Lydia stood like a lone tree, with her roots steeped in a pool of wine, mud and vomit. All the warrior could see were purple-backed tunics and splotches of sackcloth. Nobody dared look at Wine incarnate, the latest in a string of aether gods to emerge in human form to represent one of the core elements of the universe.
The goddess was swaying slightly.
Lydia turned to Gabriel for advice, a clear indication that she was more than a little worse for wear, and found him gawking at the spectacle, next to a smug looking Vish. A shift occurred on the captain’s face, and Lydia could tell that Gabriel had moved from bewildered bafflement to conniving calculation. He chewed on his lip as he weighed up the pros and cons of this new turn of events, and then, having made up his mind, gave Lydia two enthusiastic thumbs up.
The warrior hiccupped in response.
It was not the input Lydia had been looking for. She tried to raise her own thumb in answer, but this seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of effort. She nodded instead. Well, she half nodded, her chin didn’t quite make it back from her neck.
“Say something,” Gabriel whispered, cupping his hands around his mouth to counter-productively boost the volume.
“Li’e wha’?” Lydia giggled at her own mistake, a decidedly feminine sound when compared to her usual basso rumble.
“Something godly!” Gabriel replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Uhh,” Lydia racked what little of her brain was still functioning in its pickled state, “Rise!” she decided upon.
As one, the congregation pulled themselves to their feet, their backs straight but their eyes averted from the deity in their midst. This was not an upgrade in circumstances, in Lydia’s humble opinion. Instead of the backs of heads she now had a few hundred awkwardly expectant faces to stare at, awaiting her proclamation with bated breath. They wanted instructions, she figured.
“And, uh, drink!” Lydia commanded.
There was riotous applause, and the scene broke. Their hiatus from reality was at an end, and the crowd was once again animated. They were even more feverishly jubilant than before. Men and women scrambled for the nearest goblet, pitcher or skein, as if to dally was to invite the ire of the god. For all they knew, it might. Once the strongest and most determined had supped, they tended to the rest of the flock, handing out bottles and cups like mother birds regurgitating food for their chicks. There was actually a fair bit of regurgitating going on, but that was unrelated.
The priest who had ‘identified’ the new embodiment of the god appointed himself as her herald, and barked orders at any with the presence of mind to listen. Before long, he had cleared a channel between Lydia and the altar, and seen her supplied with a goblet of the finest craftsmanship, brimming with the best quality wine that money could pay for someone to steal.
Adorned in his splendid vestments, the priest knelt in front of the altar, his arms raised as if he were shouldering its burden on his bowed back.
“Behold, Wine, aether god of wine, revelry and celebration-”
‘Great, more titles,’ Lydia thought.
“- these are the offerings of your followers - a humble and meager gesture of our love and servitude. We hope that these pauper’s baubles are pleasing to you, though we wish we had more to present,” his tongue lashed as he spoke, chastising the faithful for the mediocrity of their gifts. More than a few heads were hung in shame.
Very slowly, one giant foot occasionally catching on the other, Lydia approached her altar. She raised an eyebrow at the display, occasionally turning a chalice or platter over in her hand, or sifting her fingers through the small cauldron of coins.
“I’s vury nice,” she said eventually.
The crowd erupted again, overjoyed at having pleased their saviour. More wine was consumed, and more still was spilt.
“All that we have to give is yours, great goddess,” the priest said, his eyes glued to her feet, “what is it you desire?”
Lydia hiccupped again, “Bathroom.”
If the priest was surprised by this, he hid it well, “Of course, Wine. Construct a bathroom fit for the god!” he bellowed.
That sounded like it was going to take some time.
Aether gods were near pure manifestations of the phenomena of their domain. They were beings of balance and harmony, unleashed on the world to ensure the equilibrium of the whole, by spreading their essence in areas where their sway and influence had begun to wane. The aether god of rain would appear in regions of drought, for example, to repair the damage done by its absence. This was their singular drive. As such, they were not sentient in any conventionally accepted manner. In order to bypass this shortcoming, aether gods attached themselves to living inhabitants of the world, and allowed their hosts to judge where best they were needed. A living aether god was a parasite, not an avatar, and thus the idea of one needing to hit the lav’ wasn’t all that strange.
“Ne’er mind, I’ll go inside,” Lydia said shouldering her way through those of her followers who were not quite quick enough to scamper aside.
“As the god wishes,” the priest said, hurrying to clear a path for the divine bodily functions.
“Lydia!” Gabriel chirruped from her elbowless side, “Don’t forget why we’re here.”
Lydia had forgotten, but a bit of mental straining jogged her memory, “Oh, uh, yeah, and, *hic* take me to your leader,” she commanded the priest.
“Mighty and wise, Wine, you are my leader,” he insisted.
“Nah, th’other one.”
“I know no other lead-”
“Juss fucking do it.”
The priest bent at the waist in apologetic obsequiousness, “It will be done.”
“S’better.”
As it goes, it didn’t take much searching. Their procession was met in the courtyard by a red-faced man at the head of a swarm of swordsmen. He was scrawny in limb and stature, save for a paunch that strained the buttons of his purple waistcoat. His hair was blond but appeared strawberry when illuminated from below by his flushed scalp.
“What nonsense is taking place here!” Tinto demanded, “Where’s this supposed aether god that’s given you all leave of your senses?” he pointedly looked around, not at, the monolithic warrior-woman with the drooping lids. A man to Tinto’s left was very deliberately busying himself with a study of the courtyard’s cracked tiles, clearly giving himself away as the informant.
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The priest stepped forward, “This one has partaken of such a quantity of the god’s spirit that Wine itself has become manifest in her. This truly is a blessed day. We are privileged to bear witness to her coming.”
It was hard to follow the hierarchy here. The priest was undoubtedly one of Tinto’s men, but he spoke to him in warning tones, confident of his own righteousness. It seemed the cult of Wine had blurred the balance of power. Judging by the uncertainty on Tinto’s face, he felt that too.
The courtyard was roughly divided into three factions: there were Tinto’s guard, who were definitely the soberest of the three, although not by a lot; next, you had the cult fanatics, who were visibly affronted by Tinto’s heretical tirade, and looked like they were gearing up for a fight; finally, there were the on-the-fencers, who were plainly hoping for a peaceful outcome, aware of their split loyalties.
Tinto seemed to do a quick headcount, perhaps gauging his potential losses. Seeing as the ‘wine god’s’ latest order had been to drink yourself shit-faced, and his own last order had been, ‘Get back to fucking work’, the odds were pretty good that Lydia might be able to sway the majority. Even with the majority too drunk to tell their arse from their ear, it was still set to be a bloodbath.
A sardonic smile tugged at Tinto’s lips, “Well, far be it from me to forbid an aether god entry to my home and place of business,” he said, drawing a line in the sand, “You will of course be welcome. Perhaps Wine would even deign to join me at a feast in her honour?”
A collective exhalation of relief sounded across the courtyard.
The priest looked pleased, “What say you, great one?” he asked Lydia.
Lydia looked at Gabriel, who shrank away from the unwanted attention. She was on her own, then.
“Yeah, wha’ever.”
The crowd cheered once more (they seemed fond of that) as Lydia was escorted inside by a procession of fawning admirers and a host of piccolo players. Each musician was playing his or her own song, and all of them were off-key.
The feast was a decadent affair. Within minutes, Tinto had mustered tables full of lavish foods and drinks. Grapes overflowed from platters, and cold meats and pies were piled edge to edge, completely obscuring the stained tablecloths beneath. There was even a hog being steadily roasted over the hearth, crackling invitingly. Tinto was evidently always ready for a party.
The priest ushered Lydia to the head table, and bade her sit in an ornate wooden chair of throne-like proportions, obviously intended for Tinto. Grudgingly, the gang warlord smiled encouragingly as Lydia robbed him of his place. Her gauntlet chipped the carved wood of the chair’s arm as she collapsed into her seat of honour, eliciting a small wince from her unwilling host.
The hall was packed out with revelers, so numerous that many were left standing. Gabriel and the others were allocated seats close to the head table, in a position of no small esteem, while Tinto and the priest took their rightful spots on either side of ‘Wine’. At a nod from Lydia, the feast began.
The men and women in attendance swarmed the tables like piranhas on a carcass, picking the plates clean, despite the abundance. Nonetheless, Tinto kept the tables replenished. A constant stream of servants kept a flow of dishes coming up from the kitchens, all of which were presented to Lydia before being generously gifted to her loyal subjects.
In truth, Lydia could barely stomach any of the food. She’d thought herself ravenous when she first saw the impressive spread, but bringing the rich gourmet delicacies close to her lips elicited a rebellious grumble from her stomach. She picked daintily, careful to close her nostrils and taste buds to the sensory bounty. She soon gave up entirely, and tried to settle her stomach with some root from her pouch. Tinto didn’t let her stop drinking though, not for a second. The Wine Merchant ensured that Lydia always had a full cup, and toasted her at any imagined opportunity.
Once all present had eaten to, and beyond, their heart’s content, Tinto arranged for entertainers to come forth, amusing the amassed with acts of juggling, comic skits, and gods awful singing. Lydia endured most of this huddled against one side of her chair, her gauntleted hand shielding her eyes from the minimal daylight that streaked in.
“Do our entertainers not please you, oh god of wine?” Tinto gushed.
Lydia waved her hand, “No, very *hic* nice.”
“Perhaps the divine wishes for something else?” the priest asked.
Lydia sensed that there was an opportunity here she was missing. She looked at Gabriel.
The pasty mercenary was pointing randomly around the room. Lydia followed his finger as best she could, but she couldn’t find any correlation between the targets he chose.
Then it hit her.
Gabriel was pointing at people. More specifically…
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Lydia said, scraping forward in her seat, “A man. I want a man,” she covered her mouth as she belched.
Tinto arched an eyebrow, “You want a man? For entertainment?”
Lydia thought about this, “Yeah, tha’ sounds good,” she gestured a tall, tanned, burly man forward, “You, get naked.”
The man was busy complying, quite enthusiastically, when Gabriel drew her attention away with a cough. He was shaking his head.
“Oh, uh, no. Not naked,” she thought about that a moment, “Not yet. Later,” she ordered.
This time Vish caught her attention. He was pointing at himself, highlighting his skin, darker than anyone else’s in the room.
Lydia didn’t quite get it.
“Vish get naked?” she said.
This time both Gabriel and Vish were shaking their heads, violently.
“Well, you heard the goddess,” Tinto insisted.
Gabriel pulled out the rolled-up parchment Nail-puller had given them, and tapped it gently on the table.
This time Lydia got it.
“Oh! Not Vish. Definitely not Vish.”
“No need to be mean about it,” the mind-mapper sulked.
“Someon’ like Vish. A man. Man with dark skin. An a beard,” Lydia managed to say, only stopping once to ensure that nothing else came out with the words.
Tinto’s eyes narrowed to slits, “I’m afraid, good god, that we have none such as that, as you can plainly see.”
“We do, boss!” an enthusiastic but dim-witted thug called from one of the lower tables, “We gots one in the dungeon.”
There were a few nods of agreement. The man looked very pleased with himself.
Tinto was drumming his fingers on the table. It was something that Gabriel didn’t know could be done lividly, but he was keen to try it out.
“If we are able to accommodate the god’s wishes then we must do so,” the priest said, once again demonstrating the disparity in power forming in Tinto’s camp.
The Wine Merchant may have been pushed too far. He looked ready to reach for his blade and end this charade himself. In the end, though, he just sighed.
“Bring up the prisoner.”
Gabriel mopped the sweat from his brow.
“Than’ you very mush,” Lydia said, very pleased with herself.
“Entirely my pleasure, oh great one. I must warn you, though, the one you seek is a most unsavoury character, with very questionable loyalties. He, the one he works for, and anyone who associates with them, are all enemies of civility, and enemies of Jandrir,” Tinto looked wistful, “I had planned to drown him in my wine vats and send his bloated corpse back to his demonic charge, in order to demonstrate that none will ever make a mockery of Tinto by feasting at his table, accepting his hospitality, and then betraying him. Suh a pity.”
Lydia didn’t exactly catch what was being said, but she got the idea that she was being threatened. She thought about stabbing Tinto for that, but listlessness was setting back in fast.
“The prisoner, m’lady,” a man called from the entrance.
Sure enough, standing shackled at wrists and ankles between two purple garbed guards, stood Screamer’s cousin. It was as if he’d walked straight off of the page Nail-puller had given them. His beard had become a little unkempt, and he had some fairly obvious scrapes and bruises, but it was undoubtedly the same man.
“Righ’, well, time for me to collect my, uh, offering,” Lydia said, scooching off her seat.
She squeezed past Tinto, almost knocking his chair over, and stumbled down the steps. People ducked their heads and removed their caps as she passed, and some even muttered a prayer.
Gabriel and the others followed close behind Lydia as she staggered inaccurately towards Screamer’s cousin, knocking dishes from tables and goblets from hands.
She made it about ten paces from the prisoner.
She paused.
She took a few shallow breaths.
She made it three more paces.
She halted.
She made it one more step.
“Come on, Lydia,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth, “just a little further.”
Lydia looked over her shoulder at Gabriel.
She threw up.
She threw up a lot.
And then she threw up some more.
The assembled crowd watched in horror as Lydia succumbed to the gallons of alcohol she had consumed, ejecting the fine wine in a wide stream, painting her boots purple.
“Well,” Tinto’s slightly shrill voice cut through the silence, “What do you make of that, priest?”
With a heavy heart, the priest said, “It would appear that the aether god no longer favours this woman. We are forsaken.”
Tinto was smiling genuinely this time.
“Is that so?”