O nobly-born, harken and heed, that the Veil that separates the Spheres are but the playthings of the Gods, Almighty Glory Upon Them, and that the Veil is all-and-ever shifting, like the motherly river of the Kautasta. And the Gods, Almighty Glory Upon Them, guide the winds that shift the Veil. Thus, they allow the passing and coming between the Spheres, the unlife and life of all at their behest and whim.
The Diviner of Time, Book IX.48
And lo, the Goddess Laitha, the Silk Maiden, Daughter of the Angelic Path, She Who is Never-Wrought, brought the linen-plumed hero back to stand with his comrades-in-arms, spear and shield in hand to fulfil the Gods-ordained victory over the Akamites. He who had his head hewed off his shoulders a passing of the light ago, now stood as beautiful and war-like as never before.
Tale of the Nine Lands, Song 9
Praise Koinon, the Master of the High Halls, your grace radiant and eternal. Yours is the glory of all the Land, the Hollow Sphere, and the Heavens. May thy mercy shine upon this one at the moment of passing, and return this one back to the Coil from whence it came.
Prayer of Rebirth, Biblia Thea, 225.1
After the Third Great Landing, Astral King Heliander the Crosser made Tol-Antioc his great city of power and from there exerted the might of the Throne of Light across all the nearby lands of the Close Horizon. The malakiai who had inhabited these lands were thrown out with blade or words or spell, and by Year 834 of the Third Age of Kythia, the helikiai had formed a new kingdom they called Seldonia; a mark of respect of the Goddess of the Lunar Cycle that married the God of the Solar Cycle of their homeland of Helidonia. The bright light shone from their cities of Tol-Antioc and Tol-Yveria and Tol-Sankytheia, and it is said by all the sage truthmancers and godspeakers that it shall henceforth never dim on the people of the helikiai.
A History of the Close and Far Horizons, Book I.4
So it is said that it was the Great Mother Kythia and the Great Father Archeon who first created the Hollow Sphere, perched on top of the All-Golden Spires of the High Sphere, so it is said by the Old Ones, it was equally in their wisdom and in their boredom. They wished for more lands to rule, for more land for the bright images of their visions to inherit. They made the Hollow Sphere, and in it they forged Progaia, the First World, and wrought in its middle the Holy Lands, Hieras. Hieras was gifted to the firstborn sons and daughters of their Holy Visions, and they rose beautiful and strong, soon to name themselves the names the Great Mother and Great Father had provided them; the Helikiai and the Thymai.
To the far west, the Mother and Father forged the Close and Far Horizons, and to the far east, the Close and Far Expanses; and there the Great Mother and Great Father populated the lands with those who were not part of their visions, the wretched and the evil races that inhabit the First World, their malice kept at bay by the vast oceans. But the first-born children will one day inherit entire Progaia, and the Gods have ordained it so. So it is said.
The Song of the First, Stanza 4-5
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A long slender arm stretched out languidly and delicate, thin fingers plucked a flower with bright blue petals that had no name in any of the Tongues, because it was not known to any of them who spoke it. The flower was brought up to a pristine face so beyond incomprehensibly beautiful that words could not describe it, apart from such objective facts that it was identifiably female, its eyes were bright golden, as was the long straight hair that fell over slender and pale shoulders. The figure was known by many names in many languages; Lamoise, Jaugandery, Lysta, Q’hara, Slanashen, Kythia, and countless besides. “She” took a long whiff of the flower, delighting in its aroma, swirling it underneath her nose… before setting it aflame with a single thought. Kythia let the ashes fall slowly to the floor of the pleasure palace’s gardens, a menial servant-soul immediately appearing from behind the shadows of the pillars to remove it with their bare hands, before retreating as quickly as possible out of sight, hoping desperately they hadn’t been noticed by the goddess.
“I am so unfathomably tired of this existence,” Kythia shouted out to seemingly no one in particular and spun around on the god-marble floor, her long white dress swirling around her, the gemstones it was inlaid with glittering in the bright light. She let herself fall backwards, a lounging upholstered bench suddenly having appeared behind her, and she landed among the cushions with a soft thud.
“How many eons has it been since anything interesting has happened?” she continued to whinge. “How long a time has passed since anything that could even be remotely regarding as a worthwhile pastime? All we do in the Spires are eat, drink and frolic, and observe the mortals. How many thousands of revolutions of the Orb around the First World has there been since the last great sundering, or the emergence of a new race? Have all the ‘kin turned to salt, but none of us are aware of it?”
“I do not know what you want me to say,” a “male” voice replied from somewhere, originating from a different pleasure palace on a different spire. “Affairs are as they always have been since the dawning of the Spheres, the Godskind watch over their godspawn and judge their souls, and we take care to apply ourselves with appropriate leisure while carrying out our tasks.” As if to underscore that last point, the voice let out a bellowing burp.
Kythia sneered, twisting her beautiful facial features into a vicious snarl.
“You disgust me sometimes, Tymeon, that you have no further ambition nor desire rather than to simply judge the lives of the mortals, instead of something more, something grander. Surely I cannot be the only one languishing in this miserable dearth of non-existence?”
“My dear Kythia…” the godly being called Tymeon, but also Brachio, Tesk, L’cosch’he, and more besides, responded with a sigh, proving that this was not the first time they had had this conversation. “You know what I think of the matter, but I will say it again, because you never seem to understand it regardless of how many times I repeat it. You, Great Mother, have it too good. Your ‘ambition’ stems from lack of competition. It is easy to grow blasé when you are as worshipped as you. By all the Spheres, you are the Great Mother, you and Great Father Archeon were the ones to envision the mortal realms and the Coils in the first place, all those uncountable eons ago. You two never have to claw for the mortals’ favour and devotion, your gifts rain upon them not even as an afterthought, and their devotion is so strong that it is a miracle if one of your Firstborn are not returned through the Passing of the Veils.”
Kythia rolled her eyes as a servant-soul from one of the lesser races materialised to pour her a goblet of wine made from a type of grape that would never grow outside the High Sphere.
“Flatter will get you nowhere, Tymeon…” she rasped, but it did, it always did, and she smiled lopsidedly.
“Regard some of the Godskind then, like Selenaīs, she who is Lunara, Sellas, Nesphe…”
“Get on with it, my patience is non-existent today,” Kythia said testily, sipping her wine.
A grunt from the other god. “She is merely the goddess of the High Moon, Kythia, she has only a veritable handful of mortals who give her their undivided devotion. In return, she spends so much of her divine energy by granting donations in return, personally following her champions and chosen. You, by compare, spread your gifts liberally across the untold masses, and noble such actions are, it is impossible for you to maintain a personal vigil of your greatest devotees. Your plenitudes of faithful is the source of your overabundance of energy, and thereby, overall idleness.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, you have chosen to include in your domain the love of drink and food.”
Tymeon snorted with laughter.
“Says the Great Mother, Goddess of Birth, Rebirth, Fertility and Nature.”
“There are no rules among the Gods and the Godskind that your gifts have to be individual or unique. And all Godskind are given the power to send souls between Coils and Spheres, which is why we are gods in the first place. Or else, any powerful being could call themselves a ‘god’.”
A wisp of an idea suddenly appeared in the recesses of Kythia’s mind, something to alleviate the uneventful and stagnant equilibrium of the High Sphere.
“Tymeon, my dear,” she purred, “I do believe I would like to call a Godsmoot.”
She could hear the other god spit out his own drink.
“By the Spires, Kythia, you cannot be serious. There hasn’t been a Godsmoot since the banishment of Beskeron and Baskarion four Ages ago!”
“Precisely,” she smiled broadly, sipping her wine while ruminating on the embryonic idea that had formed in the back of her mind, “it is time for all the Godskind to reconvene. Shake up this dreadful state of nothingness. And I have the perfect idea as to how.”
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The Sakrosanktorion was the inviolate meeting grounds of the Godskind where they all, lesser to greater, had an equal voice and an equal seat. Within those hallowed halls of divine marble and golden pillars, where herald-cherubai flew between the grand halls and auditoriums, lofty feasting rooms, gilded androskyneions, guarded by the Immortals, the Godskind met on extremely important occasions. Well, that what was the angellos proclaimed loudly anyway, and most of that was true. What was less than honest about that was the part about important events –in truth, it also happened when some of the Godskind felt like playing factional politics, and wage their incessant personal feuds–, and the part about everyone being equal. Every Godskind and even their servant-souls, from the highest castellan to lowliest menial, knew there were a handful of gods whose voice bore significantly more weight than the rest’s. The Grand Symposion, where the official moot was held, was a partially open air amphitheatre with tiered rows of seats, a central speaker’s dais on the floor as well as a further dais among the seats where a dozen small throne chairs were placed. Those belonged to the Archontes, the twelve most powerful of the Godskind.
Power to the Godskind was a highly relative term, even the lesser Godskind were capable of feats that mortals could merely dream of, but the Archontes had, through the innumerable eons amassed divine strength that dwarfed even lesser Gods. An Archonte could create continents, even entire worlds within the Hollow Sphere, though only through the combined efforts of Kythia and Archeon had the formation of Progaia, the First World, been possible. But Archontes could raise mountains and drain seas, ignite stars and create life, all at their own personal whim. In the anarchic Far Past, some of the Archontes had done this as merely a pastime, until the Godsmoot had been arranged, and the activity of all the Godskind had been regulated under the watchful eye of an assembly of peers. Punishment for transgression was the stripping of the dominion of souls, reducing a Godskind to a mere daemon; a powerful entity in its own right, but nothing close to what it had once been. The Coil and the Spheres were lost to daemons, forced at best to roam the Hollow Sphere, or to pass away into the Nether at worst.
There had not been called a Godsmoot in nearly three-thousand revolutions of the Orb, and while time was an abstract construct to even mortals (Helikiai and Thymai often argued how the passing of seasons and years should be counted, which was in stark contrast to how the Malakiai or the Thassaoi did it, not to mention the stubborn Dwamorroi in their burrows), it was even more abstruse for the denizens of the High Sphere. Yet, there was a palpable tension among the gathering Godskind, a sense of something unique that had not happened for a very long time, and the very notion of stepping down from their pleasure palaces, sky-chariots, azure lake gazebos, and other godly dwellings was exciting and strangely invigorating. Granted, a further ninety six revolutions of the Orb had passed since Kythia’s and Tymeon’s mind-conversation, but Kythia had not spent that time idly. As the about four hundred Godskind that had agreed to meet started to fill the seats of the Grand Symposion –there were about three score more who had not responded or sent the assigned angelloi back bearing harsh rebukes–, Kythia could not help feel the corners of her mouth creep upwards into a big smile. Perhaps the first genuine grin she had had in an Age, now that she thought about it.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
She could not wait any longer. Kythia stepped onto the speaker’s dais and the chatter amongst the throngs of Godskind died almost immediately once they recognised who stood in front of them, and who had called this exceptionally rare Godsmeet. Now, divine beings were not ones for outrageous emotional outbursts, so the polite applause Kythia received was as good as any standing cheering ovation, and she internally basked in it. But she did not let it show outwardly how much she lapped up the attention. Instead she opened her arms wide to seemingly embrace the collective audience of the Symposion.
“My brothers and sisters!” she said in a loud and clear voice that carried from the first row where the Greater Kin sat, to the very back where sanctified daemons had been forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. “For too long has this great divine realm been in the throes of stagnation and apathetic equilibrium. I cannot be the only amongst our noble kind who has sensed this, despite that such a number of ages has passed that some of us might have become numb to the sensations. Look no further than to Progaia herself, and to what the Firstborn have done in our veritable absence.”
“You speak of absence, Lady,” shouted Tethronous, he who is Ungyr, Maketh, K’emeth’ek, Sirkle, one of the Archontes –the Archonte of Death and Undying–, “but for my own part, I have ever been a presence in the lives and unlives of the mortals. If I was absent, or what you term as ‘numb’, the mortal realms would be overflowing with those who are overripe, and then some, for death.”
Kythia smirked confidently, hoping exactly for Tethronous or perhaps Nessira to speak up in protest. She affixed a polite smile and looked right at the seated harrowing pale and dark figure on the upper dais.
“Lord Tethronous,” she said in a faux-sweet tone, “I would never speak ill of any of the Godskinds’ continued effort to exert their domain over the Hollow Sphere, for we all have our all-important part to play, from grandiose to seemingly meaningless. Your work is indeed important, and I thank all of you for your diligent care for your duties. But we are Godskind for a reason, and where even a single mortal prays to one of our kin, they have a reason to expect at least a part of our divine attention.”
With a flourish of her white and golden dress, Kythia stepped quickly down from the dais and instead walked barefoot onto the amphitheatre’s floor.
“But I do not bring you all together today for the first time in countless revolutions to discuss the respective hardship of each of the ‘kind, but therein lies the crux of the matter. The Firstborn and the Lesser Races have mingled in such great numbers, that the sheer amount of devotees and followers each of us must care for, have reached such numbers to become a faceless mass.”
“For some of us more than others,” Ambarr, he who is Morgond, Veilhammer, Geruth, shouted from somewhere in the middle of the rows of seats, producing chuckles from the crowd, some of them sounding more than a little envious.
Kythia rewarded the jest with a thin smile, before continuing.
“And that is why I this day come bearing the suggestion of a contest. A contest of the likes of which the High Sphere and the Spires have never seen the likes of before.”
Murmurs broke out amongst the seated Godskind, confusion written in their myriad of chosen projected faces. A few sneers and a couple of disapproving sounds came from the direction of the upper seats. Eumegaia, she who is Laitha, Oriella, Cecadene, Isteth, the Archonte of Transcended Beauty, Music, Poetry, and Tales crossed her arms on the elevated dais, and her piercing grey eyes became suspicious slits.
Kythia held up her hands in a both a placating and silencing gesture.
“We have existed for uncounted eons as veritable equals,” she continued with a calm but loud voice, “with no one claiming lordship over the High Sphere, joined in mind as a single collective body since the raising of the Hollow Sphere and the First World, together since the formation of the Godsmoot. It is true, what some of you are thinking right now, that me and my spouse did create Progaia and were the propagators of the Hollow Sphere. But that was nineteen-thousand revolutions ago, and we both now find ourselves among our kindred in the Archontes. None of us claim the overlordship of anything outside our own Spires.”
Kythia looked quickly up at the towering figure of Great Father Archeon, dressed as he was in golden armour and holding the Sword of the Kindred by the grip, tip down on the marble floor. His long hair was as golden as hers, but held back from his forehead by a diadem of royal purple, and his large beard shrouded his mouth, no doubt forming a suspicious grimace right now. Kythia and Archeon had been spouses at the time when they forged the Hollow Sphere, but the lives of Gods are long, and they’d fallen out of each other’s favour more than five-thousand revolutions ago. Yet they still kept up the charade of being the only paired Gods in the High Sphere, a perceived image of the physical meeting the divine more than anything. Thus, they normally sat next to each other among the Archonte thrones, but they had almost no interaction beyond the few times the ‘kind met outside the Godsmoot.
“I thereby propose,” she continued in that same strong voice, reaching the ears of not only of all the Godskind, but also the angellos, the cherubai, and every servant-soul in the Sakrosanktorion, “a contest of fate and faith among all the Godskind. We derive our power through the faith of our followers, that is the Great Truth of the Gods, and should that wane, we lose what makes us special and exalted. Let us turn that into a challenge amongst all the Godskind. An Age from now, we will meet again here in the Sakrosanktorion, and compare the worship of each of the ‘kind, either in terms of number of devotees, or the amount of mortals gathered under the spiritual or physical leadership of a chosen mortal or champion.”
Silence stretched out. Then the amphitheatre burst alive with questions, enthusiastic declarations of support, shouted derision, and accusations. All of the Archontes, with the notable exception of Archeon, rose from their thrones and joined in the chorus, quite loudly in fact. Just the reaction Kythia had hoped for. She raised her arms in a silencing gesture once more, and gradually the shouts died down, but many ‘kind remained standing, all eyes focused intently on Kythia’s tall and slender figure.
“I will explain the rules and rewards of this contest. The being with the most followers, devotees, or the strongest champion with the most souls bound to their will, shall become the ever-first Hierarchonte of the High Sphere, ultimate master of all Godskind, Lesser Kin, Firstborn, and all other mortals. They shall rule in conjunction with the Archontes, but will be the ultimate first amongst equals, their say shall weight the highest of all Godskind. This title shall be theirs for a full Age, and will remain so during this Age while the rest of the Godskind compete in a new round of contest. Thus the High Sphere shall once again be a realm of creativity, creation, competition and…”
She was interrupted by excited whispers and mumbling, but it disappeared as soon as she started speaking anew.
“If I may continue, the rules are quite simple. First, a Godskind cannot bestow upon their chosen, their champions, or their followers divine gifts that are unobtainable by means of any Firstborn or mortal, gifts they would have no chance to control if not for divine interference. Second, a Godskind cannot manifest in any Firstborn or mortal as an avatar; the actions of any faithful must be of their own free will, and any tampering with such will be severely punished. That is all.”
Horyx, they who are Lamin, Dreygorath, N’akath, put their arm in the air in polite askance, and Kythia nodded towards them, and the God of the Umbral stood up.
“I have three questions, Lady, if you’ll permit me.” The Lord of Night’s tone was polite and their words mellow, but it was impossible to discern any sort of gender, as they were shrouded in a cape of willowing darkness, only the thin and pale lower half of their face could be seen. Kythia made a welcoming gesture with an arm, offering the god to continue.
“First is the obvious, Lady, that of the Archontes and their immense following. The Archontes are the prime Gods, bringers of gifts that all mortals seek, and as such have the largest flock of devotees. You will, if you’ll excuse me, start this contest with a very unfair advantage. Two, you speak of punishment, might I ask what this entails? And three, is there an opt-out for those who not wish to partake?”
The Night Lord sat down again, the crowd applauding politely at the positing of questions on all their tongues.
“I have two answers to give, Lord Horyx,” Kythia said, her smile growing even larger. “The Archontes will, in our good graces, sit out this first round of the contest. When we reconvene after an Age, the winner will come from those not seated on the exalted thrones.”
If any of the Archontes disliked what Kythia was proclaiming, she had to admit they were hiding it very well, though she knew that Eumegaia, Strateia (she who is Iokasta, Anshi, Akko-Neri), and Akmarchos (he who is Sidvaa, Cu-Eidhan, Hvrædhoggr) would be burning with fire-hot anger on the inside.
“As to the punishment and decision not to join are the same: The rescinding of one’s godhood, removal of their power to control the Veils, and the reduction to a daemon, albeit a sanctified one if merely not joining.”
The silence this time was one born from astonishment, but instead of shouting, there was instead an intense murmuring between the ‘kind seated next to each other. Kythia’s smile started to hurt. Yes, she thought, this will be an interesting Age, the most interesting since the Raising of the Spheres, and make no mistake. Let the Blood Games commence.
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A set of blue-painted lips split into a small smile, revealing perfect white teeth, some of which were in fact fangs, and eyes as grey as the moonlight veritably glittered with fascination, and one could almost see the machinations being considered behind those lunar-like eyes. A death-pale hand came up to support the resting head of the goddess, hair as pale as her eyes cascading down from her head.
“How very interesting,” she murmured, and her smile grew a little wider. Ambarr turned to look at her, as she was seated next to him.
“You look like you enjoy the idea of Lady Kythia’s challenge, Selenaīs. Might one ask the High Moon and Star-sister’s mind on this?”
Selenaīs, she who is Nesphe, Khasuia, Nazasarte, Ilmathaia, Goddess of the High Moon, the High Beasts and Blessed Light, also commonly called Lightdrinker and Starmaiden, turned to the other God and spoke in her usual hushed voice which was somehow never drowned out by other sounds.
“It is a most excellent scheme, I think, dear Forgefather. Lady Kythia is suggesting, nay carrying out, many things at once. She is creating sport and excitement among the Godskind to an extent never seen before by pitting us up against one another in one great all-against-all battle, and giving the Archontes the privilege of staying above the din of the competition by oh-so-gracefully backing out because of the size of their flocks of followers. It would have been no sport competing against the Goddess of Love or the God of War for instance, it is enough that the emotion of love and the partaking in warfare to exist among mortals for them to be among the strongest of the ‘kind.”
“Fair point, and it did strike me as odd that they would sit out, especially since they should be veritably bursting at the seams with pure, unrefined divine power given by their faithful. The Great Father should add ‘self-restraint’ to his repertoire.”
Selenaīs smiled, but not at the poor jest from the God of Smithwork. Another took notice of their conversation.
“I noticed Lady Kythia mentioned a crucial detail,” the high voice said from behind, leaning forward in his seat, head resting on tented fingers, making Ambarr turn his head around to look at the one who had spoken, while Selenaīs did not, enraptured as she was in her own thoughts. Lacuil, he who is Bar-Hadon, Aidinhain, Han-Mohan, the God of Low and High Arcane, presenting himself in long green robes inlaid with gold, nodded his bald head in appreciation.
“She said the Godskind with the most followers, or with the most souls bound to a chosen. She specified this was in both or either a spiritual or physical aspect. I quite like the word-play of her little game. It makes my humours tingle for the first time since the mortals discovered the Arcane. Quite interesting indeed.”
“Kythia is also purging the Godskind, dear Forgefather and dear Loremaster,” Selenaīs said, acknowledging the comments made by the newcomer in the conversation. “There is a lot more that Lady Kythia did not say, but which lies beneath the words she did speak. If all the Godskind start vying for the mortals’ favour all at once, there will be over five hundred of us in direct competition for only so many mortal souls, many of whom will be impossible to sway from the Archontes, especially among the Firstborn. One strategy is to return every faithful soul back to the Hollow Sphere when Passing the Veils, but then the Nether would wither and the High Sphere and the other worlds of the Hollow Sphere besides Progaia would suffer as well.”
Ambarr had clearly not thought of this and was becoming more and more enraptured by the Lunar Goddess’ words. Lacuil simply nodded, further slipping into his own planning and divinations.
“So that means we will in essence be vying for the loyal devotion of the souls of the Firstborn, Those Gifted Upon Passing, and a relatively low amount of other mortals and Lesser Races, since those make up the servant-souls in the High Sphere and the Nether. And if a Godskind does not have enough faith to sustain their divine powers, they automatically become daemons, despite not forfeiting the game or break any rules. This is nothing but an orchestrated blood sport among the divine beings, with a very enticing prize.”
Selenaīs’ smile grew wider, and her fangs caught on her lips hard enough to draw blood. The pale blue liquid slowly dribbled down her chin, before a long, pale pink tongue emerged from her smiling mouth to lap it back up.
“A prize I very much intend to win.”