Corruption Quest

Prelude || 🌿 The Weight of the World

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There are some victories that are cause for mourning; grief, regret, guilt, fear, anger, heartbreak — a funeral instead of a celebration. Some may be celebrated at first and sour as the years go by, their true nature or consequences revealed and weighed upon the shoulders of the one who wrought them. When rightly earned and not inherited, corruption is a curse of the heart; the droop of the wreath shows the heaviness of the soul’s burden…

In the ancient days of the young mortal Nike, the first corrupted laurelle came to be.

Few recall the old tales of the sash-weaver, her life laced in silk, her skills set to immortalizing the victories of those whose acts earned their sacred adornments.

She wove stories into fabric, pulled them together in the twining of two threads, her criss-crossing strings singing of valor and heroism on the part of those who’d bear them… perhaps she’d even pioneered the art of this victor’s ceremony, enshrouding the isle in a testament to its people. Selfless acts of sacrifice, the completion of a grand musical composition, a revolution in magical knowledge, a successful battle against the vicious creatures of the wilds, a long and arduous pilgrimage come to an end, a love lost and found.

The sashmaker was proud of her efforts, happy to find her own triumphs illustrating the greatest of others’ — a beautiful thing, she’d thought, to bring life to the accomplishments of those around her. As her renown grew, so too did the numbers of those eager to be graced by her work; some would say she’d even crafted the sash of the first goddess, drawing the stars from the sky and sewing their light into the plated folds…

The far reach of her craft brought laurelles across the isle to greet her, eager to don an immortalization of their own successes; years passed by, a grand collection of stitchwork worn proud across the land, the boundless patchwork of sashes pulled together by her own hands and by those who’d taken to the trail she’d blazed. But with the fame she’d garnered, a certain prestige came to the simple detail of her seven-pointed signature delicately marked on the fabric. Naturally, those who’d found fame themselves flocked to her doorstep for much the same reason. In time, the humble walls of her workshop had seen everyone from the poorest fisherman to the far-away leaders of bustling settlements. She’d learned and told the stories of hundreds, happy to weave for the simple sake of that alone.

Her last client had been a strong and righteous leader, as he fashioned himself — victorious in battle, just, diplomatic. She’d had her doubts, but soon they were smoothed by his charisma… the way he filled the room in presence, the way he commanded laughter from an audience, his thoughtful attention and insight to the details of her stitching; and so with golden thread she’d wrought his words on a blood red page, patterning it with celebration, shimmering whorls and sturdy lines, representations of duels, of feasts, of victory. It was her proudest work: a gilded, heraldic sash dancing across his thorns, twisting gracefully over his shoulders, crossing in decorative knots at his back… properly befitting his accomplishments and all that she’d heard.

But sometimes the stories people told were twisted versions of reality, colored by the ways the storytellers saw themselves, fragmented and broken to become something greater than they were. Sometimes she wove lies into truth, unknowing. Sometimes those who took to her work hid atrocities behind their words, boasting of their supposed exploits when always they’d been rife with ill-gotten gains, scheming, backstabbing, death. He had been no different, in the end — no great leader, but a bloodthirsty warlord. Her depictions of battle were conquest, feasts in the wake of destruction, victory with the venomed fangs of a striking snake.

And with his name sung in praise, the fruits of her labor a shining beacon — proof of his glory… how could she bear to know she’d immortalized the life of a monster so reverently? How could she stand by as he pillaged, conquered, and bled the land dry? How could she live with the knowledge of the heights she’d helped elevate him to, and everything he’d done after? Enraged, she confronted the warlord with aims to reclaim the sash he’d manipulated her into making; before hundreds, the sash-weaver emerged from the crowd to strip him of his regalia, wrenching the cloth from the air around him, snagged against his jagged thorns and splitting its dance of imagery in two halves. With it, her wreath began to split and wilt, angry tears touching the corners of her eyes, a snarl cutting her face.

The warlord’s rage met her own, but was awash with shock as the woman’s wreath withered and drooped behind her ears, the halo of leaves turned crisp and brittle, edges singed with the fire of her emotion. And the crowd, deaf to her proclamations that the man was a monster, heard only his same accusation against her, only the opportunist turning their horror to the laurelle whose wreath had fallen to her shoulders and tangled in her hair…

That was a long time ago.

As most now have forgotten the goddesses, all have forgotten the sash-weaver but for the long-twisted yarns of a corrupt laurelle bringing chaos and destruction across the land, and the role of the lady victory in ending the conflict — splitting the earth in two and naming Elysium, where the corrupted of old would then live out their lives in exile.

Only Nike herself could tell the world just how far that is from the truth: that it had never been exile, but a hopeful sanctuary; that Elysium had been wrought in tears and blood, cast to the sea in fury, in mercy — but neither for the corrupted laurelles, who had only her sympathy…