Auratus

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When Auratus was born the Astari tribe’s Voice saw visions of a child marked by gold, born with golden eyes.

Fearing what they did not understand, they banished him and left him to die in a Cronux storm.

He should not have survived.

But he did.

Another tribe took him in. But he was never one of them.
Cronux spoke to Auratus with uncommon clarity, answering him where it resisted others.

His golden eyes became a sign.
His visions became weapons.

He led them through storm and conflict, outmaneuvering rival tribes with flawless precision.
Water was found. Enemies broke. Futures bent.

They began to call him The Golden Victor
for the gold in his gaze,
and for the victories that followed it.

Yet no triumph ever filled the distance between him and the rest.
Each victory only sharpened his hunger
for devotion, for certainty, for more.

On a dark, feverish night, Auratus feels incomplete, as if something within him is missing.
A part of him remains unsatisfied, never at rest, always wanting more. More power.

Cronux has shown him visions of his future, yet for reasons he cannot understand, he is unable to navigate them. The images are there, but their meaning slips away.

Then something shifts.

A chill spreads through him, followed by a warmth he has never felt before.
Thoughts begin to surface.
Words form without sound, pressing gently against his mind.

He does not understand them, yet he does not resist them.

Auratus stands motionless, fully awake, fully present,
as something within him begins to listen.

The tribe sensed something had changed in Auratus.
Not enough to name it. Enough to fear it.

He called them together.

He spoke of Skaedir.
Of promises beyond Cronux.
Of power that did not guide but it revealed.

One elder refused to listen.

Auratus showed them anyway.

Gold and jewels burst from the elder’s body, tearing through flesh and bone.
Not as a miracle.
As exposure.

The tribe did not recoil.

They tore the gems from him with their own hands.
Fighting. Grasping. Taking.

In that moment, they saw themselves clearly
their greed, their hunger, their desire laid bare.

Auratus said nothing.

The tribe had already chosen.

The tribe was convinced by Auratus.

They believed they had found a way out of starvation, war, and weakness.
Submission did not feel like defeat to them.
It felt like escape.

Through worship of Skaedir, they imagined a different future
stronger, unbreakable, never hungry again.

They let go willingly.
Of their bodies.
Of their souls.

To be remade in Skaedir’s image. 

The hunger did not end.
It multiplied.

The tribe became Aurivores
gilded monstrosities of excess and greed, roaming Sylon Prime.

Where they walk, molten gold spills from their bodies,
turning the desert into a sea of gold.

They still worship Skaedir.
Now as its Vesselites.

Bound to it, In body and in soul.

The tribe was remade into skaedirs hunger.
Auratus was remade into skaedirs voice.