Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[scantilycladsnail]

The hooded figure moved without hesitation. Their steps were quick and light, a flurry of tiny, hurried motions that barely seemed to make a sound as they crossed the vast, dust-laden floor. There was no fear in them, no reverence, no caution—just urgency, a sense of purpose so absolute it almost felt as though they hadn’t even considered Wrath could be a threat.

They reached him in an instant.

Small hands—surprisingly warm—latched onto his, gripping without hesitation, without permission. They clasped around his jagged, clawed fingers, barely wrapping around them in full, but they pulled with unexpected strength.

"Quickly now, Rathiel, there is no time to waste, we really must hurry," the figure chirped, their voice light and effortlessly familiar, as though speaking to an old friend rather than a being wreathed in ember-fed shadow.

And then they dragged him forward.

There was no waiting for a response. No deference. No slowing to see if Wrath resisted. They yanked him along, their short legs moving at an impossibly fast pace, their hood barely bouncing as they nearly skittered across the polished stone.

"You have been gone for far too long," they continued in a matter-of-fact tone, their voice brisk but pleasant, like someone far too used to Wrath disappearing and just as used to dealing with the consequences. "We were all very concerned. And my, how rugged you look! We were worried sick."

Their grip tightened, firm but not painful, as they led him out of the throne room and into a long, winding hallway that stretched into the unknown.

The space around them shifted as they moved.

The ornate stone walls—once bare—now flickered with shifting carvings, faint, ghostly inscriptions that faded in and out of existence as if unsure whether they belonged there.

The hallway itself was impossibly long, stretching farther than it should, twisting gently without end in sight. A handful of archways appeared on either side, some opening into what looked like familiar landscapes, others revealing places that could not possibly exist—cityscapes built upside-down, rivers of ink suspended in air, doorways leading into infinite stars.

But the hooded figure did not slow.

Their grip remained tight, their pace relentless.

"But do not worry," they continued, breathless but cheerful, as if this were the most natural conversation in the world. "We have tended to your responsibilities in the meantime. It was not easy, mind you, but Harwin knows how much you like to go on these little adventures of yours. Did you have fun?"

There was no mockery in their tone, but something deeply knowing, something far too comfortable speaking of Wrath as if they had done this before.

Their pace quickened. The hallway shifted again, the flickering inscriptions now pulsing with faint golden light, forming what looked like names, histories, records of people Wrath had never met—or had simply forgotten.

Ahead, the hallway opened into something larger.

Another door. Another space.

And the hooded figure did not stop moving.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath was caught off guard. Completely unprepared for the sheer audacity of the small, hooded figure tugging him along as if he were nothing more than an unruly child. This wasn’t fear. This wasn’t deference. It wasn’t anything Wrath had ever experienced before.

He didn’t lash out. Didn’t snap his jaws or unleash the searing fury that had always come so easily to him. Instead, he found himself… hesitating. Frozen in the sheer unfamiliarity of it all. A sharp huff escaped him, not from rage but confusion—a sound low and raw, like a breath forced through clenched teeth. His heels scraped against the ground, shadowed claws digging into the smooth stone as he tried to halt their relentless pull. "Wait—stop it!" His voice was jagged, laced with a flicker of mounting frustration that hadn’t yet burned into full fury.

Wrath’s head snapped forward, a low snarl rumbling deep in his chest. "What are you doing?" His voice was sharper now, the raw scrape of something primal buried beneath the question.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The small figure skidded to a sudden halt, the abruptness of the motion almost comical given the sheer difference in their size. Their grip on Wrath’s massive, clawed hand didn’t falter, though, as they turned around in a swift motion, pulling back their hood with both hands.

A goat skull stared up at him—large, round eyes bright with curiosity and unwavering devotion. Their small body, covered in short dark fur, gave them an almost stuffed-toy softness, despite the skeletal visage. Their ears twitched slightly, as if trying to gauge Wrath’s mood, and after a moment of watching him, they tilted their head in an almost impossibly cute manner.

“Yes, what is it, my lord?” the little creature asked, voice light and airy, devoid of any fear or hesitation. The title rolled off their tongue as if it were the most natural thing in the world—like a name that had been spoken a thousand times before.

They blinked, turning their head to glance around at the grand hallway, then back to Wrath. "Is it something I said? Harwin is not angry, I promise.” The small figure lifted a three-clawed hand and made a little dismissive wave, as if brushing off the very idea. “We did expect you to return much sooner, yes... but—”

There was a moment of pause, hesitation perhaps, but it was brief. Before Wrath could react, the tiny servant stepped forward and wrapped their arms around him, or tried to—they could barely reach around his massive, jagged torso.

“I would never be angry with you, Master,” they murmured, voice softer now, as if this were an assurance Wrath needed to hear.

They squeezed tightly, their small frame pressing against his burning fur without fear of being consumed. It was too genuine, too practiced, as if they had done this before—many, many times.

Still holding on, they tilted their skull-like face up toward him. “I will personally speak with Harwin if you insist.” Their tone made it sound as though this would be a great burden, but one they would undertake willingly.

Then they added, as if it were the most normal thing in the world:

“Unless, of course, you wish to rest first. You must be exhausted after all that time outside.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath hesitated for a moment, the fire of his fury dimming as he stared down at the small creature before him. There was something disarming about its presence—an innocence wrapped in familiarity, as if it were a fragment of something long forgotten. The way it called him "My lord" resonated with a part of him buried beneath the rage, distant yet undeniably known.

Then came the hug.

He didn’t strike. He didn’t lash out. The creature’s arms barely reached around his jagged form, yet the embrace was genuine—comforting in a way Wrath hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity.

His voice, still rough and low, softened just slightly, touched by uncertainty. “I... believe I am experiencing some form of memory loss. Who is Harwin?” The words felt foreign on his tongue, an admission he hadn’t expected to make.

His ear flicked at the mention of time outside, the phrasing unfamiliar yet oddly specific. His eyes narrowed slightly, burning embers searching the creature’s expression for answers it wouldn’t—or couldn’t—give.

“Assuming... that’s what you mean by... ‘time outside,’” he rumbled, the words slow, almost hesitant. It wasn’t a demand. It was a question—one Wrath never thought he’d need to ask.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Wrath's grip on the moment tightened—not in anger, but in something slower, something creeping and unfamiliar. The small creature still clung to him, its warmth unsettlingly real against his flame-laced fur. It should have been nothing to him, a fleeting presence, another being that had no weight. But as his gaze flickered downward, something deeper began to settle into his bones.

It wasn’t just the familiarity of the embrace. It was its shape.

The creature’s skull bore a striking resemblance to his own—the sharp angles of bone, the way its eyes glowed with faint, ember-like intensity, its dark-furred body far too deliberate in its resemblance. This was not a being that merely admired him or fashioned itself in his image. No—this was something linked to him.

A flicker of sensation crawled up his spine. A tether.

It wasn’t quite like the bonds of soulvows, but something older, more intrinsic—something made of him. The connection was faint, but present, an invisible line pulling at his essence.

Had he... created this thing?

Wrath’s mind reeled against the thought, but the logic followed. It was his. His child? A fragment of him, born long ago? The details slipped through his grasp like sand, but the recognition remained, silent and unshakable.

And then, his gaze lifted to the walls.

Glowing inscription paintings lined the walls, etched in radiant gold and deep crimson, illuminating the massive hall in a surreal light. Each one bore the same goat-skulled figure, towering and absolute—a hero, a guardian, a being revered rather than feared.

The first painting showed the figure leading an exodus of lost souls, standing before a collapsing world, his skeletal visage filled with quiet resolve. Another depicted him standing at the edge of a battlefield, his towering form not as a conqueror, but as a shield against something greater, something unseen.

Another still—a painting so large it took up an entire portion of the wall—showed the Harbinger standing in front of the Four Thrones, his back to them, as if addressing an unseen crowd. The thrones were not empty in this depiction; instead, vague figures of light and shadow sat upon them, listening.

Every image, every carving, was of him.

Not as Wrath. Not as the terror that mortals had come to name him.

As Rathiel.

He was supposed to remember this.

But he didn’t.

"You really were there for a long time," the small creature sighed, stepping back but keeping its tiny, clawed hand wrapped around one of his fingers. "But the memories will come soon, Master. The fallen ones tend to take the most strain on you, Master Rathiel."

Wrath’s head turned sharply. The fallen ones.

He didn’t need the full context to feel the weight of those words—there was something buried in them, something personal.

The little minion, however, either did not notice his tension or was deliberately ignoring it.

"But surely we mustn't have you meet with Harwin yet," it continued, its voice still light, eager, reverent. "He would be hurt if you did not remember him."

It hesitated for only a second before looking up at him fully, as if making sure he was truly listening.

"He is your brother, after all."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath’s tension eased, just slightly, as he looked down at the small creature still holding onto his claw. Its warmth was unfamiliar, yet… comforting in a way that felt distant, like a memory just out of reach.

"I don’t need rest," Wrath said, his voice low but softer now—gentler, though the urgency remained beneath it. "But… thank you for your concern."

The mention of Harwin stirred something deep—an ache where memory should have been. Every step forward felt like pushing against a wall of fog, but standing still was worse.

"Take me to him," Wrath murmured, not unkindly. "Please."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The hall stretched onward, vast and eternal, yet strangely intimate—like a space built to house something far greater than any one being. The air hummed with a quiet reverence, a hush that settled over the scurrying figures as they took notice of their master’s return.

They bowed as Wrath passed.

Each one bore some resemblance to the creature at his side, their forms varied but unmistakably tied to him—small, dark-furred beings with goat-like skulls, ember eyes, and a weight of purpose stitched into their very existence. Some carried scrolls, others handled vials of shimmering light—fragments of something collected, preserved. But no matter their task, each one paused, dipped their heads in silent recognition, before hurrying on.

This wasn’t just respect.

It was relief.

As if his absence had left a hollow space in this place, one that none of them had been able to fill.

The creature continued to walk quickly, clutching his claw as if afraid he might disappear again if it let go. But even as it led him, its voice dropped into something mischievous, a hushed whisper full of quiet anticipation.

"Did you bring anything back for me?"

The words barely carried beyond them, the tone light, hopeful. As if this was something Wrath had done before.

Then, even softer—"I won’t tell the others."

They neared the great archway ahead, the entrance to the chamber that held Harwin—his so-called brother.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath hesitated at the creature’s question, a flicker of uncertainty passing through him. Without fully understanding why, he found himself shifting through the shadows of his cloak, searching for… something.

His claws eventually emerged, cradling small, shattered fragments of a teapot from Ramura—pieces no larger than gravel, worn smooth at the edges by time or pressure. It wasn’t much, not truly a gift, but it felt like it should be.

Wordlessly, he extended his hand and offered the fragments to the creature.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The creature let out a delighted gasp, its tiny, clawed hands eagerly reaching out as Wrath extended the fragments of the broken teapot. Despite their worn, useless state, the little minion cradled them as though they were a sacred offering, turning the pieces over with quiet reverence.

“From Ramura!” it chirped excitedly, tail flicking in happiness. “You always bring back the best things, Master! I will keep them safe, I promise!”

It hugged the shards close to its chest before hurrying forward, still keeping one hand loosely clasped around Wrath’s massive claw as they finally passed through the towering archway into the next chamber.
Stepping through the threshold was like walking into a different world.

Unlike the grand stone halls that Wrath had walked before, this chamber was alive. Vines crawled along the walls, softly pulsing with golden veins that ran deep into the cracked marble. Towering trees stretched high, their thick canopies filtering light that had no discernible source. Beneath them, gentle streams wove between polished stone pathways, their waters dark and still—like mirrors reflecting something just beyond sight. The air was rich with the scent of loamy earth, aged parchment, and faint traces of myrrh.

It was not untouched by time, but rather time itself had settled here, woven into the roots and the winding ivy.

And at the heart of it all, seated upon a throne carved from living wood, was Harwin.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Harwin stood, his presence effortlessly commanding but never forceful.

The smaller creatures that had been gathered at his feet—ones similar to Wrath’s attendant, though slightly different in shape and pattern—immediately scattered, skittering to the edges of the chamber as if their very presence was too intrusive for what was about to unfold.

Harwin’s silver eyes met Wrath’s burning embers, and for a moment, there was only stillness. A silence not of hesitation, but of recognition.

Then, a warm, knowing smile.

"Brother!"

His voice was smooth, deep like shifting earth, resonant with the weight of one who had never rushed a word in his existence.

He stepped forward, his movement fluid and deliberate, the embroidered layers of his earthen robes shifting gracefully with each stride. White fur, sleek and untouched by time, covered his tall, statuesque form, the purity of it almost unnatural—pristine, as if no war had ever marred him. His horns, long and arching back in perfect symmetry, gleamed like polished ivory, smooth and unscarred, untouched by the chaos that had twisted Wrath’s own form.

His garb was adorned with intricate golden thread, weaving symbols of fallen constellations and faded histories across rich, deep green fabric, the colors complementing the soft glow of his fur, like moonlight over untouched fields. At his waist, a sash of deep amber silk draped effortlessly, its edges frayed just slightly, a whisper of age in an otherwise timeless appearance—as if he had existed beyond eons, yet had never truly aged.

His silver eyes, luminous and steady, met Wrath’s burning embers without flinching. They did not burn, nor did they judge. They simply saw.

His golden-cracked form gleamed beneath the warm chamber light, fractures running like delicate veins through his fur, but they were not signs of weakness. They were history. They were the marks of something eternal, something unyielding, as though even time itself had tried to break him, and failed.

A stark contrast to Wrath—shadow and flame, jagged edges and violent ruin.

And yet, Harwin did not seem fragile.

He was whole in his fractures.

Unbroken in the weight of what he carried.

Harwin exhaled slowly, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle as he glanced toward Wrath’s small attendant, still clutching the fragments of the teapot with near-religious devotion.

“Ah, of course—Saturn.” He mused, his gaze returning to Wrath, full of something knowing and deeply fond. “He was always your favorite.”

He let the statement sit for a moment, searching Wrath’s expression for something—a flicker of memory, perhaps, or even just the beginnings of recognition.

And then, his expression softened further.

“I would chastise you…” he began, voice laced with something that might have been amusement, but edged with something older, something longing.

“…But it has been far too long.” His gaze did not waver. “And you're still probably a bit dazed....”

A pause.

Then, Harwin gestured toward a seat carved from twisting roots, the wood smooth from centuries of care.

"Please, come have a seat."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath stood motionless for a moment, his red glowing pupils fixed on Harwin—not with anger, but with sharp focus. Their forms were undeniably similar, yet the differences were stark. Wrath’s jagged edges and burning shadows painted him as something corrupted, twisted by time and fury, while Harwin remained untouched, pristine in his symmetry and grace.

Still, there was a pull—an ancient thread of familiarity Wrath hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. The sensation was unsettling in its softness, like a forgotten melody echoing through a hollow space.

His gaze shifted briefly to Saturn, the tiny creature clutching the shards of the teapot so reverently. His favorite? The thought stirred something unspoken, something that danced on the edge of memory but refused to fully take form.

Turning back to Harwin, Wrath’s voice rumbled low, not as a threat, but as an honest acknowledgment. “I am quite dazed.”

He moved toward the offered seat, lowering himself with a careful heaviness. His clawed fingers traced along the twisting wood, following its smooth, centuries-old curves. The craftsmanship, the attention to detail—it all felt like it should mean something. But the memory stayed just out of reach.

His gaze lingered on Harwin. “You seem… unchanged.” The words weren’t quite a question, but they carried the weight of curiosity, maybe even the faintest trace of envy.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin’s smile was knowing, serene—the kind of expression only worn by those who have never been uncertain of anything. He inclined his head, his silver gaze gleaming with warmth that felt both welcoming and weighted.

"And you, dear brother, seem quite changed."

His voice was measured, effortless, as if the very act of speaking was an art he had long since mastered. With a flick of his wrist, two eager attendants rushed forward, their small, skull-faced forms moving in perfect rhythm. Porcelain teapots were set upon the table before them, the steam curling like wisps of forgotten time. The servants poured without hesitation, their hands steady, reverent—as if this ritual had played out a hundred times before.

Harwin’s eyes never left Wrath’s as he spoke.

"I kept count."

A simple statement, yet it carried the weight of eons. He waved a hand dismissively, but there was no mistaking the gravity in his tone.

"One hundred and seven, collectively."

He let the number linger, like a blade left unsheathed between them.

"That is how many times this chronosphere was reset."

His lips pressed together briefly, as if catching himself.

Then, a small, almost sheepish grimace as he exhaled through his nose. "Forgive me. I said I would not chastise you." He shook his head, though his tone remained gentle, indulgent. "It has been… far too long."

His gaze drifted, taking in Wrath’s hulking, grotesque form, the burning void of his presence, the jagged edges that bled across reality itself. And then, with a slow flick of his fingers, he gestured at him.

"And this?" He made a vague motion toward Wrath’s monstrous form. "You know better than to return in your harbinger shape, brother… It is excessive. Even for you."

There was no hostility, only the gentle chiding of an elder sibling, the tone of someone who had seen this happen before. Too many times.

Harwin’s hand lifted, fingers outstretched. There was no pressure, no force—just an offering. An unspoken invitation.

And then, with a breath, Wrath’s form settled.

Still dark as the abyss, still a black goat with hollowed eyes and an eerie, looming presence, but less monstrous. Less frayed at the edges. Something recognizable.

Harwin nodded in approval, but his next words came quieter. Measured. Unyielding.

"You hesitated."

He did not look at Wrath when he said it. He observed him, studied him, but did not look at him, as if peering through him, into the very core of his being.

"Do you love her?"

A pause.

"You must, to reset one hundred and seven times for her."

His voice did not waver, but it softened slightly, a breath of understanding woven between the syllables.

"It was meant to be a swift termination. In and out. Chronosphere erased."

A sigh, quiet but full.

And then—certainty returned.

"We need to send you back."

The statement was final. Unquestionable.

But then, for the first time, hesitation flickered in his celestial presence.

He studied Wrath carefully.

"And yet… I fear doing so."

His fingers drummed idly against the wooden arm of his throne, an absent habit, as if this was the first time he had ever had to reconsider a course of action.

"Perhaps I should accompany you this time?" His silver eyes gleamed, his gaze knowing, piercing. "I understand. She does not spawn in every chronosphere. She is unique."

A slow, deliberate pause.

"But I can end her myself."

The words were spoken with the gentlest cruelty imaginable.

Not a threat. Not malice. Just a fact.

"We can complete the job. Spawn another Cronian—perhaps one with her likeness? As a reminder."

There was no malice, no hesitation.

Harwin was not suggesting cruelty. He was offering a compromise. A way for Wrath to let go without losing everything.

And then, finally, he looked at him.

His silver eyes, infinite and steady, peered directly into Wrath’s burning embers.

"Would that satisfy you, brother?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath’s form softened, the jagged edges of his presence receding as the wild fury within him dulled to a low, simmering ember. His fur remained as black as the void, but it no longer burned with chaotic fire. Instead, it was smooth, quiet—controlled in a way that felt foreign to him.

His gaze met Harwin’s, the red glow in his eyes dimming, not with weakness but with something far rarer: uncertainty.

"Harwin," Wrath began, his voice low, roughened by an emotion that didn’t quite feel like anger. "I’m afraid to admit it, but I don’t remember anything."

The confession weighed heavily in the air, more binding than any chain could have been. His eyes flicked away, distant now, caught in the frayed edges of forgotten memories. "Cronian? Aren’t I one of the Seven Deadly Sins?" The question fell from him, flat and hollow.

"Send me back?" Wrath echoed, his voice quieter now, the words curling around a truth he wasn’t ready to face. The images came back in fragments—Mercy’s light, their violent clash, the raw need to break free, the overwhelming desire to be Wrath again.

And then… Mordecai.

The memory hit like a fracture in his core.

How he had turned on Mordecai.

How he had almost killed him.

His breath hitched, the realization burrowing deeper than any wound could reach. For the first time in what felt like eons, Wrath felt something beyond rage. He felt fear.

He looked back to Harwin, the embers in his eyes flickering, not with power but with regret. "Go back? I—what would happen?" His voice wavered, a rare crack forming in the wall of his fury. "I hurt Mordecai. I… I shouldn’t have done that."

The admission was heavy, alien on his tongue.

A clawed hand lifted to his head, his fingers brushing over his horns as if the gesture could hold back the rising tide of guilt. "Did I lose myself?" His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and unfamiliar. "....Mercy?"

For the first time, Wrath wasn’t sure if returning meant reclaiming his purpose—or facing the consequences of what he had become.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin exhaled through his nose, the gesture carrying a quiet amusement—almost pitying, but never condescending. There was patience in his stillness, the kind worn by those who had seen the same mistake repeated countless times. He studied Wrath carefully, as if measuring the depth of his forgetfulness.

Leaning forward, he rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood. “Ah, of course. You mistake yourself, brother.” His silver eyes gleamed, illuminated by the chamber’s light, as though Wrath’s confusion had given him an answer in itself. "The Cronians are not what you are. They are what you leave behind."

Harwin tilted his head, golden cracks shimmering like veins of molten light across his white fur. "You were never meant to be a Sin, Rathiel. You are not a reflection of mortal vice, nor are you bound by the cycle of excess and balance." The words hung between them, deliberate and slow, weighted with an unshakable certainty. "Sins and Virtues are born from mortal existence—tied to the Chronosphere they are spawned into, shaped by those who believe in them. They are not constants. They are merely results." A pause, heavy with truth. "But you… you were never born of belief. You were placed in each timeline not to reflect it, but to end it."

His fingers stilled against the wood. "You are the Harbinger, Rathiel. Not a Sin. Not a mortal force. You were designed to bring the end—to close what lingers too long and ensure that nothing festers beyond its time." Harwin leaned back, observing Wrath with the same patient certainty he had always held. “But this time…” he mused, quieter now. “You did not close the door.”

Harwin exhaled again, slower now, shaking his head. “You place too much weight on him.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if Mordecai were little more than a fading ember in a dying fire. “He is just another kin. Nothing more. He exists as they all do, bound by the whims of the cycle. In a hundred other chronospheres, he is someone else. In a hundred others still, he does not exist at all.” A pause. A sigh, quiet and knowing. "He is irrelevant, brother. He always was."

Reaching for his cup, Harwin lifted it with effortless grace, steam curling around his fingers. His tone remained gentle, but absolute. “And as for Mercy?” He swirled the tea absently, watching the liquid shift within the porcelain. "She is not as unique as you believe her to be." His silver gaze lifted, measured and unwavering. "She is a Virtue, and like all Virtues, she is simply the result of balance—mortal balance. Sometimes she is present. Sometimes she is not. The cycle does not require her." A quiet moment passed. "This version of her simply happened to catch your interest."

He set the cup down carefully, gaze locked on Wrath. "And yet, you have refused to erase her. One hundred and seven times." He let that number sit between them, weighted with something deeper than mere observation. His fingers traced the lines of golden fracture across his wrist. "She was never meant to be permanent. A variable. A singularity. She should not have existed beyond her first cycle. And yet, somehow, she does."

The words lingered, heavy with unspoken implication. Harwin watched Wrath carefully, his silver eyes narrowing just slightly. Then, softly, he asked the one question Wrath had no answer for. "So tell me, dear brother—if the Harbinger of Endings refuses to end something… what does that make her?"

He let the silence settle before shifting the conversation, his tone dipping lower, more contemplative now. "The Primordials are constants. They do not belong to the cycle, nor are they tied to the whims of mortals. They have seen the rise and fall of every Chronosphere, and they have never failed to appear when a world was due for erasure." His head tilted slightly, something unreadable flickering in his silver eyes. "And yet, this time, they did not."

The words hung in the air, deliberate. Then, softly—almost idly—he murmured: "Which begs the question… did they choose not to intervene?" A pause. "Or did something prevent them?"

Harwin gestured toward the small, skull-faced creature still clutching the shards of the teapot with quiet reverence. "The Cronians are what remains after you finish your work. They are not born of life, but of what once was." His gaze lingered on Wrath, steady, unshaken. "They are echoes of erased civilizations, fragments of lost timelines. And yet, they adore you. They bow at your feet as if you are a god to them. Because, to them, you are."

A moment of silence. "Even in destruction, you create something. Whether you acknowledge them or not, these creatures are proof that nothing is ever truly erased." His silver gaze locked onto Wrath’s once more. "Even the worlds you end refuse to forget you."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin exhaled slowly, his gaze softening—not with hesitation, but with something quieter, something understanding. He did not chide, nor did he press. Instead, he reached for his cup once more, rolling the warmth between his fingers as if weighing what needed to be said next.

“Well then,” he murmured, almost thoughtful, “if you are to return, I will not let you go alone.”

He set the cup down with care, rising to his feet in a single graceful motion. The flowing layers of his robes settled around him, deep green and gold catching the chamber’s light, the golden fractures along his form glinting faintly. "It has been some time since I last entered a Chronosphere," he admitted, adjusting the drape of his sash. “Too long, perhaps.” There was no resentment in the words—only quiet reflection.

His silver eyes met Wrath’s, steady but absent of judgment. "Let me go with you, Rathiel. I will do what must be done. You are the Harbinger, yes, but that does not mean you must carry everything alone. I will ensure that Mercy does not lead you astray again. She is not meant to be permanent—she never was. If she lingers still, then I will see to it that the matter is settled.”

Harwin stepped forward, reaching out—not to command, not to bind, but simply to offer his presence. "I know you have lost yourself before. I do not wish for you to lose yourself again.” A brief pause. “Let me help you, brother."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Croanians​

"Echoes of the Erased"

• Classification: Residual Entities
• Origin: Formed from the remnants of collapsed Chronospheres
• Appearance: Small, skull-faced creatures bearing faint traces of the world they once belonged to
• Behavior: Loyal, reverent, and instinctively drawn to Rathiel, whom they view as their creator

Overview:​

Croanians are the last remnants of erased timelines, manifesting in the wake of Rathiel’s Harbinger duties. They are neither spirits nor lost souls, but imprints of forgotten civilizations, carrying echoes of the past yet unburdened by grief. Though their former worlds are gone, they persist—small, endearing creatures with skull-like faces, bright eyes, and unwavering devotion.

Despite being the byproduct of destruction, Croanians do not fear the end. They revere it. To them, Rathiel is not just the force that ended their world; he is the one who allowed them to exist beyond it. They serve him without question, not from fear, but from an almost childlike adoration, believing themselves to be his chosen remnants.

Example – Saturn, a Croanian from the Saturn Chronosphere​

Saturn, one of Rathiel’s most attentive followers, emerged after the erasure of Saturn Chronosphere—a world once defined by its relentless pursuit of equilibrium, where all things were measured, weighed, and balanced. Saturn retains something of its essence. He is meticulous, careful in his words and actions, and often acts as though keeping Rathiel on schedule is his personal duty.

Unlike some of the more excitable Croanians, Saturn is observant, patient, yet fiercely protective of Rathiel, as though watching over him is a sacred responsibility. He often clings to Rathiel’s cloak or hand, keeping pace with him at all times, and is known to reprimand other Croanians if they get too rowdy.

Most notably, Saturn refuses to believe that Rathiel forgets anything. If Rathiel does not remember something, then Saturn remembers for him.

"You were there for a long time, Master Rathiel," Saturn often reminds him, his voice soft but insistent. "The memories will come back soon. They always do."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath was silent for a long moment. The air around him, once thick with the suffocating heat of embers and shadow, cooled—not with calm, but with the weight of something unspoken settling into his chest.

His claws flexed against the wood of the chair, leaving shallow grooves in the polished surface. Not out of rage, but out of something far more unsettling. Doubt.

"I am not supposed to remember them," he murmured, voice low and rough, stripped of its usual fury. His burning eyes met Harwin’s silver gaze, but there was no fire in them now—just embers, struggling to stay lit. "Not Mordecai. Not Mercy. None of them should matter to me."

A pause, like something fragile teetering on the edge of shattering.

"But they do." His voice softened, a rasp at the back of his throat. "Every time I try to end it, I hesitate. Every time, I remember their faces—his pain, her defiance—and the fire weakens." His gaze dropped to the shards of the teapot clutched in Saturn’s tiny hands. "And if I was made to end… then why do I keep creating reasons not to?"

His thoughts drifted to Mercy. By all accounts, he should have hated her. Sometimes, he tried to. The moments where she restrained him, stood against him, felt like betrayal. But in those final seconds—seeing her pinned, watching her fight even as she broke—it wasn’t hatred that surfaced. It was something quieter. Something that stopped him, every time.

Then Harwin spoke of descending, of ending her presence permanently.

Wrath shot to his feet, the sudden urgency in his movements making the shadows around him ripple with unsteady force. "No." His voice wasn’t sharp or commanding—it was raw, a plea stripped of pride.

He stood there, the weight of the word settling between them. "Harwin… no." His tone lowered, steadier now but still laced with something unfamiliar: vulnerability. "Yes, she’s stopped me before. Yes, she makes me hesitate. But that hesitation—it isn’t weakness."

Wrath’s eyes met Harwin’s fully, steady and unwavering. "I need her." The words hung in the air, simple and undeniable. "Not as a part of the chronosphere. Not as a variable. I need her."

A breath, heavy with resolve.

"What if I haven’t lost myself, Harwin? What if… I’ve found myself in her?"

He let the question linger, his gaze locked with Harwin’s. There was no fury in him now, no flames crackling beneath the surface—only a quiet defiance.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly. “You’ve got the chronos-madness, brother.” There was no cruelty in his words, only patience—the kind worn by those who have had this conversation before. His silver eyes traced Wrath’s form, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Concern. Understanding. A hint of regret.

“It happens when you linger too long in a Chronosphere,” he continued, his voice calm, measured. “You begin to believe you are part of it. That the stories inside belong to you. That you belong to them.” He exhaled, folding his hands behind his back, standing tall in a posture that had never once wavered. “You don’t.”

His silver gaze held Wrath’s, steady and unwavering. “You are a Harbringer, Rathiel. That is what you are. That is what you have always been.”

A breath, slow and deliberate.

“We do not shape the story. We do not choose which parts of a world deserve to stay and which do not. That has never been our place.”

Harwin’s expression didn’t harden—if anything, it softened. Not out of weakness, but because he knew what came next. He had seen it before, across countless cycles, in others like Wrath—Harbingers who had wavered, who had hesitated, who had fallen into the same pattern of doubt.

“I create. You end. That is the order of things.”

He stepped forward, slow, careful, though his voice remained gentle. “You were not meant to linger. You were not meant to hesitate.” His eyes flickered with something deeper—something older, something unshaken. “We are two halves of a cycle, brother. I build the Chronospheres, and you close them. That is how it has always been.”

“Why would you try to change that?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath stood firm, his voice low but steady. "You think this is madness? No, brother. This is what it feels like to choose for myself—to want something beyond duty." His clawed hand settled on his hip as he tilted his head slightly, studying Harwin with a sharp, deliberate gaze.

"You don’t go there. You never do. You speak of cycles, of creation and endings, but how can you speak of them like that? How can you question my connection with her when you’ve never let yourself feel anything like it? You create, yes. But have you ever truly lived among the things you bring into existence? Have you ever tried to understand them?"

Wrath took a step forward, his burning eyes locking with Harwin’s unwavering silver gaze. "I won’t let you harm her, Harwin. I may be the end, the Harbinger—but she’s more than just a variable in the cycle. I can’t erase her. I won’t." His voice was resolute, the heat behind his words not from rage, but conviction.

Another step forward, closer now, but not in threat—only in clarity. "What if the Chronospheres don’t need us to just reset them? What if your place isn’t just to create and mine isn’t just to destroy? What if there’s more to this than roles we’ve been told to play?" He paused, voice lowering to a near whisper. "We could walk together, Harwin. Not as creator and destroyer… but as something new."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities, lingering between them like the edge of an unwritten fate.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin did not respond at first. His silver eyes flickered, not with resistance, but with something far rarer. Consideration.

Wrath had expected him to scoff, to dismiss the thought as yet another symptom of chronos-madness, another sentimental illusion that would crumble under the weight of what they were. But Harwin did not scoff. He did not laugh.

Instead, he was listening.

He exhaled, slowly, as if steadying himself. “You always were the reckless one, Rathiel.” His voice was quieter now, lacking the certainty it had held before. “But I cannot ignore what you are saying—not when I see how much you believe it.”

His hands folded behind his back, a familiar motion, but the tension in his shoulders had lessened. He had stopped trying to convince Wrath—and started trying to understand him.

“But then tell me, brother. How would it work?” His voice carried no sarcasm, no challenge—only genuine curiosity.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath was surprised by Harwin’s pause, the way his brother’s certainty gave way to something quieter—true consideration. The tension in his own shoulders eased as he spoke, his voice low but steady.

"You could come down in a form like mine. Walk among them, as they do—like shadows among the living, unnoticed unless they truly believe." He took a slow step forward, his gaze steady on Harwin’s. "I’ve seen the kin, Harwin. I’ve seen what draws them in, what stirs their joy, their rage, their fear—what makes them pray for mercy, for salvation, or for the end."

His voice softened, but the weight of his conviction remained. "We could be that force—not distant gods watching from above, but present in their world, part of the stories they tell. I lose myself not because of her alone, but because I am away from you. Alone, the balance falters. Together… the message is clearer."

He stopped just within reach of Harwin, his presence no longer burning with fury, but with purpose. "It wouldn’t be about fire and fear, or just creating and ending. It would be the cycle as it was meant to be—complete, whole. Life and death, walking side by side, hidden in plain sight."

Wrath’s eyes burned brighter—not with destruction, but with hope. "We would become more than Harbinger and Creator. We’d be a story of our own. Two brothers—Harwin and Rathiel—keepers of the cycle, protectors of balance, judges of life and death."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper, full of quiet certainty. "But we walk in secret. Not as gods who demand devotion, but as beings who let them find their faith in us, who allow belief to bloom naturally. And when true judgment is needed… we will be there. Together."

---

Wrath's / Rathiel's Offering:
1. Harwin Should Walk Among Mortals​

• Wrath suggests Harwin should descend into the Chronosphere in a mortal-like form, similar to how Wrath manifests.
• They would blend into the world, hidden from immediate recognition unless beings are truly aware of their presence
• They wouldn’t be worshipped openly but subtly acknowledged through the natural cycles of life and death.

2. Balance Through Presence Together​

• Wrath admits that part of his instability comes from being separated from Harwin, his counterpart.
• Harwin’s presence would help restore the balance between creation (Harwin) and destruction (Wrath).
• Together, they would represent the full cycle of life, death, and rebirth, stabilizing Wrath’s connection to his true purpose.

3. A New Role Beyond Fear and Finality​

• Wrath proposes a shift from being seen solely as a harbinger of fear and endings.
• Instead of enforcing the end through destruction alone, their presence would embody the full story: the birth, growth, and eventual closure of all things.
• It’s not about punishment or elimination but maintaining the natural flow of the cycle.

4. A Shared Myth, Hidden in Plain Sight​

• They wouldn’t announce themselves as gods but instead allow belief and reverence to grow naturally through the actions of mortals who sense their influence.
• This would create legends, whispers of two brothers—Rathiel (death and endings) and Harwin (life and creation)—who quietly guide the world’s balance.
• Only those who are truly attuned or faithful would recognize them for what they are.

5. Judgment Delivered Together​

• When true judgment is required—whether to end a chronosphere, restore balance, or guide lost souls—they would act together as two halves of a whole.
• This ensures that neither destruction nor creation becomes too powerful on its own, avoiding the chronos-madness Wrath has experienced.

6. Mercy’s Role Left Untouched (For Now)​

• Wrath isn’t offering vengeance or elimination of Mercy but instead acknowledging that she plays a role in why he hesitates.
• By bringing Harwin into the mortal realm, Wrath believes he can maintain his clarity and focus without needing to destroy her.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Harwin exhaled slowly, rolling Wrath’s words over in his mind. A story of their own. It was not an outright rejection of what they were—it was an evolution. A shift in the cycle. And perhaps… after everything, it was time.

His silver eyes met Wrath’s, searching for something. Hesitation? Desperation? No… this was conviction. Not fire, not fury. Something steadier. Something he could believe in.

Finally, he nodded. “Very well, Rathiel.” His voice was even, thoughtful. “I will walk beside you in the Chronosphere, and together, we will evaluate the course of action from within.”

He stepped back, his hands folding neatly behind him as he turned his gaze skyward. “I will not make decisions before I have seen the world as it is now. Too much time has passed since I created it… and things have changed.” His silver gaze flickered slightly. “We both know that.”

Then, a small smirk. “And since you seem so prone to losing yourself these days… we’ll take Saturn.”

At the mention of his name, the tiny Cronian perked up, tail swishing as he clutched the broken teapot fragments tighter. "Oh! Me?" His skull-etched face tilted up toward Wrath, then back to Harwin. "Oh yes, I’d love to go! I haven't been outside in ages, you know. Not since—" He stopped abruptly, then cleared his throat. "Well. You know."

Harwin waved a hand. "Yes, yes. I know." He stepped forward, lifting his hand toward the vast ceiling above. A single motion—a pull downward.

The air trembled. The chamber shifted. And then, slowly, the Chronospheres descended.

Like great celestial orbs, they rotated above them, suspended in the infinite blackness beyond the throne room. Each one shimmered with a distinct essence, a different world contained within—some burning, some teeming with green, some flickering with fragments of lost time itself.

Harwin tilted his head, examining them. “Now… which one?”

His eyes skimmed over the rotations, scanning each Chronosphere carefully, as though sifting through the pages of an old book. "Anthroterra," he murmured. His brow furrowed. "It was big… I remember that."

His gaze lingered on one, a vast sphere dominated by rolling waves. He narrowed his eyes. "No, not this one. Too much water. That’s the wrong one."

He looked again, sifting through the luminous forms, before his expression finally settled on one near the back.

A dark mass, streaked with ribbons of golden light, turning slowly in the vast space.

His silver eyes gleamed. “There.”

He gestured toward it, his voice distant, laced with old memory. "Black and gold. That’s the one."

His head tilted slightly, considering it. "It’s been waiting for us, Rathiel."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the Chronosphere began to descend.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath’s posture softened, his presence no longer a looming shadow of destruction but something balanced—measured, like the weight of inevitability tempered by understanding. His skeletal features, once a mask of fury, now radiated something closer to reverence as his hand rested on Harwin’s shoulder.

"I am looking forward to this, brother. For us, together," his voice carried the steady resolve of someone who had finally found his place in the cycle—not as a destroyer, but as a necessary force of balance. His eyes, those burning embers once consumed by rage, now glowed with quiet certainty.

Turning to Saturn, Wrath’s expression—despite the skull-like visage—softened into what could only be described as a smile. The small creature’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Wrath couldn’t help but let out a low, almost affectionate chuckle. "Saturn… you’re going to love it," he said, his voice rich with assurance and something close to fondness.

The brothers’ hands extended in unison toward the descending Chronosphere, the swirling mass of dark void and shimmering gold light humming with ancient energy. Together, they reached for it—not as Harbinger and Creator, but as equals.

The world shifted.

---

The stillness returned to the glimmering pool, freezing the devastation in place. Time itself seemed caught in hesitation, waiting for the balance to reassert itself. Wrath’s form, once feral and violent, re-emerged from the abyss—not as the beast of rage, but as Rathiel, the Harbinger reborn.

The water parted, not in chaos, but in reverence. Waves calmed as opposing forces—creation and destruction—collided and settled into harmony. The void opened beneath the pool, not as a maw of despair but as a foundation of inevitability: dark, vast, but necessary.

Rathiel stepped forth.

No longer crawling on all fours, no longer a creature lost to his own fury. His body rose tall and composed, a towering black goat cloaked in shadow and cosmic gold. His skeletal head, once jagged and terrifying, now reflected clarity—his horns sweeping back in elegant arcs, no longer broken but regal, holding the quiet power of something ancient and enduring.

His black fur moved as if caught in an unseen breeze, soft yet heavy with presence. The robe that cloaked him shimmered with celestial symbols—constellations and forgotten sigils and symbols marked with death, marking him as something beyond the realms of sin and virtue. His ribcage exposed while the rest of his body covered in a soft coating of his black fur.

He paused at the edge of the devastation.

The echoes of pain and destruction lingered around him. Mordecai lay broken, his breath ragged, Ephraim at his side. Mercy, pinned against the wall by Lust’s shadowed hand, struggled silently. Rathiel’s head lowered—not with dominance, but respect.

"Truly, I have lost my way," his voice rumbled, low but steady. "But no longer."

A single gesture followed—measured and graceful.

The shadows binding Mercy released their grip not with violence, but with reverence. Lust’s hold didn’t shatter; it simply obeyed, recoiling with quiet submission as if recognizing Rathiel’s authority without resistance.

Rathiel turned toward Ephraim and Mordecai next. His gaze, no longer burning with blind fury, softened as he took in the damage done—understanding the cost of his own recklessness. His presence didn’t press down on them, but instead, stood as a silent acknowledgment of the suffering he had caused.

Finally, he approached Mercy.

Each step was purposeful but gentle, the air around him humming with an energy older than time itself. Standing before her, he spoke with quiet sincerity.

"I am sorry for the pain you’ve endured," his voice was a murmur—an offering of truth, not power. His head tilted slightly in reverence. "I have always loved you… even when I was too lost to remember how."

He allowed the silence to stretch, giving her the space to respond—or not. There was no expectation in his tone, only the acceptance of what had been.

And then, without turning, his voice echoed once more, rich with certainty.

"Harwin....brother," Rathiel called, eyes shifting toward the still-glimmering pool. "It is time. Come… meet them."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The golden void rippled as Harwin stepped through, his form emerging with effortless grace. Unlike Wrath’s descent from the abyss, Harwin’s arrival was light given form, soft yet absolute—a golden fracture in space itself, pouring forward as if the world had always been waiting for his return.

His robes shifted as he moved, trailing the faint scent of something ancient and green, like the memory of a world that once flourished. His silver eyes swept across the devastation, his expression calm yet unreadable.

Then, with a mere flick of his wrist, the air shimmered.

Mordecai’s body—broken, battered, his breath fragile—was restored in an instant. Bones knitted together, bruises faded, pain ceased. The afflictions that had weakened him dissipated like mist caught in the morning sun. There was no fanfare, no grand display—just the simple, effortless return of what was whole.

Harwin sighed as his gaze drifted outward, taking in the ruins of a world he had once shaped.

"I do not remember this place as it is," he murmured, voice contemplative, not quite nostalgic. His silver eyes traced the desolation, the broken remnants of what once stood here. "When I made it, there was much more greenery." His brow knit slightly, and for the first time, a flicker of disappointment passed through his features. "It was not meant to become this… hollow."

His attention shifted next—first to Mercy, then to Lust.

"You two…" He studied them both with quiet curiosity, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Interesting manifestations in this world. A virtue and a sin, woven so deeply into its fabric." His fingers tapped idly against the golden trim of his robes, the weight of observation settling into his tone. "And yet, I wonder—are you shaped by the world, or has the world shaped itself around you?"

His gaze lingered on Mercy for a beat longer, something flickering behind his silver eyes—not recognition, but assessment.

Then his attention turned to Avarice.

Harwin’s silver gaze cut through him, seeing beyond flesh, beyond form—peering directly into the soul that had endured far more than any single lifetime should have allowed. A slow, almost amused exhale escaped him.

"You and Ephraim… your souls are malfested." He said it not with disdain, but with fascination, as if turning over an artifact whose history had been rewritten too many times to trace. "Born anew, over and over… tethered to something beyond simple fate. Not a flaw, just a truth. A reflection of endurance, perhaps."

His words held no judgment, only intrigue—a scholar considering the weight of history in living form.

Then the world shifted.

The Glimmering Pool—the fractured mirror of souls—began to dissolve. The water did not ripple, did not churn—it simply ceased to be. A great, yawning emptiness stretched outward, leaving behind nothing but a vast, empty crater.

The souls that once swam within it stirred, caught in the air like dust scattered by the wind. Slowly, they moved—drawn not by force, but by the quiet pull of something inevitable.

Some drifted toward Wrath, folding into him like embers returning to the fire. Others veered toward Harwin, dissolving into golden light as they disappeared into the fabric of his being. Creation and destruction, order and entropy—separating as naturally as water parts around stone.

And then, the last of them crawled forward.

Saturn.

His tiny form clawed its way up the crater’s edge, his little skull-faced head peeking over the rim. He let out a tiny, triumphant huff, scrambling up the last few inches before plopping onto solid ground.

Harwin watched him for a long moment, then exhaled a quiet chuckle. "Ah. Of course."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s breath hitched as his body knit itself back together, every fracture and bruise mending as if they had never existed. The pain was gone—no dull throb, no lingering ache—just an overwhelming sense of peace filling the hollow spaces where agony had once dwelled. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, steadying on shaky arms until he could sit, his eyes wide with disbelief.

He stared at his hands, fingers flexing experimentally. Whole again. The damage had vanished, erased without struggle or sacrifice. His gaze shifted instinctively to Ephraim, checking for signs of harm, then lifted—drawn to the two figures now standing before him like forces beyond comprehension.

"Wrath?" Mordecai’s voice was hoarse, uncertain.

The taller figure turned toward him, his gaze soft, lacking the fury his name once implied. "Rathiel," the being corrected gently, voice steady like distant thunder softened by time. "I am Rathiel, and this…" His head inclined toward the radiant figure beside him. "This is my brother, Harwin. We are creation and the end."

The words settled heavily over Mordecai’s thoughts, the meaning unraveling like a thread pulled from a tapestry. Before understanding could fully form, a tiny, familiar presence stirred at the edge of his awareness.

Saturn.

A soft, triumphant huff echoed from the crater’s rim as Saturn clawed his way onto solid ground, his tiny form determined despite his size. Rathiel’s expression shifted, warmth blooming in his otherwise impassive features. He knelt without hesitation, lowering himself to Saturn’s level with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his immense presence.

"Saturn," Rathiel murmured, extending a welcoming hand. His voice carried none of the weight of destruction—only gentle affection, as if the small creature before him were the most important being in existence. "Come. Say hello."

Mordecai watched, bewildered, as Rathiel’s gaze turned toward him and Ephraim with a calm sincerity. "They are good people," he assured Saturn, his tone low and comforting. "They are friends. No need to be shy."

Mordecai’s thoughts churned as the truth settled in his mind like falling ash. His voice was soft, almost reverent. "You… both… are creation and the end?" The realization struck deeper than any wound ever had—Rathiel had never truly been Wrath alone.

And yet… the gentleness before him suggested something far greater than destruction.