She was late.

Terribly late.

Most definitely the latest one to arrive.

Traversal was not a feat to be taken lightly. Effort was required, substantial effort. And she had already done so thrice.

A traversal for Earth, another for the Afterlife, and with the last of her might, she channeled herself to existence in front of the Ballroom.

A plane of existence bordering between dimensions.

Heaving away her fatigue, Christa fumbled up the porcelain steps of a grand, exquisite manor, a building of no equal. One that soared past mountains, with depths deeper than any blue sea.

The clack of her heels carried her to a set of mahoganized wooden doors, fronting it, standing guard, was the only other being in sight for miles.

Pointed ears, pale-white complexion, pupilless misty eyes that seem to pierce your soul.

An Elf.

A curtsy to which the Elf returned with a bow and spoke, “Suppose I should mention, dear Goddess… but they have already started without you.”

“Shocking…”

The Elf bowed again and stepped to the side. “You may proceed.”

“Thanks.”

She only had time to readjust the loose strands of her hair before the double-doors swung open to welcome her. A formal event required formality so despite despising ceremonious attires, she willed herself to don a stark-red gown that had never been worn for eons and that was all the effort she was willing to make for that.

As she made her way through the dazzling, sparkling interior, the lively sounds of a bustling crowd gradually increased in volume, bouncing across the polished walls of marble and quartz enamored with endless clutter of portraits and statues of Gods and Goddesses of past and present.

The countless portraits towered from up high their gold-silver enamored frames, their stern eyes looming over her ambling figure as if in judgment. Christa could almost feel their parched, painted lips twisting to a sneer at the sight of her.

Because they had, they did.

“I’m allowed to be here,” she said in annoyance, glancing sideways to a canvas closest to her left. The old bearded man in the painting, scoffed, scowl unhidden.

“Regrettably…” The portrait muttered, disapproval in the furrowing of its brow.

“It’s only once every turn of the century. Cry me a river, why don’t you?”

“Seems to me you already have,” smirked the old man in the portrait. “Eyes as wet as blood is red. You haven’t been getting too attached now, have you?”

Christa immediately averted her gaze. “Nice of you to notice,” and in silence, walked her way, striding faster in pace.

The portrait, sensing weakness, only embellished further on in its mockery. ”Ancients should strive to act in ways befitting their moniker. Humans, hmph… one can only fall so low, dear Goddess.”

Seeing no further reason to hide their disdain, the hallway of portraits jeered and they scoffed… conversing animatedly with one another all the while casting Christa dirty looks.

Save for one, the sole exception… her own portrait stared back at her with eyes as weary as her own. Unlike the others, shiny and bright, hers was handled with neglect. Dust and grime had blighted her image, and one had to strain themselves to even gain a proper view. Even the metallic plaque where her name had been inscribed, treated only with rust and its letters fading with age.

She had a hard time seeing herself in the fogged canvas.

Still, there was no mistaking the look of sympathy that formed on portrait-Christa’s face.

“They’re just paintings,” She told herself.

“You’re one,” Christa answered back, brushing away the sprinkling of dust that glazed her portrait.

“I’m not them,” She replied. “You’re not them. Grouchy old Gods… you’ve dealt with them before.”

“Only the real ones are much worse…”

“It’s only once every turn of the century” She offered a reassuring smile. “You’ll survive.”

Christa wiped her puffy, damp eyes, attempting, almost failing, a weak smile of her own. “Here’s hoping...”

“It’s all we can do.”

With that, Christa bid farewell to herself and continued along the glamour and glitter that encased her surroundings. Up a grand spiraling staircase, through rooms of a dozen brimming with relics and antiques brought over from realms and millennia throughout the ages.

Some she recognized, some she didn’t.

A gauntlet that could distort the fabrics of reality, a goblet that swirled the very essence of existence, a ring that could provide limitless power to those that wields it.

Enclosed and presented in displays of glass… like artifacts in a museum.

She had a relic forged in her name and there it sat, secluded at a corner’s end in the smallest of rooms.

Christa could hardly blame them. Presentation was everything in the eyes of the Ancients, and a dinky old dagger will never attract the same type of attention as something like the Mystic Eyes Of Infinity would.

Finally, traversing past the final set of gold-plated handlebars, the thick, wooden double doors swung open to a strong draft of dense silvery mist, swaying through the air and intermixing its pungent smell with the thick scent of was undoubtedly liquor.

The Ballroom contained shelves lining with them of all shapes and sizes.

She brought one of her own, merely out of obligation, stuffed away in a goody-bag hanging from her arm.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Liquors of all varieties, from all realms, gathered to be freely indulged in for the festivities that fronted her eyes.

Christa was never dabbled in the likes, but she knew humans had a thing called vodka. Would vodka be okay?

She brought gin on their last assemblage and none batted an eye at her offering. Perhaps this time, maybe even one would chance a small sip.

“Missed the meet and greet…”

As for where things currently stand, all fell within her expectations. The pungent smell and smoke turned out to be just the burning crisped flesh of Jalur, the Fire God that ruled the realm of all flames eternal.

The polish marble floor was scorched with his bare prints. As were every other thing that shriveled and singed following in his wake.

Rippling trails of water sprinkled the floor as well, water unlike any other, blooming with prismatic colors of every variety, sparkling and free-flowing like a crystalized river of rainbow shards.

The Goddess of the Deep, a realm of all things aquatic… Christa was never fond of her and her tendency to oceanify her every step.

There she was, her scaly legs submerged in a fountain at center stage, spouting water through a statue made in her liking.

Fiotra, of the Beastmen. Lanor, of Elven kind. Gilbri, the Dwarven folk. A three’s crowd, together in lively conversation. They were always close, those three.

Within expectations, it was - Gods and Goddess of every kind yet barely any even acknowledged her presence. Those that had, spared only a moment’s glance.

Christa placed her goody-bag next to the pile of gifts, mounting in size, and walked the grounds in silence.

The main event had yet to start.

“It’s soon, soon perhaps,” Christa muttered and instantly fear and worry came to assail her peace of mind.

It is soon.

“Is that eagerness I hear… or perhaps dread?”

Christa turned, recognition a glimmer in her crimson eyes. Impulsively, forcefully - she smiled wide.

“Dyeus. I… I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

The portrait in the hallway, sneering. Dyeus bared uncanny resemblances to the painting polished so bright. The old bearded man in the flesh, walking her direction, with a smile so bright.

“And why is that, I wonder? Old and feeble as I am… never put it past me to notice the absence of one of our own, especially on such an occasion as this one.”

“You searched for me? You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh but I did,” said Dyeus. “What’s a gathering without Humankind’s ever-illustrious Goddess to grace us with her presence?”

“A better gathering, mostly.”

Dyeus shook his head. “Not to me.”

A compliment. Sincere. The tension on her face softened, and her next smile didn’t seem so forced.

“Your other self seems to think otherwise.”

“Ahh, him…” He chuckled softly. “A decrepit old fool from a time long past. Pay no mind to a God’s misguided prejudice. We all have our faults, don’t we?”

“That we do.”

“And yours? Forgive the abruptness but I hear you’ve been indulging in one of your own recently.”

Christa grimaced. This was not a topic she wished to discuss… especially not with him nor out in the open.

“My previous Champion…” She began slowly. “Kareena - you’ve seen her. Well, with the tournament drawing near, anxiety had bested her and she was rendered - “

“Unsuitable?”

“Incapable…” said Christa, lowering her eyes to the ground. “Finding a new Champion, I didn’t have the time nor the luxury to be assessing from afar so I…”

“You got close.” Dyeus nodded his head in understanding. “Too close for your own good, it seems. What’s his name?”

“Leo Mathers.”

Dyeus walked and Christa followed. Together in the Ballroom, an unlikely pairing that brought the eyes Gods and Goddesses alike upon them. The chattering in the room was reduced to mutters as they made their way to the center. Christa could feel their stares, their disapproval scouring her being, a feeling she found all too disconcerting.

“I walk with you, and they’ll think you’re playing favourites here,” Christa whispered.

“Let them think,” Dyeus spoke, greeting each God with a nod and smile. “We’re all equal as Ancients, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, we’re all Ancients here… some just more ancient than others.”

He chuckled. “You flatter me.”

“Why are we walking?”

“You’ll just have to see, won’t you?” He flashed her a smile. “Did you - ahh, did you place him in yet?”

“The Realm of Dramar, home to the Goddess Nilfa. A fantasy world. The starting point for the tournament, yes?”

“Right you are.”

The other side of the Ballroom had a door… inaccessible to all save for the sole exception. Nothing is inaccessible to Dyeus. He sunk the handle and the door swung ajar.

“I highly doubt I’m allowed in there.”

Christa chanced a fleeting glance to the vast, open space of the Ballroom and found not a single stare was straying, all in silence, all in watch.

It only affirmed her statement.

“Dyeus, I don’t think…”

“Equals…” spoke Dyeus. “Your legacy is undeserving of the prejudice surrounding it. In time they’ll realize you are not your previous iteration. It’s called a cleansing for a reason. You are you and so much more.”

Those warm eyes that stared at hers, inverted, somewhere along a hallway to the Manor… a canvas painted with those same eyes loathed her, hated her, as many others did.

How he came to view her as someone of equal standing, she couldn’t fathom… especially not after countless millenniums of discrimination. Still, it was comforting to know that not everyone stared her down with hate.

Again she shifted her eyes to the ballroom, briefly, before turning back to the depths of the doorway.

“You really believe that?”

“I always have.”

She took a step, then another, soon, all of her had traversed through. Dyeus shut the door after them and together they walked the chamber in silence.

“The tournament has already begun,” spoke Dyeus.

Christa’s eyes widened and she spun in place, her jaw hanging loose. “What?”

“You were late,” Dyeus explained, nudging her to continue walking. “Not only have you missed this old man’s dull and extravagant speech, or pleasantries shared over bottles of liquor, you missed the initiation.”

“But this is - this is unprecedented!” She sputtered out, “The tournament only commences after the festivities have ended! It’s always been this way!”

“Always has been up until only recently. Many have decided that tradition was in dire need of change… and who am I to object general consensus?

Thoughts, dreadful thoughts, were swarming about in her head, resulting in a swelling pain that wouldn’t subside. She placed a hand on her forehead, exasperated, breathing hard.

“You’re the host! You could have stalled, you could have…” She was growing more frantic by the second. “Dyeus… my Champion is woefully unprepared. He wasn’t briefed, he wasn’t told anything - he’s clueless. It’s not… it’s not fair to him.”

“Precisely why I’ve brought you here, my dear.”

He stretched his arm, welcoming her to a room she’s never been before. The Manor held secrets in all shapes and sizes, many to which she had already explored and discovered throughout its many rooms within.

All but for one.

The Arbiter’s Watch - a room away from prying eyes, reserved only for the Gods and Goddesses whose Champions have reached the final stages of the tournament. A small, compact, circular chamber with luxurious seatings surrounding a Relic upheld in the center by a pillar.

A Relic crafted by Dyeus himself.

Christa stood in awe, her eyes drawn to the mystical aura at center stage.

Breathlessly, she spoke. “That’s the -”

“The Watcher’s Eye, yes…” Dyeus beamed at her. “Among other things, it’s capable of letting the user glimpse into realms of their choosing without the need of Traversal.”

She slowly started to understand. “You’re letting me use it?”

“Normally, the tournament is held away from prying eyes… no one must know the outcome until it is over. But considering your circumstances… I am willing to make an exception just this once. You may watch… perhaps even… point your Champion to the right direction.”

She tore her eyes away for a moment, taken aback. “Cheat?”

Dyeus merely shook his head. “I said no such thing.”

“Then?”

“Then nothing,” He answered. “Your Champion, Leo… you're anxious to see him, that, anyone can tell. Have a look, dear Goddess… Humanity has only ever seen lost… this may be your last chance. Say goodbye.”