched the ridiculous sight of a fully-armoured dwarf dancing like a giddy child.
Dwarves were known for being very stern and strict, their authority as hard as iron. With a weary sigh, Faerith cleared her throat sharply, hoping to get his attention.
"Ahem!"
The little man froze, his bearded face turning sour, grumbling under his breath before tossing a small pouch across the counter. It hit the wood with a dull thunk. "There you go, your payment!" he snapped before storming out of the shop, the door slamming behind him.
Fareith arched a brow. "Always a pleasure," she muttered dryly, whispering insults under her breath. She scooped up the pouch and peeked inside, only for the smile to vanish.
That good-for-nothing, son of a bitch!
Inside weren't gold coins at all, but silver, and the glimmering "diamond" turned out to be a plain, uncut emerald.
"Well," she muttered with an unimpressed look, "that's one way to pay someone. Technically more than the price… but still an insult."
Her shoulders slumped as she tied the pouch shut. Yet again, that rude fool had somehow managed to outplay her. Not that she could chase him down now—he was long gone.
Sweat glistened faintly on her blue hair, tied into two large ponytails that bounced as she moved. Her purple eyes seemed tired, dulled by the soft lantern light of the cramped shop. Her small, dark-skinned frame was wrapped in a simple slit dress that ended mid-thigh, the hem swaying just above her knees as she moved.
"A connoisseur of fine payment," she said under her breath, sarcasm dripping like venom.
With a tug on the lever hidden beneath her counter, the shelves of glowing potions folded inward, covered by sturdy wooden panels. The soft click of mechanisms signalled her day's end.
"Alright," she exhaled, "that's done."
She stepped outside and locked the door, the fading orange glow of evening washing over the quiet street. The air smelled of metal, smoke, and a faint herbal scent drifting from neighbouring stalls. Workers passed by, their tired chatter filling the dusk.
"It's evening already?" she murmured, rubbing her temple. "I could've sworn it was still day not long ago."
She sighed and began her short walk home, clutching her small satchel tightly. Usually on nights like this, she was often greeted with the glares of local townsfolk.
Being one of the only skilled brewers in Evandale came with too much attention—and far too little appreciation. Between demanding knights, impatient adventurers, and condescending nobles, it was a miracle she hadn't blown her shop up in frustration.
"I do wonder where everybody is...." she muttered to herself, stepping into the dim streets.
She finally reached home, ready to sleep away the stress and everything that had happened. Tomorrow would be wonderful.
Not today.
"Hey, you! Slut!"
Faerith froze, brows knitting. A frustrated sigh escaped her before she turned toward the voice.
"Sorry," she said. "We are closed."
The short man from before stood there — only he wasn't the same. He'd grown somehow, taller, broader; he loomed over her with his arms folded like a judge waiting to hand down a sentence.
"Ah, seems the potion worked well enough for you," the girl began. "I almost thought that—"
Before Faerith could finish, the bearded man snapped, "Shut it! I don't want to hear a single word from that foul mouth of yours, woman!"
Her face hardened. "What seems to be the issue, sir?" Her tone went cold and stern.
He stepped closer. Now he was six foot three, chest heaving. "Your potion didn't work," he said. "I want a refund."
Faerith tilted her head, scanning him slowly. Is this guy an idiot? The signs were clear. His dissatisfaction felt absurd.
"Mister, I believe your mind has begun to play tricks on you," she replied, precisely.
The customer's eyes flared. "Are you insulting me because I'm dissatisfied with your worthless service?" His voice dropped to a cold whisper as he closed the distance.
Faerith drew a steadying breath. "I will act as though you did not insult me," she said, voice colder than before.
She reached for her door, hoping he'd take the hint and leave. He didn't. Rage snapped across his face.
"You wench!!"
His huge hand slammed onto her wrist, and he yanked her back. Pain flared. "Get your filthy hands off me!"
He didn't let go. He hauled her up and drove her against the house wall, his grip tightening on her entire body. Faerith grunted, vision swimming from the impact.
"Hey, stop it, you bearded fuck!" she spat, kicking out blindly while scanning for anyone who might just be of help to her, maybe save her from her fate.
But there was nobody, the city was already quiet, and the people of Evandale returned to their homes.
The brute chuckled, gold dentures flashing in the dim light. The sight made her stomach twist. He leaned close, his voice filled with venom. "There's nobody here to save you from me. Now you're going to wish you had never dissatisfied me."
He raised his fist. It clenched, trembling with threat.
Fareith braced herself for a devastating attack, teeth clenched, every muscle tensed.
Right before the man could strike, a voice cut through the heated tension, calm, cold and commanding.
"Hey! That's enough, Feaul."
The name froze her attacker mid-swing. Feaul—the same dwarf of a man from minutes ago—turned slowly toward the source of that voice.
From the darkness stepped a figure draped in a white cloak, his face hidden behind a gold mask that gleamed faintly under the moonlight.
Faerith's heart pounded. The man's presence alone sent a chill through her veins; it was the kind of cold that clawed at the soul. Her body trembled, mind racing with dread—was this an ambush? Had they come together for her? Still, she forced herself to remain, eyes darting between the two men.
Feaul released her with a grunt, then took a heavy step toward the masked stranger. "And what will you do," he sneered, "if I choose not to follow your orders?"
The cloaked man didn't even flinch. His voice was smooth, dripping with an unshakable malice. "Threats solve nothing, Feaul. Only fools rattle their enemies without purpose. I am not your enemy... and that young lady you threaten is not your concern. I advise you to stand down now"
Faerith, her body aching, could barely stay upright after that simple attack. Sweat rolled down her face. She tried to make sense of what was happening before her. Then she saw it, Feaul's massive frame shuddering.
Without another word, the two men turned and walked away, their silhouettes fading into the night.
Faerith's knees gave out. The world tilted, her breath faltered, and her vision dimmed. The pain, the fear—it all melted into silence as she collapsed to the ground, slipping into unconsciousness.
——
After what seemed like hours, but was just seconds, Faerith opened her eyes, the feeling of something cold on her body. Her vision was blurry, like she was still in the process of passing out. Then she smelt it, the scent of green.
She was sure that she passed out in front of her home, but now she was in a different realm entirely, cold greens and soil clung to her body. She scrambled to her feet, dusting herself.
Faerith's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Confusion clouded her thoughts as she blinked at the strange sight before her—an endless field of lavender and rice, the stalks swaying gently in a ghostly breeze. The air was still, the sky an empty black canvas without stars or sun, yet somehow the world glowed softly, every detail around her hauntingly clear.
The scent hit her next—lavender. Familiar, comforting, almost painful in its nostalgia. It reminded her of home—of her mother's cooking and quiet humming, of her father's careful brewing and the sweet perfume of bottled elixirs lined across their shelves. Every potion she'd ever sold carried that same soothing fragrance. And here it was again, strong as memory, fresh as dream.
But this wasn't home.
Faerith frowned, scanning the horizon. "Where… am I?" she whispered.
Her heart pounded as the reality sank in. She wasn't bound, wasn't restrained—there were no ropes, no dark cellar, no captor waiting in the shadows. Just her, and the wind, and this infinite lavender field stretching to nowhere.
Was I kidnapped?
No—no ransom note, no demand, no voice. Nothing.
The silence itself felt alive.
"I need to get out of here…" she muttered, taking a cautious step forward.
Then it happened.
A chill swept through her veins. Something—no, someone—was there. She couldn't see it, but she felt it, like a shadow pressing against her soul. The sensation was invasive, a cold awareness crawling up her spine.
I'm being watched…
The feeling grew sharper. To her right—yes, there. The air rippled.
Then, as if stitched from the darkness itself, a female figure emerged—cloaked in black, her bare body partially exposed, a long spear resting easily in her grasp. It hovered a few inches off the ground, silent, unmoving.
Faerith turned, trembling, eyes wide. "Wh–who are you?" she stammered.
No answer.
Then the figure raised his weapon, as if ready to strike her down. Faerith stood defensively, ready to dodge the attack, but the weapon was inches from her neck.
A flash of purple light burst forth, so bright it tore through her vision. Faerith threw up her hands, teeth gritted as she fought the searing glow that consumed the world around her.
Then—silence.
The light faded. She lowered her hand, blinking through the afterglow.
Before her floated something impossible—an enormous purple shard, like a fractured mirror, suspended in the air and pulsing with ethereal energy. Strange symbols rippled across its surface, and then, as if recognizing her, the words reformed into her own language.
Her breath caught.
[New Oracle Chosen: Faerith, the Brewer of Astral]
{Will you accept?}
[Yes or Nay?]