[center][color=2e2c2c].[/color] [sub][h2]T H E [color=2e2c2c].[/color] L A S T [color=2e2c2c].[/color] W I L L [color=2e2c2c].[/color] O F [color=2e2c2c].[/color] O L Y M P U S[/h2] [color=808080][i]An original fandom RP set in an alternate Percy Jackson universe[/i][/color][/sub][/center] [center]____________________________________________________________________________________ —————————————————————————————————————————————————————[/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/yAq8pFG.jpeg[/img] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/ugxTXJj.jpeg[/img] [color=2e2c2c].[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/o5YwkEp.jpeg[/img][/center] [center]______________________________________________________________________________________________ ——————————————————————————————————————————————[/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]In the age after Kronos fell, when the stars still trembled from the echoes of his screams, the gods of Olympus stood newborn and unsteady beneath a sky that did not yet know their names. Zeus had claimed the throne on a stormbolt and a promise, but thrones made of lightning are brittle things. Power hums, and power warns, and in the marrow of every god’s being thrummed the same dread; the earth itself was stirring. Not the creatures upon it, not the oceans or the forests or the mountains, but the being beneath it all—Gaia, first mother, cradle and coffin, the world made will. She did not roar. She did not strike. She simply shifted, continents groaning as if exhaling centuries of dust, and the gods understood the truth before they could speak it. She was turning against Zeus for imprisoning the Titans in Tartarus. No throne was safe if the stone beneath it chose to move. Zeus summoned them then, Hades silent as grave-soil, Poseidon with salt still dripping from his beard, Athena sharp-eyed as strategy incarnate, Hermes restless as winds over open fields, Ares with all the ferocity of an army, and spoke of a plan born not of pride but of panic. No lightning bolt, no trident, no Helm of Darkness could slay her. Gaia was not a foe to conquer, but a mother to carve apart. They found her in a valley that had not yet learned to fear gods, her presence neither monstrous nor gentle, but total. She rose like a horizon, an expanse of soil and sea and sky given shape, her eyes older than the constellations that watched her. Mountains bowed when she moved; rivers rerouted rather than touch her feet. Zeus stepped forward and lightning coiled around him like serpents, but Gaia did not flinch. She regarded him with the patience of sediment, of fossils, of the slow crush of continents drifting over eons. [color=526951]“Child,”[/color] she said, voice like tectonic plates grinding in the dark, [color=526951]“You have mistaken a spark for a sunrise, free my children and you will have peace. Refuse and you, your children, and your children’s children, will have war.”[/color] The words shook the bones of Olympus. Even then, he might have faltered, might have begged, bargained, bent. But the throne behind his eyes was too new. And so the gods acted first. Athena struck from thought alone, unraveling Gaia’s consciousness from her form the way roots are torn from fertile soil. Her mind tore like silk under a blade, not screaming but sighing, like the wind through an old forest. Hades caught that severed mind and bound it in chains hammered from starbone and river-iron, forged in silence so deep it tasted of endings. Down into Tartarus he cast her consciousness, where dreams pool like oil and drip into nightmares. Zeus watched as the pit sealed itself, and his fear eased—not gone, but quieter. They had not defeated her; they had made her sleep. Yet even sleeping minds dream. Poseidon approached next, heart heavy, trident lowered as though for prayer. He did not strike. He sang, voice thrumming like the pull of tides beneath flesh, coaxing the earth to rest. Mountains bowed, valleys sank, oceans rolled into caverns carved by forgotten gods. Slowly, Gaia’s vast body succumbed to slumber, continents crusting over her like scabs, mantle smoldering as its own cage. The world hardened above her, turning her prison into the very land mortals would someday tread upon. Zeus raised Olympus then, not as a temple but as an escape, lifting the new gods into the clouds where no roots could reach. But still there remained her heart—golden, luminous, dripping with the sweetness of creation. It pulsed like a sunrise beneath her ribs, and even bound and sleeping, its love bled through the soil, sprouting forests, coaxing beasts from clay, urging mountains to grow. If left, it would call her back. So Hermes and Ares, swift and sorrowful, strong and resolute, plucked from the Hesperides’ orchard a Golden Apple, gleaming with the evening sun. Into it, Hades breathed Gaia’s heart—her mercy, her memory, her tenderness for all things that breathed. The apple thrummed with the pulse of the world. They hid it in the garden, beneath the watch of Ladon, coiled in eternity. The dragon wept poison tears, tasting the grief of the mother she guarded. When it was done, Zeus carved an oath across the sky in jagged lightning: As long as the earth sleeps, Olympus shall stand. As long as Olympus stands, the earth shall not wake. If ever roots remember, if ever soil dreams, the throne will fall and the world will choose anew. The clouds burned with the words, and the gods believed themselves victorious. They believed eternity was a cage they could build. But gods do not understand patience. They do not understand how mountains are born grain by grain, how oceans rise drop by drop, how roots deepen in silence. Gaia is the world, and the world cannot be killed. Only divided. Only delayed. In Tartarus, her mind dreams of sunlight. In the garden, her heart ripens, waiting. Beneath the crust of continents, her body stirs, tectonic and slow. And in the cracks of highways and the quiet of forests and the marrow of mountains, the roots remember. The gods have let it slip from their minds as decades pass, lulled into a false sense of security. The world has not. [center]____________________________________________________________________________[/center] They say the end of the world will come with fire. They are wrong. It begins with roots. At first, only the demigods notice: the magical tree protecting the borders of Camp Half-blood weeping sap that smells like rot, naiads refusing to swim in poisoned lakes, the wind sighing in a language older than Olympus. Then the mortals see it too, forests blooming through highways overnight, coastlines swallowed by brine and kelp, cities cracking like egg shells from the inside out. The Earth is remembering herself. Gaia, the Earthmother, lies in three parts, ripped apart by Zeus and stowed away so she may never regain power: Her mind dreaming madness in Tartarus, her heart sealed within a Golden Apple in the Garden of the Hesperides, her body rising like a tidal breath beneath the mortal world. Now, the dreams seep through the soil. Something ancient is waking. Camp Half-Blood shudders as Hyperion, Titan of blazing dawn, sends storms of living flame against its borders. He believes the world must burn clean before it can be remade green. Roots twist under the cabins like veins, and the barrier falters, flickering like a candle in the wind. Above them, constellations shift. Krios, the Titan of the heavenly constellations, pulls fate loose from the heavens. Prophecies knot and choke; quests repeat wrong; even the gods forget what futures they once promised. The Fates’ tapestry trembles like a dying web. The heroes of old do not come. Instead, he comes: Perseus, returned from the Isles of the Blessed, eyes bright with conviction. He has seen a world without Olympus and calls it kindness. He kneels not to Zeus, but to the ground beneath his feet. He calls it home.He calls it Mother. He calls it Gaia. And millions listen. A group of demi-gods are chosen as a last option to take on this fight. Together, they must follow the roots into the Underworld, where Gaia’s mind blooms like a rot behind the eyes of the world within Tartarus and Krios crowns himself shepherd of fate. They will need to recover the last functioning prophecy from the Stygian Archive, an ancient library in the Underworld where prophecies, stories, and fates of all living things are stored, guarded by forgotten spirits and monsters, so they may know their fate. They must steal the Golden Apple from the Garden of the Hesperides before Perseus can return the heart within it to Gaia—and convince the greatest mortal hero to abandon the god he has become. They must hold the line at Camp Half-Blood’s gates as Hyperion’s fire rains like judgment and the forest itself rises to swallow the demigods whole, and the magical tree at Camp Half-Blood begins to rot further from within, sprouting vines with golden eyes that whisper sedition. These are Gaia’s Roots, tendrils of consciousness that spread through the earth like nerves. The sacred tree in the world is becoming a gate for Gaia’s return, if they don’t stop her, she will emerge on their front door. In the end, every road leads to Mount Othrys, the Titan citadel dragged screaming from the earth like a skeleton from its grave. Olympians burn in its shadow; mortals kneel in its light; the sky splits with lightning as Zeus and his brothers come face to face with his mothers mother. There, at the end of all things, Gaia rises—not as a monster, but as the world itself made flesh. Her voice is the earthquake, her breath the sea. She offers the demigods a choice. Save Olympus. Let the gods rule and the world bleed. Or, save her, save Gaia. Let the earth reclaim what was stolen and watch humanity fall like leaves in winter. This is not a prophecy. This is not destiny. This is simply how worlds end. And how new ones begin. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]