Sometimes, Death is the Result of Annoying Gods

(because if you can't find a cool header pic, make 'em yourself. In a year I'm gonna be a photoshop pro.)

I

You’re dead. Mere minutes ago, the quiet streets of early morning London were your oyster. The sweet, sweet slot between the onslaught of drunkards wandering to their next event and the bustle of working city-goers, the early-bird slaves of the nine-to-five. The air was cold, but fresh (or as fresh as can be in the middle of a city). The roads were empty, save for the rare speeding car that wooshed past, the air lifting the loose corners of your jacket in the wind. The warm orange of dawn’s peak peered over the horizon if you looked closely enough, its glow lightly reaching across the dull grey pavements of the road, turning it into gold. Stepping into the solitary street, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, savouring a slow moment of peace.

And now you’re here.

It’s really not recommended to shut your eyes in the middle of a road, even if it is quiet. Rookie mistake.

So, where’s here? Here is where lives begin again. Though, it looks more like a Hollywood fantasy world with a high budget. It’s a whole universe, a galaxy of space surrounding you – brightly coloured gradients swirling into cosmos, the slow exploding white of stars that expand into nothing and the scattered rainbow dots of planets from far, far away – but you are not a part of that universe. Despite this vast galaxy surrounding you, where you stand is an island that seems simultaneously the centre of this universe and entirely separate from it. Probably because this platform is made of a very flat rock and its centrepiece is an abundance of shimmery purple crystals that seem to be drilled into the ground. Looking closely, only the floor directly around them is dusted with glitter. The island teems with a maze of overflowing crystals. What are you doing here?

“Excuse me!” A distorted voice travels through the mass. Well, you’ve nothing better to do, so you walk towards its source.

“Hellooo?” It trails off, but it seems closer now. “Damn it, Adepha, I asked for a couple of crystals why are there so many?” There’s a pause. “Where did they come from?”

You turn the corner of a chunky piece, and you’re greeted with the colour green. There’s a clearing leading to a towering throne mounted upon the wall, also made of crystals, with a case of shallow stairs leading up to it. Though, it’s so low that it’s clearly reachable from the ground. And before you, a purple woman with bright white hair stands with her arms crossed, staring in disbelief at an awkward pile of diamonds. You accidentally kick a small gem across the empty floor, and she jumps, spinning to the source of the noise. Is that shock on her face? In a flash, it’s gone, and you can’t tell. She smiles.

“Ah, so you actually – I mean, finally - made it here.” She exudes comfort. Her voice is like self-assured silk that you can’t help but surrender yourself to, its soft touch soothing you in a blanket of warmth. She sees you looking at the pile she was focused on and puffs her chest.

“Oh, those? Uh - I thought the throne room could do with a centrepiece. Other than the throne, of course. Impressive, huh? I understand if you’re a little intimidated – or not…” she trails off awkwardly, deflating a little. “Anyway. Down to business. Follow me.”

The purple woman turns around, her long, glittery cape flowing behind her, the light breeze rippling with her movement. She walks thirty feet to the top of the staircase and plants herself firmly on the throne.

“And we have arrived,” she gleams. “Now you…” She picks up a pile of paper lying beside her and flicks through it. “You’re our new hero. Congratulations, you’ve made it!”

There’s a moment of silence. Her face is frozen in forced glee.

“Congratulations!” she repeats, holding her excited expression, hands in the air. “Why do you look confused?” The moment has been sustained long enough that she seems animated, and it’s getting awkward.

“What do you mean you have no idea what’s going on? Was this not explained to you?” She picks up the pile again and frantically shovels through it. “You’re not Frankie Taylor? So, you weren’t brought up in an organisation faithful to our gods and dedicated to raising multitalented children into suitable sacrifices with the potential to be successful heroes? You definitely aren’t the top student of that organisation? Oh. That’s unfortunate, give me a minute.” She plants an enthusiastic smile on her face and slowly turns around.

“Adepha. Adepha! Can you hear me?”she hisses into a small portal, covering her mouth from your view. “What do you mean this definitely isn’t them? Who is it?” Silence. “Oh, he what? Oh, so he was the one in the car? He’s been removed from the programme? Well, that’s a shame, I heard he did well. So, this is definitely a random person that I accidentally killed in a freak car accident. Huh. Okay. Well, a mistake is a mistake, even goddesses make them sometimes. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

She turns back to you.

“So, you’re our new hero!” She gleefully informs you. “I’ll go with you through the basics, you’ll find them useful. Welcome to the afterlife! I’m sure you know by now that you’re dead. Do you?”

You nod.

“Thank goodne- I mean - yes. I’m sure you do. Well, you’ve been chosen to be reincarnated into another world. Yay! You’re probably wondering what that entails. Well, sit down.” The purple woman gestures to a rocky stair. When she clicks her fingers, a portal as purple as her skin opens beside her and a tray of teacups floats through, hovering onto the little table next to the throne. She clicks them again, and one of the teacups floats down to the stair in front of you.

“And now we’re ready for the story. Have a biscuit. We only have rich tea, though.”

“Okay. So, you understand parallel universe theory, don’t you? Excellent. Well, I oversee a universe in this realm, and we have word that – well - we know that there’s an evil that needs to be eradicated. As the goddess of peace, I can’t just leave them be, you understand. This is where you come in!” The woman gestures towards you, tea spilling from her cup onto the floor. “I’m simply the overlooker, I can’t influence the universe, so I need someone to do this on my behalf. You’ll be reincarnated into that world, defeat the evil, and live happily ever after! Naturally, you will be rewarded by its citizens, who you will save from the hands of evil. They’re thankful people.” With the nonchalant flick of her hand, another tray appears through a portal.

“Oh, and I’ve bestowed powers upon you through those biscuits I gave you. Telekinesis and the exceptional enhancement of your natural abilities. What fun! So, that’s it, I think. Questions?” The tray sits innocently in front of you, its delicately sugared contents jarring. How could something so sweet hold such power?

“And, well, I’m sure you’ll find out rather quickly what evil is present there. Uh - can’t be too difficult! Maybe ask around? Someone’s bound to know!” She stutters, planting an uncomfortably large smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, open wide as if someone had just jumped out behind her.

“Okay! Now that we’ve covered all that, I think it’s time we send you off. No, no, I’m sure you’ll rid the world of evil in a jiffy! I believe in you!” She clicks her fingers again and a loud woosh echoes beside you – what the – and when you turn around, a huge portal has opened up next to you, sucking in the air around you and radiating in purple swirls. “Don’t worry! Just step into it and you’ll be sent down into your new world.” Her words are encouraging and fill you with miniscule faith in yourself, a twentyfold of what you had before. As you step forward into the portal, you hear, “oh wait! I forgot to tell you, not everyone down there is human, don’t be too shocked if a rhino asks you where the nearest pub is- oh, they’re gone. Adepha! There you are. What do you think? Definitely, see if you can get that Frankie Taylor on the line for another quick reincarnation when this one’s over. Nope, not a chan -` And she trails off.

Well, maybe you don’t need faith, anyway.

II

It smells like flowers and mash. There’s a bouquet of daisies and daffodils on the rustic wooden table, atop a little white square of lace-rimmed cotton. The room is decorated with excessive accents of sage, with an entirely green sofa. An old couple sit there, faces extended into lengthy smiles, faltering every couple of seconds, but quickly resolved. The woman, dressed in a dull purple puffy frock, scoots closer to the man. He side-eyes her momentarily but leans closer, taking her delicate hand in his and bringing it to his lips, his wife’s face gleaming. She turns around at the sound of your voice.

“Oh, you like the green? Silas hated the colour before I redecorated, but now he loves it, don’t you dear?” She brightens, and her husband grumbles, resisting a smile.

“I think green is a questionable colour, but you do have a knack for interior décor,” the old man says sheepishly, his façade of moodiness cracking at every turn. “She makes the ugliest colours look pretty.”

“You can’t complain, you like the daffodils. Yellow’s a nice colour.”

“Yellow’s the nicest colour, Clarina. I think more daffodils would be good.”

“I’ll think about it. Maybe for your birthday,” she teases, lightly backhanding his arm before standing up, hands on her knees, and looking towards the kitchen. “I’m fancying a tea. Would either of you like tea?”

“Ooo, I’ll have one. I reckon I’ll treat myself to an extra sugar today, mark the occasion. I love visitors. Get our guest one too, please.”

She nods and waddles out of the room, her flowy dress trailing behind her as she disappears. In the distance, you hear the beginning of light bubbling and a soft humming, its tune indistinguishable.

“So, you wanted to ask about the return of dark magic, eh? It was a while ago, Clarina and I remember it well. There was a shortage of broccoli and pork. Tough couple of years, you know.” Silas places one hand on his knee, the other on the armrest, and sits forward. “It’s peculiar that you turn up on people’s doorsteps for recent history quizzes. It wasn’t that long ago - you must be one forgetful sod.”

“You have a confused expression, kid. I’ll start from the beginning, before Clarina comes back. In the beginning, we had a king, and his name was Archet, and we called him the Courageous-” He turns towards the kitchen – “CLARINA?”

In the distance a faint “Yes dear?” drifts through the door, and her figure appears, standing in the light that shines through the kitchen window, illuminating her bright face. She beams as the whistling of the kettle dies down.

“Archet, we called him the Courageous, didn’t we? I’m pretty sure it’s that, but it doesn’t sound right.”

“Ah, you’re getting him confused with Conan the Courageous, Archet was the Great.”

He delightfully slaps his knee, “That’s it! Thank you, my love. Two sugars please!” She rolls her eyes with a bemused grin and waddles back into the kitchen.

“Okay, Archet the Great. He ruled from the year Clarina and I were married, all the way until a couple of years ago. He was getting on a bit, you know. Couldn’t really keep up with the demands of the kingdom anymore. Everyone was quite nervous at the end. I think we all knew we were becoming more vulnerable to usurpers, and though the king wasn’t at his prime, Archet was a good man and kept the kingdom’s peace and prosperity for many years. We’d never thrived more. It would’ve been a sad day when he was overthrown, and by gods it was.” There’s a flicker of sadness in his wrinkled eyes.

“He was still training an heir at the time - no children, you see - but his heir was far from ready to take charge of an entire kingdom. Alas, as you may have gathered, this chance was readily taken up by the biggest threat to the nation in many years. And leading this rebellion was a young woman by the name of -” Silas stops abruptly, his eyes unfocused on the table. “Her name was…” His gaze breaks from the table, and he returns to reality. “What was the bloody woman’s name?”

The sound of flip flops flapping against the floor grows close and Clarina stands at the door, a steaming mug firmly held in each hand. “Tea, anyone?”

Silas seems relieved by her arrival. “Ah yes, tea!”

She places the mugs down on the table and starts to hurry back to the kitchen – “wait! What was the name of that woman who led the rebellion? B-something?”

“Oh, was it a rebellion? I think her name was Bethilda.” The old woman settles in and leans her shoulder against the doorway. “You know, back when we were younger, much fitter as you can imagine, I had an archery group, and one of my girls was also called Bethilda, can you imagine? She was a lovely lady, that’s why I remembered her name. Always brought lemon cake to our weekly meetups, and had the most wonderful shot, none of us could come close to her natural flair for bows and arrows.” Silas looks across the table, rolling his eyes knowingly at his wife, who narrates her story with enthusiastic hand gestures.

“We always told her she should start competing with how excellent her shot was, she could have even picked up some odd quests – they were paying a lot of money back then for good archers. There was a gap in the market, though archery has certainly gone up in popularity over the years. Even Becky next door does it in her free time! It’s lovely though, nice to see people picking up the slack we left behind, can’t do it so well nowadays with these arms.’ She looks around at the table. ‘Oops - anyway, back to the story you go. Bethilda.’

Silas nods as his wife leaves the room once again, “She does go on a bit, but best to let her enjoy her stories.” He resumes his tale.

“Bethilda came in under Archet and corrupted the kingdom from the inside with silly ideas of a better future, as if the one we had was so bad? She was a rotten piece of work. Really played at the greed of the weak with her promise of economic flourishment, but we went from prosperous to an economic recession in the snap of a finger. Or a few days, anyway.”

Clarina comes back in with the remaining tea. “It was awful, we ate potatoes and chicken for six months. I’m not a fan of chicken, except for one recipe I perfected daily for a year – and even that got boring after a while, despite how delicious it was. It’s a good thing I know a lot of recipes for potatoes, though.”

“She’s right! You should come back on roasties night, she has the most decadent recipe for roast potatoes. Got all these herbs and fats for them, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely! I went through about a batch of herbs and fat a week with how much we were eating. They’ve always been very good at keeping them in stock, we’ve not had bland potatoes for years! So much for the recession, eh? We had it hacked.”

“What did the rebellion do, you ask? Well, they invaded!” Silas turns to Clarina, who was in the doorway with a tea in hand, seeming to have forgotten that she was still standing.

“How did they invade again, my love? You remember the details.”

“I do! Got them all from Eliza from down the dirt path, her husband was on the front lines! Or at least, the front lines of the paperwork. But he got the gorier details from his brother, who was on the actual front lines. It’s almost the same. Anyway, Bathilda’s lot invaded at midnight and took the castle, apparently someone on the inside had distracted some of the guards on duty that night with a trip to the pub. Valaec knows a lot about those troops, across town. Pub owners know everything.”

“I don’t think there’s any more to it than that, really. It’s a shame this wasn’t a couple of decades ago, I’d have been out on the front the moment she invaded, couldn’t tempt me with a drink, I tell you!”

“Ah, but if they’d have offered tea, the kingdom would’ve fallen thirty minutes sooner.”

Silas looks at Clarina for a moment, and shrugs.

“I guess she does know me, eh?” He pats the sofa beside him, and Clarina lights up, taking a seat and enclosing his hand in hers. There’s a clink, and they look at you, spotting an empty, cold cup on your side of the table.

“You’ve drunk your tea already. You’re heading off?” Silas frowns, his face falling. “Hmm, well, please come back and join us again soon. Remember, roasties night! Come mid-afternoon and we can have some tea too!”

“Ooo, I’ll make sure to get another seat at the table ready! I hope you find time to visit, we truly enjoyed your company.” The old couple smile politely and stand up, guiding you to the door. When you turn away, they look at each other and grin gleefully, shaking their fists together in excitement before collecting themselves, just in time for you to turn back to face them.

“You take care of yourself, alright? Off you go.”

Your gaze rests on them a little longer. They seem like a lovely couple, standing together in the doorway. Clarina’s hand lays upon the checkers of his shirt, and his rests comfortingly on top of hers. Their spare hands enthusiastically wave goodbye.

And off you go. With the newfound direction of the couple’s suggestion, you walk confidently across town, in the direction of the pub, hoping to piece the puzzle together with your next adventure.

III

“BWAHAHAHA”

A bellowing laugh beats across the wooden entrance, the heart of the pub drawing you towards its source. You’re in a short hallway, wide and round like a rustic portal with no light except a torch flaming bright on either side. You open a door mounted with a large golden shield and you’re momentarily blinded by the stream of natural yellow light coming in through a large window across the room. In the main chamber of the pub, there’s as much wood as there is in the hallway, but it seems welcoming with the light of the sun gracing its floors. Across the ceiling are the kingdom’s banners, and in every direction, there are swords mounted on the wall like an armoury. Large swords that could hack a tree in one swing, tiny envelope openers, golden engraved grips, black ore edges – it's an interesting collection. There’s an overwhelming smell of beer that could make even the heaviest drinkers dizzy, and as you trace your hand over the bar, old, spilled alcohol sticks to your skin like weak, pungent glue. The ruckus grows louder and approaching the source, you find a crowd of merry drinkers, chuckling and clinking glasses together around an overly wide, tall man. He towers over his companions like a head above water, and from across the room, you meet gazes, his dark hooded eyes locking onto yours.

“Ah, men, look, we have a newcomer!” A cheer erupts from the group, you can feel the vibrations of their voices in the soles of your feet. They disperse to create a winding path towards the bar and the large man swings his legs across. He skips over to you. “What can I get you then, kid?” He hears you out.

“You’ve come to the right place; I know all there is to know about the war! The name’s Valaec. I’m the owner of this pub and a self-proclaimed battle connoisseur. What a glorious time - tragic, yes - but my gods, glorious.” He turns around to grab an oversized beer glass and fills it up. He sips the froth from the top and little beige droplets cling to his thick, black beard. “You want to know what I have to say about it, eh? Well, I’m sure I can spare some time for you to pick my brain, especially to talk about the good ol’ days!” He chuckles heartily, hand on his belly as his head tilts back in laughter.

“You’re a peculiar one, wandering in here out of the blue and asking questions. I like folks like you. Keeps life interesting. Let’s pour you a drink, a fine beer for a fine discussion.” He reaches back for another jumbo pint glass and places it underneath the tap. A warm, bubbly liquid pours out into the glass below.

“They act like the war was some sort of shocking development, a well-planned coup to overthrow the king. But we knew better. Us dwarves are keen to the eye of war, and we know when someone’s planning to start something. We all knew it when Erald started noting the spike in weapon contracts. He’s the best blacksmith across a hundred towns, and I tell you, he might be a crazy old bat, but he knows when something’s up with the weapon industry.” He slides the beer across the table, and you barely catch it before it tips off the other side. A glass that looks so ordinary in his hands seems to compete with the size of a pumpkin in yours, and you’re suddenly unsure whether you can drink all this.

“So, when Erald pointed this out in the pub, naturally the cavalry overheard and reported it to the king, Ardalt. The tallest dwarf to reign so far.” Valaec puts his fist to his chest and his eyes glisten over. “I still remember the day his height was recorded in front of the entire nation, he beat the other contenders for the throne by a whole four inches. That’s how you know you’re in the presence of someone destined to rule. The tallest of them all.”

He clears his throat and wipes his eye quickly.

“Uh - anyway, when he was informed of this, Ardalt took charge. He knew that with this additional information, we had the upper hand. He put in the biggest order of weapons we’ve ever witnessed. Just about tripled the number of contracts Erald had before; he was rolling in tax money by the time they were all made.

“We were all given a new sword and shield made from the finest materials, a new variant of gold discovered the year before in a cave over in the elven kingdom. Lucky for Erald - he hadn’t had much luck since the new gold was discovered because his competitors managed to get there first. Excellent timing that he had just managed to get a hold of it right when we needed it!” He chortles and pauses in favour of a long swig of his glass. And by swig, you mean he chugged his drink in one breath before slamming the empty remains down.

“The Great War DCCL - hang on.” He disappears under the bar and reappears with an overflowing binder, slamming it on the table. Its hefty weight vibrates across the whole bar, inciting awe from onlookers who turn towards the source of the disturbance.

“Ah, yes. DCCLX, our seven-hundred-and-sixtieth battle and counting. I keep this folder behind the bar for the history nerds. They eat it up, hence the uh, wear and tear.” He picks at a broken corner with a solemn look glazing over his eyes, which you can just about see through his incredibly bushy eyebrows. “I’m happy that people still take an interest, though.” Valaec pushes the folder to the side with both hands.

“You can have a look afterwards if you like. I have to warn you, there are only fifty-three entries that weren’t written by myself, and DCCLX is one of them, so I can’t speak on what it says.”

He perks up.

“They said what? BWAHAHA – classic Clarina and Silas, they don’t know what they’re talking about. We were distracted by nothing of the sort! No-one overtook the castle, but I’ll tell you what actually happened that night.” Collecting himself. he puffs his chest out and positions his hands on the bar.

“We had meticulously prepared for war. Patrols were on non-stop three-day shifts, and we were delighted to do it. They arrived with their army at approximately six in the morning, and all available dwarves were deployed.” There’s a crash. Someone has fallen behind the bar in a drunken sprawl, but Valaec doesn’t notice.

“The force was quite pathetic. We were finished in an hour because they’d only brought around fifty warriors. I wouldn’t call them warriors, either. It only took so long as they were so good at hiding. They ended up running away, and by seven in the morning, I’d opened up the pub and we celebrated until we all passed out, probably around five in the afternoon.” He begins to chuckle.

“Bamog ended up launching himself from one of the mantlepieces and doing a flip before landing on the floor and passing out,” Valaec heaves, bent over. “It was the funniest thing I’d seen in a decade!” He wheezes, tears streaming from his eyes. “Dear gods, I must introduce you to him, he’s my bar-hand – BAMOG!”

From a swinging door in the corner of the room emerged a sharp-looking dwarf with deep lined eyes that stare darkly towards you and a black fur skirt that floats behind him gracefully. He wields in his hands a dagger and a whetstone. The drunken man looks up at him and hurries to the other side of the bar.

“Valaec, if we sharpen the swords anymore then I fear we’ll run out of edge by next week.” He turns to you. “Who’s this?”

Valaec still gasps for breath, boldly grabbing the shoulder of his intimidating companion and leaning in familiar bemusement. “Do you- do you remember the DCCLX pub morning, when you- oh my gods I still see it playing in my brain!”

“Oh, that time I showed off my acrobatic prowess! BWAHAHA!” Bamog’s daunting look flashes away, an overt grin replacing it as he also begins to belly laugh and lean into Valaec. Their distinct laughs eerily merge as they crumple together.

“Ah, good times,” Valaec wipes his tears and clears his throat, patting his barman on the back. He nonchalantly gestures towards you with his mammoth hands.

“This traveller wants to know about The Great War DCCLX! I love a gruesome war story.”

“Oh, if you’re looking for more information, I think Morwen lives in a cave outside the village. He’s a war fanatic, if you go and listen to him, he might stop wandering down here to bug us with his stories instead.” Bamog rolls his eyes. “Quite the nuisance.”

“Good idea, my dear fellow! Come back if you want to know about other wars, though. I know quite a lot about those. There was one where we counted over three-hundred headless bodies! Gruesome history for you, it’s my favourite brand.”

“He’s right, there was another where we managed to behead the king three minutes into battle. That was a funny one! Anyways. Good luck!”

You wave briefly before leaving the pub, looking back to see Valaec attempting to recreate a beheading with a sword that, moments before, was encased in a locked box above the mantlepiece. Bamog dramatically falls to the floor, waving his arms around, and Valaec doubles over again. Okay, time to focus. You have to talk to Morwen.

IV

“You have come to what? Defeat evil? What are you, some kind of delusional hero?

“Oh, really? You? You’re the resurrected hero? Oh.

“Have you had any training?” Silence. “Oh.”

There's a long quiet.

“I have to say, this has been done very unprofessionally. But alas, I have faith in the gods. I will help you.” He smugly crosses his arms.

“Fighting? Oh, no, I won’t be doing that. I will help you with my stories. They are very good stories; you will like them.”

The cave is pitch black, with a single lit candlestick set in front of the elf, his face lighting up in a flicker of harsh yellow, the black of his eyes sinking into the surroundings like the melting wax. The room suddenly becomes darker, and the elf’s countenance drops.

“You will not disturb me whilst I tell my tale…

“What? My name? I was about to get to that, do you mind? If you speak again, I will leave you in this cave to rot. I’m trying to tell a story.”

“My name is Morwen, son of Morwen, son of Morween. I was named after my father and almost his before him. Elves ruled these lands in my youth, about two years ago. The land prospered, and we lived out in the open, on mountain tops and in the woods. In houses, obviously. This was before the dark time, the era we endure to this day. It all changed the day she came along.

“Her name was Mauleen – wait – Maureen. Maureen. It was the eve of my sixteenth birthday, when it happened. It started with the goats –” There’s a shuffling. It stops. “It started with the –”

“MAAA”

The elf jumps in his seat and sighs in exasperation. “Why can I not say three words before some kind of interruption?” He roughly grabs the candle, and the flame flickers out. He stands still, silent. The few moments he’s frozen drag by as if held back by the weight of a boulder. Sigh. The elf wearily revives your only light source and takes it to the far corner of the hollow.

Big, bulbous eyes shining with the reflection of fire stare into the distance, unthinking. It stands on all fours, unmoving, except for the round grinding of its overgrown teeth on a mound of hay. It’s difficult to tell whether it registers its surroundings. The elf turns back.

“This is Gunken. He wants more hay. The fat goat can’t tell that there’s hay behind him, so you have to move it in front.” The candle is placed on the side and Morwen’s silhouette heaves to the floor with a grunt and shifts a pile of hay approximately one foot closer to the creature. Without moving its static head, its glassy eyes loop to the floor, pupils bulging out at the pile that now sits in its vision. “MAAAAA” – it bleats and throws back its head unsettlingly far before lunging, hooves still frozen in place.

Morwen sits back down and clears his throat.

“Apologies, we’re trying to reduce Gunken’s stress levels, but they spike when he’s not chewing on hay. That’s why he’s quite fat.

“As I was saying, the witch gathered half a dozen wild goats and stole them from their herds. She came while they slept, dressed in a black cloak holding a reaper scythe. That’s what I was told. The next day, she invited all of her campaigners to her sacrifice, and brutally cut the throats of every goat, one by one. It was merciless.” His eyebrows furrow mournfully.

“With their blood, she performed a sacrifice to ensure that she would win when she attempted to take over the kingdom. That’s how it began. Those kinds of spells are powerful, and there was no-one there to stop her.

“As you can imagine, it wasn’t much of a birthday. We didn’t have cake, in light of the situation.” A passing look of melancholy twists Morwen’s face.

“The next day she made her campaign official. The royal election was underway, and Maureen was in the running with a league of demons pulling her weight. It was never a fair fight to begin with.

“Despite everything though, everyone thought she was an angel. An angel! There was no way we could convince them that she’d committed such a sin. A few elves tried to run her out at one of her tour destinations, but she wasn’t having it – she had all her grunts chase us out and lock the doors behind us.

“I don’t know how she even got away with kicking us out, it was a public library.

“She travelled around the kingdom and promoted herself, with a whole elf village in her stead. After she’d finished and walked off stage, we would take to it and reveal the truth. That woman would never make the kingdom a better place - she couldn’t even offer basic respect to goats! No-one cared after she’d finished speaking, though. The villagers were already won over. We couldn’t even get on stage before her to give ourselves a chance. Nobody would turn up any earlier unless with their tomatoes – damned closed-minded fools. The stains ruined my favourite smock.

“It's not like it would’ve worked anyway, I suppose. Not with the spells she was casting.

“Election day was awful. We stood in a sweaty crowd next to the capybara men. Their fat heads overshadowed our view and they stank. It was like taking a whiff of an overgrown rat. The tension in the air made it difficult to breathe (though not as much as the stench), like hundreds of tiny bees were floating around, swarming our lungs with each inhale.

“That could explain the nervous trembling too – the bees. I’ve never been very anxious, obviously. Look at me!” He smirked to himself, hunched over the little log. “But that day I was shaking pretty hard, so there must’ve been something in the air.”

“We were in a titanic Colosseum with bright white walls and little arch windows - though, they were more like little doors. Apparently, windowpanes are no longer a priority in the modern world. But it contained the whole kingdom within its stone walls. According to a book I found on the floor, it was made for royal elections one-thousand years ago.

“They also say it’s inspired by something called ‘romaine’ – I don’t think our world has one of those.

“A loud voice bellowed out across the crowd, coming from several directions. A loud-mouth! I’d never seen one before that day!” He beams, hands clasped together. “They’re supposed to be mythical creatures that project their voices through dimensions. Their shout was easily heard by the entire kingdom! It was glorious. I could feel the skin on my face rippling with the vibrations of its voice.

“Though, the excitement quickly wore off when he shouted that it was time to announce the new ruler.” Morwen leans forward, lighting up as he recounts the dramatic events.

"We waited with bated breath while he tore open a shimmery golden envelope, and when he put its contents down, he waited another minute before relieving the crowd of their anticipation. If he’d waited any longer, I’m pretty sure I – uh - my brother was going to throw up.

“And then there it was.

“MAUREEN!”

The elf jumps to his feet and bundles his hair in his hands, hissing through gritted teeth, “of course the bloody woman won! ARGH.”

He looks over at Gunken (who remains unfazed) and regains his composure, looking a little sheepish.

“Sorry, got a bit carried away.

“Anyway, after I’d heard that, I stormed out. Unfortunately, my brothers didn’t do the same. They stayed behind, and I later found out they’d declared war on the new queen. They were instantly barred and now they have warrants for their arrest because they vandalised the Colosseum on their way out. Now we’re living in caves. Goodbye freedom.

“That’s basically it. Questions?” He stares with bulbous eyes.

“The goats? Ah, my brother, he’s a traveller, he saw it happen himself. Snuck behind a tree and watched the whole scene play out, it was quite traumatic for him. We elves worship goats, they’re made in the image of our favourite god. The Goat God.” He glances over at Gunken, who still stands absently, each of its eyes staring at opposite sides of the cave.

“But my brother was disorientated. He had to take several days off from working and everyone took turns in delivering him food. Anything to support our mentally wounded sibling,” he heartfully declares.

“Oh, that’s it? That’s all you want from me. Okay…

“Oh – wait, what? My help? Outside the cave? Oh I- actually, this is the perfect excuse, I’ve been on goat duty for three days. Three days! Every hour I have to move hay across because Gunken can’t look backwards!” He gestures dramatically at the goat, who is unresponsive.

You fill Morwen in on the adventures so far, with the goddess, Clarina and Silas, the two dwarves, and how the stories just don’t seem to connect. “So, you want my help contacting the goddess. I would too, I’m quite confused. Even though I know that my story is clearly the right one, I was there. I shall help you anyway.”

Guided by Morwen, who tearfully wishes Gunken a farewell (this took an hour. He was only going to be gone for two), you leave the cave and emerge back into the light of the mountains. You have so many questions that even the brightness of the landscape cannot provide clarity on the answers. What is going on? Where is the dark force?

Why are you here?

V

So, you’re confused. Welcome to the club, we’re all confused. Okay, that’s a lie. Except me. I’m not confused at all. I know exactly what happened, and because I’m feeling extra generous today, I’m here to let you in on the events that really led up to this. And, with almost everything, it doesn’t start at the beginning of our story, it starts before. It starts with Ereyse.

In the Land of Immortals, there are bigger gods, and there are smaller gods. The smaller gods gravitate around the bigger ones, like a solar system with arrogance. God of the sun, versus God of the colour yellow. This tends to determine your political power, and in a world where everyone has the same pompous attitude, you can see how this may cause problems. However, there are a few outliers who don’t care to participate in this war of authority, and this is where Ereyse comes in – the God of painfully inconvenient mischief. Once, they started a war between Gatrian, the god of peace and quiet, and Terine, the goddess of howler monkeys – that was the biggest war of the century, which was great fun, but quite futile to the duties of the immortals looking over human worlds. But, anyway, we’ll come back to that later.

Ereyse was bored. And when Ereyse is bored, things happen.

The best kind of entertainment is a battle you only have to spectate, and there hadn’t been genuine conflicts in decades. Yes, there are squabbles, the Land of Immortals is run by squabbles – how else can one dictate the power imbalances of minor worlds? Sometimes the world needs more rain than sun, and the God of rain is very competitive. These aren’t genuine conflicts to Ereyse, though. Real clashes aren’t so superficial as what the weather should be like today. They’re people who fight for freedom and for love. They fight for their deepest desires. That’s real entertainment.

And Ereyse was craving real.

How do you go about orchestrating a battle so deeply entrenched with passion? Gods aren’t capable of this, gods are superficial. It had to be people. Problem – this specific craving is the reason Ereyse has been rejected a grand total of four-hundred-and-thirty-six times from the WPG (World Protection Governors). Apparently, the desire to start needless wars for the sake of amusement isn’t a protective enough disposition, so their applications were denied.

Well, that’s tough. If they could not acquire one, they would have to borrow one. Or, at least, ensure a set of circumstances that could manipulate the protector of that particular world into creating the situation they so desire.

If Ereyse is good at anything, it’s trickery.

We begin with the diversion. This is where we bring back Gatrian and Terine, as this war wasn’t Ereyse’s end goal, merely a distraction to draw the attention of the real victim – Elostia, the goddess of peace.

It wasn’t a difficult war to start. All Ereyse did was send a message to Terine requesting the assistance of a few howler monkeys to help Goat God retrieve an unlikely goat stuck in a tree in the crystal realm. Unfortunately, Goat God lives directly next to Gatrian (they live in alphabetical order), and no-one at the time questioned why Goat God couldn’t do it himself considering all gods have telekinesis, and, not to mention, goats are quite capable of jumping three feet to the ground.

The monkeys didn’t keep the peace for long.

The proceeding war was not only a gruesome one but also demanded attention – it wasn’t particularly quiet. It was an audio assault on anyone nearby, so its resolution was at the top of Elostia’s list of priorities, because dear gods, a moment of silence so that she could think, please?

Next, the rumour.

At this point, Elostia was distracted. Keeping up with her world wasn’t her current priority. If something required her attention, would she be able to deal with it efficiently? Doubtful. So, the rumour. What rumour, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you shortly, be patient.

It started with Abrox. He’s the god of credulity and virtue, and despite it coming from Ereyse, he’s quite dim-minded, so he saw this information as very dramatic and therefore a need-to-share (Abrox is quite the gossip). In his desperation to be the one to pass this on, he told Apakia. No-one ever puts weight into what Abrox says, as after all, he believes anything is true. However, his identical twin brother, Abrax, is the god of cynicality and analysis, and anything he says should be taken as a deeply researched and accredited fact. As the goddess of simplicity and abstraction, Apakia doesn’t know there’s two of them. This rumour was taken at face value. She told her brother, Sonak. Now, he’s the god of paranoia, so to him, this was information worthy of horror. It weighed on him for three days. After relentless anxiety, he reluctantly revealed what he’d learnt to his lover, Esta, the goddess of loyalty. She would do anything for him, and it didn’t even cross her mind to disbelieve what he’d said. And, to end our sequence, Esta is the lifelong best friend of – you guessed it – Elostia. Though Sonak asked her to keep the information to herself, her loyalty to her best friend, who was affected by this information, overrode.

She told her.

This chain of events was unfortunate for Elostia. ‘A dark force has arisen in her world and overcome its residents’? What was she to do? She didn’t have the ability to question the situation’s legitimacy, what with the blaring distractions in the background. Every time she sat down her attention was required again because another goat had spontaneously combusted in the conflict. There was only one course to take. She was to resurrect a new hero to defeat the raging darkness and protect her world from within.

News spread fast, and Ereyse was overjoyed. The chosen heroes are always taken from worlds that worship these gods and train their warriors explicitly to fight dark forces in unknown worlds. They are primed to be chosen for this task. But, with the brutality of their training, what if they were introduced into a world that they believed was full of evil, but there was nothing in sight? They’d still go in, guns blazing. If there wasn’t a war before, they’d certainly start one.

But Ereyse's plan wasn’t fool proof. In the distracting environment, Elostia made the grave, but fortunate mistake of resurrecting the wrong human. The plan relied on the hero starting a war themselves. You had no idea what to expect, so instead investigated. There were some interesting war stories, but why wasn’t anything adding up? Because there was never anything to add up to begin with. Memories of such things fade and mingle over time. The village’s tales are just a few war stories that began as rumours and became truth.

Our dear old couple didn’t consume so much cooked chicken and potato due to shortages; Clarina had just found a good recipe around the time. They also had your questions confused with the war five years before. That was a sticky one.

The dwarves mistook a rumour of a dark army for some stowaways and launched their whole soldiery into battle. Probably not the wisest decision, and they never caught on to the real engineer of this rumour – damned greedy blacksmith. But they didn’t care enough to notice anyway. Anything for a celebratory pub crawl.

And as for Morwen? He’s just a bit misguided and dramatic, and his brother thought he could do with a couple of days off. The only true historical event that occurred was the election of a woman called Metilda. The queen was democratically elected though, so there wasn’t anything bizarre about that. Morwen doesn’t agree. It sucks when your political team loses.

We left you confused, but nothing is ever particularly accurate from word of mouth, anyway. Let alone when the god of mischief has anything to do with it.

I hope you find relief in this enlightenment.

Resuming where we left off, after a day of contemplation in your new world (and with the help of Morwen, your new goat-loving companion), you attempt to summon Elostia.

She finally gets to take a moment of breath. All howler monkeys have been evacuated and the conflict has been averted. It only took the equivalent of two mortal decades. Elostia sits down, takes a sip of water, sighs. She looks around her crystal cave, and opens a whirring portal to the wave realm, where she grew up. With a click of her purple fingers, it silences. Within her portal, there are soft tides that retreat from the warm sand, leaving little shelled creatures in its wake. It’s reminiscent of a place called the Bahamas on Earth, though the waves are violet, and the dusty red corner of mars covers half of the evening sky. She can hear the calm break of waves whoosh across white beach sand - and now a blaring red light is pulsing in the corner of her eye. An incoming summons. Goddamn it, what else could it be? Why can’t they talk to someone else? She storms across the room and opens a three-dimensional seeing-sphere – you? You’re still aliv - okay? The goddess presses the button to open a portal.

“Our hero! You’re done already? I was definitely expecting that!” She beams, her hands locked together in glee. “What do you mean nothing? You mean nothing left? Well done - oh. There was no evil?” Elostia closes the portal and stares blankly into the distance. There are footsteps behind her, tapping on the glass floor. She breaks out of her trance and turns to see a completely white figure, like paper, stealing glances at the seeing-sphere from around the corner – “oh you –” Ereyse throws a shoe and opens the portal back up before sprinting out of the room - “ah! Sorry, disturbance in the portal, nothing to worry about. Uh - I’m sorry, but once you’ve been killed, you can’t be un-killed. We don’t want another one of those same person resurrections, really messes with people, you know?” She chuckles nervously, rubbing her fingers against her forehead. “Live your life! Seems like you’ve already made a friend!” Morwen waves shyly at her in loving admiration from the portal. “Why don’t you-” there’s a crash. “-give me a moment, portal things, ha.” She closes the communication.

Ereyse and their damned trickery.

“GET YOUR HANDS-” Elostia rushes out of her cave, and across the crystal paths that run around the galaxy dimension, she sees a red man the size of a three-story building chasing after a mousey white Ereyse with a stack of papers. He briefly loses his footing and almost topples from a thinner sleeve of path, but quickly regains his balance and vehemently roars.

Oh no, it’s Abrax. Not the data again.

At this point, they’d already had seventeen wars over sabotaged statistics - Ereyse finds it frustratingly amusing to change data on official documents, and Abrax doesn’t share the same sentiment. “STOP TOUCHING-” it would be nice if they found a new hobby.

Elostia rushes back into her cave and opens the portal. “Sorry, gotta run, very important things to do. Have fun! Bye!” She floats outside again- “ADEPHA- GRAB THOSE PAPERS- NO, NOT THE GOATS!”

And that, my wonderful readers, is the end of our story. This statistics war waged on for three decades. By the time it was finished, Elostia reluctantly sacrificed an entire planet to hold all the papers that Abrax had reprinted over the years and sectioned it off from public immortal use. Its official name is the Paper Planet, but most call it the Forbidden Dead Tree Dimension (FoDeTreD) . Ereyse was banished to the Second Dimension. Technically they can leave whenever they wish, but they enjoy their little hut in the never-ending scarlet forest, so the chance of a breakout is unlikely for the next few eons.

As for you, you will have a much simpler time when the events of this story conclude. I know a lot, but I don’t know what you’ll do. Maybe it won’t be too difficult in this world - with your bestowed powers, in exchange for a good home and excellent food, you could travel the kingdom to complete impossible duties. You could return to the village for roasties night with Clarina and Silas. They would want to show off their new daffodils. The power of the future is yours. You could even temporarily shift the whole village across the kingdom for a beach holiday. This would be an interesting experience, because though it looks similar there to an Earth beach, if you sit on a patch of sand for too long, it will angrily shove you off. Sentient sand would be an unexpected addition to your adventures in this world, but it’s up to you whether you embrace it.

You’ll achieve great things in your future and experience wonders beyond your imagination. I’ll let you decide what those are, though. You get the choice, after all.

It’s a story for another day.