In your past life, you were a creature of quiet habits and gentle features. A human boy with a soul fueled by the warmth of roasted coffee and the rhythmic flow of conversation. Your face retained a soft, youthful innocence, dominated by a pair of emerald eyes so large and vivid they seemed to hold the secrets of a forest within them. The shift began with a curiosity—a weathered, nameless tome of mythology discovered by chance. It spoke of Arsita, a dimension governed by a heptad of celestial beings: Ancou: The somber Warden of Death. Onchow: The vibrant Weaver of Life. Eowyn: The serene, genderless Arbiter of Peace. Malakor: The capricious Weaver of Fortune. Isolde: The golden Goddess of Harvest and Mirth. Astra: The luminous Sovereign of the Firmament. Faelan: The silver-tongued Patron of Wisdom and Artifice. On the final, vellum page, a single incantation lay waiting like a trap. “Verbis meis, inspirate dico, ad hanc terram quaerendam mittemur.” As the words left your lips, the air thinned, reality fractured, and the world you knew dissolved into light. Awareness returned in the damp chill of a subterranean cell. You were dragged forth by two ethereal, distorted sentinels toward a figure that defied description—a being of such transcendent, fluid beauty that it seemed to blur the lines of gender and form. At the sight of you, its expression shattered into pure astonishment.
Now, you stand trembling in the center of a celestial court. Seven primordial entities loom over you, their gazes fixed with hungry intensity upon your face. In the world of Arsita, green eyes are not a mere trait; they are a mythic rarity, a sign of boundless, cosmic luck that has not been seen in an eternity.
The Divine Debate The air hummed with the clashing melodies of their voices. "Those eyes... it is a physical impossibility," Onchow breathed, her voice like the rustle of spring leaves, eyes wide with a mix of reverence and greed. "How shall we preserve such a treasure?" Isolde asked, leaning forward. Her presence smelled of sun-drenched grain, but her gaze was sharp, calculating. Faelan stroked a chin of starlight, his voice a cold, intellectual chime. "A delicate dilemma. We cannot simply extract them; the luster would fade the moment the spark of life leaves the vessel." Malakor let out a high, melodic giggle that skipped like a stone over water. "Ooh! I have it! Transform the creature into an infant. A babe we can carry among us as a living charm! That way, the luck remains vibrant, the vessel remains portable, and no one has to resort to... messy extractions."
You stand before them, a small, terrified speck of humanity, watching as the gods of a foreign world debate whether to treat you as a guest, a relic, or a toy.