Deacon nervously bobbed his knee and fidgeted in his seat. He was an adventurer now — and had the paperwork to prove it. He finally received a blessing after years of pleading with gods, elder primordial entities, and any other being of sufficient power to be a mortal’s patron. The being that relented was a wayward spirit, which he considered a great advantage. As a natural manifestation of pure magic, the spirit’s only whims were to wordlessly act as a custodian over various aspects of the natural world. Spirit blessings were incredibly uncommon but theoretically possible. ‘Theoretically possible’ was a good enough motivation for Deacon to delve straight into a deep cave system where legend told a great spirit resided. As he learned, growing up in a village of underground burrows was not sufficient preparation to begin an estimated week-long hike through and labyrinthine cavern reaching miles underground. Somehow, he survived for ten days in the damp abyss, living off of mammoth slugs, until at long last, he beheld the majesty of the spirit within. Its long, serpentine body adorned in gems captivated him, and it looked up from the etchings it carved into the stone walls to assess him. He only caught glimpses of its baboon-like face, as he never met the being’s gaze. It judged him worthy, opening its mouth to reveal a blinding light, and when the light subsided, Deacon was back on the surface, having gained his patron’s blessing. With the tingle of magical potential buzzing inside him, Deacon sat and was inducted into a state of consciousness exclusive to blessing-holders: his inner space.

Through meditation, he was transported to his inner space. This soul-bound mental space took the form of a 10-foot oasis of golden light for Deacon to inhabit, surrounded by impregnable darkness, with a paper-thin, star-strewn reflection pool beneath him. With the spirit’s blessing, he’d ascended to tier 1. His body took its first step into being reforged into an instrument of magic. His attributes were all bolstered, as shown by a living display of writing within the starry pool. Serenity washed over Deacon as three stars rose from the water, dimming into medallions representing forms his blessing may take. A blessing given to a mortal exists in a quantum state, only hypothetical until the holder chooses its form; one is selected in the beginning, but the holder is given further blessings to choose from at certain power milestones as they climb the tiers. Deacon’s options weren’t like any he’d heard of before. One was the Blessing of Meat, giving powers suited to a warrior. The next was the Blessing of Dung, and Deacon couldn’t decipher what kind of adventurer it would make him into. The last was the Blessing of Dirt. On reading the name, Deacon briefly feared that no viable blessing would be offered. The gist of the blessing was then conveyed to his mind, and his whole body shook with excitement. The Blessing of Dirt gave spell-casting abilities.

As a spell caster, Deacon was able to go through adventure boot camp, and thus he ended up here. He anxiously fidgeted as he sat in a tavern sanctioned for new adventurers to join parties. As time passed, Deacon watched other new adventurers scarcely have time to sit down before being approached by teams and taken away. Hours passed as Deacon went numb. The chattering of the crowd became an incomprehensible sound of rain, as Deacon dissociated from the sensory hellscape. His mind went to all of the group activities he was left out of in his youth. In team sports, he’d watch as one by one, others were drafted into teams, until only he was left. Often a team captain left to choose him as the final pick would put up a fit about being stuck with him, leaving him with the burden of coming up with an excuse to be elsewhere. People often spoke of him like he wasn’t there. He hadn’t considered this could still be an issue in adulthood, with people who’d never even met him. Maybe they were right, maybe he was the problem.

Deacon was startled to realize that while mentally elsewhere, he’d been staring at someone right in front of him making eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, shaking himself from his daze.

“Don’t worry, bud,” she said humorously. Her voice gave him relief, as with her tiny stature he momentarily worried she might be a child, but rather, she was simply a halfling. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Not specifically. You can have the empty seats if that’s what you mean. I’m waiting to be chosen by a party. I want to go on quests, but the vast majority of tier-one blessing holders who attempt quests alone die, so first I need a party.”

The woman looked slightly amused; her freckled face even warmed into a blush as she restrained herself from laughter. Deacon nervously asked, “have I said something funny? I have a hard time noticing sometimes, especially since I only learned to speak Common a year ago. Or is the humor at my expense?”

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“Nah, don’t worry, it’s the situation,” the woman said, nimbly lifting a chair over her head and setting it in front of Deacon. “The name’s Marla! What’s yours?”

“My name is Deacon.”

“Fancy to meet ya, Deacon. My party’s looking to recruit someone.” Deacon’s pointed ears raised upon hearing that. “The funny thing is though, we can’t find the right fit for us in the ‘new recruits’ bullpen,” she explained, finally pointing to Deacon’s left. He looked at what she was alluding to and saw that above a separate seating area, was a big sign clearly labeled NEW RECRUITS.

Deacon buried his face in his hand. “Well shit, I must be an idiot then. Thank you.” Deacon stood and obliviously made for the other seating area.

“Deacon,” Marla called out with a laugh. Deacon turned around, grinning at his own joke, and Marla nearly keeled over with laughter when she realized the move was intentional. “Come meet my friends, bud,” she said, settling down. “They’re gonna love you.”

Deacon followed Marla as she treated the pub as an obstacle course, deftly leaping onto tables and chairs to get from points A to B in the most athletically absurd way possible. Soon he stood before a table of new faces, with the addition of Marla somehow already sitting casually in the middle.

“Oh there you are,” Marla remarked. “Guys, this is Freaky Deaky, our newest co-conspirator.”

“Deacon, actually,” he corrected. “This is the first I’ve heard of having a nickname… or being a co-conspirator. What are we conspiring about?”

“Marla jests,” the noble-looking man to my left said. He was a human, with dark umber skin, a dense beard, and rich locks of hair. He wore knightly plate armor with a copper finish, though Deacon suspected it was one of the more coveted magical alloys. “You may call me Halwark, for that is my name. Stupendous to gain a new friend.”

Deacon returned the greeting and turned his head to the next stranger. He didn’t know what to make of the shocking figure. Before him, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, was an animate skeleton, painted and carved over with swirls and sigils to be a living work of art. “The name’s Bones.”

“Bones? Don’t you remember your name from when you were alive?”

“I’m alive now. What do I care which meat bag was using my parts before me? Is a hermit crab just an echo of whoever used to live in its shell?”

“Fair point, shame on me for making assumptions.”

Skipping over Marla, the last person to meet was a woman in black witch garb, who like Halwark, was a human, with pale skin, and straight black hair. Deacon found her pretty, and in his difficulty with keeping eye contact found his eyes briefly darting down to her body. His eyes shot back up apologetically and met hers. She narrowed her hooded eyelids like she was plotting, as though she’d just sized up her prey and was reeling to strike. “You’re one of those,” she remarked pointedly. “I’m Sonnet.”

Deacon was taken aback. “You mean my species?”

“Nothing of the sort. Why, is it of interest? The gray skin is a bit unusual, but I’d guess you’re some variant of elf?”

“I’m a Scriptyr. We’re a cousin of elves, but an equally close cousin to hobgoblins. We live in burrows and there are less than ten thousand of us in the world. We’re identifiable by our light gray skin with darker markings on our hands, eyes, mouths, feet, and buttocks, as well as enlarged pupils and irises, and increased height compared to elves, yet shorter stature compared to hobgoblins. My species’ coloration comes from mineral a cocktail of minerals engrained in our skin, rather than melanin like humans have. Although you may not have enough of it. You should avoid direct sunlight.”

Everyone, save for Bones, gave puzzled looks. “That is what I meant by one of those,” Sonnet elaborated.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been told I’m a bit off. Is it a problem?”

Halwark answered easily, “not at all. Eccentricity is the mark of a great companion.”

Everyone affirmed the sentiment, and Deacon happily took a seat. A tankard of ale was set in front of him and he took a drink. “It’s a shame we aren’t really co-conspirators,” he said, almost giggling to himself. “I’ve always wanted to conspire.”

“We are,” Marla insisted, prompting groans from the group.

Deacon looked puzzled. Bones spoke up, “when we all first met, we had a joke about our goal as a party?”

“It isn’t a joke,” Marla sneered.

“It simply isn’t feasible,” Halwark sighed.

“What is it?”

Marla waved away her compatriots from interjecting, then stood on the table, and declared, “we’re gonna kill the gods!”

Something clicked in Deacon’s head. The notion was ambitious, and even blasphemy, but gave voice to an unspoken rage that had always lived in him. He stood, smiling, and held his cup forward in a toast. “I’m in. Let’s kill the gods!”