“-A-and it is by this decree that Lord Theadus, God of Light d-declares that the Goddess known as Istania, Goddess of Healing, was slain for acts of Black Magic, s-subversion of the realms, and poisoning of its people.” The messenger said, his face drenched in sweat, and his limbs trembling as he stood before the towering presence of not just one, but three Gods.

He held his magically reproduced scrolls, physical items he could conjure and hand out at will that would last for years before they faded, and presented them before the gathering of the three. And though he was a High Cleric, Scholar of Divinity, Law, and Magic, and long served in the role of his given title job of Ambassador of Light many years of experience he had yet to experience anything like the focused enmity of three deities, and their gathered courts.

For Light's Sake the newly anointed Hero of Halspus was even here, and she was so angry that her robes and the wall beneath her were covered in ice! The messenger held his tongue of his own thoughts, and bowed, carefully projecting as neutral an aura as he could manage. It was hard in the face of Gram, let alone under the baleful stares of two once human creatures that were now gods.

The Wise Rahammod, the God of Magic, had once been a powerful sorcerer who was tricked into putting on a magic item that bound him. He sat on a large throne that looked to have been freed from somewhere deep within the horde of their host, just to his left claw. If the legends were true it gave him all the power that was promised, but with chains that bound him to a lamp and limited his near limited powers to three simple wishes to a single master. What ruin must a god in a bottle have caused until he was free? What ruin could he commit upon the messenger's flesh? Would he even have the time to know?

To their host's right claw sat...or well floated the curious Halspus and her new Hero, Lyrica. She was curious because as ornate, beautiful, and delicate as she appeared to be, the creature was still a lich, a dreadful undead, and the rightful God of Scholars and Learning no less. Her offered throne was a thing of ivory, gold, silver, and copper, studded with crudely cut gems that radiated with magic. That throne sat so high up in the horde and close to his head as if to suggest she could whisper in his ear at a will.

The Ambassador offered her no worship, and dreaded use of her baleful gifts of that most dark and decrepit Infinite Library. He kept his studies well within the realm of the light, and would offer her no power over his knowledge if he could help it. He shivered at the thought, and at the sight of the human woman standing at the foot of the horde wearing shackles about her arms and legs like common bracelets. Cold wafted from her which was no more pleasant for their being inside this desert palace.

There were many other notables, the usual sort for the Ambassador, but their names had no meaning when placed beside the three Gods before him. Some smug voice in his head did say it spoke as to their insecurity to gather together as they had, and some part of the Ambassador felt a little pride for his lord.

That feeling was annihilated by the mountainous growling and gale of furnace-like heat that erupted from Gram, The Last Dragon; Gram; The Kin-Slayer. Like the other two Gram's ascension had been contrived only for the Dragon Lord to turn upon his once masters and devour them. The Ambassador suspected heavily that humanity had been the one to shackle Gram, and leash him into battle with his own kin to the point of extinction, but whatever evidence there was of that was gone as thoroughly as last week's tracks in the desert sand.

Gram was a huge wyrm of the classic four legged and winged variety. His full size and shape had never been properly recorded and measured as he seemed to be able to change it, having both a minimum and maximum size, but the best records suggest his wingspan to be over a thousand meters. His weight could literally shake mountains. There was no fortress that could stand against him, or any God for long really, but Gram could simply push most fortifications over if he felt so inclined.

“Nonsense.” Halspus said in response to the Lord of Light's proclamation, her voice a frosty whispered hiss.

“There is evidence my lady.” The ambassador retorted.

He dared not look upon it himself, but the Grand Inquisitors of Light had gone through the terrible grimoire found in Istania's hold in Montrello, and found evidence of most terrible rituals. The Ambassador reached into his bags to produce the reports, and excerpts so that he might present them.

When he looked up, the Lich's Hero was barely a meter from him. He jumped barely sensing her at all until she prepared herself to strike with deadly magic. With shaking hands he handed the scrolls to the Hero.

Her glowing blue eyes tried to freeze his marrow, he was sure of it.

“Ridiculous. You don't even have the evidence in hand. This could be edited, arranged, and transposed to suggest Istania did all sorts of things. You and your 'Lord' should know better than to come before Lady Halspus with such a weak argument. If what you found was the full tome in a secure vault it was likely used for nothing more than study against the dark magic your lord claims to have found.” Lyrica pronounced, half turning to face the three gods as she examined the papers.

Gram lowered his great fanged head down, and turned an eye to face Lyrica. With surprising familiarity the Hero showed the God of Dragons each page in turn just long enough for the last dragon to regard the page before she showed another. Meanwhile she produced dual conjured reproductions of what she saw that appeared before the two other resting gods.

“You're right Lyrica.” Gram's voice came.

It was an unpleasant psychic voice. Each word felt like an intrusion into the Ambassador's head even if Gram tried to make himself sound like a pleasant enough, almost fatherly king. That hint of sadness had to be faked as well–

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The Ambassador lost the ability to think—or breathe as he seemed to suddenly meet Gram's eye. He fell to his hands and knees choking for breath and thought, free to move, but still crushed.

“This is foolishness. Theadus and his Inquisitors are good at finding and rooting out corruption, not shielding against it. The charge against Istania leaving a poison in her wake is a fabrication as well. Tell him that his priests and clerics should have learned from her better had he thought to take up the realm of healing upon his mantle. Her agents cared for his rapidly expanding empire like the cells and systems in the human body that make up its immune system. The sickness he perceives is nothing but the cause and effect of his own actions. He has made himself, and the world sick with the removal of Istania's magic. Now that she is truly gone, and passed beyond the gate almost none of her magic, save that we work together in grand bindings, has remained. Even then I struggle to maintain what she and I had forged alone.” Halspus said.

The Ambassador finally managed to breathe, but this realization from Halspus was startling. Her Hero was frowning up at her lady.

“My Lady...” Lyrica sighed.

“Oh... I've told you Lyrica I have never been much good at duplicity.” The Goddess said.

Gram laughed.

“You must explain it to him now, or have Lyrica kill him. Either way we are due to send an unpleasant message to the already paranoid God of Light. He will want to 'illuminate' just what you've done with Istania now that he's convinced himself of the words of the Fate, and Istania's treachery.” Rahammod said, also chuckling.

Sudden cold sweat spread down the Ambassador's back, but he was also outraged.

“Paranoid?” The Ambassador yelled, fury driving forth from somewhere within him. He shuddered at its power, but with a wave of Rahammod's hand the fury was somehow pressed down and away.

“Yes Theadus. Paranoid. As in Paranoia. A construction of your own fears and emotions turned upon yourself. That is why you have not simply sent an Ambassador, but a spy of which to peep in upon us instead of coming forth yourself to speak as a friend. You act much as the petty kings of desert, forever warring over the slightest of hatreds and jealousies. It is foolishness.” Rahammod said, speaking to the Ambassador as if through him and to another.

The Ambassador swayed on his feet. There was more fury. Something was pushing...pushing him out of his own mind... Images played in his head. There was something precious in his left breast pocket; a whole stack of folded papers he didn't need for the meeting that poked through his light clothing. He could see the clumsy hand writing inside. It was practice verses of the scripture written by his little boy... his little boy... not The Ambassador's little boy. His name...his name was…

Rahammod's already very tan face darkened to a deep and angry red. He appeared to be an old man in fanciful desert garb. Loose pants, a colorful vest, a long beard, and turban. Oh and gold, lots of gold. He had jeweled rings, a great medallion with a ruby the size of an apple in it, and gold chains almost anywhere there otherwise could have been a belt. On his arms were two rather simple golden bracelets that pulsed with unshackled power.

“Loosen your hold upon your vassal Theadus! You are crushing his mind into slavery! I will not warn you again!” Rahammod snapped, the usual smoothness of his voice thickening with a strange accent as power and rage crackled through the air appearing as red lightning, and sudden clouds of whirling sand.

The Ambassador swayed. Something retreated from his mind. The Lich's Hero was at his side holding him the moment before he fell again. His hand clasped the letters in his breast pocket.

“Anton...” The Ambassador gasped.

Lyrica smiled at him.

“Is that your name then? You kept ignoring me before.” She said, her smile suddenly friendly, her eyes wise, and older than they should be in such a lovely young woman.

“No-no, it's my little boys. He's learning his letters.” The Ambassador answered.

That something behind his mind pressed forward again. He saw Rahammod raise his hand, and hold up a finger in a halting motion.

“What is your name, Mister Ambassador?” The God asked.

“Lanton... Lanton Markus...” The words were hard to say. So terribly hard to say. Lanton kept hold of his boys' letters and kept a firm grasp of the image of his boy and his wife's smiling face in his mind.

“Lanton Markus, you are in my presence. I am Rahammod, Genie of the Seven Sands, and God of Free People everywhere as long as they wish it to be. I grant you my blessing so that as long as you wish it to be that you, and your mind cannot be bound by gift of job, title, magic or physical means until we meet again after the end of this meeting.”

The presence vanished. Lanton remembered the name of his wife, Narissa, and how much he missed her. He had missed Anton's birthday again. He would have to get the boy a rather unique gift in the bizarre before he left.

Suddenly Lanton's gaze was drawn to Genie God. Rahammod's dark eyes contained a fury that was not for him.

“Theadus...this is a last warning. There are many things I am willing to forgive. Even as Gods we are still ultimately mortal. I think that is clear to everyone now after what you have done, but what you seem to have forgotten is that we all make mistakes. Some mistakes are small. They are to be expected of anyone. Some mistakes are large, and must be learned from.”

“What you have done... Slaying Istania, who was, and should have always been your closest ally, was a terribly large mistake. There will be much learning to be done in the coming centuries. Wounds to be mended. Trust to build again. Faith restored. It has happened before and will happen again, but we must work together. Come. Speak with us here. Stop with these games, and trust us as you once did. We are not your enemies, not as long as you hold to the laws we decided to lay down together.” Rahammod said, through and into Lanton.

Lanton shivered, and felt a little weak, but was otherwise fine.

“Lanton it can be a painful thing, but it is within your power to forfeit the title given to you.” Rahammod said, his voice pleasant and cheerful.

“Lord Rahammod?” Lanton asked, confused.

“Theadus cannot hear our words now. His magic cannot reach into your mind even if you were to stand before him. If you return, do your duty, and decide to take little Anton and his mother on a long boat ride to our shores when you come to meet me again none of us will judge you.” Rahammod said.

Gram appeared to growl, but his gaze was cast to the northwest. If Lanton had to guess that direction was a straight shot to the City of Light.

“You are a scholar in your own right, and a proficient finder and keeper of texts. Even if it is not in my own monastery's or temples I would enjoy having you positioned somewhere in Gram's empire if you were seeking employment. His empire is very stable, large, and the dungeons here often produce texts from bygone ages that are in need of study. I could employ you in a lifetime of work seeking out, sorting, and collecting the ancient tomes in this city alone.” Halspus offered.

Lanton stared up at the Gods, and gulped, suddenly feeling threatened. There was rage somewhere behind a barrier in his head that just couldn't touch him. After a moment's thought Lanton was surprised the Title Job hadn't been ripped from him the moment Rahammod had given his blessing.

“I... I have yet to complete my duty... Lords.... Lady Goddess...” Lanton said then, bowing to each.

Gram seemed to grin. It was hard to tell past all the teeth, but his aura flared with undeniable approval.