[hider=INFODUMP for context: Brief history of the Mortal Realm of Herea]
[i]In the many centuries humanity had populated Hellas, even in their ages of stagnation, there were equal periods of growth, upheaval and some minor innovations.
Before the Coming of the Gods, when the first human colony's central authority waned, new orders emerged to supplant it across the planet’s colonial possessions.  One order in particular brought the islands of the north-eastern archipelago under their thumb, a domain that would later come to be named: [b]The Presidom of Herea[/b], in honor of the Consort to the King of the Gods.

Though Zeus is rightfully acknowledged as greatest of the gods, there it is Hera who is the object of special reverence. A national favorite, a symbol of royalty. Herea’s whole royal family grew out of a personality cult built around Queen Hera.

Herea is ruled by a hereditary president. Of course their presidents are anything [b]but[/b] by the standards of Arith: president is simply their word for 'king'. Since this is the term their ancestors used for position of highest acting sovereign in immemorial epochs of yore.
Presidential candidates from the ruling clan are presented in the Temple of Hera, for her statue to pick a favorite contender.

The Royal House believes Hera herself passes judgment: in truth, it is a lowly bureaucrat in Olympus who is enlisted with overseeing mortal politics instead. Hera herself, let alone Zeus, are barely as involved as they were in the early centuries.
Currently it is President Mickon Ian who sits in the Golden Office of Herea, the man who holds the separate island districts together in the sacred name of his patron Goddess.

His presidential palace from where he widely rules is an ancient building, perhaps a thousand years old, made with ancestral masonry using techniques long forgotten. It is such an impressive feat of engineering that its survival is testament to its sophisticated design, enduring centuries of societal collapse.
But, how their distant ancestors ever made this cyclopean building is an enigma to its present day occupants.
The lower section of this palace houses a shrine to a much newer Goddess, a Goddess whose name is on many a Herean’s lips in recent decades; Hera's daughter, the Divine Princess Hebe.

It is at the Palace Shrine where the Hebite Castes highest leadership usually congregates. Its leader, the Hierophant Bartolomeu Ian himself was born of the Royal clan of Herea, a second cousin of ruling President Mickon.
In contrast to most shrines of Hebe, which are very much open and public forums, the Palace Shrine is such a reclusive elitist locale that it tends to be where the caste performs its most secretive and scandalous rituals. A place so remote and restricted that not even the gods, up to even Hebe herself, have full knowledge of what transpires there. The Demigod Chaos and his bureaucratic underlings ensure every shrine is monitored by Olympus, however through insider intel the Hebite Caste is aware which corners of the shrine get monitored, and which ones are obscure…

The monitoring is not the only safety protocol. A squadron of mortal temple soldiers with augmented weapons they themselves do not know the nature of stand watch in the vicinity. Their weapons are known as the Lightning Lances. And those privileged few who carry them are tasked to ensure ordinary mortals do not desecrate shrines where Olympians may-or-may-not congregate. A select few, a holy band. Handpicked warriors whose allegiance lies not with Kings or Presidents, but is pledged directly to Olympus.
Of note is that no mortal is allowed ownership of an augmented weapon; they are leased to handpicked soldiers by an agent of Olympus known as the God’s Heraldion. Failure to return an augmented weapon when time is due has severe consequences.[/i]
[/hider]
 

[center][h2][color=coral]THE HEREAN PALACE COMPLEX[/color][/h2]
[i]The day of old Zeus’ death[/i]
_____________________________________________________[/center]
 
A photographic portrait of Hera, a gift of Olympus, hangs triumphantly in the great hall of the Herean palace as one of their most prized relics. Such vivid realistic imagery, as though a window into a timeless world, astounds even the mortal royals. A reminder that only the magic of Olympus enables such wonder. While scribes and dignitaries of the Herean presidency scuttle about in a honeycomb-resembling complex of palace chambers -- going upwards into hundreds of distinct palace floors -- so too does the palace’s domain penetrate into the crust of the planet deep underground. Several of the deepest floors were ordained property of the Royal Cult of Hebe. But perhaps most importantly, one of them was the location of Thaumaturgist Felix’ laboratorium. The place of Magic.
 
Among the Palace’s visitors that day was the Hierophant Bartolomeu Ian, the counterpart of President Mickon’s worldly authority. Having paid his respect to the portrait of Hera, the Hierophant was to be transported to the deepest section of the building by elevator to link up with the other Hebites.

Elevator? Indeed; an ancient innovation that mortals today have no know-how of managing in its original form. But allegedly it was a self-moving mode of transportation. Today, however, the elevator functions through the tedious toiling of servants propelling it up and down by hand and pulley. For the Herean Palace is such a colossal building that moving from one side to another by stairs alone would leave any save the most durable athlete morbidly exhausted.   
 
[center][h3]Palace Underground, Lair of the Hebite Caste[/h3][/center]
 
In deep contemplation Felix read the writ placed in his hands over and over, inspecting each side. Then he held it against a lamp –  looking for hidden marks, perhaps coded language. None; the message was plain and concise as day. So focused was he in his frantic analysis that even the noise of heavy pounding footsteps walking down the brittle wooden stairs wasn’t enough to disrupt his attention. Down from those stairs leading to the door opening appeared Bartolomeu, a large, dark-blonde bearded man of tanned complexion. His tallness and imposing stature was already betrayed by the tremor of his approach. His large frame was draped in ornate blue robes with floral motifs and the ouroboros crest sewn large to the robe’s back, indicative of his high religious authority.
 
"Mega Khaire, Hierophant." The gaunt man spoke without so much as turning his head since he could identify the person entering by their footsteps alone. Felix’ gaze remained icily fixed on the fumbled parchment in his hands.

His appearance stood in stark contrast to that of Bartolomeu’s, for Felix was short, skinny and of a sickly pallor. This in spite of his physical longevity and enduring health. He donned a dark coat with the occasional satchels of tools strapped to it, and a brass engine perforated into his shoulders that supplied the man with the nutrients to stay alive and hale for as long as he had.
 
‘’Thaumaturgist Felix, you requested for me with utmost urgency? I trust it is as important as you made it seem. The caste had been called for an important assignment. The late King’s widow is concerned about her longevity and seeks the Goddess's blessing. So I ask you keep it terse.’’

The bearded man’s voice reverberated into the laboratorium as he dispassionately lit up a cigar.
 
‘’Yes... Urgency... You'll find this too is in the context of late Kings. My crow Chimera from the Hephaestean workshop picked up this message, and on it is… an announcement, let’s say.’’
Felix cracked a reassuring smile.
‘’You may find it’s potentially the greatest news we’ve had in decades.’’
 
The Hierophant, already impatient that the Thaumaturgist wasn’t getting to the point, took a puff of the cigar before motioning his hand at him. ‘’Get on with it. Show me that little paper.’’
The Thaumaturgist cautiously held out the paper message to the Hierophant, who snatched it and raised it before his eyes. His expression quickly darkened upon reading the first few lines.
 
[center]_______________________
[h3]BY DECREE OF THE LORD OF OLYMPUS[/h3]
The Highest, King of the Gods, Father of All:
[b]ZEUS[/b]

Let it be known that Zeus is dead. His rightful Heir – forever may he rule – has succeeded him to the divine name and mantle of Zeus.

Hephaestus, God of Engineers, is formally invited to a gathering of the High Pantheon at Zeus’ palace in Mount Olympus, on the noon of the day following receipt of this note. Zeus will accept oaths of fealty, and make the first announcements of his reign.

Signed, Zelos
Majordomo of the Highest Palace, Servant of Zeus Almighty
___[/center]
 
Felix reacted with a satisfied smirk.
‘’Before you ask; no, it’s not falsified. The King of the Gods himself has truly finally succumbed. T’is a mighty blow to Olympus. Their whole power structure destabilized. This death brings us one step closer to—‘’
‘’You called this the greatest news in decades?!’’ The High Priest yelled, thundering through the underground lair. The cigar fell from his mouth. ‘’Are you at wit’s end? This is cataclysmic news! Terrifying news! Civilization as we know it may well end!’’
Not having anticipated this reaction from the Hierophant, Felix stammered:
‘’B-but there is a new Zeus. He dons the same name and identity. Surely that means Olympus has no intention of making sudden unanticipated changes. While simultaneously its control is assumed by an inept, inexperienced greenhorn. This should be good for us all around--’’
The Hierophant barked, ‘’Since when do High Pantheonist gods die? What does that mean? Zeus is supposed to be centuries older than even you! And who is this successor? Another Zeus? How do you know of his ineptitude, or inexperience? It seems to me this new king will only be more robust, and harder to influence than the last. ’’
The Hierophant angrily crushed the dropped cigar under his foot. Smoldering grey ashes were stamped to the concrete floor. ‘’This is a setback.. a setback detrimental to our influence sphere…’’ 

‘’Hear hear. All is not yet lost. Hebe Dia is in Olympus right now, doubtless she has received much the same news as we covertly have. We need to trust in her ability to gain New Zeus’ special favor.’’
‘’Hebe Dia is a gullible bimbo. That daft girl isn’t going to do anything without our direction. Gah!’’
The priest kicked against a lab stool, crashing it to the floor. The Thaumaturgist became increasingly worried that the Hierophant might combust into a full-blown rampage at this pace. He never saw Bartomoleu lose his cool like this. Under sufficient weight and pressure a whole different side, unknown even to him, had been revealed.

A long, tense silence filled the subterranean air. Collecting himself, Bartolomeu lit up a second cigar and let out a concentrated puff of smoke through his nostrils. Then he took a second glance at the message, while further fumbling it between his fingers.

Breaking the silence, he asked with a bit more composure: "Where is Chaos? Doubtless he had access to this news from Olympus itself. We must keep this note hidden from him. Nay, destroy it immediately. Or it will be [i]us[/i] on the thunder block next.’’ The Hierophant crumpled the piece of parchment, preparing to burn it to ashes using his lighter. But Felix interjects:
"No, give it to me. Their advanced thaumaturgy might be able to undo the flame's work and reconstruct the ashes. We need to dissolve it to be sure.’’
The Hierophant threw the crump of paper at him. Felix placed it on his desk while gathering up the materials to brew a powerful acid concoction.
‘’You wager Chaos is on his way to Olympus as we speak?’’ The Hierophant asked.
‘’No, we talked this morning. The sole thing on his mind was the outfitting of the Palace Regiment. Apparently some of the equipment went missing. He’s not the type to let that slide. That Chaos... He's both our strongest asset, and our greatest threat. I tried to cozy up to him before, but that man will never afford you the time of day…

...I do wonder what he is up to right now."
 

[center]__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
[H1][color=darkred]CHAOS[/color][/H1]
[i]Later on the same day of Zeus' death.[/i][/center]
 
A gold evening star shone over the village of Axavil, washing the hamlet in a fiery glowing hue. This was a rustic, agrarian hamlet that oversaw much of essential sweet potato produce and dairy from livestock in the rolling southern regions of the Herean domain. Because it was essential for the President to exercise direct influence in this area, many of the locals were enlisted, or outright levied, to the Royal household. Not just suppliers of food, but manpower.
An old retired veteran, carrying scars as medals from skirmishes with the nation across the channel, soaked in the sunlight on his scarred face in the twilight years of his life.

The old man sat in a wheelchair on the porch of his concrete manor, for his legs that had once endured many brutal marches could no longer sustain his growing pot belly. And with a satisfied smirk the veteran looked over his seasonal yield, (part of which doubtlessly disappeared into said belly) where the serfs were finishing up hauling in the harvest. The old man was loaned this farmland from the President, to whom he was obligated to turn over an annual tribute of produce.
As befitted a former soldier, he was committed to continue serving the Golden Office even in retirement. All around he remained in good standing with the elite of this realm and a devoted servant of the gods. Therefore it came as a surprise to have an unsuspected visitor dawning on his estate from on high.

Wrapped in a flaming cloak a slow comet, like tumbling fireworks, descended near his farmland in clear view of his manor. In the twilight sky its flaming presence was initially perfectly camouflaged in the fiery glow of that evening.
But with a soft reverberating tremor following from its landing, the whole of Axavil could sense the arrival. To those who knew what it meant, the foreboding it filled them with instantly made them withdraw into their homes for an early conclusion to their workday.
Once the smoldering fire dissipated, a figure emerged: a man, majestic and dark, with long dark braided hair, intense and black flashing eyes and heavy brows, and clothed in gaudy metal plates paired with deep red swirling wraps of robe.
Without ever blinking, the fiery man's eyes locked on that of the old man sitting motionless and bemused on his porch. The old man understood immediately that this was an Olympian, perhaps even a god. And with this realization dawning on him, the old man promptly raised a gnarled fist to beat his chest in salute, and raised his chin: "Salvé Olympus!"
No response came from the Olympian as he trod ominously quiet towards the porch. Until, with a sudden leap, launched himself on top of it. One could tell he wasn’t a mere man. His presence felt profound. It felt majestic. The Old man had but seconds to take it in, before the Olympian cut straight towards the purpose of his visit.

"[b]One Augmented lightning lance -- absent from the Holy Warband Arsenal,[/b]" he spoke with a deep, toplofty voice in which subtle silent fury was traceable. "[b]It is within your premises.[/b]"
The old man reacts only in confusion. "What're youse onto, grande sonne of Olympus? I had returnede mine Lance faithfully as I also relinquished mine service, as ordained by the God's Heraldion. "
"[b]The Old Man lies.[/b]" The Olympian curtly replied.
"[b]Chaos knows it is in the Old Man’s possession still. The Old Man will explain himself, and this time truly return what is due.[/b]"
The old man genuinely didn’t know. All he did was shake his head and gawk and fluster before the Olympian, and from impatience Chaos hurled his boot towards the bottom of his wheelchair with such force that the vehicle flipped and the poor man was sent tumbling meters away on the ground.
With a pained cry and tumultuous crash of floorboarding giving way, onlookers from inside the manor rush to the scene. One of them, most boldly of all.

"Leave my father alone, scum! I will end you!’’
A young adult man appeared in the door opening holding aloft an arcane weapon -- a metal lance with a bright glowing tip – which he pointed at Chaos.
Chaos raised an amused eyebrow at such brazen threat from a mortal.
"[b]There it is.[/b]" The Olympian curtly spoke, nodding at the young man's lance.
It was not the old man, but rather his son who committed the treasonous act of seizing Olympian craft .
"I begge your mercy, holy Olympian," the old man groaned from the ground, trying to get up -- failing. "The scamp.. He dunnet know... Dunnet understand anyfin..."
"[b]Chaos is not moved by pleas, and would bid the old man conduct himself as a soldier. The dance of death that the soldier’s life entails never ends. No, the dance of death, it ends with Chaos![/b]’’
Having spoken those (edgy) words the Olympian twitched his index and middle finger, and immediately a jolt of lightning flashed at the son. 
Spastically the young man dropped, helplessly like a sack of potatoes, as Chaos trod toward him to wrest the lance from his unworthy clutches.

Taking hold of it, Chaos began to hoist it up, but the son did not let go. A death grip clenched the weapon's hilt in his hands.
Then with a desperate defiance, the son triggered a burst of lightning to issue from the tip of the lance, barely scraping past Chaos and with deafening noise obliterating the roof of the porch.
Smoldering ash, splinters and timber came tumbling in crushed fragments around them.  
"[b]…Such is the power of the Lightning Lance. Too much for undeserving mortals – mortals, as the old man’s son.[/b]"  He commented, shaking his head.

Then the Olympian planted his metal-tipped boot on the young man’s chest while holding aloft a different augmented weapon of Olympian make, resembling a metallic, glowing dagger. Upon activating, it flashed brightly.
In the next second both the young man’s arms were severed – the stench of seared flesh permeating the air. Their grip on the lance finally loosened. Even as the young man screamed in gnawing agony, Chaos’ black eyes showed nothing. His mouth curved slightly into a dark smile.
This time the ruckus caused the serfs working in the field to be drawn to the scene as well. But the moment that they spotted Chaos, the majority wisely scurried to get away as quickly as they’d come.
From severed hands on which the lance now rested, Chaos finally retrieved the sacred weapon for which he came all this way.
As he prepared to leave he had half a mind to leave the crippled man in this sorry state. Truly this young upstart was deserving of the most capital of punishments; however, not every mere mortal should be bothered to afford such time and attention. Olympus was over encumbered with trivialities as it was.

Turning his head at the young man, who lay burned, panting and snarling like an angry wounded animal, Chaos had a final epiphany.
"[b]A man without hands... Worthless such a man is, to himself and to his commune. Chaos will bestow the man one favor, undeserving of it as the man may be.[/b]"
And with those words followed by another flash, Chaos put him cruelly to death. His family could do nothing but watch. His sisters wept, and the father was defeated, crushed, laying on the ground.
‘’Kill me too, ye gods…’’
‘’[b]Hrm.[/b]’’ Chaos contemplated.
‘’[b]The father is pardoned for the mischief of the son. The son was a soldier, but the son broke his vows, and paid the due price. Death is the one thing that redeems the son’s guilt. Let the father take heart, and let him not this transgression be repeated.[/b]’’
With those words Chaos retracted his weapon and put it under his cloak.  He turned, and departed in a blaze of fire. Off… to Olympus. The Majordomo had summoned him.