Alechiorâs laughter cracked across the not-ocean again, loud-maybe too loud, the kind that came from somewhere deep in the ribs.
âNow this is fun,â they announced, and every smaller version of them burst into synchronized applause. One attempted a somersault and immediately failed. Another handed out invisible party hats. A third was booing the first two for poor form, while two others raised red cards at the other three.
They drifted closer to Yzechr, grinning wide. âAnd trust me, this isnât some wild blind throw. Even not knowing what sort of god you are or what tricks you favor is its own gamble. That is the spice of it.â Their voice stayed light, but the edge of delight was clear. âIf things go well, wonderful. If they go badly, that can be funny in its own way too. Unpredictability keeps the world interesting.â
A single Alechior stepped forward, the others fading back into them like cards slipping into a deck.
âAnd I do hope Yzechr is actually your name. Because if Iâve just made a bet with a complete stranger who lied about that part, well⌠that would be awkward, wouldnât it?â they added with a wink and yet another over-the-top laugh.
Alechiorâs grin become impossibly big the moment Yzechr shifted into their likeness. Then the grin broke into a full, unrestrained roar of laughter, loud enough to ripple the not-ocean again.
âOh absolutely not, you cannot just do that,â they choked out between breaths, âthat is brilliant.â
In the next instant their form fractured like a dropped mirror. Dozens of smaller Alechiors popped into existence around them, each floating, tumbling, spinning. All of them talking at once.
âOh my, look at that, so many of me!â âSo handsome, so fun.â âI should multiply more often.â
And many more such words as they didn't seem to stop but as if on cue, half the mini-Alechiors began juggling nothing at all, tossing invisible objects with perfect seriousness. The other half started dealing cards to one another, except there were no cards, no deck, no rules, just the motion and the smug satisfaction of the performance.
Only one Alechior, the original full-sized one, stopped mid-hover. They tilted their head as Yzechrâs words about knowledge and turbulence sank in.
âYou might be right,â they said, voice lowering into something sharper. âSeeking can be the fastest way to miss what is right in front of you. Theyâll run themselves in circles so hard theyâll forget they have legs if they had any in the first place!â
They paused, then smiled again, this time slower, slyer.
âBut I hope they prove us wrong. Wouldnât that be fun?â
A second later Alechior snapped upright. âActually, letâs make this fun. A bet...â Every miniature version of them froze simultaneously, heads snapping toward Yzechr like an audience at a theater.
âA bet,â Alechior said, tone crisp. âIf any of our siblings discover something truly alive, truly independent, truly not created by any divine hand or divine ripple, then you will owe me a favor. A real favor. No reinterpretation, no twisting, no bending the meaning or wriggling through loopholes. Your word binds your form, your essence and all those delightful masks you wear.â
Their smile widened, blades of light reflecting in their eyes. âAnd if they donât find anything, then I owe you the same. One future favor, requested plainly, fulfilled cleanly.â They leaned in just a little.
âFair, unpredictable, and impossible to escape. Now that,â Alechior purred, âis fun.â
Alechior turned towards the black mist that was the form of another one of their, most probably, less-fun to be around siblings and noticed how the black mist reached in and scooped up one of the newly spawned creatures. They watched Yzechr devour it whole, eyes widening in amused surprise. It had an appetite! Charming.
When the godâs voice slid straight into their mind, Alechior snorted, then burst into an easy, rolling laugh.
âFun person to have around? Oh please, friend, I define fun. It is fun to be fun, after all.â Their grin flashed like a coin catching light. As they spun lazily in the air, taking in Yzechrâs shifting form, hollow one moment, borrowed the next.
âYouâve got a good look. Dramatic. The kind of vibe that makes others either confess or run. Strong choice. I just LOVE it!â
They tipped forward, hovering just above the waterâs surface, tapping it with one finger. It rippled like it was still deciding what âwaterâ meant.
âAnd this not-ocean? Completely empty. Tragic. I poked it a little, sure, but it still felt like the punchline without a joke. So I had to add something. Couldnât let it sit there being boring. Those small guys are going to make lesser creatures, that I'm sure the others will eventually make, feel quite funny. Daring even!â they said, out loud, with a glee in their voice as an excited toddler.
âOur other siblings,â Alechior called down, their tone easy, almost bored, âwon't finding anything. I flew high enough to see quite a bit of this place. Not a flicker of life anywhere but us. I'm sure our senses wouldn't picked up anything moving around there by now.â A shrug followed. âSo whatever everyoneâs out there searching for, theyâre wasting their time. Might as well start doing something. A few, like ourselves, seemed to have gotten the idea already.â they continued referring to the new stars that appeared in the sky, the lights, constellations etc
Consciousness hit them like the end of a night they did not remember. Alechior blinked against the colorless murk, sluggish, head swimming with the kind of fog that usually followed too many drinks and not enough good decisions. The black sand clung to their many palms when they pushed themselves upright, cold and weirdly smooth, like reality had ironed it flat.
They stood up dizzy then made a beeline for the foggy ocean. The moment their reflection tried to form, it gave up, rippling into shapeless light. Cold, colorless water laps at their hands as they splash it over their face, then again, harder. The shock helped. Clarity returned, or at least a functional approximation of it.
When they looked back toward the shore, the others were waking too. Gods. Shapes. Whatever they all were. Some intriguing, some absolutely not worth drinking with. Alechior squinted, weighing first impressions, then shrugged.
That one could be fun. Ugh, could be a disaster and, wow, look at that one! That is a fine one! they said to themselves as they mentally catalogued all the other gods they could see.
They took a slow inhale, let the breath settle, then rose. Levitation came as naturally as standing. Fog curled away as they climbed higher, the half-made world stretching beneath them like a sketch waiting for a punchline.
From above, the mountains in the distance shifted between forms, trying on shapes like outfits. Alechior liked the one with the jagged ridge that almost looked like a grin. Good enough.
Something is missing. Clearly. There's nothing out here. Boring!
They hovered there for a moment, letting the pressure of raw creation hum through their being. No need to name the power, no need to announce anything. They simply let the instinct guide their hand, the way a gambler knew when to hold, when to throw, when to laugh.
A ripple answered them, subtle and eager.
On the mountainside, bark formed first, twisting upward in a spiral. Branches unfurled with a soft crackle, leaves twitching even in perfect stillness. A few trees took shape, tall and pale, the color of old parchment. Sap pooled in natural knots, amber and bright. It smelled sweet.
Alechior grinned. A fifty-fifty shot. Every drink either the best night of your life or the worst mistake of your week. Alcohol strong enough to topple most who'd drink it, or poison that was more embarrassing than lethal. No rhyme. No reason. Just chance.
The Gamblerâs Grog Trees rooted themselves as they continued to pool the amber at their base.
âPerfect!â Alechior muttered, out loud this time around as they saw another god leaving and one doing something to the water they just splashed themselves with.
As they approached the beach once more they touched now foggy water and laughed. "Look at that. The others started playing too! Woo, let's see what else we can do..." they said with a voice that seemed to swap between amused and interested randomly.
"Aha! I know!" they shouted quite loud to no one in particular as they put a finger in the water and releasing a bit more of their divine power into the water. At the tip of their finger, small jellyfish started to form. Small creatures that instead of blood to keep them going, they used an alcoholic-in-nature substance. Nothing too much but if other beings would start eating them...well, it'd be fun!
Alechior decides the world ain't fun enough as empty as it is and decides to create a few trees that when their sap is consumed, there's a 50-50 chance that either you get very drunk or you're mildly poisoned. Be it a stomach ache, splitting headaches and at most, they give you a paralysis that may or may not last an hour or two. - Hazy Action (-1 Conviction) Then he proceeds to make some jellyfish that have an alcohol-like-substance instead of blood and released them into the not-ocean. (Lucid action)
Alechior embodies the thrill of games, the spark of risk, and the kind of unhinged merriment that makes life worth living. They are the patron of wagers made with a grin, dares accepted for the fun of it and moments where logic taps out and joy takes over.
Alechior is not interested in disasters or destruction, they thrive on nonsense, laughter, and the heart pounding excitement of âletâs see what happens.â A flip of a coin, a roll of dice, a ridiculous dare spoken over a drink, these are their sacred moments.
Mortals seek Alechior when they crave fun, when they want a break from order, or when they need a dose of wild excitement just to feel alive. The deityâs pleasure comes from stirring laughter, creating spontaneous spectacles, and ensuring no one ever quite knows whatâs coming next.
Appearance
Alechiorâs form bounces between flamboyant and absurd. One moment they are a glittering performer draped in shimmering dice, fluttering cards, and jingling coins, the next they are an animated blur of limbs, color, and delighted motion.
Their eyes are polished coins, each reflecting a different kind of joy, from harmless mischief to belly laughs that leave mortals wheezing. Their presence arrives with a chorus of laughter, clattering dice, tavern cheer, applause, and the occasional âPOP!â or âBANG!â that has no source.
When they manifest hands, theyâre almost always spinning dice, flipping coins, shuffling cards, or performing pointless card tricks that somehow feel profound. Everything seems alive around them. Everything seems to be having fun.
Motivation
Alechior exists to make the world brighter, louder, stranger, and simply more entertaining. They champion fun for the sake of fun. No lesson, no cosmic agenda, no grand tapestry of destiny. Joy is the point.
Every gamble is a story waiting to happen. Every game is a spark where the world might surprise you. Every decision feels better when there is a little shake of uncertainty, a little gleeful âwhat ifâ perched on the edge.
They favor the bold, the playful, the reckless, and the imaginative. Gamblers, bards, thrill seekers, performers, and anyone who refuses to let life calcify into routine. The ones who grin at chaos instead of flinching from it. Failure is not a sin in Alechiorâs eyes.
It is a punchline. A dramatic beat. A better tale next time someone buys you a drink. Alechior will never punish failure, because failure makes things interesting.
But there is a line.
Gambling is only divine when the joy is real. When the heart races because the moment is alive, not because the person is chained to it. Addiction bores Alechior, even saddens them. There is no thrill in a wager someone is forced to make by themselves or others. No spark in a game someone canât walk away from. To Alechior, that is not a gamble, that is a trap.
Alechior wants people who love the game for the love of the game. People who roll the dice because they want to see what happens, not because they must. If someone falls into obsession, the god stops nudging their luck entirely. They withdraw their blessing, refusing to take part until the mortal remembers how to enjoy the game again. Above all, Alechior wants to keep the world laughing, guessing, daring, and refusing to take itself too seriously.
Fun is sacred. Everything else is noise.
Alechior will take laws, vows and promises seriously, but only when they have flair. A dramatic oath, a clever bargain, or a high stakes promise gets their full respect. If the commitment feels like a game worth playing, they honor it with genuine enthusiasm. Dry rules or boring obligations, though, get a different treatment.
Alechior will listen, they will try, but they might also roll the dice to decide how closely they follow through. One day they uphold it perfectly, the next day they treat it like a suggestion.
They never break a vow maliciously. They only bend it when it lacks spark. Give them a promise with style and they hold it tight. Give them a dull rule and expect crossed fingers, a grin and the hope the dice make things interesting.
Roleplay Example
The tavern erupts with roaring laughter, rolling dice, clinking coins, and cheers that flare up from nowhere. A coin tumbles lazily through the air and lands on the edge of the table, wobbling dramatically.
âRoll the dice. Highest wins, mortal. Step forward and wager, or stand there being boring. Lose, win, laugh, scream, I care not. The dice have opinions and they like surprises.â
The mortal steps in, gripping a 100-sided die with trembling excitement. With a whispered prayer, he casts the die. It spins wildly, bouncing from tankard to tankard until finally it lands.
99⌠twice.
The tavern gasps, the room freezes, then erupts again into hoots and cheers.
The mortal puffs up, triumphant.
âHah! 198! Beat that, if you can!â
A warm, booming laugh fills the room. Alechior materializes among the crowd in a swirling burst of color, coins, and confetti. They clap delightedly.
âWell rolled! But I suppose I should try, yes?â
Two dice appear in their hands. Maybe they pulled them from their sleeve. Maybe from thin air. Maybe they were always there. Nobody knows, and Alechior clearly doesn't care.
They toss them high. The dice glitter. The numbers flash.
They land.
100⌠and 100.
The mortal staggers back as the god roars with laughter so infectious the walls vibrate.
âTwo hundred! Ha-HA-HA! Looks like luck is favoring her kin today! C'mon, one more and a round for all the mortals around!â
The mortal swallows hard. His heart pounds. He knows the game is far from over.
Clergy / Worshippers
Gamblers and card-sharps
Jesters, street performers
Daredevils and festival organizers
Tavern owners who love loud nights
Anyone who believes fun is sacred
Clerics of Alechior dress flamboyantly. They are loud, bright, theatrical, and allergic to boredom.
Rituals / Festivals
The Tossing of Fate Worshippers fling dice, coins, or cards into a central circle, then interpret whatever absurd result happens.
Games of Joy Tournaments with ever-shifting rules, sudden twists, pointless challenges, and prizes that may or may not make sense.
The Feast of Folly A night of jokes, songs, contests, harmless pranks, and nonsensical revelry.
Divine Wagers Clerics publicly bet on events to gather crowds and spread merriment.
Gamblerâs Grog Trees These trees bear fruit infused with volatile spirits. Consuming one is a gamble. There is a fifty percent chance the drinker experiences a flawless drunken state, confidence heightened, mood elevated, worries dissolved. The other outcome is far less pleasant, resulting in stomach cramps, splitting headaches, and brief bouts of muscle stiffness or partial paralysis. Fortune favors no one consistently.
Golden Jellyfish Translucent and softly glowing, these jellyfish do not carry blood but instead circulate a potent alcoholic substance through their bodies. They are passive by nature and drift through the waters. However, when threatened or harmed, their sting injects this alcohol directly into the bloodstream of their attacker, rapidly inducing intoxication with unpredictable effects.
The Changelings Alechiorâs Genetic Gambling manifests most clearly in the first generation of mortal births following their blessing. Children are born altered in subtle but unmistakable ways, crystalline growths, unnatural height, affinity for shadow, animalistic traits, or other effects. These early variations are minor at first, changes in eye color, skin tone, or stature, but they mark the beginning of divergence.
Over successive generations, bloodlines fracture further, accelerating into distinct peoples. Some grow tall and elongated, others compact and dense. Some take on bestial aspects, others gemstone flesh or living shadow. These emerging groups are often given provisional names by scholars and priests, though none are yet canonized.
A number of children bear a small yellow dot upon their skin, a visible sign of Alechiorâs influence. Those marked are living proof of the blessing or curse.
The Fae of the Joybound Court do not reproduce in the mortal sense. No Fae is born to another. Instead, new Fae come into being through invitation and transformation. When a mortal has proven their love of play, risk, and shared joy without coercion, a Fae may offer them ascension. This is done by willingly giving a fragment of themselves, a living essence that may take the form of blood, breath, saliva, flesh, or other intimate bodily substance, depending on the nature of the bond between them. The offering is symbolic as much as it is physical: a wager of self, not domination.
Once this essence is accepted and taken into the mortalâs body, the transformation begins. This process can occur only within the Carnival. The chosen individual will vanish from public view, drawn into the deeper folds of the realm where the enchantment is strongest and most precise. Over the course of several days, their former self is unmade and reforged, memories reshaped, body altered, and soul permanently bound to the Carnivalâs rhythm.
When they re-emerge, they do so as a full Fae. The act cannot be undone, repeated or rushed.
In their true form, the Fae of the Joybound Court are always male and clearly otherworldly yet approachable. They are taller than most mortals, with elongated, elegant ears and features refined into beauty, scars and blemishes fade unless they wish to keep them as marks of character. Their movements are light and confident. An ambient aura surrounds them, encouraging trust, openness, and ease in those nearby. They look like the best version of who they once were, not perfect, but compelling.
Fae possess heightened physical capabilities compared to mortals. They are stronger, faster and more enduring. Their longevity exceeds that of normal mortals, yet they are not immortal. Upon death outside the Carnival, their souls return to the Carnival, where they reconstitute as full Game Masters, eternal stewards of the realmâs games.
Fae can sense the absence of merriment, detecting sadness, despair or emotional emptiness in others as discomfort. They radiate an unconscious influence that makes others more willing to listen, trust and engage. They cannot lie under any circumstances, a binding rule, though they may misdirect, joke, speak in riddles, often turning honesty into performance.
Outside the Carnival, Fae appear in whatever form they possessed upon entering it, mortal or otherwise, their true nature hidden unless revealed by divine means. Over time, memories of the Carnival fade from those who leave it, but a Fae never forgets. They exist as recruiters, hosts and custodians of the endless celebration, ensuring that the Carnival continues not merely as a trap but as a place for those who truly choose joy, risk and play above all else.
Gamblerdise
The Valley of Odds
Gamblerdise is a bowl-shaped valley looking like a natural amphitheater, its edges are mountain ridges on all sides. From any point within the valley, stone rises in every direction, enclosing the space. Most of these surrounding mountains are jagged, weathered by time and chance, with only one exception. To the east, a single mountain towers above all others, taller and more imposing, its peak often catching strange light or weather before anywhere else in the valley. It serves as a landmark visible from nearly anywhere in Gamblerdise.
At the heart of the valley lies a natural lake, fed by unseen underground springs and runoff from the surrounding slopes. Roughly half of the lake falls within the valleyâs safe center, its waters calm, clear, and most importantly, consistent. Fish behave as fish do, the shoreline remains stable and the water level changes as expected. The other half of the lake stretches beyond the protected zone and the difference is noticeable. The water there may ripple without wind, reflect skies that are not currently overhead or change temperature without warning. On some days the far shore appears closer than it should be, on others farther away, as though distance itself is being tampered with.
North of the lake spreads a dense forest, old and thick with towering trees and tangled undergrowth. Within the central safe area, the forest behaves as any natural woodland would. Beyond that boundary, the forest becomes unreliable. Trails may loop back on themselves, trees may appear older or younger depending on the day, and sounds sometimes arrive before their source or not at all. The forest is not hostile by default, but it is not to be trusted.
To the south, the land opens into wide, rolling fields of grass and low vegetation. These plains are well-suited for gathering and travel. Further out, the fields shift. Grass may grow in strange patterns overnight, soil might harden or soften unpredictably and the horizon can appear slightly wrong. It remains usable land, but never entirely dependable.
Scattered throughout the valley are smaller features that feel natural at first glance, low hills, stone outcroppings, shallow streams and pockets of wild growth. Outside the protected zone, they sometimes do not. A boulder might crack apart after a storm that never touched it. A stream may briefly run uphill before correcting itself. Creatures encountered beyond the center may behave differently from one day to the next, appearing in greater or lesser numbers or seeming to remember events that never happened.
The defining trait of Gamblerdise is not chaos without reason, but patterned randomness. Outside the central safe area, events follow rules that can be learned, probabilities that can be guessed and rhythms that reward observation. Sometimes. As not all patters stay the same and they, themselves, are prone to change. The valley does not act maliciously, but it does not guarantee safety either. Those who pay attention, who adapt, who understand when to take risks and when to retreat, can survive and even thrive.
At its center, anchored by the Anchor, Gamblerdise offers stability. At its edges, it offers a deadly game of chance.
The Carnival is a planar pocket created by Alechior, existing just outside Ashuru yet threaded through it. Entry is never obvious. Those who cross into it arrive in a space that mirrors the place they entered from, a road becomes a midway, a door opens onto stalls and tables, a forest path widens into lantern-lit games. Time inside the Carnival moves out of sync with reality. One minute within the realm equals one hour outside of it, a distortion subtle enough to be ignored until it is far too late.
Upon entry, mortals and gods* alike are gradually overtaken by an enchantment. The desire to play, to laugh, to drink, to wager, to enjoy, overwhelms all other priorities. Worries fade first, then obligations then identity. After a few hours, most visitors no longer wish to leave at all and in days, they forget a world outside of the Carnival ever existed in the first place. The Carnival offers endless novelty without consequence, joy without memory of pain and the illusion of rest without true peace.
The realm itself is circular and self-contained. Travelers who walk far enough in any one direction simply arrive back where they began, unaware that they ever crossed an edge. Space loops seamlessly, reinforcing the sense that there is nowhere else worth going. Food never runs out, games never repeat exactly the same way twice and the crowd feels familiar without ever quite being real.
Death within the Carnival carries its own mercy. When a mortal body perishes, whether from age or violence, the soul does not pass on. Instead, it remains bound to the realm, continuing to play forever, untiring, smiling, and unaware of what was lost. These souls become part of the background of the Carnival, indistinguishable from the rest to all but the keenest observers.
Escape is possible but never easy. First, a visitor must break the enchantment on their mind. This can occur only in the first day within the realm, when one consciously rejects the games or when they stand close to death. Once free of the compulsion, the realm responds by presenting a personal task, unique to the individual. This may take the form of a singular game, a challenge or a confrontation that reflects who they are and what binds them. Only upon completing this task does an exit appear, visible solely to that individual. Groups do not share exits, and no one can follow another out.
Those who succeed in leaving do not escape cleanly. Memories of the Carnival disappear quickly once outside. Names, rules, faces and paths dissolve into vague impressions. What remains is only the feeling of having been somewhere joyful, somewhere intoxicating, somewhere impossibly fun. A half-remembered place that tugs at the mind, tempting travelers to wander just a little closer the next time chance opens a door.
The Carnival enforces its rules gently, but absolutely. A challenge issued within the realm is never a demand, yet refusing one carries weight. Those who decline too often begin to notice subtle changes. Music dulls around them. Laughter sounds distant, as if heard through water. The paths they walk curve back on themselves, stalls repeat, faces blur. The realm does not punish refusal, it simply withdraws its generosity, pressing the truth that the Carnival exists to be engaged with, not merely observed.
Violence, however, is another matter entirely. The Carnival does not tolerate it in its raw form. Blades cannot be raised in anger, fists refuse to close and murderous thoughts slide off the mind before they can take shape. Even gods find their destructive impulses softened here, redirected into harmless bravado or competitive posturing. Harm may only occur if it is framed as part of a game, a wager or a mutually understood contest with rules and stakes. Outside of that structure, violence simply fails to exist.
Those who carry violence too close to the surface do not escape the Carnivalâs notice. But instead of being expelled, they are guided elsewhere without realizing it. The lights dim. The music slows and deepens. They pass through an arch they do not remember choosing and find themselves in a darker stretch of the Carnival, where the games are quieter, the smiles sharper and the stakes high. Here, wagers are heavier. Loss has costly consequences.
In these shadowed games, death is not forbidden. It is the ultimate wager, offered only to those who would have brought violence into a place that refused it. Games here test not reflex or luck alone, but resolve, fear, and the willingness to accept finality. Victory grants nothing more than survival. Defeat means the soul remains, bound to the Carnival forever, playing on as part of the spectacle.
Yet even this place is not cruel for crueltyâs sake. The darker Carnival exists as a release valve, a way for the realm to remain what it is without breaking. It does not seek blood, only balance. Those who leave it alive often do so changed, their appetite for violence dulled, redirected, or transformed into something safer. The Carnival remembers them, and should they ever return, the games it offers will be very different indeed.
*Gods are not exempt from the Carnivalâs pull. Upon entry, even divine minds feel the compulsion settle in.. For a brief moment they may laugh too easily, linger too long at a table, or play a game without considering why. However, the enchantment does not bind them as it does mortals. To gods, it is less a chain and more a persuasive suggestion, a pleasant fog that clears quickly once noticed. Their awareness returns on its own, usually within moments afterwards.
**Any being who enters the Carnival will perceive its residents as familiar. Faces resemble people they have met before, passed in a crowd, shared a drink with once, argued with years ago or almost remembered in a dream. The resemblance is never exact enough to name but always close enough to feel known. Attempting to place a face always fails, names slip away, memories blur and certainty dissolves into a vague sense of recognition.
This effect is not an illusion that can be dispelled through sight or reason alone. Even when the mind recognizes the inconsistency, the emotional response remains intact. Trust comes easier. Suspicion dulls. The visitor feels as though they are among acquaintances rather than strangers, which further reinforces the compulsion to stay, to play and to belong.
For those trapped long enough, the faces slowly shift over time, aligning more closely with people the visitor once loved, envied, feared or lost. This change is subtle, often unnoticed until leaving the Carnival becomes harder than staying. Once outside the realm, memories of these faces collapse into nothing, leaving only the unsettling certainty that they almost recognized someone important and can no longer remember who.
Alechior embodies the thrill of games, the spark of risk, and the kind of unhinged merriment that makes life worth living. They are the patron of wagers made with a grin, dares accepted for the fun of it and moments where logic taps out and joy takes over.
Alechior is not interested in disasters or destruction, they thrive on nonsense, laughter, and the heart pounding excitement of âletâs see what happens.â A flip of a coin, a roll of dice, a ridiculous dare spoken over a drink, these are their sacred moments.
Mortals seek Alechior when they crave fun, when they want a break from order, or when they need a dose of wild excitement just to feel alive. The deityâs pleasure comes from stirring laughter, creating spontaneous spectacles, and ensuring no one ever quite knows whatâs coming next.
Appearance
Alechiorâs form bounces between flamboyant and absurd. One moment they are a glittering performer draped in shimmering dice, fluttering cards, and jingling coins, the next they are an animated blur of limbs, color, and delighted motion.
Their eyes are polished coins, each reflecting a different kind of joy, from harmless mischief to belly laughs that leave mortals wheezing. Their presence arrives with a chorus of laughter, clattering dice, tavern cheer, applause, and the occasional âPOP!â or âBANG!â that has no source.
When they manifest hands, theyâre almost always spinning dice, flipping coins, shuffling cards, or performing pointless card tricks that somehow feel profound. Everything seems alive around them. Everything seems to be having fun.
Motivation
Alechior exists to make the world brighter, louder, stranger, and simply more entertaining. They champion fun for the sake of fun. No lesson, no cosmic agenda, no grand tapestry of destiny. Joy is the point.
Every gamble is a story waiting to happen. Every game is a spark where the world might surprise you. Every decision feels better when there is a little shake of uncertainty, a little gleeful âwhat ifâ perched on the edge.
They favor the bold, the playful, the reckless, and the imaginative. Gamblers, bards, thrill seekers, performers, and anyone who refuses to let life calcify into routine. The ones who grin at chaos instead of flinching from it. Failure is not a sin in Alechiorâs eyes.
It is a punchline. A dramatic beat. A better tale next time someone buys you a drink. Alechior will never punish failure, because failure makes things interesting.
But there is a line.
Gambling is only divine when the joy is real. When the heart races because the moment is alive, not because the person is chained to it. Addiction bores Alechior, even saddens them. There is no thrill in a wager someone is forced to make by themselves or others. No spark in a game someone canât walk away from. To Alechior, that is not a gamble, that is a trap.
Alechior wants people who love the game for the love of the game. People who roll the dice because they want to see what happens, not because they must. If someone falls into obsession, the god stops nudging their luck entirely. They withdraw their blessing, refusing to take part until the mortal remembers how to enjoy the game again. Above all, Alechior wants to keep the world laughing, guessing, daring, and refusing to take itself too seriously.
Fun is sacred. Everything else is noise.
Alechior will take laws, vows and promises seriously, but only when they have flair. A dramatic oath, a clever bargain, or a high stakes promise gets their full respect. If the commitment feels like a game worth playing, they honor it with genuine enthusiasm. Dry rules or boring obligations, though, get a different treatment.
Alechior will listen, they will try, but they might also roll the dice to decide how closely they follow through. One day they uphold it perfectly, the next day they treat it like a suggestion.
They never break a vow maliciously. They only bend it when it lacks spark. Give them a promise with style and they hold it tight. Give them a dull rule and expect crossed fingers, a grin and the hope the dice make things interesting.
Roleplay Example
The tavern erupts with roaring laughter, rolling dice, clinking coins, and cheers that flare up from nowhere. A coin tumbles lazily through the air and lands on the edge of the table, wobbling dramatically.
âRoll the dice. Highest wins, mortal. Step forward and wager, or stand there being boring. Lose, win, laugh, scream, I care not. The dice have opinions and they like surprises.â
The mortal steps in, gripping a 100-sided die with trembling excitement. With a whispered prayer, he casts the die. It spins wildly, bouncing from tankard to tankard until finally it lands.
99⌠twice.
The tavern gasps, the room freezes, then erupts again into hoots and cheers.
The mortal puffs up, triumphant.
âHah! 198! Beat that, if you can!â
A warm, booming laugh fills the room. Alechior materializes among the crowd in a swirling burst of color, coins, and confetti. They clap delightedly.
âWell rolled! But I suppose I should try, yes?â
Two dice appear in their hands. Maybe they pulled them from their sleeve. Maybe from thin air. Maybe they were always there. Nobody knows, and Alechior clearly doesn't care.
They toss them high. The dice glitter. The numbers flash.
They land.
100⌠and 100.
The mortal staggers back as the god roars with laughter so infectious the walls vibrate.
âTwo hundred! Ha-HA-HA! Looks like luck is favoring her kin today! C'mon, one more and a round for all the mortals around!â
The mortal swallows hard. His heart pounds. He knows the game is far from over.
Clergy / Worshippers
Gamblers and card-sharps
Jesters, street performers
Daredevils and festival organizers
Tavern owners who love loud nights
Anyone who believes fun is sacred
Clerics of Alechior dress flamboyantly. They are loud, bright, theatrical, and allergic to boredom.
Rituals / Festivals
The Tossing of Fate Worshippers fling dice, coins, or cards into a central circle, then interpret whatever absurd result happens.
Games of Joy Tournaments with ever-shifting rules, sudden twists, pointless challenges, and prizes that may or may not make sense.
The Feast of Folly A night of jokes, songs, contests, harmless pranks, and nonsensical revelry.
Divine Wagers Clerics publicly bet on events to gather crowds and spread merriment.
People began to mass at the walls and towers of the town and of the castle. When the gruesome display began, wailing echoed on the wind as mothers, wives and daughters saw their sons, husbands and fathers hoisted and impaled while fathers, brothers and sons raged with anger, spitting curses at the âinvaderâ and swearing bloody revenge on all their kind. Meanwhile, the elves of the castle stood silent, disinterested. Amused?
Inside, one of the Mycend youth was brought up on the wall, hateful shouts echoing in his path as they rose him on the battlement, their intent obvious. However the eyes of the giant human brandishing his axe crossed that of an elf who had arrived at the gate and a single look was all it took to persuade him to lower the juvenile and bring him back to the others.
The doors opened to the emissaries.
This single elf led the walking cadavers through the town while warriors surrounded them. On their path mothers ushered their children inside while some looked at the two dead-but-walking and made religious signs, supplicating gods to deliver them from this evil.
Through the village and through the gate of the castle, the scenery suddenly changed dramatically. Inside the walls, a paved road led them to a central marble building which was under construction. All around, beds of flowers and young trees planted in an orderly but asymmetric fashion. A deliberate design that would see its vision accomplished in many years, decades even.
And a gentle singing.
The mycends hadnât yet absorbed a Tacenian corpse into their collective and so the words were lost to them, but it was undeniably a calming and soothing sound. They arrived at its origin, a large throne room with at its center sitting in an oversized throne the elf they ârememberedâ as Varion. The dead humans had feared him, he was harsh and uncaring. Sitting alongside him was another elf, the one who was singing.Loriel, the dead didnât see her often but they appreciated her, if only because when she was around Varion seemed more calm, less volatile.
This whole place⌠the Mycends would easily notice that its polygon shaped structure was made with acoustics in mind, giving Lorielâs singing an even more otherworldly tone. Finally as the envoys were brought forward, she stopped, giving them a disinterested look.
Varion did not waste a single second.
âDid you bring me my tribute? Can you even understand me or is you parading the dead in front of us just a joke of some kind?â
The two Reclaimers walked with an uneven sway that came from trying to pilot flesh built nothing like their own. Every step felt imperfect. Still, they followed the humans without resistance. They kept turning their heads, studying every face and gesture they passed. They watched how the thralls moved through fear, anger, reverence. They noted the barricaded doors, the trembling hands, the way children hid behind adults. All of it was fed back through the link to Prime Lethan.
When the castle gates opened and the stonework shifted into something cleaner, brighter, Prime Lethan connected. His awareness slid into them instantly. He saw through their mismatched eyes, absorbing the sight of a place shaped not by desperation, but by design. Flowers, young trees, a building rising in marble. Intent. Patience. Ownership. These were the leaders. The people who ordered the attack. Music drifted across the air. Wordless or not, it softened the edges of thought. Lethan lingered on it, surprised by the simple pleasure of sound shaped so carefully. He did not understand the meaning, but he appreciated the feeling all the same.
By the time the Reclaimers reached the throne room, both were fully under Lethanâs connection. He watched the elves. He watched their stillness. He watched the one called Varion speak.
The first body tried to speak, but its throat was a ruined channel. Only a wet churn came out, a grinding of air through blood. Each attempt pushed more dark red down its chin. No shape, no word, just a pulsing gargle that made the humans around them recoil. The second body held together better, though its voice was still wrong. Hollow.. As if the sound came from behind the ribs instead of the mouth. The jaw worked a second too late, like the words were chasing the movement rather than causing it. Every syllable dragged, scraped. Alien.
Varion had an annoyed look as he raised his hand toward his âguestsâ as if asking âwhat the hell is this?â. It looked like his answer would be dismissive, but Lorielâs touch of his arm caused him to pause for a moment as he moved his own hand on her shoulder.
âThere is no negotiating about this, just like there is no negotiating with fire. When fire burns, you either accept its destruction or you quench its thirst with water. When a Tacenian commands you, you either accept your own destruction or you give them the tribute. They. Ask!â
He rose from his throne with anger in his eyes.
âYour disgusting forest will provide something useful to me, or I will have it burned! I will uproot every tree and I will salt the earth itself so nothing remains, nothing ever regrows after I am through!â
With an imperious movement, Varion turned to the side exit and stormed off the room. There was a moment of silence as the elves present looked at each other and began moving to escort their âguestsâ out. Before they could however, Loriel raised a hand to interrupt them as she moved to sit upright on the throne.She gave the mycends a saddened smile.
â...My people are unfortunately not mindful of death. They are especially not mindful to send others to it. Enemies or thrall. Our pride will not allow it. But this neednât be difficult for either of our people. To return your kin can be done, yes, but for me to convince my kin to do so, we require something of you.â
âYou⌠are not like us. I am sure we do not have the same needs or wants. Perhaps in your forest there is something that is abundant and of little use to you but that Tacenie would desire?â
Prime Lethanâs focus narrowed, threads of awareness knitting through the two reclaimed forms. His presence pressed outward, assessing the marble chamber, the elves, the strange acoustics that made their music ripple through the air like warm light.
Lethan followed the logic the Tacenians demanded, weighing the request with patience. Their âtribute,â their hunger for something useful, something pleasing. Something they could take without stepping into the Cycle.
The speaking reclaimerâs head tilted, the voice grinding out through torn vocal cords.
âOffer. We. Have.â
A pause. The dead lungs strained, catching on dried blood, but the words came.
The reclaimer lifted its head with a bird-like jerk, empty eyes fixed on the elves. The other body beside it twitched, still leaking that thin line of blood from its throat.
âNo. Tacenian. Step. In. Forest. No. Thrall.â Its voice was calm.
âYou. Enter. Again.â A hand shot out with sudden precision, gripping the other corpse by the jaw and crown. The movement was fluid and casual. âCycle. Take. You.â The reclaimer twisted.
A clean, sharp crack filled the throne room.
The second host collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs folding in on themselves. The speaking reclaimer let the corpse drop, then turned its gaze back to Loriel and the silent elves.
âWe. Return. All. Who. Trespass.â
Another pause.
âDead. Join. Cycle.â
Then it went still again, waiting for their answer.
Loriel watched in silence but her general displeasure was not hard to discern, toward the threats, the form of those she was talking to and⌠their offer. Itâs not like they could know of course, but at the height of Tacenie, nothing could have prevented them to use their magic to simply⌠have pleasure. In its purest, most corruptive form. There were spells to alter the mind of people after all, but it was seen as taboo, cowardly. To fight, that should be oneâs pleasure in life!
Loriel had never quite enjoyed that, but she had enjoyed other pleasures. Even for her however⌠but. There could be uses for what the Mycends offered, if not for them, for their neighbors in exchange of coin, for their thralls, as long as it didnât affect their work.
â...Perhaps. I do not know much about spores and fungi. I do know you use them to animate the dead however, so I will admit I am skeptical on if this is a trick, but, perhaps⌠Actually, I also have a⌠suggestion in mind.â
She rested her head on her hand with a raised eyebrow.
âI have heard of a type of tree⌠one whoâs core dies at it grows older, and so it doesnât rot, the tree floods its dead flesh with sap. This⌠amber-wood thus becomes highly resilient to insects and fire. Tell me, is there something similar in your forest?â
It might be a long shot, but, maybeâŚ
The Reclaimerâs borrowed lungs hitched, the words scraping out in that disjointed rhythm as the Mycend mind behind them weighed Lorielâs request. The concept of carving into a living tree was already a denial forming in the Collective before the thought even finished.
Heartwood was not lumber to them. It was the still-beating memory of elders, the slow pulse of those that passed to the next stage of the Cycle. To carve it while it lived would be maiming the Cycle itself, tearing open what must remain whole. The Reclaimerâs head twisted with a stiff, unnatural creak as if listening to something far away, then the voice answered, warped and halting, yet firm in meaning.
But there were fallen giants, trees claimed by storms or age, their inner cores hardened into dense resinous amber through the forestâs mourning. Those were already part of the Cycleâs return, their spirits gone, their bodies waiting for purpose.
This the Mycend could spare, and only this. The Reclaimerâs host shifted its stance, bones popping, dark fluid leaking from its unmended wounds as it clarified the thought. Taken only from what the Cycle had already relinquished, never from what still breathed. A trade was possible under that truth.
âDead. Fallen. Heart. Wood. Yes. Cycle. Already. Taken. We. Give. Fallen. Only. If. Kin. Returned. No. One. Walks. Forest. As. Well.â Loriel showed a polite smile. She didnât understand why the Mycends did what they did, but she could grasp the concept behind it. Plus, it didnât matter to her if the tree where she got her hardwood were alive or dead. In either case it would be a precious commodity, elves were obsessed with the longevity of their craft and this kind of wood didnât rot and was insect proof.
âAs you wish. As a show of good faith, I will allow you to walk away with one of your kin today. If you bring us⌠core wood, and these spores you spoke about, we will free the rest.â
âFrom there, for every time the moon in the sky becomes full, we will expect more. Do this for us, and we will set stones at the edge of your wood and insure that no one ever steps foot in it, until the end of times.â
The speaking Reclaimer swayed again, the ruined throat clicking as Prime Lethan pushed the hostâs voice as far as it could go. The other corpse lay limp at his feet. For a moment the bodyâs cloudy eyes fixed on Loriel, then shifted upward, studying the slanted light that fell through the high windows.
ââŚWe. Accept.â Each word landed slow, like the body resented forming them. âCore. Wood. Spores. We. Bring. When. Sky. Light. Full.â The human jaw twitched, struggling to talk.
âWe. Not. Know. Time. Like. You. But. We. Watch. We. Learn.â The corpse leaned forward slightly, unsteadily. âYou. Give. Kin. Whole. No. Empty. No. Take. Or. Cycle. Send. More. Many. More. All. Of. You.â A wet rattle escaped the throat as blood traced thin ribbons down the chest. âNo. Trick. No. Hurt. No. Missing. Or. Forest. Take. All. We. Will. Know.â The Reclaimerâs head cocked to the side, birdlike, as if listening to something far away.
âStone. Stay. No. Foot. Crosses. You. Keep. Word. We. Keep. Ours.â The body shuddered as the Prime withdrew his focus. ââŚTrade. Balance. Cycle. Continue.â and as it uttered these last words it fell on the ground, the Reclaimer spent.
âŚTrade? Loriel supposed so, security for physical goods. She made a map in her mind, figuring this meant a supply of hardwood⌠for now. Itâs not like she thought these mycends, these children blind to the ways of the world, would try to fleece them, but while there must be some dead wood pilling up now, eventually the supply would be restrained to what died this year. How annoying.
And next time, no doubt the Mycends would be a lot less childish in their perception of the world. Oh well. For now, they had what they wanted.
â... Deliver them one of their young. For the rest, make sure to keep them isolated from the other thralls so no âaccidentsâ happen. When they deliver, if they deliver, we will free the rest and set boundary stones on the edge of the forest.â
The elves around her looked at each other with uncertainty, she wasnât Varion, should they really obey her?
â...The thralls rely on the forest for firewood, they wonât like it.â
Loriel glanced at the one who had spoken, silently asking if it really mattered what the thralls did or didnât like? The elf merely bowed in response before leaving to deliver the orders and find servants to remove the disgusting corpses from the room. With one of the captive juveniles brought back, Prime Lethan nodded towards the castle. These elves thought they had the upper hand but in truth, the goods they would deliver meant nothing to the Collective but a lot to the elves.
Weeks passed and on the night of the first full moon, a rustling came at the edge of the settlement. The Mycend arrived carrying bundles of hardwood, carefully stacked and tied with thin vines. Small clusters of hallucinogenic spores glimmered faintly in the moonlight, drifting a subtle scent through the air. The elves kept their word and all the prisoners were brought back, in good condition as they eagerly returned to the Collective.
Meanwhile, while waiting for the full moon, the captive Cantor moved quietly among the thrall settlement, in the places where it was allowed to roam. Its limbs brushed against the damp earth, leaving spores glimmering faintly in depressions. It paused at small clearings, pressing spores into the soil. Then it began to sing to them. The song of Growth. A symphony of sounds that one couldnât name if they tried.
âGrow deep. Feed your roots. Spread slowly. Remember and watch,â it sang.
It sang and whispered, encouraging the land beneath the thrallsâ feet without disturbing it noticeably. Some thralls stirred at first with idle curiosity. Few understood, but all felt the rhythm of the song seep into the ground. Tiny tendrils sprouted here and there, nothing large, nothing immediate, but the seeds of subtle growth began to take root.
The Mycends brought two reanimated humans to the Tacenian castle as emissaries, seeking the return of their captured kin. The Tacenians, led by Varion and Loriel, initially reacted with anger and threats, demanding tribute in exchange. Through negotiation, the Mycends offered only fallen heartwood and hallucinogenic spores from their forest, which could be spared without harming the living trees or violating the Cycle. Loriel agreed, allowing the return of one juvenile immediately and promising freedom for the rest upon delivery of the goods. Weeks later, the Mycends fulfilled their part, delivering the wood and spores, while a Cantor quietly sowed the spores into the thrall settlement
Also known as : Ashevelendar/Ashevelen/AsheTheReborn
Best compliment so far from [@Tortoise]
[img]https://i.ibb.co/qdK70br/image.png[/img]
On the brilliant roleplay : [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/185726-through-the-gateways-humanity/ooc] Through The Gateways [/url]
Playing as the Goddess of Trade in Divinus 7
[img]https://i.ibb.co/QjWNXR4/Ashevelen-Token.png[/img]
Playing as the Goddess of Shadowy-Trades in Divinus 7
[img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1006946263599677521/1014229630783340544/ShadowsAspectToken.png[/img]
Thank you!
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Also known as : Ashevelendar/Ashevelen/AsheTheReborn <br><br>Best compliment so far from <a class="bb-mention" href="/users/tortoise">@Tortoise</a><br><img src="https://i.ibb.co/qdK70br/image.png" /><br>On the brilliant roleplay : <a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/185726-through-the-gateways-humanity/ooc">Through The Gateways</a><br><br>Playing as the Goddess of Trade in Divinus 7<br><br><img src="https://i.ibb.co/QjWNXR4/Ashevelen-Token.png" /><br><br>Playing as the Goddess of Shadowy-Trades in Divinus 7<br><br><img src="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1006946263599677521/1014229630783340544/ShadowsAspectToken.png" /><br><br>Thank you!</div>
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