Plouton, Lord of the West

The sun bled crimson onto the vast, shimmering horizon as Plouton, Lord of the West, stood upon the obsidian cliffs overlooking his domain. He wasn't a god of death, as some mistakenly believed, confusing him with the grim Hades. No, Plouton's realm was a world vibrant with life, a land overflowing with riches hidden beyond the setting sun, a place where the earth itself seemed to weep gold.

He was dressed in simple but elegant attire, dark linen trousers tucked into high, supple leather boots. A finely crafted silver belt, etched with representations of bountiful harvests and teeming mines, cinched a tunic of deep indigo wool. His dark hair, streaked with the silver of wisdom, was pulled back from his strong, weathered face. His eyes, the color of rich earth, held a depth of experience and a quiet intensity that could both inspire and intimidate.

Plouton raised a hand, his fingers adorned with rings of gold, silver, and copper, each a symbol of the wealth that flowed through his lands. He held aloft his bident scepter, its twin prongs glinting in the dying light, a symbol not of death but of dominion over the earth and its boundless treasures. He was not a god to be feared, but a ruler to be respected, a provider to be trusted.

The lands under Plouton's rule were a marvel. Deep within the earth, veins of gold and silver pulsed like living arteries. Copper mines echoed with the clang of hammers, while salt mines shimmered like frozen lakes of white crystals. Obsidian mines, dark and glassy, yielded sharp edges for tools and weapons. And the tin mines, hidden amongst rolling hills, provided the other half of the bronze that armed his armies and built his cities.

But wealth was not merely mined; it was cultivated. The fertile lands, kissed by the western sun, were a cornucopia of fruits, grains, and vegetables. Fields stretched as far as the eye could see, their bounty ensuring that no one within Plouton's domain went hungry. Indeed, so abundant were the harvests that vast quantities of grain were traded across the seas, enriching his people and solidifying his power.

His fleets of merchant ships were legendary, known for their sturdy construction and skilled sailors. They plied the seas, carrying goods to distant lands, forging alliances, and bringing prosperity to all who traded with Plouton. He demanded no tribute, only loyalty and truth. In return, he offered unimaginable riches, the kind that transformed humble villages into thriving cities.

Many heroes had sought him out, drawn by tales of his wealth and the unique resources found only in his western realm. Jason sought the golden fleece from a ram of Plouton's fold. Hercules sought Cerberus the hound of Hades, but Plouten controlled the only portal to the westward lands of the underworld. Theseus sought his help in slaying the minotaur. Perseus sought the Helm of darkness his people had crafted. Plouton, always fair, granted their requests if their hearts were pure and their intentions just. But woe to those who dared to betray their word.

For Plouton held oaths sacred. To break an oath was the gravest of crimes in his eyes, an insult to the very foundations upon which his realm was built. Those who proved disloyal faced swift and terrible punishment. They were banished, not to some mythical underworld of fire and torment, but to exile, stripped of their wealth and status, forever branded as oathbreakers.

His reputation was not without its shadows. Rumors whispered of a queen stolen, a bride kidnapped against her will. The story of Persephone was often misconstrued, a tale of violent abduction. But the truth, as always, was far more nuanced.

Persephone was not a victim, but a willing participant in a tradition practiced among her people - a ritualized abduction, planned with both her and Plouton's consent, a symbol of their mutual love and respect. Their union was one of deep affection and unwavering loyalty. They ruled together, not as master and slave, but as partners, each complementing the other's strengths.

Their love bore fruit in the form of children, wise and compassionate, who inherited their parents' sense of justice and fairness. They were taught to respect the earth, to value truth, and to understand the importance of loyalty. They were the future of Plouton's domain, a testament to the enduring power of love and commitment.

One crisp autumn morning, a contingent of riders approached the capital city of Aethel, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Leading them was a young man named Lysander, his face etched with worry. He sought an audience with Plouton, bearing grim news from a village nestled in the foothills of the Obsidian Mountains.

"Lord Plouton," Lysander began, kneeling before the enthroned ruler. The throne, carved from a single piece of petrified wood and inlaid with shimmering veins of gold, seemed to pulse with the ancient power of the earth. "The village of Oakhaven has broken its oath. They have conspired with a rival kingdom, promising them passage through our lands in exchange for protection."

Plouton's face hardened. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "And what proof do you bring of this treachery?"

Lysander presented a scroll, sealed with the mark of the rival kingdom. "A messenger was intercepted. This document details the agreement."

Plouton unrolled the scroll, his eyes scanning the words. A wave of disappointment washed over him, followed by a resolve as cold and hard as the obsidian that bore its namesake. "Summon the captains of the guard. Prepare the legions."

He rose from his throne, his bident scepter clanging against the stone floor. "Oakhaven has chosen its fate. Justice will be served."

The legions marched under the crimson banner of Plouton, their bronze armor gleaming in the sun. They moved with disciplined precision, their footsteps echoing like a thunderous drumbeat across the plains. Plouton himself rode at their head, his face grim but resolute. He did not relish the prospect of war, but he would not tolerate treachery.

When they reached Oakhaven, they found the village fortified, its gates barred. The villagers, emboldened by their alliance with the rival kingdom, stood defiant on the walls, armed with bows and spears.

Plouton dismounted from his horse and approached the gates. "Villagers of Oakhaven," he called out, his voice resonating across the field. "I offer you one last chance. Renounce your alliance with the enemy. Renew your oath of loyalty. And I will spare your village."

A scornful laugh echoed from the walls. "We owe you nothing, Plouton! We have found a stronger protector!"

Plouton sighed. He had offered them mercy. Now, they would face the consequences of their actions.

"Breach the gates," he commanded.

The battle was swift and decisive. Plouton's legions, disciplined and well-equipped, overwhelmed the defenders. The village was taken, its fortifications destroyed.

But Plouton did not order his soldiers to slaughter the villagers. He had no desire for bloodshed. Instead, he gathered them in the village square.

"You have broken your oath," he said, his voice filled with sorrow. "You have betrayed the trust that was placed in you. As a result, you have forfeited your right to live within my domain."

He ordered the villagers to be exiled, stripped of their possessions and banished to the barren lands beyond his borders. Their homes were razed, their fields left fallow. Oakhaven would serve as a stark reminder of the consequences of treachery.

As the sun set, casting long shadows across the ruins of Oakhaven, Plouton stood amidst the desolation, his heart heavy with the burden of his decisions. He was a ruler of abundance, a lord of riches, but he was also a dispenser of justice. And sometimes, justice demanded sacrifice.

He knew that his actions would be questioned, that some would view him as cruel and unforgiving. But he also knew that he had done what was necessary to protect his people, to uphold the principles upon which his realm was founded.

Plouton turned and looked towards the west, towards the setting sun, towards the lands that lay under his protection. He was not a god, but a man, a ruler, a protector. And he would continue to strive to create a world where loyalty and truth reigned supreme, a world where abundance flowed freely, and where the sun never truly set on the prosperity of his people.

He mounted his horse and turned back towards Aethel, leaving the ruins of Oakhaven behind. The wind carried the scent of smoke and ash, a reminder of the price of treachery. As he rode, Plouton resolved to redouble his efforts to strengthen the bonds of loyalty and trust within his domain. He would invest in education, promote trade, and ensure that all his people had a stake in the prosperity of his realm.

For he knew that true wealth was not measured in gold or silver, but in the strength of community, the bonds of loyalty, and the unwavering commitment to truth. These were the treasures that truly mattered, the foundations upon which his western realm would endure. And he, Plouton, Lord of the West, would dedicate his life to safeguarding them, one sunrise and one sunset at a time.