Time is nothing for Gods. The people may change, but the Gods are eternal. They are beyond reach, and no matter how hard the people tried, they could not become equal to the Gods. All that was left for them was worship and faith.
And they say, long, long ago, there was an island—a kingdom with no king or queen, but Gods as protectors. In this land, survival was the only priority. There were no kings to rule, no queens to nurture—only the relentless cycle of life and death, of nourishment and sacrifice. Here, the people revered two gods above all others: the Herblord, and the Black Snake Deity.
The Herblord, with his roots deep in the earth, symbolized the very essence of life. He was the lord of growth, the bringer of fertility to the soil. His hands nurtured the land, coaxing the plants to bloom, to flourish, to sustain. Under his guidance, the crops thrived, the herbs grew, and life itself was birthed from the soil.
But the Herblord was not without his shadows. For the Black Snake Deity, ever restless and cruel, ruled the realm of death and rebirth. With the slither of his dark scales, he represented transformation and destruction. To him, the land was not a mere place of life, but a stage for constant change. Fertility came, but so did droughts, storms, and the steady march of decay. The snake consumed and rebuilt, perpetuating the cycle of survival.
The people of the island, caught between these opposing forces, worshipped them both. The Herblord and the Black Snake Deity, in their paradoxical natures, were seen as two halves of a whole—a necessary balance for survival. They believed that by worshipping them together, they could ensure the abundance of the land, the fertility of nature, and the perseverance of life. The people learned that to survive, they must accept both aspects of existence: the gentle care of the Herblord and the ruthless power of the Black Snake Deity.
In this kingdom, the gods were no distant figures of legend. They were living, breathing forces that shaped the very land the people walked upon. Their presence was in the air they breathed, the crops they harvested, the animals they hunted. The rituals were simple but necessary—a blend of reverence and fear, of offerings of fruits and herbs to the Herblord, and sacrifices to the Black Snake Deity, who demanded respect through a more brutal devotion.
Those who survived on this island knew the truth: without the Herblord’s gift of life, they would starve; without the Black Snake Deity’s cycle of destruction and rebirth, they would never know the renewal needed to keep their world from stagnation. The gods were not just protectors; they were the force that held everything together, their restless balance forever shaping the lives of the island’s people.
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The people of the island believed that poisoning someone was a direct affront to the Black Snake Deity, for poisoning was a punishment only the snake could deliver. It was a form of death, a slow and insidious ending, one that could only be administered by the divine serpent. The islanders held that no mortal could wield poison in a way that would please the gods. To do so was to steal from the snake’s dominion, a blasphemy that would not go unpunished.
Yet, there was another side to this belief. The people also thought that to survive poison was a gift from the gods, particularly the Black Snake Deity. They revered those who were immune to toxins, seeing it as proof of divine favor, a sign that the gods had chosen them for something greater. The islanders believed that the gods would grant immunity to poison as a blessing, a mark of favor, for it was a power no mortal could acquire on their own.
But the Herblord also played his part in this, for poisons and medicines alike came from the plants he nourished. The Herblord's influence was present in all things that grew, even in the deadly plants that could bring about death. The people understood that poison, like all things, was part of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The Herblord’s gift of nourishment allowed them to grow both remedies and dangers in equal measure.
When a foreigner arrived on the island, the people would greet them with a grand feast, a show of hospitality that bordered on ritual. If no one was poisoned during this feast, the islanders would take it as a sign that the gods had smiled upon the stranger. They believed that this was how the gods tested the strength of a new arrival: if the stranger survived the feast unscathed, they had proven themselves worthy of the gods' favor. The people would respect them with all their might, for they feared the wrath of the gods more than anything. The gods, in their eyes, were the keepers of life and death, and to incur their wrath was a fate too terrible to imagine.
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No one wanted to feel the rage of the Gods.
One day, a terrible drought emerged, and the people were driven to desperation. The land was parched, and the crops failed to grow. Then, as if to mark the heavens’ wrath, snakes began to appear from all corners of the island, slithering through the barren earth. Soon, countless amount of locals, were found dead. They were suffocated, trying to grasp for air, but to no avail. Some had faces full of terror, others went missing, trying to find cure on their own. Without the proper burial, souls couldn't find peace in the afterlife.
To the islanders, this was a sign of divine retribution—punishment for something they had done to anger the Gods.
The people understood that if nothing changed, they would surely die, and the island would remain empty forever, no matter how hard they tried to survive. In their desperation, they broke apart, scattering to try and endure alone in the wild, hostile land.
Then, something miraculous happened.
A golden light appeared, warm and shining, as if the earth itself was being reborn. And within that light, a river filled with water emerged—nourishing, pure. And with it, came a boy, younger than anyone could have expected. His eyes were green as the grass, his skin pale like a white flower. He appeared out of nowhere, but the people knew he was something special.
And near him stood a stranger, a man so alien to them that no one dared call him human. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his form was snake-like. He had no nose, only nostrils, and his eyes were red as blood—watching them carefully, with a cold, unblinking attention.
The people, desperate for help, begged them to save them, to bring an end to the drought and the terror of the snakes. In return, all they received were animals to hunt and arrows to use. But the terror did eventually end. The drought was broken, the snakes disappeared, and the island began to heal.
It was then that the people learned an invaluable lesson: Do not anger the Gods.
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The gods responded differently to the worship of the people. The Herblord, the god of healing, peace, and prosperity, sought to fix the world’s problems, to heal all wounds, and to bring calm to the turbulent land. It was in his nature to nurture, to soothe, and to remove misery. Yet, even he could not grant the ultimate bliss the people longed for. He could not offer salvation from their desires, for he knew that nature itself, in its constant cycle of nourishment and loss, would take as much as it gave.
The Herblord understood this, and he never feared disrespect from the people. They would never turn away from him, for he was their gift of survival and prosperity. Yet, his role was not to fulfill every wish or end every suffering—only to maintain balance.
The Black Snake Deity, on the other hand, was indifferent to the people’s suffering. He was not a god of healing or comfort. The Snake Deity saw the people as little more than tools—first of worship, then of fear. To him, their existence had no inherent value, other than to serve as an instrument of power. He did not care for their pleas or their pains. His presence was a constant reminder that power was not a gift, but a burden.
Despite this, the two gods were allies, not for each other, but for the people of the island. Their relationship was one of necessity, the harsh duality of life and death, creation and destruction. Though their purposes were different, they were tied together by the cycle they upheld for the survival of the land.
Once a year, at the end of the cycle, the gods would come together to perform a act, one so sacred that only the close priests were allowed to witness it. No mortal could lay eyes on the ritual, for it marked the beginning of a new cycle of life and death, a profound and unrelenting rebirth.
The gods’ act was brutal and cruel. The Herblord did not embrace the Black Snake Deity in love, but in a violent display of dominance and possession. They did not kiss; they bit each other, drawing blood, until the pain became the essence of their union. The act was harsh, the wounds deep, and the blood a symbol of the duality of their power. This ritual, the people understood, was not just a demonstration of power—it was a reminder of the cost of survival.
Life and death were inseparable, and the gods made it clear that in order to survive, one must face the harshness of both. To live was to endure pain, and to die was to be reborn. The people, watching from afar, knew that they, too, must accept this duality—both the joy of living and the suffering that came with it. Only by understanding both could they ever hope to endure.