Arcus, the god of Carpentry, was an . . . interesting fellow.
Seated with such casuality it reversed upon itself and became unbearably tense, the deity sat upon his own personal throne of miscellaneous wooden shrapnel. For a being so perfectly in tune with Infinity, Arcus was largely human in appearance. The most human god Remus had ever seen, save perhaps for Valarie, whose only visible divine attribute was the ability to wear pure white and not somehow stain it. Like all master carpenters, Arcus was never seen outside of his apron uniform — respectfully stained with a nameless black gunk — with a greasy, most ungod-like curtain of oily black hair trailing down his back. The deity’s hand, like the subject of some horror campfire story devised to spook children, ended with a chisel in place of a hand.
Talking feverishly, Andreas was perched at the god’s side, the worry-lines of his winkles especially exasperated. His mouth shut mid-sentence, turning to face the arriving entourage of Carpentry Sect higher-ups, and his close family.
“Ah, Arcus, the rest of our sect has finally arrived! Though, Damosh really cut the opening ceremony short, didn't he?”
Arcus nodded with eyes closed, as zen as a monk. “He’s frightened of Aisha, by the looks of it.” His voice was just as rumbly as the words of the other deities that had graced Remus’ ears, though it didn’t quite have the same ferocity behind it. “Not that I can blame him, that woman still frightens me sometimes.”
There was a comfortable wave of laughter, neatly subduing the edgy air that came with the territory. That unspoken territory being the fact that they were in close proximity with a being like Arcus. One heavy breath from him, and First Rite may have ceased to exist.
“How are celestial affairs?” Andreas enquired pensively, looking into the sapphire abyss overhead.
“We continue to rebuild. And by ‘we’, I mean us non-combat-oriented gods, primarily.” The divine carpenter’s voice was dripping with exasperation. “Funny thing, that. We destroyed so much during the War in less time than this world has been alive. Yet still, to reconstruct will always be a more tedious task than to dismantle.”
“What exactly is it that you’re restoring?” Aiden asked, genuinely curious.
Arcus waved a dismissing hand, like the exact details weren't important. “Galaxies upon galaxies. Worlds might only look like orbiting chunks of rock, but it takes quite a lot more than that to restore them from the ground up.”
Damion interjected, “Is there other life up there?”
“Animal life is complicated to create, much more than a random spot of forest. When we crafted humanity into existence, much of our forms’ concentrations of Infinity were sacrificed. To extinguish the same amount once more would be a benefit to none. Plus, intergalactic warfare is never fun.”
At once, the god got up from his seat crowning the mountain of debris, looking down at his subjects. “I’ve seen that our sect is facing difficulties.” Remus could have sworn the god’s eyes narrowed on him for but a passing moment. “Care to expand on the topic?”
“It's not just our sect, your grace,” Andreas explained, “Damosh’s hold on the incomes of all of Labour District has never been unwaveringly tight. In fact, we have evidence to suspect his cumbersome hand is now starting to plague the earnings of the lessers of Leisure also. The Feast Sect, who have standings in both thirds, have begun to face considerable adversary on their market front in Leisure. Their earning cuts are so repulsive it scorches my tongue to repeat them.”
“Though you must, in order for me to understand the gravitas of the situation.”
“Sixty percent, on bad Passings,” The Warlord sighed. “And worse still, we have concerns that the Wealth Sect’s tax collectors may have a grudge against us. All this financial turmoil at precisely the wrong time . . . I can’t fathom how those not in the top twenty are managing.”
“Not at all.” The same masculine voice from the last meeting spoke. “I’ve heard news of some deserting First Rite all together, hoping to garner better successes as stand-alone sects in the highlands between here and the city of Hybrid. Nothing confirmed as of now, but that inclination for many is stronger than ever.”
Arcus held his head in his hand at a tilt, earning the question of whether gods had headaches or not. “I sense conflict brewing. Not on the Divine Ground of First Rite of course, but if this Damosh figure ever decides to tread outside . . . I don’t suspect he’d receive many cries of thankfulness from his people.”
“Today’s sorry excuse for an opening speech was the first I’ve seen of him outside of that prized tower of his.” Damion noted. “You don’t think he actually might be so paranoid?”
“The man knows the people’s conception of him,” said Aiden, a tad less gravelly than either his grandfather-in-law or the god, two of the primary figures supplying the street corner with its unexpected grandiose. “They don’t hold the highest of opinions, suffice to say. Cooping up in his sect’s quarters, and gobbling down gold until he chokes on the glimmering stuff, seems to suit him just fine.”
An impasse was reached, and all looked to Arcus for his insight. “I can’t say a clear solution has come to me, or any solution for that matter. Tragedy after tragedy has beared down on us since the Unbounded attack robbed us of so much.”
Rather than remedy the increasing stalemate, the deity’s words only stretched the moment out further. The Unbounded attack had been generations ago, far before Damion or Remus’ time, but the oldest of the sect — the fortunate few who had lived to see the incident and survived to tell the tale — had recounted the infamous event on numerous occasions.
“That was when the Unbounded first appeared. We’re fortunate we were able to fend them off to where our current front lines are based, but they seem to spawn faster than we can make good use of the beasts.” Speaking of such travesty had evidently rendered the more outlandish aspects of the Carpentry deity to the wayside, and an unseen, sober exterior had bubbled to the surface. “I don’t like to admit it, but even I fear death. I never thought it possible before, but . . . if things continue like this, First Rite may not be the safe haven it used to be for much longer. Sects will be crushed, the weakest first, and their deities abandoned, reduced to only their Infinity for the other gods to feast upon, to sate their gelatinous hunger for but a moment. No personality, no charming appearance, no assembled sect to call our own. I shall be reduced to nought but fleeting energy, diffusing throughout the cosmos. To become the arms of my siblings.”
It was now obvious that whatever it was that Arcus was being afflicted with, be it a headache or some quirk of the godly form unknown to humanity, it was causing him much distress. “And now I hear of Andreas' oncoming passing, and my fears cannot help but be solidified.”
The Warlord swallowed awkwardly, and for the first time in his life, Remus felt a smidge of sympathy for a god.
“I’ve rambled on about nothing but misfortune for long enough. Apologies. Let us attend to lighter matters, whilst I conjure the will to toss array this sentimental mien of mine. It has slowly been corrupting me for longer than you know.”
The remainder of the discussion went by at a particularly lethargic sloth’s pace, who had just so happened to select a path leading straight through a mud patch gone turgid in direct sunlight. Or at least that’s how Remus envisioned it, each speculative second worth a millennium’s worth of their ordinary counterpart. If Arcus was beginning to become undone by his own piercing fear, things were exponentially worse for the sect’s future than Remus had anticipated. Far worse. It wasn’t a farfetched thought that they’d be subdued to a footnote in the history books, and that was a reality Remus wanted desperately to erase from existence. The last Durations of his time spent labouring in the library reached a blazing peak within him. The five keywords that could set his life back on track were all he could think of, like some drunk yearning for that next sip, that next bottle of blissful victory to amend the sour fate the universe had spewed at him.
Amid the talk, Remus excused himself wordlessly, marching through the street with an expression so deadpan it was as if the emotion receptors in his brain had inexplicably disappeared. And temper his raging seas of unhelpful feeling he would, for his every inclination, his every deeply integrated survival instinct the ancient ancestors of the Carpentry Sect had fought tirelessly for to engrave, were telling him to discard his madman plans. To live a normal, uninteresting life under the binding chain of Damosh’s tyrannical rule.
Remus refused.
It wasn’t until hours later, when the first pearly glimmer of moonlight snuck through the rooftops of the street around to spotlight the empty space adjacent to him, that Damion noticed his absence.
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Droplets were of some value throughout every stretch of the Mortal Realms, from the highest mountain to the lowest creek.
Not only were they required in beginning to climb the Divine Ranks, they also were vital for the economy, and the main source of income for the God-Graced, and the higher rank, Godlings. The golden blood Ichor was the divine essence every sect in the market fought for, utilised to sprout promising new youths into raging machines of warfare, or adept warpers of reality.
Distributed in all major towns, Droplets didn’t come without a hefty price tag. This was usually compensated for greatly by the assistance of the gained Engorged, which would then compound as they quickly advanced to Enkindled, Emblazed, and possibly beyond, if the clan in question had been most fortunate in their younger generation’s talent.
Walking at a contained pace along the borders of Leisure District, Remus kept a hood up, and stopped half a step away from Ruling territory. The spiralling towers that had been so animated earlier that day now basked in a star-filled sky, all completely dark, save for the eternally fueled fires of the Flame Sect that raged in a spiral off to the side. Remus smiled under the hem of his cloak, knowing that soon, an explosive show of arranged fireworks would be joining them in an extravagant display. A show devised into existence through the shared ingenuity of deities and mortals alike. Whether he would be around to lay witness to such a sight was still indefinite, and this caused Remus’ grin to waver. He pulled his hood down just a tad lower, and crept forth with bated breath.
In First Rite, Droplets were sold at a stand positioned smack bang in the centre of Leisure District; a sort of overseen market, selling goods too high in value to merely be placed on a random stand in Leisure, lest hands infected with Damosh’s gold fever came crawling. Back to a street corner, Remus kept an eye on the long line guarded by loitering Wealth Sect members. They conversed and chatted with an infectious ease under the cover of a projecting awning, which began to house several new residents of freshly arriving rain droplets, as the obscured clouds up above decided to bleed like their lives depended on it.
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No matter, Remus thought to himself as he stalked through the miniature ocean forming at his feet, at least my footsteps will be concealed, albeit waterlogged boots are never fun.
Closer up, he could examine the drowning market in more detail. It spanned about twenty yards in a straight wall of brick that extended up to about waist length, crested at the top by a smooth sheet of wood where many a bored guard’s hand lay tapping in idle drudgery. At the back, two identical staircases led upwards on either side, an equidistant space between one another — each the same murky hue of black the floor and back wall of the place were also made up of. Dashing around like curious manifestations of human wonder, distinctly familiar eyes hovered, their optical nerves hanging loose, and oddly blue. This was the chief position the Sight Sect filled: surveillance. There were a dozen at least outside, and undoubtedly an innumerable amount further up the fort itself.
Biting the tip of his thumb, Remus’ eyes scanned for any crack in the security’s armour, a clink through which he could intercept the operation’s extensive defences. None stuck out to him that perfectly met his needs, but the alleys running either side of the market only housed one Wealth lackey each. Remus wore the night’s darkness like a secondary shroud, treading step by step deeper into a cluster of bushes that’s thorns seemed to disagree quite overtly at his meddling.
The guards themselves would only be Emblazed or retired Foot-Soldiers at most. Though still enough to repaint the market walls a lovely red with Remus’ internal organs, they were still relatively low predators on the food chain. Remus tried to fixate on that truth, regardless of how little it mattered given his position on that impossible scale.
Leisure was fitted with many complementary dashings of greenery in between its mansions of clan bases, and Remus entered an enclosure of knee-high grass overseen by a thick canopy of trees, tiptoeing along this without the slightest rustle as he advanced towards the lone guard. He reached a vantage point just opposite to the man, a rather grumpy-looking fellow with his arms crossed sternly. Perspiration leaking out his body’s weight in water, Remus tensed up as he inched centimeter by centimeter onwards. The detached eye bobbled aimlessly through the air, taking long-spaced out blinks with eerily large eyelids. Every once in a while it would pan by Remus’ approximate whereabouts, eliciting many an unwanted shiver from the boy, who was only now beginning to suspect he was way over his head.
In a show of his notorious sagacity, Remus decided it best to wait for the safest opportunity to leap past. Perhaps when the guards switched post, or if they were preoccupied by some suddenly arising task. No such interval came, and cursing vulgarly under his breath, Remus headed back in defeat, only reaching a more rapid pace that reflected his state of mind, when he was safe out of ear shot.
Of course it was going to be heavily guarded, he said to himself, it's only natural, no point in getting mad over anything. It was only . . . only a few Duration’s planning wasted.
He halted, turned longingly with a jolting twitch that could only be expelled by an adamant tapping of his feet, and considered his options. Remus sat down, back against a decorative boulder, then put a thoughtful hand to his chin in his best impression of a wise scholar. He couldn’t have come all this way for nought, else this bottled up frustration amounting within him would burn him up from the inside out, soon to ravage any level-headedness left lingering, and removing the restraints on his most insanely revolutionary of impulses. There must have been something he could attempt. Some way to sneak past right under the guards’ unsuspecting noses.
Right under, it occurred to him. Right under their noses . . .
“If there’s something I hate in this world, something I despise above all else — perhaps with a stronger ire than even Damosh himself — it's strolling around in the sewers at the dead of night, bathing in the city’s filth.”
So declared Remus, pushing through the clumps of waste that filled the winding tunnels of First Rite’s sewers. His only light source was a soaked torch that kept extinguishing through the frequent spurts of sewer water originating from the capital’s faulty plumbery. A more bittering fate than having to relight an oversized splinter with a waterlogged match every ten minutes, was the aggravatingly long time it had taken him to cleave through the manhole.
But in the end, the job, however tedious, had been done. Now, his primary objective was to scout out a path leading into the market itself, and arrive there without permanently staining his carpentry attire with unrecognisable grime.
Remus’ footsteps echoed sonically across the oval passage, an enchanting, foreboding tune that sent the hairs on his back straight up like saluting soldiers. The passage soon came to a junction, and overhead, a network of structures that’s outlines he could only vaguely perceive through the aid of his torch's dim light became visible. If his speculations weren’t utterly wrong, he was standing directly under his target. Problem was, climbing wasn’t exactly Remus’ forte.
Exhaling, Remus grabbed onto the first of a series of syphons — in his eyes, a makeshift ladder. If he truly wanted to mould reality into the picture of his ambitions, it was going to take heapings of strenuous work, and many, many rash decisions. This was the positive affirmation he repeated to himself like a broken record, only he couldn’t exactly work-out where ascending an underground sewer system came into all of that.
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Ola stood at her post on the third level of the Leisure market, joined by an obedient eye with no apparent owner over her shoulder, and a long list of places she’d rather be but there. The post, at the very least, did offer a pleasant working space, a room so embellished it would be the most ornate that most Labour workers would ever have the chance to see. On a long table, a ceramic bowl sat, its golden contents unmoving, supplying a more clear reflection than even the most polished of metals could. A trio of vials were placed next to it, containing nothing but a transparent oil.
It had been the most successful day for Droplet selling in a long while, as always tended to be the case whenever the Day of Descension rolled round with the turning of the seasons to Spring. Deals were allocated for the first Duration of the event’s Passing only, leading an Ichor-thirsting crowd to arise from their pits to snag as much as their petty coinage could afford.
Her lips pouting, Ola glared at the low contents of the bowl as if it was everything wrong with the world laid out in front of her. “Only the first day, and we’ve almost run out of our stock. I don’t suppose Damosh is up for another bloodletting session . . .”
The precise procedure that beings carrying potent Ichor went through to produce Droplets was unknown to Oda, though whatever it was, she highly suspected that it was something laborious. Perhaps it exhausted the Godlings or God-Graced that underwent it, to the extent that despite the massive profits it could garner them, they didn’t sell their life-force any more than necessary. Whatever the case, she let the topic vanish from her mind for the moment, uncapping the first of the vials. With the world’s tiniest saucer, she gathered as little as a hundredth of the yellow fluid, before dipping it carefully into the vial. There it settled in the centre, encompassed, but not tarnished by the surrounding oil. Ola repeated this process until all three were done. Then, with a melodramatic moan and a great stretch, she leaned back in a seat behind the desk, very much relieved by the notion that the day’s duties had been fulfilled. Now all that was required for her was to wait until she was called for the end of the shift.
As the stresses and concerns that came with working under Damosh finally began to subside from her body, he arrived.
The young man, who she was soon to gain the habit of calling the buffoon, marched in stiffly, appearing strangely uncomfortable in his Wealth Sect uniform. As if it was a size too big for him, or possibly too small. Gawkily, he came to a stop, cleared his throat, and spoke.
“You may resign from your post. I’ll take over from here.”
Oda narrowed her eyes. The Wealth Sect had always been colossal in number, so it wasn’t anything too outlandish to acknowledge that there may be members she herself hadn’t met. Yet regardless, this maladroit idiot was hardly guard material. Of another cloth entirely — one she imagined to be especially flimsy, and prone to spontaneously tearing.
“Are you sure . . . “ She squinted at the newcomer. “ . . . who are you, exactly?”
“Wilfred.” The figure blurted, stepping back into a wall and dropping an ornament. He quickly grabbed the chalice mid-air, placed it back, and smiled at Oda most rakishly. “I’m Wilfred.”
“Are you sure you’ve come at the right time, Wilfred. This feels awfully early.”
“That it does!” Wilfred interjected, clapping his hands with forced merriment in a sound that resounded across the room, threatening the vials into a startled jolt. “The monitoring team thinks you’ve done absolutely spectacular this last Passing.”
Oda failed to conceal the ruddy complexion quickly gaining territory on the blank battlefield that were her cheeks. “They do?”
“Very much so.” Wilfred assured confidently. “Perhaps I’m not ought to tell you this yet, but the others are actually holding a surprise party in your honour.”
“They are?”
“They are. I’d dread for you to be late to your own celebrations, so I thought it best to gather you quickly.”
“Well of course.” The guard replied, arms crossed and lips bent upwards in a stance practically radiating prideful mirth. “Where exactly is this gathering, and will there be cake, dare I ask?”
Wilfred nodded. “Much. With wine and fruit platters and stacks of meat ladder-high and . . . “ the man looked down at his wrist as if inspecting the time, despite the fact he was only observing empty air, and that watches weren’t on schedule to become a popular accessory in First Rite for several decades. “Ah, it appears we’re running out of time before the big event! Best get going — it's on the top floor, at the Market’s peak.”
Oda frowned. “Long walk, isn’t it?”
“Only more reason to start now. Off you go, don’t let the leftover time stop you. I’ll finish off the shift’s last five minutes and clean up. Enjoy yourself.”
Clapping giddily, Oda left the room with a beaming smile that could have burned a hole through an iceberg.
Only when she was a good distance away, Remus sighed, tore off his helmet, and shook his ginger hair with an exasperated sigh. His body sagged against the wall, and he desired nothing more than to tear the clothing of his sworn enemies off his back. Nevertheless, the plan had worked.
You’ll never catch me sneaking around changing rooms again, Remus shook his head shamefully, striding from his seat to the vials of oil up ahead. And I wasn’t even spared the luck of stumbling across my size . . .
Remus picked up an oil sample carefully, fighting hard to keep his fingers from trembling. Holding it up to his eyes, he could see a glimmer of gold swimming steadily at its centre. The blood essence of the gods, the primary force of nature that differed stunted Death-Marked like him from the titans of creations that roamed the Mortal Realms, Remus couldn’t help but think that he was holding pure, untapped potential. His hands were trembling now, an uneasy gulp visibly making its way down his parched throat.
He looked away from the vial, swallowed a few times, and stared off into space, before inevitably succumbing to the urge of looking wide-eyed at it once more. He never truly believed he’d get this far; to hold the amber fluid in his very hands. It was literally at his grasp, awaiting with quiet patience for him to pop off the cork, and swallow the pure energy coursing through the deities themselves. For once, a nonsensical scheme of his had appeared to bear fruit. An orchard’s worth.
It was but a drip. The inclination to burn his tongue whilst downing the remainder of the bowl in one furious gulp was tempting, but then his common sense smacked him square on the head, reminding Remus that he’d probably prefer remaining in one piece instead of three trillion. Gradually, Remus held the vial to his lips, before noticing something from the corner of his vision.
An eye.
Remus spat out the colourless oil, too preoccupied to fixate on the fact that the prize of his efforts was now splattering across the floor. There was a swinging of doors that swept its hinges forcibly out of retirement, and three pairs of feet came rushing forward. He tried in one last desperate swerve to consume the remaining chunk of the vial, only for multiple hands beyond his fickle strength to pin him down.
“Nice try Death-Marked, but fortunately for me, I’m not nearly as obtuse as first appearances may convey.”
Oda smirked down at him, a Sight Sect eye performing cartwheels at her side. “Never understood why they told us to keep our eyes around at all times, but even the most pestering of advice does sometimes come in useful in the long run, doesn’t it Remus?”
The final memory Remus had before passing out was the blow of some blunt object across his head. The entire world concentrated to a black pigment, and his weak struggle useless, consciousness failed him.