Black Tongue Phyfe was visited by the God of his people, Deone, the God of Contracts, Curses and Gambling and blessed with a holy task: to spread word of Deone’s greatness, to raise his temple to wealth and power, the become the High Priest of this great temple and to preach to as many sailors as possible.

While it was true that the Oath Binder, that most honorable God amongst lesser, traitorous Gods, asked him to bring him traders, Phyfe wasn’t the strongest listening and made his holy oath in error. Traders, sailors, they both used boats didn’t they?

Thus it was that the giant mound of a man, Black Tongue Phyfe, marched from the site of his holy meeting, back towards the markets and, more importantly, the bathhouse located there; idly, as he strode, he shook the blessed dice that spoke with Deone’s voice earlier, knowing the God had fled them but feeling in them a reminder of his sacred task.

The market’s bathhouse, one of three in the Spear’s Bay area, was two stories, build of painted brick whose murals told the tale of Wes’ the Spear Fisher carving out the bay itself; it was not dedicated to the God but, like most things in Spear’s Bay and other cities so close to the ocean, his story stamped itself indelibly into the local culture.

Many citizens wandered in and through the bathhouses, which made them excellent places for the would-be politician, lofty philosopher or local madman to rant at passer-bys.

A cleverly built aqueduct carried sea-water from the second story of the bathhouse, into the building proper but, on it’s way, split a waterfall that would fall into a fountain out in front of the building. It was there that an old man in ragged clothing, skinny and wild eyed, shouted at the passing people in a thin and reedy voice.

“Do not fear Death, my friends, for in Death we shall be free of strife! I tell you, the after life is a game the God of Death himself has created for Mortals like you and I to play together! We should not fear death, friends, when Death seeks to embrace us, to entertain us! Worship Death for unlike all other Gods, Death is fun!”

A madman, then.

Phyfe marched up to the fountain, took the old man by his tunic with one hand and casually tossed him into the water.

“Fuck off with that silliness,” Phyfe growled before throwing his hands wide. “Let all stand witness to me, Phyfe son of Phyfe, and the revelations I bring!”

A bare foot sailor ambling by glanced up at Phyfe and squinted. “Aint you lose coin to me on the docks not but a week ago?”

Phyfe paused, looked over the man and nodded.

“Aye, that I did.”

“And didn’t you get sousing drunk shortly after on strong wine, so much so you wet your small clothes?”

“Er.. Aye, that’s… also a thing that happened.”

“Aye. Then how the fuck would you be holding conversations with a God when you can’t hold your coin or your wine?”

At that, several of the passersby and loitering bathers, who’d caught pieces of that back and forth, began laughing. Phyfe frowned deeply.

“Aye, I had a conversation with my God. The God Deone. What’s your name, swimmer?”

“Bulder, son of the Sea.”

“Orphan, eh? You follow Young-So?”

“Not that it’s your concern, but no. I pray to Wes like any other man of the water who’s not partial to drowning.”

A fellow sailor, fresh from the baths, ayed at that and took a seat at the edge of the fountain. Phyfe spared a glance his way, then nodded.

“Well, I follow Deone and I follow all his aspects. And do you know what that means to men such as us?”

“Losing coin and cursing up a storm?” the man said, barking a laugh that the other sailor soon joined.

Phyfe laughed too. “Exactly fucking that. I’ve lost more coin than many have held and won it all back just to lose again. I’ve a mouth so foul, there’s folk that call me Black Tongue. And I don’t shirk from that name one bit cause damned if I wouldn’t made a whore’s ear bleed when I’m in my cups or dirt gecko blush when I’m having a hard shit in the alley. And for all that, my God honored me.

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“My God, the God of Contracts, of Honor, sees me. He sees me lose money and never complain. I pay what I owe. I’ve never stabbed a man in the gut to taking what’s mine, only for stealing what aint his. The God of Curses, who I honor with every stubbed toe, bad roll of the dice and pissing your small clothes pretty sunset during Harvest season. The fucking high holy of the dice himself watching me roll and win and lose and risk every fucking thing I own with no fear. And you know what he does for me, for all that?”

“Well,” the sailor said quietly, “he doesn’t help you much, does it.”

“Fuck no, he doesn’t! A God can’t help a man gamble and call himself Honor itself. And that is the God of Contracts, the God of Promises. A God of his word. And that God came before me and told me I was the most faithful of his servants. I, Black Tongue, itchy cocked, bad rolling, pay his fucking debt Phyfe. Tell me something, boyo… Do you think you’d be Wes’ most faithful servant, standing just as you are?”

The sailor was dubious now. Several of the loiterers and passersby now watched the exchange, thoughtfully. A few moved on, a few ignored the scene altogether, but of those that heard, they all had thoughts that, in some cases, troubled them.

“Didn’t think so,” Phyfe said. “I’m here to tell you my God asked me to tell others of his greatness, to build up his temple and to preach to sailors like you that he is going to give you a gift if you follow him, and me, in faith.”

The sailor was quiet, pensive, a moment. And then he spat in the dirt.

“Bah. Promises, filth and losing is all your God has. I’ll keep to Wes, moody as he is.”

“My God does what no other has done. My God made a promise. And by fuck, Deone is going to deliver on me.”

The sailor spat again and wandered off, dispersing as the small, listening crowd went with him.

All but the sailor who had sat down, coming from the baths; a young, squat and dark haired man who had moments ago been laughing with the others. But now, he called out to Phyfe, softly.

“A God that would take in a wretch like you?”

“Fouls, fuckery and all, boyo. His most faithful servant.”

The man nodded to himself, worked his way to his feet and offered Phyfe a hand. “I’m Aaron, son of Redrick. The Deonites are all from the same tribe, aren’t they? Don’t that mean a man like me can’t become one?”

Phyfe nodded, took Aaron’s forearm in a grip and grinned. “Guess I’ll have to go find some cousin or other for you to bed. Just don’t be picky.”

Aaron laughed and cast a glance back towards the docks. “We’ll set sail again soon but I like what you say and I like what Deone has to offer. A God who gives a fair deal, no matter who you are.”

“Deone is honor itself, boyo.”

“When I’m back in Spear’s Bay, where may I come to pray to Deone? How can I join the faith?”

“Well,” Phyfe said with a slight blush that was hard to see beneath the grizzled edges of his great beard, “the temple is a touch modest but that’s a might longer of a task…. You’ll find it just south of the markets, a squat brown shit of a thing with some gold touches. May the first time you lay eyes on it burn you blind with the changes I have planned, though.”

“Oh? Are you the high priest in Spear’s Bay, then?”

“No. That would be my father, a great and wrinkled prick if there ever was one. Still, my God gave me a task and I’ll be seeing to it.”

Aaron chuckled and gave a small wave as he started off towards the docks. “It will be a true miracle to see what you’ll do, Black Tongue Phyfe, faithful servant of Deone. If he takes you as is, I hope you don’t drunkenly piss his divine favor away!”

“I may be a drunk but I’m not pickled just yet,” Phyfe said, watching him ambled off. “I have more than a few thoughts on making Deone’s temple Greatest in the Bay. Many of them involve dice.”

It had been a long evening that had stretched into a long morning and, even with the buzz of the divine revelation still coursing through his gut, the buzz of wine and the sick that came with it was beginning to settle in Phyfe’s gut as well.

So Phyfe started back towards home. His father’s home. And the stable his father allowed him to sleep in.

Phyfe went back to the temple, circled around to its high priest’s humble hovel and the larger, higher roofed stable- thankfully, one with a second floor that kept Phyfe well above wallowing in the donkey’s stench but still meant he had to breath it in as he slept the day away. His father, Phyfe the Elder, was up and about, ordering his slave towards menial tasks as he, himself, set about cleaning the temple. Phyfe could hear him chanting praise to Deone absently, half-heartedly, practicing the rituals as lip service.

Phyfe knew his father believed in Deone and worshipped Deone, but he never truly understood Deone. His father had a clean temple and humble followers, took no risks and wouldn’t mind a bad haggle at the market if he could get away with it. The Elder was disappointed in his son for everything he was. And everything Phyfe was, was loyal to Deone’s ways.

It would be a sad day when Phyfe replaced his father as high priest of the temple. Sadder still because Phyfe the Elder would not have wanted his son to replace him; he’d be grooming someone, like that thin-lipped, gecko fucking coward Tullo, a man with so little honor he practically lived up the high priest’s ass but complained if its smell when he wasn’t listening.

It would be a sad, but necessary, thing to replace his father, even as his father would not want replacing. But Phyfe had made an oath. A promise to his God that he could not break.

It would make money for the Temple, to raise it to greatness. For that, he’d have to do more than gamble his own money. Gambling his own money meant losing money for the Temple. No, better to be the one that kept the most money… Phyfe would need to build himself a gambling house . Fair as it was, the house still usually won.

Phyfe the Elder wasn’t a stickler. Black Tongue Phyfe would bring in coin, tithe it to the temple, use the gambling house and the temple to gather more men like himself, gamblers, sailors, street rats and drunks- risk takers with foul mouths who still kept their fucking word. One day, the temple and the house would be the same fucking thing.

Phyfe would make a temple to people like him.

And his God, Phyfe was sure, would be pleased.