Within the pantheon of Mesopotamian deities, goddesses have always been entities of particular and profound terror. While all gods are fundamentally incarnations of natural phenomena and concepts, given form through the faith of mortals, their behavioral patterns diverge significantly based on the nature of their embodiment. Gods who manifest in male forms tend toward rationality and firmness, though this often manifests as stubbornness. Goddesses, however, are more deeply tied to emotion and intuition. They can be capable of great gentleness, but by that same token, they are far more prone to emotional extremes—especially when their plans are thwarted or their pride is wounded.
The Goddess Aruru was, in all likelihood, precisely in such a volatile state.
And so, Rowe's new plan was set. He would find her. He would mock her. He would provoke her delicate artistic sensibilities at their most vulnerable point. Then, during the inevitable confrontation, he would continuously escalate the conflict, pushing her divine wrath to its absolute limit. His goal was simple: to make her so enraged that she would smite him down without hesitation. To die in a battle against a genuine goddess—that was a legend worthy of the Throne he sought.
Turning back towards the stone wall, Rowe called out to the soldiers still watching him in awe. "I'm pressing deeper into the forest to investigate the source of the riot!" he announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "By the King's own command, you are all to hold this position! Do not move from your posts without new instructions from me or the King!"
"Yes, Lord Priest!" came the immediate, unified response. After the shocking spectacle they had just witnessed—a single man sending a horde of demonic beasts fleeing with nothing but his presence—the soldiers' obedience was absolute. In their eyes, Rowe's status had been elevated to something near-divine, second only to Gilgamesh himself in their hierarchy of awe.
With his orders given, Rowe turned and pursued the retreating tide of demonic beasts into the oppressive depths of the forest. He moved with purpose, a lone figure advancing against the current of fear.
A short while later, he stood perched on a thick, gnarled tree trunk, his gaze piercing through the tangled undergrowth. "The source seems to be even deeper," he murmured to himself.
His field of view was dominated by a sea of lush greenery—intertwining vines, dense canopies that formed a flowing, cloud-like ceiling, and a floor so thickly covered it was impenetrable to the eye. The large groups of demonic beasts moving through this labyrinth still stirred up considerable dust, their passage creating a low rumble, but their commotion seemed almost insignificant against the vast, primordial scale of the forest itself.
The Demonic Beast Forest was impossibly vast, a truth that became more apparent with every step. But upon reflection, it was only natural; a woodland capable of housing such a large and violent population of magical creatures would need to be of a colossal scale. However, Rowe knew that even this expanse had its limits. After walking for some time, the signs pointed him toward the heart of the woodland.
Sure enough, the chaotic noise of the forest began to weaken and diminish. The movement of the demonic beast horde visibly slowed, their frantic retreat giving way to a cautious, almost reverent stillness.
Seeing this change, Rowe immediately activated the Gate of Babylon. A golden ripple appeared beside him, and from it, he grabbed a long, sturdy chain attached to a hook-like Noble Phantasm. Using it as a grappling hook, he swung from his perch, arcing through the air over the heads of the now-quiet beasts below, heading directly for the epicenter they surrounded.
As he swung, he got a clearer look at the demonic beasts. They resembled twisted versions of wild animals—wolves, boars, lions—but adorned with grotesque features like bone spurs, extra limbs, or vestigial wings, and all were unnaturally large. Yet, now they were completely docile, prostrating themselves on the forest floor. They didn't even react as Rowe passed directly over them.
Rowe looked forward, toward the center of this circle of prostrate beasts. There, the dense tree cover broke, creating a clearing bathed in intense, unfiltered sunlight. The ground within was scorched black, not sunken like a crater, but visibly altered. Anyone with eyes could see this was no ordinary clearing; it was a point of impact, a place of genesis.
And there, standing in the center of the scorched earth, was a figure. A being of breathtaking beauty with long, flowing black hair, clad in a simple yet elegant white dress, her skin fair and radiant. Her delicate face was etched with a divine luminescence and a palpable, troubled concentration.
Undoubtedly, this was the Goddess Aruru in her embodied, pseudo-Servant form.
And coiled beside her, a formless, shifting 'clump of mud' pulsed with latent energy. This was Enkidu in its most primordial state—a divine weapon before receiving its perfect shape. It did not yet bear the name Enkidu, but for clarity, Rowe thought of it as such.
Rowe landed silently on a thick branch at the edge of the clearing, his feet finding steady purchase on the bark. From this vantage point, he observed the deeply troubled expression on the goddess's exquisite face.
His hypothesis was correct. Aruru's divine mind was entirely consumed by the artistic block. The task set by the pantheon was clear: create a humanoid weapon, Enkidu, capable of rivaling Gilgamesh. This necessitated a form of equal perfection, a visage that could stand unashamed beside the half-divine King of Uruk. Yet, Gilgamesh's appearance was a rarity even among the gods themselves—a unique confluence of divine brilliance and mortal charisma. How does one improve upon a template that is already near-flawless? The goddess was trapped in a cycle of creative frustration.
To some extent, the rampant riots of the demonic beasts were a direct, if subconscious, result of her distress. By driving the beasts toward Uruk's borders, she hoped to force a confrontation, to observe the forms and spirits of the human soldiers—not for slaughter, but as a desperate search for a spark of inspiration, a suitable 'mold' for her unfinished masterpiece. The fact that this search cost human lives was of no consequence to her. In the eyes of the gods, everything in the human world, from the lowliest peasant to a king like Gilgamesh, was ultimately a tool to maintain their own existence and authority.
Of course, despite her troubled state, a goddess's senses remained preternaturally sharp. As Rowe observed her from the shadows of the canopy, Aruru instantly sensed the foreign presence. She raised her head, deep black hair parting to reveal eyes of pure, luminous emerald green. She tilted her head, a gesture of divine curiosity, her beautiful red lips parting slightly as if to form a silent question: Who are you?
As the entity currently commanding the horde, her attention naturally drew the focus of the thousands of demonic beasts surrounding her. A low, collective growl rippled through the clearing. A wolf-shaped beast bared its fangs, saliva dripping and sizzling on the ground; a lion-like monster sharpened its claws, cold light glinting; a demonic bird on a branch spread wings that shimmered with a steely luster. Yet, the pressure from their countless crimson eyes was nothing compared to the silent, penetrating weight of the goddess's pure green gaze.
Who am I? Rowe understood the unspoken question in her look. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. This was the moment.
He slowly pulled back the sleeve of his linen robe, revealing a slender arm. He extended his five fingers, performing a gesture that might, to an unknowing eye, seem like a simple wave of welcome. But the finger he chose to emphasize was unmistakable—the middle one, raised in a universal, timeless symbol of contempt. It was a targeted mockery, a deliberate insult aimed directly at a deity who viewed humans as disposable tools.
"..."
The scene froze, as if time itself had congealed. The wolf's jaw hung open, unable to close; the lion bit its own tongue in shock, blood trickling from its maw; the demonic bird's wings were spread wide but utterly motionless. "Dumbfounded" was too mild a word to describe the tableau. While the beasts weren't human and lacked the cultural context of the gesture, they were magical creatures with keen senses for intent. From the human in the tree, they felt no direct malice, but something far more insulting: a profound, inexplicable mockery, a disdain that was more infuriating than pure hatred.
They were frozen in collective disbelief. If they could speak, their thoughts would likely have been a chorus of panicked curses: Damn it! Why provoke her?! Wouldn't it be better to let this divine ancestor finish her work and leave peacefully?! This human was truly courting death in the most audacious way imaginable.
The stillness lasted only an instant. A clear, sharp cry erupted from Aruru's lips, a sound that suppressed all movement and sound from the beasts, forcing them back into a prostrate silence.
"Are you... mocking me, mortal?!" Her voice, which should have been as peaceful as a babbling brook, was now transformed into the stern roar of a torrential flood. The troubled goddess, already on edge, was instantly ignited by the blatant provocation. She was unhappy. Deeply displeased!
And for a high and mighty god, the response to displeasure was simple and direct: vent. She wanted to erase this insolent speck, to kill Rowe where he stood.
But before the goddess could even raise a hand to unleash her divine wrath, the formless 'divine mud' coiled beside her—the nascent Enkidu—acted first. As if sensing a profound connection, a kindred spirit that resonated with its own raw, unshaped existence, the primordial clay surged forward. It did not attack with malice, but rather moved with a strange, almost protective instinct, placing itself between the angered goddess and the mocking human.
Rowe: "???"
His plan had been perfectly on track, and now this... thing was interfering. A wave of exasperation washed over him.
Who are you? he thought, staring at the shifting clay. Are we close? Don't come over here! You're ruining the script!