Midnight was never bright, but in the Umbral Woods? Hoo boy, even gods could mistake shadows for beasts. In his short, busy life, the Ferryman had admittedly seen very little, and the darkness of the forest wasn't helping much. He had seen the invoice for the pick-up of three souls, however, and it has said that they would be waiting right here.
Right here.
The Ferryman looked around with feigned patience. A little whistle escaped his lips, drawing on in its lifespan as the Ferryman's semi-visible eyes rolled casually around in their sockets. A little finger drum on the rim of Wellington decided to join in.
Another minute passed and the Ferryman regarded a little hourglass from the breast of his robe. Softly, he called out: "Hey, uh, dear souls! Your transport has arrived." Silence. The Ferryman exited his vessel and extracted a small scroll from his pocket. "Anyone? I'm looking for the souls of… Okay, how do you pronounce this?"
“ Umbra.” came a voice out of seemingly nowhere.
Ashevelen just finished her contract with Aldiona and was about to take off, to watch the Umbra from the darkness and see how her mortal deal without her presence to keep them on the straight and narrow path when she felt the presence of another divine approaching. Truly a busy day for the lady of the trade.
Watching from a distance, she noticed a small boat approaching and on top of it, the divine being she felt. Ashevelen shouted out the name of her creations from afar upon hearing the Ferryman’s voice.
“ Greetings divine brother and may I say, your vehicle looks truly magnificent. My name is Ashevelen, the lady of the trade and I beseech you, don’t harm the Umbra for they are my creations. If they did something to offend you, I’m sure we can work out a deal ” said Ashevelen, her voice as always, was sweet like honey.
The Ferryman offered her a small bow. "Evenin', miss Ashevelen. I'm the Ferryman. And thanks - yeah, Wellington's pretty sweet, isn't she? An eight-footer, she is. Flat-bottomed and fit for pretty much any body of water, should that ever be relevant." He waved a hand in small circles. "Don't be concerned for your creations, by the way. Hurting people is not my thing. Life always finds a way to hurt itself, anyway - don't need more of it from me." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm more of the sort who cleans up after. Speaking of, you wouldn't happen to have seen three souls on a stroll, would you?"
Ashevelen returned the bow gracefully and smiled at the Ferryman.
“ Wouldn’t you be able to make it levitate above any body of water? I could probably work out a deal for you with another divine if you wish me to. ” if one would even exist in this place but of course, Ashevelen didn’t say that out loud.
“ “Life always finds a way to hurt itself”, you can say that twice. I’ve seen many of my creations destroying themselves over the most basic need they seem to have, greed or fornification. Disgusting behaviour in most mortal races that I’ve seen. Three souls, you say? ” said Ashevelen inquisitively.
“ And what would you do with those souls if I happened to know where they are? Would you try to take them away? ” the recent contract she made with Aldion was fresh in her mind, if this new divine being would try to take them, Aldion might see it as a way to get out of the contract.
The Ferryman shrugged. "I guess so, yeah. Not sure where to, though. I'm building up a bit of a backlog, you could say." He showed her the scroll displaying the names and death location of the souls. "See, I'm supposed to take them to the afterlife, but there ain't none around. It's pretty frustrating, actually."
“ Then I know exactly where they are. Aldion, another one of our divine brothers who answered the Call, took them. As much as I could understand from him, he plans to punish all the souls that break his rules. Here, I can show you. ” replied Ashevelen and with a snap of her fingers, the contract which she signed with Aldion as well as their conversation about it, appeared in front of the Ferryman.
“ Feel free to read it but don’t touch it. No offence intended. ”
“None taken,” said the Ferryman with a polite smile and leaned in for a closer look. “... Let’s see here… All Umbra souls go to… M-hm… Attract to a place… Ah… Hmm… For every ten thousand souls… Uh-huh… Mine (being Aldion’s, of course) by right… Yeah, alright, I think I get the picture.” He pulled back and rubbed his chin. “So souls’ll go to him by themselves, huh?” He clicked his tongue in the same way a disapproving party would when trying to display neutrality. “Sounds slow and inefficient, if you ask me.”
Ashevelen waited patiently for the Ferryman to read the contract, watching for everything that could give an insight to his motives. Anything that might prove useful in further negotiations and her waiting was rewarded.
“ Slow and inefficient, you say? Would you have a better way? Maybe you’d want to cart them off yourself, just in case the souls will try to run away from the punishment that surely awaits them if they end up with Aldion? ”
“My thoughts exactly, honestly,” the Ferryman agreed. “That’s, uh, that’s why I’m here. Wellington’s pretty fast, so it’d be a lot faster than souls walking. They’re slow as decay.” He nodded. “So, got a way to contact this Aldion fellow?”
“ There is no need for that, is there? You’ve read the contract yourself. It is stated that the souls must reach him, the manner of how they must reach him is not specified. In other words, if you wish to take the souls to him, you are free to do so. ” clarified Ashevelen “ Provided of course, that you won’t take the souls to someone else, consume them for whatever needs you may have or anything that may damage the goods. Not trying to insult you or anything, I’m sure you’re good at your job but just want to be sure everything is clarified. ”.
“Oh yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” mumbled the Ferryman. “Well, since the souls here have already been swept off, I guess I should be heading to the next ones.” He gave another small bow. “Miss Ashevelen.”
“ If duty calls, then be off on your way, Ferryman. I am sure we’ll see more of each other in the future. Actually, do you have space for another divine on your magnificent boat? I’d like to let the Umbra roam the world without being shadowed by their creator. ” asked Ashevelen with a smile and a wink.
“Yeah, there’s space,” replied the Ferryman with a polite smile. “Here, watch your step - stepping in the soul river won’t hurt, but it doesn’t wash off so easily.” He knelt down and pulled the little dory even closer to the bank of the eternal river of magic that began and ended on average two metres in front and behind the bow and the stern, respectively.
Ashevelen took a deep breath and jumped on the boat, careful not to land in the soul river and hopefully in nothing that the Ferryman might have inside it.
“ Onwards and…upwards? Yes, ONWARDS and UPWARDS my friend! ” shouted Ashevelen happily.
“Yup.”
Ferryman arrives to scoop up the souls of the three cannibal/cannibalised Umbra and finds Ashevelen instead, who tells him the souls are in another castle - specifically the castle of Aldion’s fist. Showing him the contract and explaining that there’s no clause prohibiting transport of souls so long as they get to Aldion, the Ferryman puts two and two together and decides to move on. Ashe joins him for a hitchhike.
Someway or another, Po ended up on a rocky peak that jutted out from coastal shallows. The sky above was pallid, as if threatening rain (much to Po’s dismay) and there was an unpleasant chill in the ocean air, one that just made Po hungry and upset with the two emotions not being exclusive to one another. However, the fiery goddess did find some comfort in being perched so far above the coastal shallows below, and with the veritable buffet of crooked and stunted trees that had clawed their roots into the rocky spire.
So that’s where she was, standing under bloated clouds, snapping twigs and branches from defenseless trees and shoving them into the fiery white void that peeked out from under her hood of flames. The only sounds to accompany the snapping of the branches was the gusto of her gulps and the crash of the water below, that is until someone else spoke up.
“Who… who are you?” A confused elvish voice creaked from behind the goddess. Po turned, an ash covered branch poking out from her hidden mouth. Her gaze fell on the figure of a young elvish man, draped in nothing but the wind. Goosebumps pricked at his arms and a slight shiver caused him to shuffle with every burst of sea air. Po swallowed her meal and let her glowing red eyes soak in the scene.
“Are you cold?” Po’s scratchy voice asked with genuine care.
The man was thrown back by the sudden compassion but nodded nonetheless. The glow of Po’s eyes softened to one of helpful pride. Her voice came again.
“I can help!”
“You can?” The man didn’t dare take a step forward.
“Mm!” Po nodded. “But after, you have to promise to hangout — it’s getting awfully boring ever since I left the others.”
Before the man could even utter a response, Po shouted “Here goes!” And lobbed a pillar of fire at the man. The air screamed with the sudden intensity of heat and the shadow of the man’s body imprinted on the sudden blast of white and yellow, only to disappear along with the flames. All that remained was licking red embers that clung to whatever vegetation wasn’t wafted away by the blast.
“Hey!” Po growled. “Where’d you go?”
A ghastly specter materialized above the largest of the scorch marks on the ground. It was silent and had fear painted on its blurry face.
“Oh, there you are!” Po said… loudly.
“You’re… Sure you know where you’re taking me?” said one of the impatient passengers. The Ferryman’s first day at work was growing more stressful by the minute. First, he’d have nothing to do; then, with the appearance of mortals and beasts, the requests ticked in by the minute. Problem now was: he had no place to take them. He pursed his unclear lips and shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” came a snap from another passenger.
“It means, uh… Yeah, I’m not too sure here, fellas,” the Ferryman conceded to a choir of sighs and groans.
“Life was already shit -before- I died,” muttered a third passenger.
“You can say that again!”
“Hey, it’s not so bad. My dysentery has passed, my bowels are all calm…”
“Yeah, that knife wound doesn’t hurt anymore!”
The Ferryman felt a smile return. Like they said, a smiling chauffeur was paramount to a happy and successful voyage - it just felt a little easier when the positive energy reflected back.
“I’m bored!”
Well, it couldn’t last forever - hardly a minute, really.
“Say, have any of you got any stories?” the Ferryman prodded. “A story makes the day go around, as they say.”
“Who says that?” came a knife-like reply.
“I did, just now,” the Ferryman glimmered back. “C’mon, anyone? Franky, how about you? C’mon, you ate that poisonous mushroom. That must’ve been something, right?”
The one named Franky shrugged somberly. “Peak of my three hour existence, I’d say,” she mumbled in return. The Ferryman deflated a bit.
“Well, uh…”
Then it came again - that snap in his nerves; a little, instinctual bell knelling softly to let him know that, indeed, another one had passed. A little scroll of cosmic paper appeared in the breast of his robe and he fished it out with the expertise of someone who has been practicing all morning and afternoon. The scroll unfurled and depicted the story of a very unfortunate little elf - death by disintegration. The Ferryman eyed briefly the passengers - one more would fit, but it’d be cramped… Very much so, admittedly.
“Say, I think we’ve reached out stop, fellas!” he said suddenly and stopped in the middle of the tundra. The passengers looked around bepuzzled, heads spinning and bobbing around like the blinking eyes of a frog. The Ferryman brought Wellington to a stop at the metaphorical shore of the perpetual magic river beneath it and tied the boat to a nearby tree. One of the passengers raised a hand.
“Are you sure this is the afterlife? It looks an awful lot like the now-life, in my opinion.”
The Ferryman knocked at the bark of one tree and paced over to the next, knocking on that one, too. “Well… Your afterlife started the moment you died, so the time you’ve spent away from your corpse until now - that’s your afterlife. I’d call it your afterbirth, but that’d force some nasty associations, forgive me.” Knock, knock. “Oh, this one’s good.”
The passengers were beginning to exit the vessel, the Ferryman having weakened the seal around it. The ghosts, too, paced around the nearby woods, kicking through rocks and wailing creepily at the birds, who couldn’t hear them much but nonetheless flew away out of some esoteric fright. The Ferryman had by now chopped down several trees and fashioned from them good-quality planks. In the trees’ stead appeared ghosts of trees, leaves blowing angrily in ethereal wind at this blatant murder.
“Look, apologies, fellas, but you’ll get a very nice place in the garden, how’s that?”
One of the ghosts came over, curiously regarding the Ferryman in action. The god had quickly built a fairly large house of planks, leaves, ash and fibre. All around, he dug out a small beck, filled it with aesthetically pleasing stones and built small wooden lanterns all around. More ghosts had by now come over to behold the spectacle.
“Say, what’re you building, mister Ferryman?” came an inquiry.
“Oh, I’m just building you a little resting place, if you will.”
“But I’m already buried, I think.”
“Oh, apologies, uh… Well, I guess an inn is equally descriptive, huh?”
Clapclapclap! sounded the palms of one of the ghosts before the others stared him down. One of the especially grumpy ghosts muttered, “What’d you do that for? What, you expect us to cheer? To laugh?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t expect anything from you,” the Ferryman replied diplomatically, “but I hope the lodgings are to your liking.”
“Lodgings?” Then, as quickly as it had burned to the ground, the ghost of the inn appeared in its stead - the same building, but visible and usable only to those who could see the dead. A choir of gasps restored the Ferryman’s confidence and he took them for a brief tour around the facilities: He showed them the kitchens, the bedrooms, the wine cellar and the main room. In the beck, there were ghost fish to pike for, and the lanterns provided an eerie light which could give them comfort during those scary nights. Around the inn stood the ghosts of the trees used to build it, horrified at the angles the Ferryman had bent their bones and organs into. All in all, it was a wonderful place to be a ghost.
“Right!” said the Ferryman eventually. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back for you in a bit. It’s just… Until I have a proper place to send you all, I’ll have to ask you to stay here and, uh, please don’t wander off.”
The mood averaged out in a semi-patient miff, but the Ferryman didn’t stay long enough to hear the complaints. He just rushed off to his boat, untied Wellington and soared off to the next passenger-to-be. It wasn’t too long of a trip, but so few were aboard Wellington. After a brief detour around a sour-lipped cumulus, he came to a stop on a small mountain top surrounded by shallow sea. Eyes fixed and nose dug deep in the text of the celestial scroll, he read, “Mollart Lark?” He then looked up to see a horrified ghost and a very active fire.
“That’s…. that’s me.” The ghost wailed.
Po’s voice came in stronger, pushing herself between the god and the ghost. “Are you fellas friends?” A tinge of jealousy or at least worry seemed to seep in her tone.
The Ferryman blinked between the two. “No, we’ve just met.” A small lip smack indicated a hint of disconcertedness. “Are, are you fellas friends?”
“N-”
“Yup!” Po shouted. “We were just about to do some stuff. I was thinking of starting a few fires; are you in?”
Growing increasingly disturbed, the Ferryman exited his vessel and walked over to the ghost. “Ma’am, you do realise…” He stuck a corporeal hand through the very incorporeal body of poor Mollart. “... That this man is dead, right? Gone? Kaput?”
“Dead maybe, but not gone, see!” Po waved her hand through the very upset ghost as well. “He already promised to stick around with me for a while.” She swallowed and pushed forward a serious tone. “But are you in or are you out, because we’ve burned enough time on this as it is and there is plenty of places me and my new pal have to see and light up.”
“N-no, see…” The Ferryman sighed. He had been practicing a few sentences for thing in his head during his downtime, but he wasn’t ready just yet. This would be the first draft of a first draft if anything. He drew a breath and said, “Mister Lark here, he’s… He’s passed on. He’s no longer alive, which means that the time has come to, well, move to the next phase of life - or death, in his case: I’ll be taking him to the, uh…” A second went to naming his earlier structure. “... The Ghostel, where he’ll be staying before he’lll be moving on to the next place (wherever that may be).” He sighed. “Sorry, does that make sense?”
“No, it doesn’t!” Po crossed her arms, her fires growing hotter. “Because Mister Lark is coming with me to set some fires, and no scrawny boat-boy is changing that fact.”
The Ferryman frowned. “Look, no need to get upset. Death is as natural as life and he’s got to move on - like you should.”
Po’s red eyes turned to slits as she hissed. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She took a menacing step forward, her shoulders squaring. The Ferryman raised his staff defensively.
“Look, ma’am… I’ve never fought anyone before, but I have a purpose, I do. If you get between me and Mister Lark here…”
“What?” Po goaded. “What happens?” She took another step forward, her flames turning white hot and igniting any last holdouts of vegetation in the area. The Ferryman took a small step back, trying to find a balance between standing his ground and deferring diplomatically.
“All I will say is that he’s coming with me.” He tested the balance of his staff with small movements.
“No he isn’t!” Po shouted back, her bellowing voice sending a wave of heat outward. By the hem of her cloak, the ground started to bubble and melt. “He’s staying with me! I’m not done with him yet!”
“Mister Lark, please feel free to have a seat in my boat,” said the Ferryman while his eyes remained fixed to the glaring inferno before him. Around him, eerie lights began to bubble forth, flocculating into a halo around his silhouette. “We will be leaving shortly…”
“Rah!” Po shot off from her back foot, arms outstretched as she dove for the Ferryman, tackling him to the ground with an explosive blast. Volcanic ash thrust into the air from the impact and drips of molten rock splashed from the crater of the struggling gods. The Ferryman’s halo, a shield as it had been, shattered under the destructive power of the blast. He groaned sharply and struggled to regain his composure, now being under his adversary.
The crater was a hissing heat as glowing rock started to drip down the edges towards the fiery clash. Po’s eyes were a glowing blue as she stared down at the Ferryman. Her usual scratchy voice was akin to a roaring fire. “Do you give up!?”
The Ferryman’s frown had become a light glare and he felt the blazing heat sear at his body. Hot brimstone still drizzled from the sky above. The Ferryman then sucked in some air through his nostrils, swiftly placed two palms on each of her shoulders and… Pushed. His body phased straight through the ground and out of sight.
“WHAT!?” Po shrieked and let loose a massive punch where her nemesis once was. The mountain cracked and a splash of molten rock blasted from the growing hole as she punched again. “Where did you go!?” She roared.
Debris started to rain from the sky as she continued her barrage, the molten rock splashing into the sea below in all directions. Po screamed, “Show yourself, coward!”
Just then, a foot placed itself right under her chin - the Ferryman was back up, both hands sticking straight up, one leg pointed out perpendicular to the torso and the other bent under his bottom. “HYAH!” he shouted mid-jump and followed his kick up with a downward smack on her scalp with his staff. Po smashed into the ground from the blow, a billow of smoke and flame spitting from her cloak. The already cracked and molten mountain shook from the blow and one half of it began to slide off with an ear-splitting grind.
“You bastard!” Po’s shout riled back up after a moment and she sprung up, one hand on the top of her hood, the other slugging the Ferryman in the gut. The Ferryman went flying into the sea, the seabed folding up behind him like a scoop of ice cream. Sand and stone crumbled into a small island, and the Ferryman stood up groggily in the centre of the crater, the seawater rapidly washing in around him. Before the sea could swallow him, however, he kicked off and flew into the sky. Mid-flight, he pointed his staff at Po, the tip flaring blue. Nothing happened. Po growled from below and shot up into the sky after him, her take off ripping another side off the mountain below — the sea hissed with molten rock. Then, before she could follow up her earlier attack with another, the bow Wellington the Dory smacked her straight down from above.
“WUHB!” Po went slamming down into the sea below. The water screamed as the goddess of fire entered the already bubbling waves. A second went by, long enough for the Ferryman to lower his guard, but then an eruption of magma blasted from the waves, forming a cylinder of rock hissing at the angry waves. Po was at the center of the trail of flame, blasting straight up. Her hood was knocked off her face, revealing an angry grit, narrow eyes and streaming hair of fire. With an explosive bang, she reconnected with the Ferryman, her lightning fast punch uppercutting his chin, only for her to pull him back with a terrible grip. She pulled him in tight, her hug pinning his arms to his sides. A devious grin split her face and with a puff of her flaming wings, she flipped them both upside-down. The Ferryman struggled, but realizing the ground awaited him, he only focused his energy into forming another shield - it would not form in time.
The sea all but jumped in the air along with a shower of stone and fire, a clapping explosion blinding the area as the two gods stamped the ground with all their power. Dust blocked out the sky and the smell of sulfur gripped the region. Minutes went by, the only sound being hissing stone and angry water, until suddenly the gasp of breathing life joined it.
Po was still struggling with the Ferryman on a small volcanic island as the sound started. She was just putting him in a headlock as he was prying her away when she froze in surprise. Mortal eyes were peering at the wrestling gods with wide, astonished gazes. The Ferryman squeezed his head out of her arms to get a better view, freezing in equal manner.
“What is tarnation?”
The mortals had an elven shape - two legs, two arms, a head and a torso to connect all these. However, that was where the similarities began to fade. When Mollart Lark and the rest of elfkin would usually sport a mane of hair, these creatures’ heads had more in common with torches and braziers. Each one blazed with a brightness close to Po’s very own, illuminating and warming the surroundings to the extent that they could be made any warmer. One of them stepped forward, then spun around and shouted to the rest, “BEHOLD! OUR CREATORS!” All of them descended to their knees and hands, humming and mumbling prayers in chorus.
“Um… buh…” Po scrambled over the Ferryman and found her footing. She stood up straight and pulled her hood back over her face. Her fire died down to a red and she peered out at the people. “Hello.”
“They acknowledge us!”
“Praise be to the creators!”
The Ferryman squinted. “Hey, you’re obviously hers, alright? I think there’s been some mistake here…” He wormed himself up to his feet as well and dusted himself off. “Well, if you don’t mind, I have a soul to ferry. So I…” As he had spoken, he had spun on his heel and extended his leg to take a step. Then, right before him, he saw one of the mortals - however, its presence was obviously one of the soul, and not too far away laid a corpse bobbing in the sea. The Ferryman, God of Death, almost fainted. “Good cosmos! H-how has one of you died already?!”
“To die is to live!” exclaimed the soul with feigned pride. She was obviously in deep shock.
“It’s the water, sire!” said one of the living, oblivious to the soul. By the corpse, others had begun to tearfully attempt to fish it out of the foaming waves. “It’s coming for our fire! Everyone! Shelter your flames from the water and wind!”
“Uh oh!” Po’s demeanor was completely different now. She gripped the Ferryman’s robes and gave him a tug. “We have to help them!”
The tug pulled the Ferryman back into reality. “O-o-okay! Okay! Uh! Uhm!” He bit the nails of his free hand. “Uh… Houses! Mortals like houses, right? I mean, I built a house for some ghosts–!”
“Houses!” Po exclaimed and leapt forward. She slammed her fist into the ground, popping a slate of stone into the air with a crack. As it landed she smacked it in half so that the two sides leaned against each other like a tent. Filled with the same gusto as one of their creators, some of the fire-haired people were already diving into the shelter. Po yelled at her nemesis-turned-partner. “Quick! More!”
“O-okay!” The Ferryman followed her example and stacked slates into lean-tos and triangles. “I, uh, think it’s working! Hey, are you comfortable in there?” A small family of lava-haired mortals packed themselves together in the improvised shelter. The mother of the group looked sympathetically grateful.
“It’s better than the wind, that’s for sure,” she replied with a smile. The Ferryman sighed in relief.
“It’s been confirmed, it’s working!” He then put his hands on his hips and looked around. “... I feel like something’s missing, though,” he mumbled as his eyes jumped from one lean-to to the next.
“You’re right!” Po gasped. She started pointing to various locations across the make-shift settlement, sprouting blooms of fire to each location. “We need more fire!” One of the fire-people’s children waddled over to a fire and stuck his hand in it. The little girl pulled out a lick of fire and quickly sucked it down like a drink before smiling content, the tiny flame on her head growing brighter. The Ferryman clapped his fist in his palm.
“Like that thirsty guy earlier! Well, you wouldn’t know him… Plus he drank the same water a rat had died in and… Well, that’s not important. They drink fire - that’s nice to know. Uh… Let’s see…” He looked around the still barren archipelago. “They’ll need stuff to burn. A lot of stuff to burn.” With the snap of his fingers, Wellington filled with all kinds of seeds that could handle the cool air and chilling storms in this part of the ocean. “I’ll just fly around a bit and plant some! Keep the people here safe, alright?”
“Uh huh!” Po nodded eagerly. She paused as a thought crossed her mind “Before you go, what’s your name?”
“Oh! Uh… Just the Ferryman’s fine.” There was a small pause. “What’s, uh, what’s yours?”
“Po.” Another pause. “I guess that makes those guys… Po..fers? Ferpo…” She pinched her unseen chin. “Feporry…?”
The Ferryman glanced over at the small rock village now forming. “Does Porries sound nice?”
Po gave a deep nod. “Yes! I think that’s perfect.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Right, Porries it is!” He glanced over one more time. “Look, uh, sorry for hitting you with a boat. I did many stupid things, but that in particular was pretty uncalled for.” He bowed remorsefully.
“Erm.” Po crossed her arms, clearly struggling with pride before sighing. “And I’m sorry for throwing you off a mountain.”
“It’s okay. It happens.” He put one foot in the boat and said, “Well, I’ll be taking this around the island. Don’t really know what else we should d–” He paused. “Say, uh, do these porries eat?”
“If they are anything like me, they definitely do.” Po held her stomach with one hand. “I’m starving, I could eat an entire everything.”
The Ferryman stepped out of his boat again, conjured forth a stick and walked over to one of the porries. “Here, friend,” he said with a smile, “have a nibble.”
The porry eyed the stick searchingly, then took it and bit into it. She gnawed and exerted great effort in doing as the deity had said, but after a minute or two, she surrendered the stick back with a hanging head. “Forgive me, my liege… I simply cannot chew through it! Plus it tastes yucky!”
The Ferryman felt himself begin to sweat. “Po, they don’t eat like you do! What do we do?!”
“Quick!” Po stomped the ground, summoning a myriad of animals and knocking them right into the air. She flicked a dart of fire at one particular squealing and very upset pig, roasting it midair before it fell to the ground, sizzling and ready. All the other animals, from birds to mammals to lizards scurried (smartly) away. Po pointed at her prize, a hunger in her tone as she said. “Try this.”
A porry man standing by the crisped animal poked it with his finger and then licked his prodding appendage. His eyes lit up and his hair perked. “This is delicious!”
The Ferryman ignored the weeping ghost of the pig for a moment and went over to poke the crisped animal. “Dang, you eat this?” he marveled. Looking at the scurrying animals and the great ocean, he cast a piece of pork into the sea. A minute later, great rivers of silver flowed to and fro under the waves, fish filling the waters with bounteous food. Seaweed rusted the shores with a brown sheen, and seals with wooly fur and walruses with six tusks crawled out of the foam to relax on the beach. “Diversity is the key to survival, me thinks. Let’s see, what else?”
Po shivered for a moment and looked around. Despite the various volcanic spouts, geysers and hissing hot springs, the place was rather cold and snow was already starting to layer on the archipelago. “Maybe you should plant your plants so we can get to making some fire for our little friends.”
“Oh yeah.” The Ferryman hopped back into his boat and took off into the sky. As he sailed between the steamy clouds accumulating over the hissing seas, he cast fists of seeds all across the archipelago. Some places filled with thick, diverse forests of pines, evergreens, beech, oak and ash; others swallowed the seeds in flame or sea; some yet tried to destroy the seeds, but empowered them to grow into magmangroves, trees so magically heat resistant and pyrophilic that they could not grow anywhere but in the lava deltas running from volcanoes into the sea. Plains of grasses, flowers and hardy cereals sprouted forth where the soil was too shallow or matte for trees; some of the animals Po had created began to snack on these plants. One in particular was a thick-woolen alpaca, its vaguely metallic wool heat resistant enough to withstand the sudden geyser splashes around their grazing grounds. Lastly a small flower aptly and quickly named heatpoppies started to sprout in colder areas, the tiny balloon like pedals popping with a hiss of heat whenever disturbed. The Ferryman, satisfied with what he had sown, landed his vessel by the first porry village and stepped onto land.
“Well, this sure is a lovely place now!” he lauded. “Could almost live here myself.”
Po held her hands to the sky. “It’s brilliant! Look at all this heat!” She looked to the Ferryman. “I wouldn’t have guessed this right away, but you have quite the spirit of fire in you.”
The Ferryman blushed ethereally and waved his hands with humility. “Oh my, thank you. Well, you know how it is. Birth, life and death are all equally valuable and equally important. Just as I want people to have a good last journey in death, so does it comfort me to know that they have lived good lives.” He looked over his shoulder at a small group of ghosts formed from a few more careless porries and one very angry pig. “You, too, by the way - I didn’t know you had it in you to create, uh… Non-burning things.”
“Oh!” A giggle. Po’s red eyes squinted with mischief. “They burn alright.”
The Ferryman blinked. “Alright. Luckily these islands are plenty scenic, so I don’t mind coming here often.”
“Are the other islands as beautiful as this one?” came a voice from the Ferryman’s feet. There, a little porling had grasped the hem of his cloak with one hand and pirouetted himself into a roll. The Ferryman looked puzzled for a moment.
“Oh, uh, yeah, they are! But pray tell, why do you ask? Can’t you just go see—” A brief glance at the ghost who had fallen into the ocean came to mind. The ghost stared at him knowingly. “Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “One last thing – uhm, everyone?! Can I have your attention, please?” A crowd slowly formed around the two gods. The Ferryman gave Po a look and said, “I was just thinking I’d give them some tips on how to get around these islands. If you’d like to stay around or move on, I won’t hold ya back.”
“Erm no, I think that’s a good idea.” Po gave a nod. “But I’ve already tried to evaporate all the water, there’s just too much of it. I don’t think these porries will have a better chance than I did.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much. I had something else in mind.” He pointed his finger out to the side and guided everyone’s glances. “Everyone - this is a boat…”
Po: 5 might, 5 AP 4 might discounted to 2AP to make volcanic archipelago 4 might discounted to 2AP to make fiery ecosystem 1 AP used to teach Porries how to make fire
end: 5 might, 0 AP
Ferryman 5MP/2AP 4MP: Create Porries, a race of fire-headed humanoids who drink fire/lava. They are by nature passionate and quick-tempered, and their connection to fire forces them to live close to sources of carbon or lava. If their fire goes out, they die, and thus they live very precarious lives. Their closeness with death makes it something to be celebrated, not feared. 1MP: Teach the Porries how to boat (build/sail/maintain) 1AP, down from 2: Build the Ghostel, a monument which serves as an inn and spa for ghosts. Attracts other ghosts to it if these ghost know about it somehow, kind of like any fancy hotel/spa. Invisible to the living. End: 0MP/1AP.
Okay so we open up with Po on top of a seaborn mountain. Like it’s a mountain peak surrounded by shallow sea. Anyway, she is there eating everything when an elf shows up. Po is feeling playful and accidentally blasts the fucker. Cut to Ferryman. His boat is full of complaining dead things so he decides to build them a ghostel to put them in whie he figures shit out… only to get the contract for the elf that Po just vaporized.
Long story short, Ferryman arrives to take the soul but Po doesn’t want the soul to leave yet and so the two have an explosive and heated tussle that results in the creation of a volcanic archipelago in an otherwise frozen area as well as the creation of various fire themed fauna and flora but more importantly, the Porries. The Porries are fire-haired humanoids who drink flames and die when their fire gets extinguished. The two god spit aside their scrap and work together to baby the new sentients.
The charred remains left naught behind, or so the blind would think… In truth, just then, one was assigned to bring them to the brink. The brink of what? Why, life of course! It lives as best it can. Now comes a time of deep remorse, next to the Ferryman.
A leftover product of the former universe: death. It reeked of it. Of course, the cosmos wasn’t a great, big screaming void of suffering, but the stench clung to it like the mouldy odour of an old washroom. The death and suffer of the primordial universe had long since peetered out on its own, flocculating into globules of non-living energy that could not even be separated anymore. Powers oozing from the origin of creation - so raw and basic that they only possessed instinctual processing power - still managed to think, hmm, maybe someone should ensure that doesn’t happen again.
And so it was that Anath Homura’s message snuck through a cut in the fabric of space and time, echoing between the realms of the multiverse until they bounced off of something. A pair of eyes rolled open. A misty hand grasped at a long staff. A pair of mysterious feet settled in the bottom of a cryptic boat. The hand on the staff tightened its grip, and the robed arm leading up to the rest of the body flexed its muscles. A second hand coiled around the staff at a higher point and pulled down as well. A blink of a million worlds passed by before the vessel emerged through the cut in the fabric - a small, grey dory with a tall bow and an equally tall stern. Standing a bit further behind than in the middle of the boat, a lanky, featureless figure sailed a constantly forming and disappearing river through the empty space above the palace. A purpose laid stuck in his head like dust glued onto a wall: Find the souls of the dead and take them somewhere - anywhere - just so long as they do not just sit around and cause havoc.
Sounded reasonable enough, he thought.
The Ferryman sailed gently, for he needed time to smell the world he had been birthed into. Dared he sail too fast, the coldness of space would pollute his soul-smelling nose. Yet the universe was in its infancy; he soon realised this when there were no souls to smell - none except those of the other divines brought into this reality, and some weak, very weak signals coming from the world below.
The Ferryman scratched his bald head in thought. Had not the powers of the universe been urgent? Why make him now if there was nothing to ferry? After much a-pondering, he found himself gently miffed. First day on the job and nothing to do.
Well, he could wait either here or down there. He saw colour flick across the world below. Something was happening there.
Seemed like a good place to start.
The Ferryman pops into existence and realises there’s no dead stuff yet! He decides to hang out on Galbar until shit happens.
Start 5MP/5AP 3AP (down from 5AP): Create artifact - Wellington. Wellington is the Ferryman’s legendary vessel. The small ferry can traverse air, land and water by sailing a magically forming and disappearing river of magic. This also allows it to travel with incredible speed. The boat is nigh indestructible and can carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death. End 5MP/2AP
Base Form: The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.
Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.
Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls) The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.
The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death.
Persona: Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.
Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.
Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!
Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.
Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.
“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”
Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”
Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”
“Woof! Rough day, huh?”
Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.
“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”
“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.
“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.
“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”
The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”
Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”
The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”
Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”
“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”
The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”
“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”
Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”
Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.
“By the gods…”
“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”
Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”
The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”
“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.
“Yup.”
“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.
“Yap.”
For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”
The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”
Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”
The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”
Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”
“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”
“I guess. Why?”
The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”
What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”
“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”
“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“It never is, is it?”
Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”
“Please, I appreciate it, but…”
“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”
Base Form: The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.
Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.
Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls) The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.
The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death.
Persona: Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.
Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.
Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!
Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.
Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.
“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”
Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”
Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”
“Woof! Rough day, huh?”
Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.
“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”
“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.
“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.
“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”
The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”
Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”
The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”
Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”
“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”
The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”
“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”
Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”
Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.
“By the gods…”
“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”
Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”
The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”
“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.
“Yup.”
“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.
“Yap.”
For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”
The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”
Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”
The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”
Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”
“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”
“I guess. Why?”
The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”
What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”
“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”
“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“It never is, is it?”
Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”
“Please, I appreciate it, but…”
“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”
Base Form: The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.
Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.
Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls) The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.
The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. It exists in all temporal instances simultaneously so that the Ferryman has the chance to correctly pick up all dead souls without too much of a hassle. However, when Wellington exists in any other time than the present, its riders may not exit the vessel or risk being forced back to their own time by the powers that be - often torn apart by the grinding mill of time travel. Even gods may not be spared.
Persona: Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.
Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.
Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!
Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.
Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.
“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”
Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”
Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”
“Woof! Rough day, huh?”
Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.
“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”
“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.
“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.
“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”
The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”
Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”
The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”
Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”
“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”
The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”
“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”
Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”
Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.
“By the gods…”
“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”
Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”
The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”
“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.
“Yup.”
“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.
“Yap.”
For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”
The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”
Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”
The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”
Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”
“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”
“I guess. Why?”
The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”
What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”
“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”
“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“It never is, is it?”
Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”
“Please, I appreciate it, but…”
“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”
“Shit… That was too close,” murmured Manek, a pox-dotted hand rubbing a sun-blistered neck and adjusting the wet turban fashioned from rags that sat atop his head like a cowpie.
There came a groan from his left. “I think that son of a bitch dislocated my shoulder…”
“Oh, shut it, Sadwa, you dumb bitch. You reap what you sow - you go for the biggest guy, the biggest guy breaks your arm, simple as.”
The small man with the bulb-like shoulder grit his teeth as he glared at the knife-wielding skeleton of a man who was arguably more lice-infested beard than meat and muscle. “Oh, well, your statement must be a whoooole grilled pheasant, that, because that sounds rich as all hell. Who pushed me at that fat lump, huh? Oh, let me guess - his name rhymes with– agh! Ow, ow, ow.”
The boned man squeezed a laughter. “Oh, widdle Sadwa aw owie-owie? Arm aww hudhie?”
“Skinny, stop kicking the ox,” silenced Manek and slapped him over the back of the head. Skinny tilted forward and pecked at Sadwa’s shoulder with his forehead, inciting a pained squeal. As their argument intensified, Manek groaned and sped up. Ahead of the three of them, a fourth man made stoic steps through the woods, greasy black hair glittered with forest floor detritus flowing down a moth-eaten reed sack that functioned as a tunic. A blood-crusted sharpened stick that doubled as a walking stick filled his right hand, and his weak body needed all the support it could get. Despite his frail appearance, though, his grim, wrinkled expression radiated loyalty to an unnamed purpose. Manek cleared his throat and lowered himself slightly with great respect.
“Krassus,” he greeted. The man offered him a grunt of acknowledgment, barely audible against the background cacophony of the other two idiots. Manek continued, “What’s the plan now? I mean, that was–...”
“Another fluke,” the leader stated without turning his head. “Scipio was out of position; Fat Luck wasn’t fast enough; Skinny and Sadwa were…”
“Skinny and Sadwa?” Manek finished.
“Precisely,” Krassus concurred coldly without casting a glance backwards, yet it seemed as though the simple mention of their names came as a windshear that shut the two up in shame. Manek rolled his eyes at them and sneered at Krassus.
“Remind me again why–”
“You will not finish that sentence,” Krassus warned and stopped. Manek froze in his steps. Skinny and Sadwa blinked like a pair of puppies. Krassus shared a glare with each of them and sighed. “It seems that after every blunder, we must remind ourselves what we are…” He pointed at Sadwa. “Raper. Shunned and cast out from your home for grotesque and animalistic acts against your brother’s wife. Rumour says she will never bear a child again. You are an affront to gods and men alike.”
Sadwa hung his head in shame. Krassus spat on the ground and turned to Skinny. “Murderer. Four people, nonetheless - all because, what, because you wanted to? Why, Skinny?”
Skinny swallowed. “They, they were looking down on me and–”
“And what? You thought killing them would prove your point? You disgust me.” The colour drained from Skinny’s skin, excentuating the hollows between his bones.
Lastly, Krassus turned to Manek. Manek made a hard face back. Krassus eyed him up and down. “What, you aim to meet the truth with pride? Tell me, Manek, what pride is there to be had in infanticide, hmm?”
“You’ve proven your point, sir…–”
“Oh, no, I don’t think that I have, Manek” Krassus hissed back. “You ask me every single time – without fail – why I shepherd the most worthless, ungrateful and hopeless looters, brigands and highwaymen on this side of the 18th Node.” The three winced. “The answer – every time – is that we, Manek, are scum. Filth. Waste that not even the rats will dine on. We are subordinate to cockroaches, that’s what we are. Do you know what that means, Manek?”
The shattered, pox-dotted man didn’t dare to look up. “We stick together with whom we’ve got.”
“That’s right,” breathed Krassus coarsely. His eyes shifted slowly between the three of them. “We stick together with whom we’ve got. When the world turns its back on sinners like us, we have no choice but to live in the darkness with those who dwell it with us. We hate each other, but we depend on each other. No man an island; no wolf a pack. We lie, cheat and steal so that we may live another day. We hunt the most dangerous prey of all - redemption. We dine on rotting dogs and drink filthy water in the hopes that, one day, a little droplet of light with penetrate our darkness and grant us that chance - that once chance to forgo all the consequences of our actions and step back into the day.” He stuck his hand into his tunic and took out a bronze-coloured dime. On one side was the unmistakable horned head of Xavior.
“Whe-where’d you get that, boss?” whispered Skinny as though they were in a temple.
Krassus cast him a short-lived glance and spun on his heel. “We keep moving.” As the black-haired man stormed off deeper into the woods, the three remained for a second to exchange uneasy looks. Manek sighed.
“I’ll… See to that shoulder, Sadwa. Here, take a seat…”
By nightfall, the little band had found an enclave in the woods at the border between node 22 and 26 that they were sure hardly even the trees knew about. So hidden was this place that they were uncertain whether they would find the exit again. In order words, it was perfect. Here, the group laid down to rest, lighting no fires as they didn't trust their hiding spot that much. They probably weren’t being hunted, but one could never be too sure.
However, around an hour past midnight, Sadwa rustled to his feet and let out a silenced yawn. With filthy feet, he strolled his way over to a nearby tree to answer nature’s call. As he let the streams flow freely, he remarked the somewhat odd sound at the impact point. Rather than the deep, hollow drum of liquid pouring over the forest floor, a wetter, flatter pitter-patter instead dominated the soundscape. Sadwa frowned and looked down. There, just barely visible in the forest darkness, he could make out, well, something… A rock? It was… Somewhat gray, he supposed, so why not. He shrugged to himself.
Then it moved.
“AAAAAAH!” came the scream that awoke the rest.
“Sadwa, that dumb cunt,” groaned Skinny and rolled to a seat. Krassus and Manek were already storming into the woods in pursuit of the sound. It didn’t take them long to reach him, laying there whimpering on the ground caressing his splinted arm, which had been twisted into an inhuman angle. A fist took him by the hair and jolted him from the ground, a sheen of metal closing in at his throat.
“STOP!” shouted Krassus. The metal halted on a soft indent against Sadwa’s skin, a trickle of red dripping down the quivering throat. The moon revealed it to be a knife as silvery as fish scales, held in the tight grip of a uniformed man in a long silver cloak with dripping wet hair. Manek swallowed.
“Shit, it’s a fucking paladin,” he squeezed through frozen lips and looked for escape routes. Krassus instead held up a hand. He put down his sharpened stick and reached out his other towards Sadwa and the captor.
“Evening, sir. See you’ve got my friend in your hand. What would it take for you to let him go?”
All he got in response was a flaring, nasal breath like that of a furious bull. Sadwa tried his best to stifle his sobbing as every hulk ground his throat up against the knife. Krassus reached forth his other hand and held them open for the assailant to see. He nodded for Skinny and Manek to drop their weapons as well. “Hey, we’re not going to hurt you, sir. That man there is a good friend of mine - if you don’t hurt him, we won’t hurt you.”
The man scoffed. “You think you can hurt me, huh? Huh? Is that why you pissed on me, huh? To taunt me?” The breathing intensified. “IS IT?!”
Sadwa sobbed as his every orifice expelled what it could expel in an effort to empty the body. Krassus tried not to break eye contact with the man despite the shameful display. “I’m sorry, he did what to you? Oh, that’s awful! I’m downright ashamed on his behalf, sir! Downright ashamed! If you give him back to us, I will make sure he doesn’t eat for a weak - swear before the gods.”
The man heaved a deep breath and pulled the knife back a little. Then not even a second later, he put the blade right back where it had been and pulled at Sadwa’s hair with such violent strength that he threatened to scalp him. “This is a trick, isn’t it? You’re, you’re trying to trick me - make a fool out of me like everyone else. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
Krassus took a small step forward. The angle of the moon allowed him to get a better look at the stranger’s face. What had no doubt once been a well-kempt beard, fine hair and stoic features had been twisted by an eternity in the woods. He looked wilder than them - not even wolves had such savagery in their eyes. “No tricks, sir. You’ve got my word.” He feigned a polite chuckle. “Hell, do we even look like the sort who eat multiple times per week?”
The man softened again. “... Eaten, beaten, robbed of my node, sent on the run and now peed on? I’m… I’m no better than some stray dog…” A flash of silver left small blindspots on their eyes as the moonlight sheen reflected off of the dagger dropping to the ground. “I’m supposed to be a god… Here I am, smelling like a pigsty with no followers, no friends… No one but the voices, oh the voices…” He released Sadwa, who dropped to the ground with a snotty thump, and started slapping himself in the face. “Do you know how that makes me feel?! DO YOU KNOW HOW THAT FEELS?!”
Krassus had to employ every inch and drop of discipline in his body to maintain his calm. He had been skeptical of Manek’s hypothesis that this had been a Benean paladin on the run, but a god? Could it be? Could they have have found their ultimate haul? He tried as subtly as he could to swallow his excitement and gestured for the man to continue. “How does it make you feel?”
The man froze mid-slap. “... What did you just ask me?”
Krassus felt sweat accumulate on his forehead. “H-how does it make you feel? What you just said?”
The man blinked. “You… You actually want to know? A-are you approaching me with… With interest?” Instinctively, another knife appeared in his hand out of thin air. Krassus heard slack-jawed whispers behind him and felt the tremors in the ground from the shaking feet of his companions. The man held his knife arm spring-loaded like a cat ready to pounce. “Is, is this a trick?”
“Not a trick, divine one - no, Magnificent One,” Krassus corrected and bent the knee. That knife - all the proof they needed. His companions, save for the already-floored Sadwa, both prostrated themselves in an instant. “If something ails the Ultimate Being, then we as servants must naturally know so we can help repair it!” He bent the other knee and lifted his hands to the man in prayer. The man was stunned.
“M-M-M-Magnificent One? Ultimate B-Being?” he whispered under his breath.
“My humblest apologies, Master of the World. My useless, unlearned tongue cannot precisely formulate adequate cognonyms to describe your superiority over us and everything there is. I cannot regret my mistakes enough–”
“No, no, that’s… That’s fine…” The man tasted the monikers under his breath. “W-well… Since you asked… It… Makes me feel… Aaaangry,” he explained slowly. “... I feel like… I don’t get the… The respect… That I as, as y’know a divine being, deserve. N-nobody… Nobody listens… Ever. P-people can’t, can’t just… Shut the ffffffffffffffuck up… And, and, and, and that pisses me off. It pisses me off so much… So much, so much, so much, SO MUCH, SO MUCH–”
“Celestial Master,” Krassus implored calmingly. During the man’s outburst, the three hand closed in on him slowly. Manek and Skinny were tending to the whimpering Sadwa while Krassus adressed the god. The man eyed the three of them with glassy eyes and that bull-like breath again.
“A-are you going to leave me?”
Krassus frowned at the very question. “My Eternal King…” He bent the knee once more. “... We are your loyal servants. Your wish is our command - we would never leave you. In fact…” Slowly, Krassus reached out and gently took the knife from the man’s hands without resistance. He permitted his eyes to scan its appearance; his hands to feel its weight. This was unlike any metal he - and anyone he had ever known, he suspected - had ever held. It looked as sharp as polished obsidian. He cut as softly as he could across the top of his palm, crimson streaks flowing out immediately as the metal effortlessly parted tissue and flesh. The blade was so fine that there was hardly any pain until a few seconds after the deed was done. What a magificent weapon… He rubbed the blood across his palm and touched his face, leaving a bloody print. “Let this hand be the symbol of my loyalty, Great Master. Should I, Krassus, ever leave you or your service, let it serve as a reminder that you may take my hand, my head and my life. Please, let us know your name so we may swear our oath formally.”
Now it was the man’s turn to stare slack-jawed. A good minute passed before he started fidgeting and patrolling in a small circle, whispering to himself. Krassus remained motionless, while his companions exchanged worrisome looks. After another minute, even Krassus had to shut his eyes in blind hope that this would work. The adrenaline pumped in his veins - every part of urged him to run in case this wouldn’t work. But if it did work…
“No… No, no, no… Yes… No… No, that’s stupid… Crimson Hands…? No, bad metre…”
Krassus opened one eye. Could it be…?
“VERY WELL,” declared the man louder than he needed to. “... I have… Elected. That you three - four, sorry, four–” Sadwa cried as Skinny and Manek tried to pop his arm back into place with a great deal of effort. “... Will serve as my eternal disciples… Servants… Followers…” He swallowed and pointed at Krassus. “Henceforth…” A second of quiet passed. “... You shall be known as… As…” Another second. Krassus swallowed. “Krassus.”
Krassus blinked and nodded slowly. “I, I thank you for naming me–”
“APP! Not finished. Don’t interrupt me.” The man stared into the distance with thoughtful eyes. “Krassus… Krassus…” He tasted the name. “... Krassus… King Krassus… Prince Krassus… Cardinal Krassus…” Finally, the god pointed a second hand and declared decisively, “Krassus Ecclesiast, Grand Synodite of Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible."
There was a moment of silence.
“I thank you for my title, Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible.”
Cotazur nodded in approval. “Please, Nestor Over Nodes and Nations will do just fine,” he threw out smugly and moved on to the rest. “You, shit-stained bitch,” he said as though it was a compliment. Sadwa, Skinny and Manek all looked up with horrified smiles. Cotazur kicked Sadwa gently and, with the most sickening, cringing and ear-shattering sound known to man, every bone in his broken arm and shoulder twisted itself back into place. Sadwa didn’t even scream. The pain was too severe for that. Cotazur didn’t seem to care and nodded approvingly. “Taking it like a chomp, a champ. You shall be known as… What’s your name?”
Before anyone could answer, Cotazur continued. “Well, it won’t matter. It was probably as stupid as you are for pissing on me.” He drilled a finger into Sadwa’s temple that threatened to pierce both skin and skull. The others could do nothing but watch. Sadwa had long since passed out. “You sure can handle your pain, huh. Then it’s settled. You shall be known as Lazarus Delendum, Grand Bulwark of Cotazur, Unrelenting Destroyer of Enemies.”
Stepping on the passed-out body as he moved onto the next, he faced Skinny who was at the break of tears. “What’s your–”
“SKINNY!” he squealed.
Cotazur frowned. “Well, that’s no way to speak to your master.” With a surgically precise grip, he forced open Skinny’s mouth with one hand and conjured yet another knife in his other. “Maybe that tongue of yours needs readjustment.”
“Nestor Over Nodes and Nations,” Krassus pleaded.
“Krassus, didn’t I tell you to call me Eternal Lord of Lords and Lands?” Cotazur spat back as he held the knife right over Skinny’s mouth. “Hmm… That beard, too - you look like a tumbleweed, y’know…”
“Eternal Lord of Lords and Lands,” Krassus corrected. “His name is Skinny. Forgive him, please, he is just nervous in the presence of the Almighty.”
Cotazur looked at Krassus and then back at Skinny. Then he spat a laughter into the bearded mess of a face. “Your NAME is Skinny? Oh, my word, what a pathetic and disgustingly descriptive name. It’s almost so hopeless that I nearly want you to keep it. Nearly.” As he grumbled on a new name, the knife tick-tocked from side to side over Skinny’s still gaping mouth. “No, you’ll need a better one. I won’t have one in my battle battalion by the name of Skinbo, no, no, no, siree… Still, what can a walking anatomy lesson like you do for me…”
“‘Eaah…” pleaded the gaping man.
“I’ve got it! Henceforth, you shall be known as Excels Supremitus, Grand Assassin of Cotazur, Utopian Prince of All Creation. Your skinny frame is sure to let you sneak in all over the place, hmm? Hahahaha.” He let Excels go and moved on wordlessly while the man massaged his jaw tearfully. Manek resigned to his fate and stood still in the face of danger. Cotazur nodded with respect.
“Look at you. No fear in those eyes. I admire that. Much like myself, you possess an unyielding fighting spirit and cannot even fathom of the idea of retreat. You stand your ground, like me.” Cotazur’s fist punched Manek’s shoulder, and anyone without the god’s rose-tinted glasses could see that the blow had knocked him several steps back and nearly dazed him. “What is your name?”
“M-Manek,” replied the weakened looter.
“Oh, no, that won’t do. Such a small name would be invisible next to your peers’. You shall henceforth…” He drummed his fingers on Manek’s other shoulder, leaving bruises. “Rictus Erectus, Grand Commissar of Cotazur, the Alpha, Omega, X, Y and Z of Literally Anything You Can Think Of.”
Rictus could barely stand. “I think, I think you punctured something…”
“Yes, Rictus, I could not have said it better myself. I have punctured something - the stagnant state of this world. With you four lieutenants at my side, my ambition to shape this world into its true form can be realised.” The following dramatic pause gave the others a chance to breathe. Krassus jumped on the chance to speak.
“Then… Where are we heading, Cosmic King of–”
“Just Cotazur is fine. How many times do I have to repeat myself here?”
“Cotazur,” Krassus corrected instantly. “Where are we heading first as part of your grand plan?”
“Plan?”
Krassus nodded. “The plan, yes.” There was a pause. “We have a plan, yes?”
“No, that’s your job, you ffffffffffucking IMBECILE. You are the GRAND SYNODITE! This is what you FUCKING do!” Cotazur kicked over a tree.
Krassus nodded. “Forgive me, Cotazur–”
“MASTER Cotazur.”
“Master Cotazur. I am still adjusting to your magnificent tasks. I have a plan already, you see.”
Cotazur blinked. “You do?”
“Oh yes, oh yes. A grand plan. A plan to assure your rule for all eternity.”
Cotazur nodded approvingly. “Well, then, no time to lose. You will share it with me on the way. We journey northwards,” he proclaimed and walked off.
“The Master is as wise as he is mighty - north is indeed where we’re going!” yelled Krassus after him before kneeling down to help his companions. Lifting Lazarus up by the arm, he glanced over at Excels and Rictus. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Are you insane?!” whispered Excels sharply. “If we go with him, we’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”
Krassus sighed. “Look, I don’t disagree with that assessment, but this is a god we’re dealing with. Imagine what he could give us.”
“Yeah! The slowest fucking way out! He nearly killed Sadwa - Manek here is going all pale!”
“I don’t feel so good, boys,” Rictus sloshed and coughed. Krassus sighed.
“This won’t be a forever thing, okay? We’ll stick around with him for now… We’ll find him an army of brigands in the north–”
“Fucking Fat Luck’s plan, dude?!”
“Yes, Fat Luck’s plan. I know some people in Tilum’Velik - we couldn’t convince them before, but… Maybe we can do it now… Imagine the loot, Skinny…”
“I AM NOT ONE TO WAIT, MINIONS!” came a shout from the woods ahead. The four of them hurried. Excels shook his head as he supported the increasingly paler Rictus.
“... And I thought I was crazy…”
Four bandits are on the run from a bad blunder in the forests between node 22 and 26. Two of them, Skinny and Sadwa, bicker over whose fault it was while Manek consults their boss Krassus. Krassus gives them all a stern talk about the importance of apes together strong and that escaping their pasts is the goal.
That night, Sadwa goes out for a tinkle. He pees on something weird which, surprise surprise, turns out to be Cotazur passed out on the forest floor. Cot breaks his arm and almost kills him, but Sadwa's teammates arrive just in time. Krassus manages to calm Cotazur and, upon hearing that he's a god, swears allegiance. Everyone except for Cotazur thinks this is a really shitty idea, but the alternative is starvation. Cotazur, only experiencing positive social contact for a second time, is ecstatic and completely reinvigorated. He names all four of them his lieutenants:
Krassus becomes Krassus Ecclesiast, Grand Synodite of Cotazur, Cosmic King of the Crucible.
Sadwa becomes Lazarus Delendum, Grand Bulwark of Cotazur, Unrelenting Destroyer of Enemies.
Skinny becomes Excels Supremitus, Grand Assassin of Cotazur, Utopian Prince of All Creation.
Manek becomes Rictus Erectus, Grand Commissar of Cotazur, the Alpha, Omega, X, Y and Z of Literally Anything You Can Think Of.
(WARNING: These titles come with literally no powers and are arguably a detriment given they each take a minute to pronounce.)
Cotazur then rages at Krassus for not having a plan the second after being granted the intuitive title of Grand Synodite, who obviously is in charge of the plans. As it turns out, he does have a plan, though, and they all set off for the north and the nodes around 13, the looters all agreeing that this is a very bad idea.
5 Might, not a dime spent, not even on his fresh lieutenants.
Lined eyes groggily opened to face a stone ceiling. It felt as though a layer of dust took flight off of Cotazur’s face as he weakly smacked desert lips and turned his head. Where, where was he? He tried to push himself to a seat but stopped in his movement as a fiery pain stabbed him through the torso. In that instant, a rush of memories returned. The rock, the voices, the beast…
The wound.
He laid back down with a thump and tried lifting just his head instead. His crusty eyes settled on a belt of reeds around his waist, their yellow colour only slightly tainted by spots of red just over the centre of the stinging pain. He was close to healing - how long had he been out?
A rush of fabric hinted at an intruder and Cotazur pushed himself to a seat despite the pain. Wet pats of naked feet pittered against damp stone and the flicker of a torch unveiled more features of the room, or more specifically, the cave. Cotazur sucked in a slow breath and, gathering his strength, summoned a small dagger into his hand. The steps came closer; Cotazur swiftly hid the dagger behind his back.
Come on now, you little shit - coming to finish the job, huh? Come on… COME ON.
“Oh!” said a gentle face as the torch rounded the corner and came into view. Cotazur stiffened. Before him stood a young woman, only just barely at the end of her teens, holding a bark tray with something steaming. The god pulled his legs a bit further in; the dagger hand was wound up like a spring. The girl’s smile waned, but only barely. “Oh, no need to be scared of me, stranger. I mean you no harm. I just didn’t know you’d woken up already.” She knelt down next to him, prompting Cotazur to realise he had been laying on a reed mat on the floor. “You were barely breathing when we found you. My father sewed your wound shut as best he could - the belt is just to make sure it stays clean.” She lifted a small bark bowl off the tray and set the torch in a hole between some stones.
Her words relieved some tension in Cotazur’s body, and his intense eyes stared into hers with drilling properties. The girl met them briefly and returned the stare with a short-lived smile - Cotazur could outstare a fish. Her eyes were quick to return to her task. The graying man’s intense gaze shifted to the steaming bowl. “How long have I been asleep?” he demanded as he took the bowl from her a little too harshly and gave it a sharp sip. The girl recoiled slightly but showed only momentary annoyance at his behaviour.
“We found you three days ago,” she answered. “You didn’t show much sign of life beyond your breathing until yesterday evening. My father’s hand nearly blistered at the warmth of your fever, I’ll tell ya…” she giggled politely. Cotazur stared wordlessly back. “And then,” she continued with a flat mouth, “you rambled quite a bit in your sleep. You… Cursed a lot.”
Cotazur blinked for the first time since he had awoken. “What did I say?”
The girl blinked back. “W-well, from what I remember–”
“The exact details - WHAT DID I SAY?!” he screamed suddenly. The girl threw herself back.
“H-hey! Hey, okay, it’s alright. You’re safe, okay? No, no need to shout, alright?” She swallowed and eyed the cave entrance. Cotazur panted like a sprinter. The girl stood up. “I am sorry for disturbing you. I’ll leave you be.”
“NO. No.” In a second, Cotazur was standing up and blocking the entrance. The girl froze.
“How are you–”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, would you–...” Cotazur held up his hands in a small gesture. The girl positioned her body sideways in defense. “Would you… Stay, please? I’m… I’m really… Just really…” He searched visibly for words, his eyes darting back and forth like flies swimming in milk. “... I want to thank you, for nursing me back to health.”
The girl’s lip quivered. “Y-yeah. Of course.” Her eyes bypassed him and yearned for the exit. “I’ll… I’ll get you some more broth, sounds good?”
“No, I mean, I am really, really grateful. Like, I cannot overstate my gratitude, really.”
“Yeah, uh-huh, that’s very kind of you to say.” Another desperate glance. “You sure you aren’t hungry? A-actually, I can hear my dad calling me and–”
“You know what? I want to give you a hug. How about a hug, hmm? Come on, bring it in here.”
“Actually, I really think I should–”
“No, no, no, you have to let me show my gratitude first. Come on, see? Now we’re hugging and I am showing you–”
“P-please, you’re– being–...”
“- that I am very, very satisfied with your service, or possibly favour for me–...”
“- you’re— hurting… m–...”
“- which I will be sure to repay in kind.”
Snap.
Like an empty sack, the girl collapsed to the ground as soon as he released her, white foam dripping out of her mouth. Cotazur blinked. “Hello?” He gave the girl a gentle kick then looked around. “Hello? Did you fall asleep?” Sensing beads of sweat form down his back, he knelt down and shook her. “Hey! Hey, what’s going on?! Are you playing a trick on me? ARE YOU PLAYING A TRICK ON ME, YOU FUCKING WHORE?!” He picked up the corpse and shook it so hard that many more bones inside the fleshy bag began to rattle. He pushed it up against the wall and smacked it bloody, though no reaction other than the straight physical ones could be discerned upon that once sweet face. Cotazur’s breathing was the only sound in the cave.
Pat, pat, pat…
No… No, it wasn’t.
“Grisha?” came a gruff voice. “Grisha, are you alright? I heard shouting and–”
He turned the corner and saw the maltreated corpse of the girl.
“Gr–” was the only sound he could muster before his throat opened up and spilled blood all over Cotazur’s arm. The now crimson dagger glistened in the light of the torches around the cave, and Cotazur’s breathing overtook the soundscape once more.
A long distance away, a blood-drenched man was crossing an eternal black desert with crimson storms and plague-green skies. His left hand wielded a dagger; his right wielded a rapier. Both had gluttoned themselves on both flesh and blood that day. Cotazur’s face lacked any emotion; as did his eyes.
“This wasn’t my fault,” he repeated to himself for the 13 771st time. He had counted. For every time he said it, the world agreed a little more than this hadn’t been his fault. The voices said so.
“This wasn’t my fault.” 13 772.
On the horizon, a crack of lightning revealed a colossal, pillaring silhouette through the red sand on the wind.
“This wasn’t my fault.” 13 773.
“I’m a good person.” 4 156.
From the approaching node, a deep growl rumbled through the ground.
“This wasn’t my fault.”
A crimson shadow in the wind appeared from behind the node, its silhouette revealing several arms, heads and legs.
“This wasn’t my fault.”
Another roar signaled the monster’s charge. A ten-armed, twenty-legged beast with four heads and eight jaws fell down upon him from the hill of the node. The monster got the first strike, descending on the god in his guilt-tripping trance. Three arms slapped Cotazur to the right, sending him flying several hundred metres. A crater formed around the man and he pushed himself slowly to his feet again.
“It… It wasn’t my fault…” He coughed up bloody phlegm. “I didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
Tremors rocked the earth as the monster barreled towards him. Cotazur’s trance still had him trapped, but his rage was beginning to sense its direction. His eyes filled with a ravenous fury that would see his clothing even redder than it already was.
“That, that fucking whore… She tricked me. That fucking pussy, he tricked me… They all, they all fucking tricked me. Over and over, and over, and over…” He kicked off against the beast and jabbed the dagger up into the roof of one of the beast’s eight mouths. The creature screamed and closed the jaws around the arm in question. Cotazur grit his teeth and snarled, jabbing the rapier into one of the other four heads as best he could, but the god was outarmed, outlegged and outmouthed. His left leg was caught in another mouth, and his right arm was grabbed by four arms which proceeded to pull with the might of three elephants. Cotazur squealed in agony and managed to kick one head hard enough to break one jaw, but that wouldn’t help him much.
“FUCK! You… Piece of…” He retracted his right arm as best he could, but even divine power could hardly combat four, now five, six arms pulling in the opposite direction. “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” In a desperate shift of momentum, Cotazur carved the dagger in his left hand out through the head it had been stabbed through and, getting just the element of suddenness that it needed, carved off the fingers of four out of six arms holding his right. The monster’s grip slipped, partially lubed by all the blood, and Cotazur’s right arm was free, though dislocated to the point where he couldn’t use it. Still, with one arm free, he swung it back and used the momentum to charge up a better kick, breaking the jaw holding his left arm. The monster stumbled back, now down three out of eight mouths and beginning to seriously contemplate running to lick its wounds. In its agony, it dropped Cotazur to the ground. The god, riding on pure adrenaline despite a dislocated arm, a nearly chewed-off arm and a broken leg, jumped at the monster again, though with much less vigour. His right arm could still move, so with it, he grabbed the rapier still stuck inside one of the heads and just started stabbing furiously.
“I AM INNOCENT! I did nothing wrong! I did nothing wrong!”
His hand conjured forth an axe and he switched to a chopping motion.
“I did nothing wrong! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!”
The axe grew bigger and heavier, yet it still kept up its speed. In fact, the speed increased as the chops grew bloodier.
“Wasn’t my fault! Wasn’t my fault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! Wasnmyfault! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! My-FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! FAULT! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
The pulp remains of the monster were being dug several metres into the ground by the ceaseless chopping. The axe blade was the size of a fully grown man, yet Cotazur swung it with such speed that one could mistake him for chopping carrots. Only after a full hour, when the hole was a half kilometre deep and the monster long since had been ground up finer than the sand on the wind, did Cotazur stop chopping. Within a minute, the axe had shrunk down to a simple hatchet. Empty eyes studied the ground, almost searching for the remains of his foe which could not be said to exist anymore. Any and all traces were completely and utterly gone. He was victorious.
A small smile cracked across Cotazur’s red-stained face. A small chuckle escaped him.
“... hehehe…”
He slowly began to ascend from the hole, his laugh intensifying over the coarse of the journey.
“... Ahahahaha…”
He dragged his useless leg behind him like a pulk. He ascended the hill on which the node stood and placed his hand upon it. In that instant, the sands on the wind fell to the ground; the green clouds parted to reveal a glorious sun bathing the land in nourishing light; the black dunes of sand turned to endless green, forested lowlands intermittently interrupted by small hills and cliffs before rising to the sky in the south in the form of colossal white mountains; in the far distance, the raging seas became tranquil shores with long, pearly beaches. In a final hurrah for the tumultuous waters, great fjords carved into the land and mighty rivers flower outwards from the taller inland areas.
Cotazur gazed around the hill of green grass and the forests extending for miles down to the sea and up to the mountains. He ushered a final “hah” before he dropped his axe to the ground and collapsed again.
“I am…” He coughed more blood. “... Flawless.” Then the world blackened again.
Cotazur wakes up in a cave. Someone has nursed him back to health. A girl enters the cave with some soup. Cotazur doesn’t know how to behave, so he tries to very awkwardly prevent her from leaving until he’s said thank you and given her a hug. During the hug, he breaks her back and kills her instantly. When her father comes to check up on her, he kills her too. Then he kills the whole village.
Fast forward to later and Cotazur is approaching node 23 all bloodstained. There he encounters a monster which beats the shit out of him. He eventually gets the upper hand and makes an OP ass axe that he uses to chop the monster out of existence. He then caps node 23 and passes out again.
3 might - Made “Flawless” - an axe that, upon tasting blood, becomes lighter (except to the one receiving the blow) and larger, allowing the user to chop faster and harder with every chop. WARNING: Excessive chopping traps the user in a berserking stance. Remaining: 1 might.
Node 23 is a coastal lowland in the north with temperate forests and a tall, alpine mountain range in the south with snow-capped peaks and white-powdered pines. The border with node 18 flows seamlessly from grass to forest, while the border with node 26 is largely made cumbersome by the tall mountains.
Upon the death of Peninal and the birth of the new gods, Cotazur had existed. In fact, he had been brought to life and limb in the very same instant as his peers. However, before any sentience had kicked in for the gods, including himself, there had been just a handful of seconds - a slow inhale’s worth of time - when instinct had occupied the whole of the mind. In that brief moment, hardly enough time for any newborn, god or not, to process any sensory input, the instincts of Cotazur had sent him running off with divine speed. At that moment, he hadn’t even considered why he did it - after all, he hadn’t had a mind to think with. But the very second after, when all the gods’ minds had settled neatly inside their heads and the first voices began to speak, Cotazur was hiding behind a nearby boulder.
Why in the world was he here, he had thought. He should have immediately gotten up, walked back to the rest and pretended like nothing had happened. But how could he? What would they think of him if he did that? What would he say if they asked? How would he even present himself? “Cotazur the Magnificent”? “Cotazur the Proud”? Just “Cotazur”?
A sharp C-A-W shook something deep within him. No, no, no, this wasn’t the right time to get up. They were, were, were obviously discussing something very important - yes. He wouldn’t want to interrupt that.
But wait, wasn’t he also important? In fact, he could hardly think of anyone more important that himself! Why, he demanded, was he not over there right now, proclaiming his greatness for his future admirers? Yeah! Why?! He had decided. He would get up and demand their attention.
A grey-maned head peeked over the boulder just in time to see a maddened female rip teeth out of a corpse with an ear-shattered snap. No! No, no, no, no, no, no, not yet, not yet. Holy fuck, these people were crazy! What sort of person - no, creature - just up and rips out a tooth from someone, even if it’s dead? Oh, he’d show her, that demoness - he’d rip her teeth out some day!
Cotazur slapped himself across the face with a mighty clap. Then he dove to the ground and covered his head under his arms. Fuck, had they heard him? He went quiet as the grave for ten solid minutes. He heard a long, polite monologue of sorts, followed by some curter responses and, finally, the gentle growl of some large entity. It was at this point when Cotazur dared peek over the edge once more. The crowd had grown smaller, and beside the colossal black pole that everyone seemed to fuzz so much about, there stood a colossal three-necked monster - a demon of unspeakable evil, exponentially more damned for every head on its scaley form.
The man curled up in complete silence again, at least to an outside viewer. Inside his head was a chaotic forum of voices. This was surely Hell, masked by innocuous green hills and blue skies. Oh yes, that had to be it. Yes, yes, yes - the voices were in agreement.
One amongst the forum proposed a most logical segue: Hell though it may be, it was clear he had been sent here for a purpose. The voices hummed in agreement, oh yes, oh yes. This was to be his moment. He knew how great and mighty he was, Cotazur - the Cotazur. He had barely been alive for an hour and already he knew his purpose, his mythos, his legend. His was a fate of glory, and it would start by uniting those madmen by the pillar against this tremendous threat.
He cast another glance over the edge. Some enshrouded cloud with a lantern was addressing the nests of filthy bipeds around the pillar. Alright, perhaps now was the right time. Fuck that stupid fart in a dress - he would speak and be heard, damn it!
“Attention, everyone! You need not fear that disgusting, abhorrent beast before you! Your saviour and salvation stands here in the flesh, and you can already no doubt–...”
No, that was stupid, he judged.
”Attention, everyone! You need not… Fear not!”
Fear not, yeah, that was better.
”Attention, everyone… Everyone - KNEEL!”
Yeah, he would enter with power. Make it known to all that he was in charge. HIM. Cotazur! Cotazur the Mighty, the Magnificent, the Magnanimous, the Masculine, the Most Serene…
The knock of stone against stone shut up the voices in his head. Shit, they had found him. They had found him and someone was dropping a mountain on his head. He tightly shut his eyes and awaited the end. An hour passed, over the course of which his breathing grew increasingly erratic. By the sixtieth minute on the dime, his eyes snapped open again. He had survived. Quivering eyes turned skywards to find no mountain on a descent towards him, yet he could not seem to still his breath.
They had tricked him. Yes, that’s what had happened: They had tricked him with some kind of spell. What craven would await its faith weeping and pissing itself in the grass behind a rock like some, some, some craven?! They would pay. By all this world’s powers, they would fucking pay.
In his hand materialised a giant claymore, almost as long as he was tall. He tossed himself on top of the rock and screamed,
”I WILL END YOU! I WILL FUCKING END EVERY FUCKING ONE OF YOU!”
He kicked off and charged at the pillar, squealing like a stuck boar. Behind him, his cape followed him like a batallion of horses. Rage clouded Cotazur’s every visual nerve, shrouded them to the point where he could not in fact see that he was pathetically alone, save for one giant hydra peering at him with concern. Yet Cotazur’s charge showed no sign of slowing down; in fact it sped up. So the hydra did as any sensible creature would do and untwirled two of its heads from around the pillar to assume a wary combat stance.
Cotazur had begun to observe it. He saw it clearly - he knew he was charging at a giant the size of a hill. Yet he could not stop. He had, after all, proclaimed that he would fucking end it - to turn tail would look stupid. So he charged on, swinging his sword in the air like branch on the wind.
”DIE, BEAST–!”
Glomp.
One of the heads consumed the god’s torso in a small nibble, picked him up and threw him some distance away. Cotazur tumbled across the grass with whimpers and coughs, rolling to a final stop at the edge of the hill. Shocked and tired, his head lifted from the ground, brown and dusty with dirt, to behold his adversary who mostly just looked to feel sorry for him. He tried to push himself up, but found that he was bleeding. A weak hand rubbed at his abdomen to find a deep cut as though from a blade. Ignoring the claymore that laid bloodsloshed some distance away, Cotazur pointed a dooming finger at the hydra.
“You… You monster… You have wounded… Me…” He felt his vision blur, but pushed through the pain and crawled to a high squat. “This… This isn’t over… I will… I will end you, and I will show this whole world that I am capable of… Of…” The blood loss overpowered him and Cotazur tumbled down a hill yet again, the world fading to black.
The second the gods were created, Cotazur’s instincts gave him an anxiety attack and sent him hiding behind a rock. He spends literally hours trying to agree with the voices in his head about when and how he’s gonna make his entrance, but is interrupted by 1) Eleanna giving the dead guy postmortum dentistry, 2) Benea making the hydra (very scary) and 3) Xavior making a tomb.
All of these things terrify him and he eventually reasons that the reason they terrify him is because they’ve bewitched him somehow. This pisses him the fuck off so he declares he will end them all (everyone’s left by this time, of course) and charges at the hydra. The hydra picks him off and throws him away because ow, don’t want him to hit me with sword, which turns out to be a smart move ‘cuz the sword is so sharp that when Cotazur lands on it during his fall, he gets a deep wound. He proclaims his wish to murder the hydra before passing out a rolling down a hill.
1 might - Create All-Ender, a claymore of almost 1,60m that is so sharp that it can cut stone as easily as one cuts flesh.
Form: Cotazur takes the shape of a man of average height, early in the eve of his days as characterised by his gray hair and wrinkled features. A well-kempt and smooth-cut mutton chop beard trails his jaw and bridges across his upper lip, exposing a strong, cleaven chin. Much more skin is hardly visible on the man, as the rest of his body is covered in a marine blue overcoat of cotton over a mighty cuirass yet over a long mail underskirt. A striking ribbon of red velvet upon white silk cuts across his torso from right shoulder to left hip, and gleaming cold rims every corner and strip of his armour - the hips and shoulders themselves protect themselves with thick plates. Down his back, Cotazur sports a cumbersome, overflowing cloak of silvery fur from a magnificent beast of legend.
Personality: Every inch of Cotazur’s form radiates authority. With a silhouette as broad as a boar and a scowl as harsh as the winter, his presence alone would bring the silence of a graveyard to the rowdiest of feasts.
Except that’s about where his authority ends - if it even reaches here at all. Cotazur commands no crowd with his voice - it is small and unconvincing, while his words are grand and empty. Even with divine power, Cotazur cannot seem to do anything right - his ravenous ambition is constantly sabotaged by his inability to communicate properly with others. He knows well what a failure he is, and it irks him to no end. He is therefore quick to snap at his peers and even exercise violence in want of other ways to express himself - and violence, he has learnt, usually gets you whatever you want.
Will: Cotazur has the Will of Glory. Cotazur wishes to be heard, to be seen, but it runs deeper than that: His deepest desire is for people to recognise him for something other than his endless mistakes and to worship him for his successes. However, this will twists and ferments in his impatience, and his yearning for glory may lead him on a bloody path of conquest and despotism if that’s what it takes.
Had Cotazur ruled all the nodes, then maybe this would have sated his inner desire; maybe this would have been some form of victory that people would recognise him for. That is, if there are any left by the time he’s done.
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