AN: No, I do not own Campione.
Also:
"Speech"
Inner thoughts
Emphasis / Emphasis
Autorities
It is the mid of a winter day, one like many other.
Seeking escape from the stressful atmosphere and harsh winds of Ravenna, I decided to hide away into the pinewoods right outside the city. It takes quite a lot of time for the peace I seek to be found.
Finally, I cannot sense civilization any longer. In fact, I can barely hear a thing. No cars, no wind, not even the birds singing. If I strain, I can barely hear the slushing of the sea far, far away. The sky sends a grey light through the trees, and a wet, pungent smell promises rain. I do not mind; I have come prepared.
I step onward into the dark woods, ignoring the mud that cakes my boots and the roots that seek to trip me, marching slowly, yet surely, toward somewhere, wherever that is.
I reach a small open space amidst the trees, and I see a stump ideal for sitting. I move toward it, deciding to stop and enjoy the tranquillity. But I barely have the time to do so that two figures erupt into the glade, twisting and turning in mid-air, as one clearly attempts to escape the other.
Yet, the prey's struck down, and sent tumbling onto the ground. She rolls to a stop right before me.
The one running is clearly a woman, of a beauty unnatural and wild. Long flowing green locks twist into the air, entwined with what look like vines and leaves and flowers. Her eyes, despite the distance, shine a light grey blue, and her figure and profile look like a she was painted upon the world. Unreal. But, as if to break the spell, she's dressed in the most common of ways: a pair of jeans, a belt, and a flannel shirt upon them.
The pursuer then shows themselves. Black cape on black coat on black overall. Unrecognizable in gender, their skin is moonlight pale. Their eyes are baleful fire. Their hair corvine, slithers in the still air. Tall, they are imposing. Tall they tower upon me. Tall, they seem to fill the glade. And their voice, calm and quiet, still shakes my heart in fear:
"I am Mors, Mania, Caron, Death, psychopomp of these Italian lands. I am here for my prey, she who intrudes on my domain. Leave, youngling, least you too be dragged along in her death."
I swallow down my fear. I should leave. I should run. I breathe through my own doubt. It's not my place. Not my problem. Yet gazing down upon the lady, shaking and seemingly unconscious, I feel my conscience speaking, confronting me with the morals I chose for myself long ago.
Is this my vaunted "goodness"? To leave those before me to die? No, I cannot accept it. There must be a compromise.
"…is there any way I could convince you to solve this peacefully?"
Their answer comes immediately, just a decibel louder. And yet the voice alone shakes me like a leaf in the wind. Too much, they are too much, my mind screams loudly.
"Why would you? This is no matter for you to intrude upon. Do you claim perchance rulership on this matter, mortal?"
The words have weight. The presence is suffocating. I feel my back standing straight, heart loud in my chest.
Authority. I am standing in front of an authority figure and should address them as such.
As I try to reply, even my speech bends into formal subservience.
"I do not. Yet my conscience disallows me to let someone be killed right in front of me. God or man, good or evil, death as punishment is something I do not accept. Please, oh deity, reconsider."
"You intercede, yet you know not what you ask. I'll warn you again, mortal. Leave."
Run, my mind screams. What have you to gain here? You'll die for a stranger.
Stand, my conscience whispers, for the cause is just.
I gaze into my own self; I think about a future. I imagine myself running. Finally, I reach an answer.
"I cannot. My own self will not allow this. Oh deity, please have mercy upon her. Let us come to a compromise."
I step around the woman and, with hesitant steps, place me between her and Mors. They barely raise an eyebrow, before commenting.
"You say so, yet fright shakes your limbs, and fills your eyes. You'll find no solace is empty bravado"
"Fear is how I know this is not madness, but true courage. I know myself, and I know regret would forever follow me. Should I even survive this, I would just be dead inside. One last time, I beg you, oh deity, have mercy upon her."
And I am not lying. I would be dead inside. I would feel responsible. And, while I do not define what I am doing as sane, I also do not think it unreasonable to say that such a scene would permanently scar any person with empathy that were to assist to it.
I keep my gaze on Mors and steel my expression best I can.
"So you will oppose a God for the sake of your morals. Prove me the worth of your conviction then."
I nod and raise up my guard.
Maybe a harsher man would have been able to walk away. Maybe a smarter man would be able to solve this peacefully. Maybe a braver man would not be shaking in their boots like I am, hoping not to be struck down where I stand. But I am the only one here, and so I'll do whatever I can.
Mors moves and is upon me just as I am ready. A heavy kick smashes through my guard and into my stomach, bending me upon it despite the stance and tensed muscles. Dull pain radiates through my body, as I force down spit and bile from my throat.
Yet, I do not relent. I grasp the offending limb with my left arm, and with my right I reach for their face, fingers grasping for their eyes, scratching their skin. As their hands move to stop mine, I yell, plant my feet and heave forward.
They stumble under my push. Their footing is lost. They fall and I fall upon them, thrashing and raining fists upon them best I can. Yet, it is worthless.
In a bout of superhuman strength, they lift me by the torso and throw me away, sending me sliding on the ground. Then, they jump on their feet in one fluid motion.
As they do so, though, I grasp at the muddy ground with my fingers, drifting away all the momentum, and start running once again. My mind goes a mile a minute, adrenalin pushing me through pain and reason. As I see Mors preparing to nail me with another kick, I throw myself into a sliding tackle, smashing boot first onto and through one of their ankles.
It should have broken. On any human, it would have been broken. But Gods are made of sterner stuff, and Mors' limb is simply pushed away, moved yet unhurt. He still falls to the ground, but my frustration mounts as we both once again get on our feet.
They laugh, not in scorn, but it still hurts see them not even winded. They clap.
"Oh, Mortal, I praise you. Were you somehow able to harm me, I would have been dead at our first exchange. Tell me your name, so that I might properly honour you after your death."
Taking full advantage of the break, I take two deep gasps of breath before answering.
"I am Andrea Liguori. And I humbly thank you for your praise."
"Very well, Liguori. Brace yourself, for now I will be serious."
That said, their body tenses once again, and I steel myself for what's to come.
I cannot blink and they are upon me. Survival instincts flare up and I throw myself backward. The blow, deliberately wide and slow, meets the ground and shakes it on impact, sending a column dirt and mud flying. I freeze for a second, a bout of fear taking me as they recover their guard.
Then my brain resets, my blood starts pumping again. I feel their striking range, and, by instinct and old practice, step out of it as they follow. I step back again, I dodge sideways, I twist and turn around them. Just back enough, just a hair width away from blows whose strength could spell my death.
I feel like the mouse being toyed with. I feel them slow down the blows just enough to allow me to dodge. And I feel my spite mounting up for the opponent before me. I grit my teeth and attempt a counterattack.
They dodge, then they vanish. I barely have time to turn as I hear them stepping beside me.
Their fist nails my shoulder. I feel my left arm popping out of the socket under the weight of the blow. I am thrown away, and barely manage to land on my knees.
Once again, they stop. They are not even sweating.
"In your act of folly, to the end there is virtue to be found. Be at peace now, for your bravery and defiance I will grant you a painless end"
They open their mouth, and then the air itself freezes at their words. The world quiets. Reality stops and listens.
"You needn't struggle. You needn't bleed. This is mercy.
You needn't worry. You needn't scream. This is peace.
I offer thee ultimate rest. Now quiet, my child, embrace it."
Dulce Mors
A stab through the heart. A ringing in the ears. The mouth opens, gagging, gasping. My vision swims and flickers, then, the certainty.
I am going to die.
My knees are quivering, and my good arm is shaking. My blood is freezing in my veins. It is obvious.
I am going to die.
Clarity, for a second, enough to form a coherent thought.
I am going to die.
Spite, endless and relentless, I feel it blossoming in my chest. My muscles lock up, but I power through them. My heart protests, but I do not listen. My body aches, but it does not matter.
Rage, spite, hate, anger, they fuel my swan song. I do not accept it. I will not go quietly.
"no, no, No, No, NO, NO, NO!"
I am human, defiance is in our soul.
I scream, sprinting forward without knowing how or why. I smash upon the God, bringing my weight and good shoulder upon their face and upper torso. They do not expect it. We fall to the ground, but with the swing of a fist they send me flying once again. My back meets a tree, with a loud CRACK.
My energy vanishes. My body slacks. My eyes close. I can barely whisper.
"Oh…it is over…"
I feel something sticky flowing down my nape. I am numb. My breath is slipping away…
"Blessed is the soil. Dreadful is the visage. I am the gate, the guardian, the key.
Step into the mist and see the liminal land. Gaze upon the arch and know both death and life"
Gate to the Beyond.
I slip away, outside my body, like out of a dress. I feel lighter, healthier than ever. No pain, no discomfort, no ache. In death, I feel stronger than ever.
I look around, and notice the scenery as changed. The trees surrounding us have changed, now unrealistically large, their branches smother the sky, and taint the falling sunlight in tones of dulcet green. The soil is now covered by verdant grass, freshly covered by the dew of a morning that should have passed five hours ago. The clearing is now round, perfectly so, and in the centre of it, a construction stands, 4 meters* tall.
It is an Archway, perfectly cut into a single, contiguous bone-white stone block. And within it is a translucent door that barely shimmers under the light. It sends shivers down my spine and, feeling my head starting to ache, I look away.
I look down, below myself at my broken body. I look forward, to the God, as he also freezes for a while. I look further…
Far behind Mors stands the woman. Tall, imposing, imperial. I don't hear her command, but I still understand it. I cannot oppose it.
Fight!
My spirit burns, imitating life. My ghostly appendages solidify, mimicking limbs. I feel a body upon it. A shade, but a body nonetheless. Something I can still use to fight. Something in my mind breaks.
Fight!
With a crazed laugh, I once again bolt onto the fray.
"What the…"
Charging through the glade, I uppercut Mors into the sky, and then follow up choke slamming them into the ground. I am about to attack again, but they kick me square into the chest, caving it in and sending me flying across the glade. Then they stand up again.
Fight!
I land on my feet and charge once more. They await me, standing guard, before intercepting my face with a jab.
"Stay down, mortal!"
Fight!
I charge into the hit, feeling my mouth split apart, before reaching their face and crashing their nose with my fist. They attempt to move backward by I hold strong and drive my knee onto their nose as well. My body ignores pain, biology and even physics, as I literally climb upon my opponent attempting to stomp their head into their own neck.
"Enough!"
For my effort, I am rewarded with a flailing limb making me lose my balance, as both me and Mors tumble onto the ground, clutching and scratching at each other like wild cats. We roll for a while, before hitting one of the columns. I crush ass to the ground, with the God standing above me.
"This… this madness has gone far too long. Now gaze upon Death!"
High, their fist cursing with energy, they have a crazed, elated look in their eyes as they prepare to, presumably, smite me into nothingness.
Then, I see the Goddess charge, a green shade striking from my right. She only says two words as she punches Mors through the Archway.
"Sayonara, Bastardo"
An explosion of white. A blast of energy. Mors seems stuck in the door. They are vibrating, convulsing. Screaming, electrified. Glitching through reality itself.
But I cannot look further as a hand grasps me by the neck and pulls me away from the scene.
"Get here, come on!"
It's the Goddess. She forcefully shoves me back into my body. I feel the daze melt away, substituted by harsh, stinging pain. She then easily lifts me like a potato sack, throws me on her shoulder, and runs away through the trees at Olympic speeds.
As the archway and Mors disappear in the mist, I feel the pain melt away. My eyelids fall and I pass into peaceful slumber.
*around 13 feet, for those who need it.
A little mad idea I got for the "how can a random protagonist become a Campione in a somewhat plausible manner", while also wanting to use minor dieties in italian folklore, and imagine how these kind of minor Gods would behave in a world where their much stronger counterparts are killed left right and centre by various Campione.