𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖯𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗈's Den

LORE (wip)

In the beginning, there were nine gods. At the summit of the heavens ruled Jupiter, known to the ancients as Jupus—the god of gods, sovereign of the skies, father of all divinity, and consort to Saturn, called Satais. Satais, goddess of life, breathed existence into the pantheon. She was the queen of the cosmos, mother of gods, and the eternal flame beside Jupus.

Their firstborn, Uranus—Nasius in the old tongue—was the god of war, forged in thunder and wrath. Second came Neptune, or Nephisius, veiled in shadow, goddess of death and the silent beyond. The third and fourth were twins: Earth, named Naturis, radiant goddess of beauty and wild things; and Venus, or Visseus, the goddess of eternity, unbound by time or decay. Fifth was Mars, called Masos, the god of fire, whose breath could ignite mountains.

But it was their final child, the smallest and most forgotten, who would unsettle the heavens. Born beneath a sky of falling stars, he wielded dominion over the cosmos itself. Unruly and untamed, he danced where order broke and mystery began. To him was given the name Pluto, or Plutanis—god of stars, the unpredictable force threading through the fabric of fate.

Then came the fall.

From the edge of the outer dark, Pluto descended—not in rebellion, nor by force, but drawn by something even the gods could not name. He plummeted through the heavens and struck the bosom of Naturis, Earth, shattering sky and stone. Mountains trembled, the oceans recoiled, and silence thundered across the realms. For a god had fallen, and balance with him.

The heavens convulsed. No one understood the meaning of his descent, and so the gods, blinded by fear and grief, turned on one another. Pluto had been more than a brother—he was the axis around which the divine order turned, the thread that kept chaos at bay.

Jupus and Satais, the All-Father and the Mother, sought to calm the storm—but their voices could not quell the rage of youth. Nephisius, grieving and wrathful, struck down Naturis and Visseus, accusing them of concealing Pluto’s fate. Masos, seared by vengeance, slew Nephisius with fire enough to scorch the moon.

And in the end, only Masos and Nasius remained—war and flame, twin storms unleashed. They battled for centuries above the gas giants, their wrath shaping the very orbits of Saturn and Jupiter. Their war scorched the skies, and the stars wept.

Far below, where the earth still smoldered from his fall, Pluto stood in silence. A thousand years passed, and he watched as the heavens tore themselves apart in his name—watched, and remembered what the others had forgotten.

Yet even with Naturis slain, the Earth did not perish. Verdant and untamed, it pulsed with quiet defiance. Forests unfurled, rivers carved paths through stone, and beasts walked unafraid beneath unruled skies. From afar, Satais, the Lifebringer, and Jupus, Lord of the Heavens, beheld the thriving world and descended in wonder.

Upon the soil, beneath stars now dimmed by war, they found him—their last-born, Plutanis, child of mystery and stars. He stood unbowed, cloaked in silence, his eyes turned skyward. He had taken no crown, uttered no word, yet the breath of life clung to him like the remnants of fire to ash. In him lingered the essence of balance.

Jupus wept—not with tears, but with thunder—and rose once more into the celestial realm, his heart set on halting the fury of his sons. But as he ascended into the storm-wracked heavens, where Masos and Nasius clashed with divine wrath, fate claimed him. In the heart of their battle, Jupus was struck by a blow not meant for him, but potent enough to unmake the sky. He fell upon Saturn, and his immortal frame was shattered. From his bones and breath formed the Rings of Saturn—a crown of grief that turned forever in silence.

Masos and Nasius beheld what their hands had wrought—the death of the Skyfather—and their spirits were broken. The fire in Masos dimmed, and the war-cry of Nasius fell silent. With solemn words, they renounced their godhoods, declaring themselves unworthy to wear the stars. One sank into the core of Mars, the other into Neptune, and as they buried themselves, their planets grew cold and barren—echoes of their penitence.

Only Satais and Plutanis remained beneath the heavens.

And Satais, heart shattered, sought to raise her final child back to the firmament, to return him to his celestial place. But the flame of life cannot endure where the light of the gods has fled. In the embrace of her son, she melted into golden ash. Her divine form scattered into the night, and her soul—bound in longing—drifted skyward.

She joined Jupus in death, her essence circling Saturn, mingling with his remains. And thus were the twin rings born: one of judgment, one of love, encircling the place where gods fell.

And below, upon the living world, stood Plutanis—the last light of the old gods, the silent watcher, keeper of a world that yet remembered the names of stars.

And so Plutanis, the last-born of the divine, remained alone upon Earth—the sacred cradle of his sister, Naturis—the only world still whispering with the breath of life.

Grief bound his soul like chains of shadow. He wandered the wild places in silence, then curled into himself beneath the roots of forgotten trees, hiding from the remnants of his sister’s creation. There, in mourning, the god wept—not with water, but with tears of frost. His sorrow seeped into the soil, and the earth grew still beneath his lament. Winters eternal cloaked the land, and the winds carried only silence.

Thus passed the ages.

When Plutanis at last stirred, he did not wake as he once was. His form was altered, shaped by solitude and sorrow. Cold-blooded and wild, he rose as something less than divine, more beast than god. His mind clouded, his heart frozen, he could no longer distinguish himself from the shadows. He hunted the creatures his sister had once sung into being. He devoured them with hollow hunger, his body twisting into a form not born of heaven or earth.

Yet time, that ancient healer, moved on.

And in his wandering, the frost beneath his feet began to thaw. Wherever he passed, warmth followed, and the breath of life stirred once more. Seeds awoke in the soil. Rivers cracked and ran again. The world softened in his shadow.

Plutanis, though broken, began to remember. Piece by piece, memory returned. He saw the shapes of stars in his dreams, and the voices of the dead called to him from the wind. Slowly, painfully, his mind returned to him—not as it once was, but tempered by grief, shaped by endurance.

And then he knew.

The heavens were empty. The songs of the gods had faded. He was alone—last of the divine, the silent echo of a forgotten pantheon.

But Earth lived.

And it lived because of him.

He, Plutanis—the outcast, the mourner, the beast reborn—was now guardian of his sister’s sacred world. Alone, he bore the memory of the gods, and in his solitude, he kept the flame of creation alive.

In the twilight of an age, as the world slowly healed beneath his tread, Plutanis beheld a creature unlike any he had known. A lioness, crowned not with flame nor starlight, but with the fierce dignity of the earth itself. Her eyes held the wild wisdom of the plains, her form carved from golden dusk. She moved like prophecy made flesh.

He watched her with ancient curiosity, for she bore no divinity, yet her presence stirred echoes of the gods.

She called herself Serastra, daughter of the sun-warmed soil, born beneath constellations that had long forgotten their names. Though she was mortal, she did not fear him. Where others fled from the shadow of the god-beast, she stood still, and in her stillness, he found peace.

Seasons passed, and Serastra did not leave. She circled him as moon to planet, as wind to flame. From their bond a great pride rose—lions and lionesses who bore themselves like kings, for they followed a god. Serastra named him King Pluto, Lord of Earth, Warden of the Stars, Last Voice of the Heavens. And the beasts of the plains bowed before him. No claw dared strike his kin. No pride challenged his dominion.

But time is the tyrant of all mortal things.

In a hush before dawn, Serastra lay beneath the open sky and did not rise again. Her breath faded into the wind, and with it, a piece of Pluto's heart was lost. Not since the fall of his kin had he wept so deeply. For Serastra had not been born of the heavens—but she had become his constellation.

Plutanis, crowned now in sorrow, stood alone once more. The stars above bore witness, and the earth beneath remembered.

And so, cloaked in grief and crowned by memory, Plutanis—the Last of the Divine—cast his gaze to the stars and took flight. No longer could he abide the silence of loss. The world still turned, but the heavens were empty. With wings of stardust and sorrow, he ascended beyond Earth, bearing with him the resolve of a god reborn.

His was a sacred pilgrimage through the bones of a forgotten age.

He first flew to the black expanse where Naturis, his sister of bloom and breath, had fallen. She had perished not on her own soil, but in the void between worlds—her light extinguished in the cold reaches beyond Neptune’s song. There, where no wind stirred and time itself seemed to hold its breath, Plutanis found the remnants of her being. Drifting in silence were shards of her essence: strands of ivy turned to crystal, droplets of dew frozen mid-fall, and petals that pulsed faintly with life long gone. He gathered them with reverence and sorrow, cradling them as a mourner gathers fragments of a sacred flame.

From there he journeyed to the place where Visseus, the Eternal One, had fallen. Time hung still in that hollow of space. Her presence lingered like a perfume in the dark, ageless and weightless. He found ashes that shimmered like pearls and fragments of her veil woven from twilight and eternity. Each relic he laid in a vessel shaped from blackened comet stone, bound with strands of his own mane.

At last, he came to Saturn.

There, encircling the great planet, the luminous ring of the slain gods turned endlessly. It was no longer just debris—it was the funeral shroud of his father, Jupus, and his mother, Satais. Plutanis did not speak, for what word could reach the hearts now scattered among the stars? He bowed low in reverence, letting stardust fall upon his brow like ashes of consecration.

From the ring, he gathered a trace—just a handful of celestial remains. A flake of divine thunder. A curl of golden flame. He placed them within the urn with his sisters' relics, a vessel now heavy with the memory of a pantheon.

And when he turned to leave, the ring pulsed once with light—as if Saturn itself acknowledged the pilgrimage of its orphaned son.

Thus did Plutanis, the Mourning Star, return to Earth bearing the last embers of the divine, his journey a testament that the gods had not vanished, but been remembered.

Plutanis returned from the stars, a shadow among constellations, bearing the final embers of a shattered age. His steps stirred the wind, and the earth bowed beneath him as he crossed the sacred lands of his pride—his kingdom carved in silence and survival.

There, beneath a canopy of stars, he came to the grave of Serastra—the lioness who once made a god kneel, the only heart he had loved in a world emptied of divinity. The soil had settled, but the wind still sang her name.

He knelt and opened the urn of the gods. With solemn hands, he scattered the ashes of Jupus and Satais—Skyfather and Lifebringer—over her resting place. Their essence, once fire and thunder, now mingled with the dust of a mortal queen. The heavens held their breath.

Then, with the gravity of ritual, Plutanis consumed the remainder of their ashes. He took his father’s storm into his lungs and drank the lifefire of his mother. Their power, once woven through cosmos and command, burned through him like stars collapsing into new suns. Flesh and spirit twisted, reformed—remade in celestial grief.

The heavens split with light.

From the grave rose Serastra—not as beast nor ghost, but as something new and eternal. Her form glowed with the breath of Naturis, her soul stilled by the gift of Visseus. Vines coiled in her wake, and her mane shimmered like the first dawn.

She had become Serastra, the goddess of wild renewal and sacred dominion—immortal sovereign of the living world, keeper of Earth's hidden pulse.

And Plutanis, now transfigured by the ashes of creation, rose greater still. The stars whispered his name anew—not in fear, but in reverence. He was no longer only the god of stars, nor merely their final heir.

He was King Pluto, God of Gods, Lord of the Heavens, Bringer of Life, and Warden of All That Endures.

Together they reigned—not in conquest, but in balance. And through them, the earth bloomed again, and the sky no longer mourned.

ACHIEVEMENTS

[X] own a mutation
[] own all variants of the primal mutation
[X] own a lethal (my first baby)
[x] own a hybrid
[x] king a mutation
[] king a hybrid
[] breed a hybrid
[] breed a lethal