One did not need a third eye or a magical spell to realize that the atmosphere was… tense, to say the least.
The air inside the tavern was heavy, thick with silence and washed every so often by the stern glances of weary patrons. Granted, that tavern was not usually the liveliest of places. It was not the kind of place where drunken fights usually broke out, and it had not been graced by a band or a bard in several years. But still, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a merry place.
In fact, for all that the Corner Dice was relatively small and unkept, tucked away in a corner of the Empire Capital’s slums, that establishment was still beloved by its usual clients. And they all made a point of keeping it that way, a place where they could talk in hushed whispers and cheat at games of cards and bluffs without interference. Because that is how that place was supposed to be. Unseen and out of the way. Unassuming and hidden in plain sight.
After all, the Corner Dice wasn’t just an old and rotting tavern. No, it was much more than that.
That place was also a temple. A temple to the God of Thieves. And its regular patrons were patrons and priests both.
Still, none of them really felt that way, on that night. In the dingy confines of the relatively small tavern, none of the men and women present felt like either thieves or priests. None of them were cheating at cards, or talking about challenges and gambles, or speaking in hushed tones as they plotted the next great heist. In fact, none of them were even speaking at all. They were only drinking silently from cheap cups of ale, tensely looking at each other as if waiting for something. The dying fire coming from the hearth reflecting on the glint of daggers that hung from belts, hidden weapons being kept in plain view as if that could somehow reassure them.
None of them felt like thieves or priests. They all felt like rats. Scared rats, hiding away in the last corner they hoped was safe. Silently praying for a deliverance they knew would not come.
Because even though most of the world, or at least most of the Empire, was rejoicing at the recent events, they definitely were not. To the thief-priests in the Corner Dice, the last few weeks felt like the end of an era. As if they were listening to the dying throes of everything they knew.
Even though the only thing they could hear was the sound of the wind on the outside, and the faint snaps coming from the weak fire every now and then.
Until finally, a noise that was equal parts expected and unwelcome echoed through the tavern. The rusty hinges of the wooden door strained loudly as they were pushed open, drowning out the billowing gust that rushed into the tavern a few moments later. The same dragging, metallic noise then repeated itself, as the door was closed shut.
And by the time the raucous noise of moving rust finally quieted down, the tense atmosphere of the tavern had already shifted into open hostility.
The patrons of the Corner Dice were glaring at the newcomer, their eyes speaking of undisguised threat even as their lips remained tensely shut. Their hands going for the hilt of daggers, or gripping tightly at the handle of more exotic weapons. They were followers of the Thief God one and all, which also meant their lives had made them fighters and survivors.
So even though the Corner Dice rarely saw a brawl break out, that didn’t mean any of them were shy of beginning a fight.
Especially given the nature of that unwelcome guest.
The man who had just walked into the tavern was tall. Tall, broad-shouldered and clearly stronger than average. He wore a hooded robe that wouldn’t look out of place in a monk, with clear signs of wear and tear, but that still could not hide the powerful frame underneath it.
But of course, the experienced eyes of the surrounding thieves easily saw past those more obvious features. And they quickly noticed the small details that truly made that newcomer stand apart.
After all, although his hood was hiding his face, the sleeves of his robes were not long enough to hide his hands. And for all that calloused hands and black skin would usually mean that the newcomer was a foreigner from a faraway desert, the thieves knew better than to assume he was just a visitor from another continent.
On top of that, the robes themselves weren’t just of an unusual make, they were utterly alien. And even though they were clearly made with simplicity in mind, the cloth from which it was made was not one any of them had ever seen. Which was already telling, given how they had all stolen or traded everything, from the humble leather used by farmers to the finest silk imported from beyond the sea.
That the dull-brown robes were torn in some places meant nothing. For all they knew, the thing was probably as tough as a knight’s armor.
Not that it would stop them from trying to kill the newcomer, at the slightest provocation.
Still, despite the obvious hostility, the newcomer seemed unphased. His hooded head turning from one side to the other, as if searching for something, until his eyes finally settled on the one patron that was sitting alone. On the one man who was sitting on a barstool, without a drink on his hand, seemingly unphased by the atmosphere of the tavern.
The one man who was not glaring at the robed newcomer. Who didn’t even bother to turn around and glance at him ever since he entered. His long hair swaying ever so slightly as he fiddled with a set of dice he had in his hand.
Ignoring the undisguised threat that surrounded him, the robed newcomer made his way to the bar and sat next to the lonely man.
The wooden barstool groaned heavily in protest as the newcomer sat down. And a long, long minute dragged itself in silence before the long-haired man finally spoke up.
“You are not from around these parts, are you?” he asked with clearly feigned interest, his eyes still focused on the pair of dice he was twirling between his fingers.
“You could say that,” the robed man answered. His voice deep and guttural, like a civilized growl or perhaps like how the moving gears of a machine were meant to sound.
The robed man’s voice also had the obvious accent of magic to it, the rough inflexions that indicated he was using some sort of aid to translate his speech.
“Pray tell then,” the long-haired man said, finally turning to face the hooded newcomer. The faint light of the tavern vaguely illuminating his sharp eyes and surprisingly fair complexion. “What is a man who came from so far away doing in such a poor corner of the Empire?”
Neither of them was speaking loudly. But given the silent tension that draped the rest of the tavern, it would have been impossible for the other patrons not to overhear their conversation. Even if they did not want to.
And truth be told, no one else was really bothering to hide that they were listening in. In fact, some of them even tilted their heads slightly, as they waited to learn of the newcomer’s intentions.
“I have come here seeking God,” the robed man answered.
To which the long-haired man answered with a raised eyebrow, the dice he was holding disappearing with a sleight of hand as he passed a finger on his thin moustache.
“Not the answer I was expecting, I admit,” he said, eyeing the hooded man’s attire, “especially given you… well, dare I say your profession?”
“Ah, apologies,” the robed man said, waving a hand while shaking his head as if he had just committed a silly mistake. “I meant to say that I am here looking for a god.”
He said that, and then he took a hand to his hood, lowering it and showing his face.
Revealing the fact that he had been looking straight into the long-haired man’s eyes that whole time.
“Some are trickier to find than others,” he continued speaking, without breaking his gaze, “but here we are.”
His skin was a dark brown, like an old tree or perhaps the fur of a bear. His head was cleanly shaven, without a single hint of a beard or hair on it. His face was youthful, and almost gentle-looking, but his eyes had in them the glint of discipline and focus. As if he was in the middle of a business negotiation, or working on something that required a great deal of concentration, rather than just talking.
As he pulled his hood back, the contrast between his hands and his face also became that much clearer. His hands were strong and calloused, pitch black as if they had been burned in a fire, whereas the rest of his skin only made him look like he stood under the sun for far too long.
But most of all, the markings he had on his neck and face also became immediately apparent. The stylized bisected circles drawn in purple ink, that went from the back of his neck all the way to the top of his head, clearly marking him as a follower of a particular religion.
The long-haired man met his gaze, his eyes also suddenly intense and focused.
And the rest of the tavern almost seemed to freeze around them.
The long-haired man let out a sigh, as if he was nursing a headache of sorts. Resting an elbow on the bar as his expression shifted between annoyance and perhaps disgust.
“The first time your… kind arrived,” the long-haired man began to say, his previously smooth tone of voice completely gone. “Well, I think it’s fair to say everyone expected for there to be war.”
Almost absent-mindedly he opened his hand, and a pair of dice fell from his open palm as if they had been hidden there all along. Although curiously, he did not bother to look down at what his roll had been.
“Flying ships of blue and silver, landing on open fields in pillars of blue fire. And out of them came men and women that looked just like us, claiming that the night sky is a sea and that you just came from another star…” the long-haired thief said, almost as if reminiscing. Speaking of events that had happened perhaps half a year ago as if they were from an almost-forgotten past. “I think everyone expected there to be war. It’s how the world works, after all, and it’s natural for a sudden visitor to be seen with fear when he carries a sword that is bigger than yours.”
The robed man let out a low grunt, still looking at the thief with that same expression of focused concentration.
“What we didn’t expect, was for your flying ships to be full of… missionaries. Your people brought your religion with you when we were expecting fire. And the gates of cities that would have barred soldiers gladly opened up for an army of priests,” he said, letting out a small, mocking laugh. “And even though there were some incidents here and there, every ruler seems to be more than happy in letting your preachers inside their walls. For a chance to barter for the strange magics and stranger metals that you carry with you, that is.”
“I am sure you are going to make a point sooner or later,” the robed man said, to which the thief couldn’t help but nod.
“Yes, yes, of course. My point is that… even though your kind claims you are not here to conquer anyone… even though your ships are filled with monks and preachers, then why does it still feel like a war is being fought?” the thief asked.
However, much to his surprise, the robed man couldn’t help but notice that the thief was asking a genuine question. And as much as the thief’s tone of voice had traces of animosity in it, there was something about his words that told he was not just asking a rhetorical question.
Which caused the robed man himself to raise an eyebrow. Although he wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was uncertainty or curiosity.
“That is a strange question, coming from something like you,” the robed man began to say, “I figured you better than anyone wo-“
“Something?” but the thief interrupted him. “Surely you mean someone, right? Or is your word-smithing magic not nearly as fancy as you take it to be?”
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And for all that the thief’s tone did not imply he took offense, that still gave the robed man pause.
“I really do mean something,” came the reply, although his tone was as interested as it was cautious. “After all, you are a God.”
The robed man said those words with only a moment of hesitation, as if he was at the same time saying something that was both obvious and secret. Almost as if a part of him wondered if the thief himself knew it.
But the Thief God answered with nothing but a snort and an eye roll.
“I was born, I steal, I bleed,” he began to say, waving a hand at the tavern around them as if stating the obvious. “I sleep in the streets and come to this dingy place whenever I have the coin for good company or bad drinks. Saying I’m a God is just a title. So please, why don’t you tell me why I am different from any other human?”
The robed man answered him with a nod, as if conceding a point. And when he opened his mouth to speak, his tone was a lot less cautious than it was before. Truth be told, his words were almost… academic? Unreserved? Maybe even friendly?
“Be that as it may, your situation is still rather unique. Let me ask you a question in return, do you know what a God is? Do you know how thin-… how beings like you come into existence?”
“Can’t say I ever bothered to find out,” the thief said with a shrug. “For all that I care, I just live longer and know a little more from experience. But I started like a hungry urchin, abandoned to the streets, just like every other orphan in any other city of the Empire.”
Something in his answer made the robed man smile, even if just a little. The softness in his expression at odds with the rough edges of his voice.
“Well, the answer isn’t really that strange. Maybe a part of you even knows it already. But Gods are made by humans,” the robed man said.
To which the thief once again shrugged, either because he wasn’t surprised or because he just did not care.
“Humans make humans all the time. If anything, you are just proving my point that Gods and humans aren’t different things at all.”
“Perhaps. But there is a bit of a twist to it. Because you see, everything a person does... Every act performed, every word spoken, and even every thought that passes through a person’s mind, it carries with it a trace amount of magic,” the robed man continued to speak, looking at the Thief God’s expression with interest. “And of course, that includes prayers. But if you take that tiny bit of magic and multiply it by… thousands of faithful, over months and years and decades, and suddenly you have quite a lot of magic gathered.”
“I already heard the spiel that Gods are ideas, you aren’t really saying anything new.”
“But who said the origin of a God had to be something new? Or complicated? Or even hard to reproduce? When a child does it, we call it an imaginary friend. When a village does it, we call it folklore. If there is some organization to it, then it might be enshrined in an altar as a local deity. And when a civilization does it, we call it a God.”
But the thief answered that with a frown. Maybe because the robed man had just given a very clinical and cold explanation to his entire existence, or maybe because he had just been compared to a glorified imaginary friend. Regardless of the reason he drummed his fingers on the bar for a few moments, before he realized the robed man was waiting for him to say something.
“So what, that’s it? That’s all there is to Gods? Just a bunch of stray magic that happened to gather for one reason or the other? I know a few of the other Gods that walk this world, and they don’t seem to be… well, to be just that.”
“And why is that?” the robed man asked, his tone almost like that of a teacher.
“Because they are worshipped, for starters? Because they influence humans like a king orders his subject?” the Thief God said, speaking more and more quickly with each word that came out of his mouth. “Because they can act and think and want just like any other human? Just like I do?”
But the robed man asked a question that stopped the thief’s words dead on their tracks.
“Do they really?” he asked.
And the thief paused for yet another moment at the robed man’s words. The displeasure on his expression souring even more.
“What do you mean do we really? Of course we do! Even if what you are saying is true, then it just shows that Gods are just like humans. It just shows that Gods are humans. We are free to do whatever we want, to hate and help whoever we want. And you will find Gods who are tyrants and Gods who are kind, the same way you will find people anywhere else!”
“And that,” the robed man said, tapping a hand against the bar, “is where you are wrong.”
The two men faced each other for a few moments, their expressions and moods almost exact opposites, before the robed man continued to talk.
“A prisoner wishing for freedom, a hungry man stealing bread for the first time, the cold sweat of a person who can only pray for luck. Those are very specific thoughts, that carry a very particular color. Very different from, say, a noble wishing his king will live a long life, or a general preparing for war.”
“So you are saying we don’t have a will of our own?”
“I am saying that Gods are things whose nature is defined to them, by their worshippers. An evil God that punishes its followers is, ironically, exactly what they asked for. A God that is worshipped through concepts that are easy and simple to understand might be very great, fattened by worship, but it will also be a very simple-minded thing. Almost like a force of nature.”
The thief made to say something, but the robed man raised a hand to interrupt him. And the movement failed to carry any rudeness in it only because his expression was so placating.
“However… However… sometimes, a God can become a very complex being indeed. More than just sentient. More than just a… just a machine of pulleys and levers, of predictable cogs that were put in place by the silent consensus of a hundred generations.”
The two men faced each other for a few more moments, before the Thief God made to speak through pursed lips.
“You said you came here looking for a God… why?”
The robed man put his hands together, and he replied as if that was the simplest question in the world.
“Because I am. It’s what I do. It is, for lack of a better word, the way I serve my own God.”
The robed man said that. And even though he was wearing the robes of a monk, and the purple ink on the back of his shaved head painted a picture of worship and piety, he said those words without a trace of reverence.
He said those words as if they were a matter of fact. His tone was almost professional.
“You see, a God is like a… let’s say that a God is like a storm. A fierce hurricane that covers a very large location, be it a city or an entire continent. When a person prays to that God, be it through words, actions or even thoughts, it is as if they were blowing more wind in the same direction as the hurricane,” the robed man says that, using the tip of his finger to draw a circle on the grimy top of the bar. “Conversely, prayers for another God are… hampered. Like trying to row a boat against a current. Not impossible, and not futile, but part of the energy is lost with the effort.”
“And you were looking for a God… you were looking for me, because?”
“Well, because the easiest way to get rid of that storm, or at least make it disperse more quickly, is to kill the God.”
The robed man said that, and the air around the thief immediately froze. Both because of the obviously implied threat he just heard, but also because he was… well, because he was visibly shocked.
“That… isn’t possible,” the Thief God said.
“Isn’t it? From the way you spoke, I thought you were almost proud to be like humans. Weren’t you born like us? Don’t you bleed? Then why wouldn’t you be able to die?” The robed man’s words were still calm, almost as if he was giving a lecture. “A God that is too simple, like a giant, thoughtless storm, can be dismantled by rituals. Like one gigantic exorcism. Gods that are complex enough to be sentient, to have focused thoughts concentrated somewhere, can be destroyed. It really becomes a matter of knowing how to apply force.”
“No, you don’t…” the thief said, shaking his head as if lost for words. “That’s not how it works. Gods can kill other Gods, sometimes. But mortals… humans can’t kill Gods. It just can’t happen!”
The robed man looked at the Thief God for a few moments, as if wondering how to best phrase what he would say next.
“Then why… did you tell me that you feel like a war is happening, despite my people being only missionaries? Why are all your robber-priests here, huddled like scared children around you? Why… are you here, hidden away?”
He asked that, but he did not give the thief any time to answer. Instead, he reached into one of the pockets of his robes, and took out a small item.
The golden locket, held by a chain of silver, fell onto the dirty surface of the bar with a metallic clink.
“The central deity of the Empire is… or rather, he was based off the worship of kings and thunder, right? A great warrior who unified ancient tribes and fought off invaders, or whatever variation of the tale it follows, am I correct?”
The Thief God did not answer. In fact, it didn’t even look like he was listening to the robed man’s words. His gaze, the entirety of his attention, was fixated on the locket that had been unceremoniously dropped on the bar.
It was a lovingly crafted locket. The craftsmanship was skilled, but it had clearly been forged with old tools, and even older methods. It had the symbol of a hammer crossed by a thunder, the unmistakable sign of the Cult of the Hammer.
It was also very, very old. Perhaps older than the organized religion itself.
“I know you heard the rumors, of how the Cult of the Hammer has been losing followers like a punctured bucket loses water. Of how its God isn’t answering his own priests prayers anymore. Of how their Head Patriarch himself committed suicide, jumping off from the highest tower of his own cathedral.”
The robed man slowly turned his gaze away from the thief, looking at the locket as he spoke, as if lost in his own thoughts.
“I’m sure you felt it. The sudden decrease in pressure. How every passing day it feels like there is a vacuum forming over the Empire. And how every other God that tries to take up its place also just vanishes.”
His hands once again went to his pockets, and he began to take out a string of items. Tossing them all unceremoniously on the bar, next to the locket.
A pair of old, rusted coins, meant to be placed over the eyes of a recently deceased person. An onyx tipped writing feather, meant to tally a merchant’s riches. A bag full of seeds, meant for the coming harvest.
“Like I said, it is how I serve my God.”
The Thief God’s voice was cold as he said his next words. His voice was cold, and his eyes were colder.
“Does that mean you are here to kill me?”
He spoke that with the voice of a fugitive, who has eluded the law his entire life. He said that with the tone of a hungry child, who survived starvation and oppression and the harshness of a city that would never care if he lived or died. His was the face of a every man, woman and child who never found a place for themselves in the world, so they carved it with a rusty knife and built it up with stolen coin.
Because even though he had no idea of how that might even be possible, the Thief God was acutely aware that the robed man had not spoken a single lie that entire night.
And it was terrifying how the robed man not only held his gaze, but also answered him with the same curious tone he had been using the whole time. With his low, rumbling voice that somehow felt both warm and careful.
“Only if you make me.”
“You said the presence of other Gods get in the way of yours… so explain.”
“Like I said, most Gods are like forces of nature. Or like machines that spend so long being guided by human thought that they begin to develop their own. But every now and then, the nature of their worship is nuanced enough… their origin and role is complex enough, that they can be reasoned with. That they can do what almost no God can.”
“And that thing would be…?” the Thief God asked, his words marred by tension.
“Going against their nature,” the robed man answered simply. “Almost all Gods are rivers, and their nature is to simply flow. But sometimes a God has enough agency over itself… it can align itself, to the point that they are no longer working against other Gods.”
The robed man said that as he nodded to the small pile of items that lay on the bar.
“The theologists can explain it away as an alliance, or a pact, or even by claiming certain Gods are siblings or in a family. But the fact remains that even those ties are almost always born with the God… But for a God to create such a relationship where it didn’t exist before, that is something rare indeed. Pride, arrogance, their very nature… too many things usually stand in their way.”
The Thief God looked at the items in front of him, then at the robed man, and then at the bar around him. At his friends who called themselves his priests, who weren’t quite exactly frozen, but weren’t quite exactly awake either.
And finally, he wondered if the robed man was really telling the truth. After all, maybe that was all just a ruse by another God, maybe that was all just a product of his own imagination.
But he liked to believe he knew a liar when he saw one.
And even though he did have his own pride, and perhaps his own arrogance… he was first and foremost the God of survivors. Because whether they call themselves poor, or beggars, or thieves, or liars, or just criminals, every part of him was in one way or the other a survivor.
“So you are telling me that… there is a way we can talk this out?” the Thief God asked, cautiously, nervously.
To which the robed man answered with a smile.
“My God is a baker,” he said simply, “he was generous enough to make a man like me a Cardinal, and he is usually generous enough to anyone who bothers to ask. Especially if you are hungry,” he said those last few words as if sharing a joke.
The robed man, the Cardinal, began to collect the trinkets he had all but thrown on the bar. Putting them back inside his pocket as if they were vaguely interesting prizes. Not caring at all at how old, or precious, or completely drained of power they were.
“Now, if you don’t mind. This is a very large planet, with a lot of very creative people on it. So, I have more things to do. But I will be in touch. For now, I only ask that you help my people whenever you can. They will be your people soon enough as well.”
With that, the Cardinal got up from the barstool and made to leave. The metallic noise of rusty hinges snapping the surrounding patrons from their curious stupor, blinking their eyes in confusion and wondering if they even saw the door open to begin with.
Leaving the Thief God alone with his friends and followers.
And just as he got up to leave himself, he realized he had almost forgotten his trusty pair of dice, which he had thrown on the bar and just left there.
A small part of him expected for them to be gone. Part of him thought, or perhaps even hoped, that the terrifying Cardinal of the star-born religion had stolen his dices, to keep them as a trophy like he seemed to keep so many other things.
But much to his surprise, they were still on the bar, right where he had thrown them.
And as he reached out to pick them up, he also realized he had not bothered to look at the results. He had not bothered to check what numbers he had rolled, just as he began a conversation that might as well have changed his fate.
“Huh. Two fours,” he said to himself, “great luck.”
With that, he threw a coin towards the bartender, and left the tavern. Whistling a merry tune as he went to explore the streets of the Empire’s Capital that was on the cusp of changing forever, for good or for bad, thanks to the preachers of Dango who descended from the sea of starts.
- - -
Ten years later, small traditions of the Thief God had already spread to almost every facet of society. And it became a tradition for the baker-priests of Dango to leave freshly baked food on the low windows of their churches for children to “steal”.
A hundred years later, worship of the Thief God became almost indistinguishable from that of Dango. As the faithful were taught from an early age that day and night were but two sides of the same coin. With common prayers asking the daylight for prosperity, and the glow of the moon for protection.
And a thousand years later, despite having changed his name and habits so many times over the centuries, the Thief God remained the only survivor of the pantheon of the long-forgotten Empire.