This was supposed to be a quick sketch but I started procrastinating on my responsibilities with this as an excuse, so it ended up being something semi-rendered.
Anyway, the question box is there for you to use, my commissions are open (in my Dm) and if you want to support my art monetarily there is also my kofi
Darcy: Goddess of insects/bugs/arachnids, the moon cycle, silence, mentality, and insanity. We're pulling from Greek mythology, where they have multiple jurisdictions.
I want her design to be very much off-putting at first. Random eyes, insect features, a centipede lower body (I despise drawing shoes), and creepy moth wings. Lots of layers of fabric, but loose enough for her to move in.
Lore: Darcy, along with her sisters, is commonly feared and quite demonized in the eyes of the common people. Or, in the case of Stormy, watered down to one supposedly less 'harmful' jurisdiction. Most people worship the Winx/Specialists, known as the Dragonic Pantheon.
But to be fair, Darcy's appearance is unsettling and low-key horrifying at first, enough to make those who have been untouched by insanity/tainting of the mind tremble and have their mind 'break.' Vertigo, blurry vision, weakness, and a lack of awareness until they exhaust themselves to death within a few agonizing minutes.
Many who have run into her accidentally in the forest collapse from this 'mental break,' never to be seen again after having fallen as prey to her presence, but Darcy does give them a burial: "Not their fault they wandered into my clearing."
Icy: "They killed spiders for fun."
Darcy:
Darcy: "Never mind, their body shall be food for my children."
If you're someone who kills insects/bugs/arachnids/other disliked creatures with cruelty and hatred (one or two from getting jumpscared, she'll forgive with a proper apology), she won't bury your body. You're gonna meet the wonderful fate of having your decaying body eaten by her children, but luckily, you're already dead because of the 'mental break.'
It's an equivalent exchange for her.
Kill her children? Your dead body will feed her children.
She spends most of her time in a clearing deep in the forest. There's quite a large cottage there where she does her work, surrounded by the trees that she wanders through quite often to collect ingredients for her craft, or say hello to her insect children. She doesn't need sleep, so she spends a lot of time wandering when she's not working in her cottage.
And yes, the cottage is protected via magic. Also, her hoard of insect children. They love their mama and will protect her.
BUT, if you're someone whose mind is not untainted (for the lack of a better word), chances are that if you wander into her in the forest, you'd be fine as long as you weren't an insect-killer.
Any sort of suffering plagued your mind? Trauma, past of present? Mental difficulties that cause distress? She'll leave you be. The 'mental break' will leave you alone; she can't control it.
You're running through the forest from someone who caused you trauma? She'll give you protection, and if the person is horrible enough (yes, if she looks into your eyes, she can see the memories of this distress) she'll kill them if she feels like it.
Darcy takes mental harm seriously, and it disgusts her to no end that someone could willingly cause that harm to someone. It is not the sort of thing to be trifled with: the mind. Better hope that you don't intentionally and cruelly cause people trauma if you wander into her clearing, then you will surely meet a cruel fate. She can see the intentions behind the actions.
Again, the majority worship the Dragonic Pantheon, but for those who respect the insects/other weird creatures, desire protection from harmful people, or wish to see the light at the end of the tunnel of mental difficulties, they pray to/worship her.
Sort of as "The Mother" to those who suffer mentally, and who desire reprieve. She cannot give that reprieve, but she does care for those who have been through shit, and may just send you a comforting dream or a sign. Many don't see this side of her because of the earlier accidental murder/feeding her insect children.
But bottom line: she loves her insect children more than people. Disrespect her or her children, and bam, you lost her respect. She is not a goddess to be taken lightly. She is not "The Protection" goddess, and she doesn't quite appreciate being addressed as that; if people simply ignored all her other less tasteful aspects.
Respect her in all of her aspects, and she will give protection.
Insects/etc are her children, but those who seek protection (WHILE respecting her, making sure to respect ALL of her) are second. She does care for those she protects in her own way.
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Icy: Goddess of the winter season, horses/deer, ice/snow, ruthlessness, physical pain.
I'm planning to take inspiration from Satyrs for Icy's design (and yes, I still don't like drawing shoes), and give her antlers. Very royalty vibes, as if she herself rules the world and knows it. Winter clothing, and giving off the vibes of an albino deer.
Lore: While Darcy remains close enough to civilization, Icy does not. She spends most of her time in icy cold areas (the Northern Hemisphere of wherever this AU takes place) or in snowy woods. Most of the time, she has no sympathy for people and prefers to spend her life in solitude, or with the horses/deer.
She controls the winter season, and sometimes is seen in dry fields during late fall, spreading frost. Icy doesn't understand Darcy's love for insects, but then turns around and babies her horses and deer: they are all her children. Not cooing at them, but making sure they are safe/that they are well-groomed.
Icy is also the goddess of ruthlessness: not having any thought of others' pain when completing one's own goals. Winter is ruthless. It spreads as a season, and doesn't have much care of who and what survives it.
Sometimes she is accidentally summoned when Darcy is letting her children consume the corpse of someone, and Icy is quite annoyed when this happens. She has work to do.
Also, Icy is the goddess of physical pain. The ache, the injury, the blood. Of course, she doesn't dismiss mental pain, but that is Darcy's thing: not hers. Winter and the wild run on natural selection and kill-or-be-killed, and so does she.
A respectful hunter has nothing to fear. But one who disrespects the gift of nourishment nature gives, or any hunter who attempts to harm Icy's beloved herd of chosen horses and deer (quite obviously non-human), will have to pay. Icy is very much "karma is a bitch, and sometimes, karma is me."
Disrespect the animals? You're about to get chased by her chosen herd, trampled over, and killed. Your body will die under snow or be consumed by some other creature. Life and death. You killed without respect, and so, the same fate shall befall you.
Surprisingly, Icy is worshipped more than Darcy. Darcy is worshipped the least out of the Trix (not many believe all insects/etc should live, or are respectful of tainted minds) because of how present she is, and how aware she is of her followers.
Icy doesn't have the energy to be that present. Out of the Trix, she is the most absent. She rarely leaves signs for those who worship her, and she doesn't show herself: if you are a fucking amazing advocate for her, she might show herself, but it's not likely.
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Stormy: Goddess of emotions, storms, lightning, harpies, and family.
Once again, the saga of not wanting to draw shows, and so, Stormy shall have bird legs. Warrior/feather vibes, with some ruffles. She looks a bit less unsettling than her sisters, but she makes up for it by holding a weapon and a shield.
Lore: Stormy is worshipped the most out of her sisters, mainly due to her jurisdiction being less... unsettling to most. She doesn't mind, and often flaunts the fact to her sisters, who don't really care.
She is the one who brings the storms and lightning, often seen taking off to the sky (yes, she has bird wings) and is rumoured to bring the thunder via smacking her weapon against her shield. Does she? Sometimes. But Stormy believes that she only summons the storm, and then it creates the chaos on its own, but she CAN make thunder/lightning on command if she feels like it.
Stormy also quite loves harpies, whom she calls her 'bird sisters.' Many people don't quite like harpies, though, like her sisters, if you harm them, you get struck down. Aka, getting killed and left to the elements.
She is just as unpredictable as the storms she summons. Smiling, then bitter, then creating lightning. She controls the rise and flow of emotions, changing from one moment to the next, and she represents it quite well.
Stormy is the one who is less worn down by immortality than her sisters. She enjoys it. It is her calling, and she thrives in creating storms and flying across the sky with her Bird Sisters.
Disrespect her, and she is quite merciful. She knows that some things are because of a moment of ill judgment, and will forgive as long as those mistakes don't continue. But disrespect her family or her Bird Sisters, and you have quite the target on your back.
Thinking about box binah (the robot form from L corp) and how she would be even more touch starved since she may not even be able to feel any touch you give her. And when she goes into her meltdown state and sees you reaches out to see if she can finally feel any warmth from you even for a moment
good. more touch starved Binah is always excellent
you've taken to curling up in her arms or on top of the box when you're alone. it's the only way she can marginally feel you due to the extra weight on her. the combination of electricity and metal makes her the perfect temperature to fall asleep against, her glowing eye silently watching until you drift off. she won't do anything when you're asleep, though. Binah stays perfectly still with you leaning against her, not wanting to accidentally disturb your sleep, so soft and fragile and warm of which she can feel none of. her existence is cold and hard and claustrophobic and all she desires is to be able to hug you against her and surround herself in your warmth, but she hasn't felt warmth or softness or anything in years
Binah wants to cry. robots cannot cry
her Meltdown is horrible for everyone, as with every cycle. when her claws drag across a wall they send a crackle down her spine, and she shudders in sudden realization, instantly turning to follow your shouts. you're amongst your coworkers when she finds you, and they scream and flee- good. they're good for nothing anyways. your Sephirah marches closer, her embellished cloak dragging against the ground as she reaches out her hands and cups your cheeks
you're warm. you're warm and your skin squishes when she touches it and she can feel every contour of your face. the Arbiter trembles, barely, pressing her forehead against yours with an awful rusted choking noise before pulling you close, arms wrapped around your waist and cradling you with unfitting gentleness. she can't kiss you. in exchange she nudges her masked cheek against yours, trying to feel as much of you as possible
her Meltdown form lets out a desperate, screeched whine when you delicately lace your fingers with her talons, and the event goes out in a blink of light
Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.
It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern.
Waidwen meets a stranger in a tavern and learns that either way he doesn't have long to live.
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Read here or on Ao3 (4960 words)
Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)
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Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.
It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern. He was a young man, old enough to be married but not to have taken over his family's farm. And the exact age to join a holy crusade in honor of their god. His brown hair, longer than was seemly really, was tied back out of his sun marked face, his clothes were clearly too large hand-me-downs with a lovingly embroidered emblem on the hem. An uninteresting footsoldier that barely anyone gave a second glance. And if his hazel eyes shone just a little too bright in the dim fire light of the tavern, well, stranger things were happening these days.
The tavern was already near bursting, filled with soldiers relishing in a night not spent in a hastily erected camp and villagers still dazzled by the awe-inspiring sight earlier that day that was Saint Waidwen's glorious arrival and were now hoping for stories from those who got more than just a single glimpse of their Saint and ruler. No one paid attention to the young soldier making his way through the crowd, his steps too awkward and posture too hunched to be anyone of import, and therefore interest. The sergeant who'd come into the small tavern an hour earlier in his polished, shiny platemail was much more interesting, and more than ready to keep telling stories of their glorious prophet and how often he'd already fought side by side with Saint Waidwen for as long as the rapt listeners kept buying him drinks. The newcomer briefly stopped at the edge of the crowd surrounding the man and listened to a few words. He didn't seem impressed with the heroic stories and simply frowned before moving on to the bar counter.
The man behind the counter threw him a harried look while hurrying from one end to the other, handing out mugs, jugs and tankards and collecting coin with nary even a moment to breathe. The young man waved his hand dismissively, he was in no hurry. The barkeep nodded lightly and moved on, ignoring the newcomer for now, much like the rest of the tavern.
He'd come here hoping for a moment of calm, a time free from the expectations and constant supervision his life had become, and yet, despite the anonymity the stolen tunic granted him, there was no peace to be found for Waidwen. Not from the constant roiling of heat in his soul and not from the stubborn fuzziness in his head that he couldn't seem to get rid of.
He leant against the bar, eyes shifting rapidly over the crowd as his fingers started tapping out a nervous rhythm.
"I am allowed to drink a cup of Wyrthoneg." He kept his voice low, only mumbling under his breath. The tavern was loud enough that likely no one would have heard him regardless, but there was no reason to draw people's attention with inane comments to himself. Then again, there was no reason to talk out loud at all, but it was a habit he'd developed over the last few months. An extra voice in your head suddenly makes the voice from your mouth the private one.
*There is no reason why you wouldn't be.* The voice was, as ever, calm and soft. There had been few moments in their partnership that Eothas had ever become agitated, and all of them had included grievous bodily harm. Which this would not. This was a fun, short outing, to take his mind off of the horrifying exhausting trek before all of them.
"Broder worries too much, it's not like anyone cares when we're not glowing." The stolen tunic had done its task, as had the hair tie he'd reluctantly used and no one in the tavern had given him even a second glance. No one cared about a simple soldier coming to drown his fears or revel in the attention, they only cared about Saint Waidwen, mouthpiece of Eothas. It rankled him, despite the relief of escaping the constant scrutiny for a little while.
*I'm sure.* Eothas said gently, because it was what Waidwen wanted to hear.
He continued tapping on the counter, bit his lip and tried to ignore the dizzying pressure in the back of his head.
He'd almost convinced himself that he was simply sleep deprived when someone slid through the mass of people clogging up the tavern and settled beside him at the counter. He winced as the pressure spiked for a moment. His fingers tapped faster. He was not in the mood for entertaining (gawkers).
The same didn't seem to apply to the stranger.
"I'm told it's rude here to let a brave soldier sit on their own." Waidwen didn't flinch when the stranger spoke and it felt like a needle was rammed into his neck. One deep breath later the pain subsided again, leaving only the constant buzzing that never left him these days. When he finally turned, the stranger was looking at him expectantly. Or at least he thought they were, with a death godlike you could never be quite sure. He'd seen very few of them and all of them in the last year.
There was something vaguely unsettling in the stranger's growth covered eyes and sharp toothed grin. The pitch black growths seemed almost crownlike, spanning over their forehead and nose in ridged layers and peaking in two high spikes, as well as arching down their cheeks, framing their cheekbones and mouth as the only visible features. A white, Waelite eye tattoo was carved into their forehead.
Waidwen frowned as the shape wavered a little. He turned and went back to tapping.
"They forgot to tell me then." It wasn't quite a growl. He didn't want to piss anyone off, bar brawls tended to draw attention, but he also really didn't want to deal with people.
The stranger laughed, their warm, smoky voice floating just above the noise in the room. "I think I like you. Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink and you forgive my social blunder?" He sighed and the wood was granted a moment of mercy from the relentless tapping. For a moment he debated simply leaving again. But then what was the harm in indulging this stranger for a moment? They'd notice soon enough that there were better targets for gossiping. He steadfastly shook off the vague, ever-constant concern warming his neck and ignored the needle stabbing through his right eye as he glanced over to the stranger again.
"Won't stop you from spending your own coin, but don't expect any stories out of me." He threw a surreptitious look over his shoulder to the sergeant who was still surrounded by adoring villagers. Occasionally booming laughter or a wave of cheers sounded from the group as the man animatedly waved his hands around during his tales of heroics of saving saint, god, and country.
Waidwen turned back to the stranger and swallowed a wave of nausea. He wished he hadn't waved off the bartender.
The godlike threw an amused glance to the colourful group before turning back and smirking with raised hands as if in surrender. "Promise, no elaborate dickwagging required." Waidwen let out an unenthusiastic huff, but didn't disagree. As the stranger turned to call out to the still buzzing about barkeep for the promised drink he blinked in mild suprise. Behind their head growths peaked out two buns of hair, fire red and coiled. Probably a rare remnant of their aumaua heritage if their teeth were any indication. Not that it was any of his business. Or interest.
Waidwen went back to tapping the countertop. The grain of the wood was soft under his hands, both well sanded by its maker and smoothed down by many passing hands. His fingertips burnt.
A tankard was banged on the table in front of him with enough force to splash the Wyrthoneg both over his fingers and over the wood, filling the soft grooves of the grain with the sticky substance. Without thought he lifted his hand and licked the drink off his fingers as he mindlessly watched the liquid slowly creep across the table, soaking into the wood like he saw the dawn's rays soaking into every living being, regardless of the sun's position in the sky. The coolness of his tongue helped little against the burning. Where the wood absorbed the golden liquid, it turned a dark brown colour, soft and almost soothing. Above it sat more sparkling drops, shimmering in the firelight brightening room, almost glittering like early stars during sundown. Staring at them he could almost see his own face reflected, sprinkled over the wooden surface, first in the beads of Wyrthoneg sitting on the already soaked full spots, then in ever smaller droplets, specks sitting in the grain, so small that the grooves looked like canyons and he himself scattered between all of them, in ravines, mountains, fields without focus or reason, the only constant being an overpowering *warmth* making up every shattered piece of him.
A voice ripped through his mind like the roar of a cannon firing.
"I do apologize for the mess, but I think there's more in the tankard than on your fingers," the stranger chuckled with entirely room-appropriate volume. They were leaning casually against the countertop with one arm while lifting their own tankard with the other, not-perturbed in the slightest. Waidwen suppressed another flinch and quickly lowered his hand. After a moment to reassemble himself he grabbed the tankard and took a large gulp, decisively not looking at the golden liquid in it.
Judging by the quiet sloshing sounds, the stranger was content to simply drink in company for now.
The alcohol, however little it was, helped to dull the sharp sting of too clear sound and too detailed vision for a while. Probably better that it wasn't more potent, he felt like he might really crumble out of the confines of his body if he loosened his control too much. A few more gulps dulled that feeling as well. Eventually he felt stable enough to be annoyed again. And patience had never been his strong suit.
"So, what's the deal with you?" he asked with all the elegance and subtlty of a hailstorm, because while Eothas had taught him how to speak with flourishes, he rarely ever bothered with them. Eothas never corrected him.
The stranger laughed again, the way the merchants always did when they thought he wasn't counting the coins. The muscles in his shoulders tightened in irritation, even as the stranger answered with nothing but friendly mischief in their voice, nodding towards the bartender: "My deal is that I give this nice man some coins and he gives me drinks." Waidwen couldn't see the wink, couldn't see anything of their eyes through the pitch black growths, but the implication of it soaked through his aching bones like a well intentioned balm. It did nothing to lighten his mood.
"Oh haha, hilarious. How about a joke of my own then: a death godlike walks into an eothasian bar," Waidwen muttered. He wanted to scowl, to be hostile and inhospitable, so the stranger would leave him to his misery, but truthfully he was too exhausted for it. He didn't acknowledge the gentle, hesitant brush at the back of his mind, a flickering candle, a muted ray of light through heavy clouds, a wavering hand nonetheless held out offering. The moment passed, the soft touch lifted and Waidwen didn't give in to the yearning, the instinct to grab for it and the relief it promised. Eothas did not comment on it.
Yet again, the stranger seemed unbothered by his blunt suspicion and laughed. "Does the bar I say 'I forgive you' as the godlike rubs their head?" That did finally crack him a little and he snorted, more in exasperation but also a little bit of amusement. It was hard not to give in just a bit when someone was at last willing to banter with him and gave as good as they got. People these days were hardly ever honest with him in any way that mattered. He took another drink.
The stranger waited for a moment as they watched him down more of the wyrthoneg, their amused smile never wavering for a moment. Eventually he had his fill of the watered down alcohol and set the tankard back down with just a bit too much force to be entirely casual. The stranger leant back on their school, crossed their arms and smirked.
"Alright alright, don't want to get purged for murdering a holy soldier with my impressive wit." Once again, a wink was implied in the short pause. Dimly Waidwen wondered if his easy perception of the godlike's facial expressions was normal or if it was a skill born from frequently having to interpret feelings that weren't his own. Eothas said nothing to the thought. Waidwen didn't linger on it. If the stranger noticed his brief inattention they didn't acknowledge it. "Truth is, I'm here on business, Waelite business." They tapped lightly on their forehead with a strangely hollow sound and the eye tattoo almost seemed to flicker. "And you seemed like an interesting enough start." To Waidwen the explanation tasted like slightly moldy sonnread. Still sweet but with an undeniable rotten aftertaste. He took another swig and let the stranger wait for the answer they were clearly fishing for. When the taste didn't wash away with the drink he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.
"I thought you said 'no dickwagging required'?" he eventually muttered into the almost empty tankard, tasting only disappointment. Perhaps he should have been concerned. About spies, about yet another priesthood on his tail. But fear had been long burnt out of him, leaving only the dry ashes of resignation. No, he was not afraid of Wael. For all he was concerned, the whole world might as well be Waelites now, when all anyone ever wanted from him these days were answers that he didn't have or couldn't give. Perhaps he should be grateful that at least this one was bothering a random a soldier and not Saint Waidwen the Divine King. The thought felt like being violently shoved into a frigid lake.
The stranger's laugh sounded like jingling keys being dangled over his head, just out of reach.
"It's not," they assured, and Waidwen didn't believe it for even a second. "I don't even really know you're the one who has the secret that led me here. All I know is that I have to sit here for a bit and have a drink with you." The stranger, who really made a lot more sense as a Waelite priest, smiled, toasted their own tankard to him and drank. When they set it back down, it sloshed as if still full.
"Seems like a very vague holy mission," Waidwen huffed, elbows on the table and staring at the wall behind the counter, because he'd never been good at being polite or knowing when to stay silent. Hypocrisy sounded like a discordant temple bell struck at the wrong angle, familiar.
The priest shrugged, making the small, clear crystals attached to their scarf jingle ominously. "Comes with the trade. Though I wouldn't call it a 'mission' really. That would imply that Wael told me to do it. This is more of a... Personal interest." They did not wink this time, just smiled amiably with a sense of serenity that seemed almost out of character. Waidwen didn't like it any better than the sly grinning.
He took the bait anyway.
"So how do you know you have to sit here with me for your... Personal interest?" he asked, his loaded pause the exact same length as the stranger's. Over the last year his sense of time had become somehow both extremely precise and completely unreliable, a second stretching out into an unknowable infinity while whole days blended together until he couldn't be sure when he'd slept last. He'd also become very good at drowning any cold, creeping dread in the heat of annoyance.
"Ah, just because Wael didn't tell me to do it doesn't mean they had nothing to do with it," the priest replied. For the first time in their short conversation he really focused on the priest next to him. Their clothes were made for travelling, sturdy and altogether unassuming at first glance, except they were clearly of dyrwooden make. Their scarf suddenly stood out in sharp contrast, dyed a muted blue and decorated with crystals that seemed to almost glow slightly. The eye tattoo on their forehead was now purple. None of it had in any way occurred to him before. He was not afraid of Wael, no, but it was very different to not be afraid of someone out of reach, who may or may not be paying attention to you, and not being afraid of someone potentially right in front of you.
He narrowed his eyes and held the warmth in his head closer. The incessant buzzing flamed up again. "What does that mean?"
The priest chuckled, as unbothered as they had been throughout the entire conversation. "Nothing as grand as what you're imagining right now I'm sure. I don't start glowing for one. We just... Have an understanding. One that occasionally lets me siphon some knowledge from the vastness that is Wael if I go look for it." A slight tap on one of the crystals with their nails produced a quiet ping that reverberated through Waidwen's ears like a temple gong. But the sound was hollow, empty, like a hall left unfilled, the worshippers long gone. His shoulders marginally relaxed, but he stayed cautious. Few rooms stayed empty for long if someone was still living there.
"That sounds suspiciously like something you shouldn't be telling me." Perhaps it was a form of animancy instead? Waidwen frowned, eyeing the priest in front of him. He was not at all sure on his own stance on the practice, there had been so many other problems to deal with and realistically the only place animancy had in Readceras was as a political accusation or in a moral play, so he hadn't bothered looking into it. But if his choice was between a questionable mortal practice or another god getting personally involved, he'd certainly prefer the animancer.
"Maybe," the godlike agreed with a shrug. "But something tells me that I must anyway."
They told him stories of their own then. Of nobles having their pockets lightened, of government secrets stolen, of drafted spells mysteriously vanishing from their inventors' desks and of the small nibbling in the back of their own mind, never words, never orders, never a presence, but something far more delicate and interpretable. In the privacy of a crowd that didn't care about either of them, and with a steady, hot pounding behind his eyes, ready to burst forth at at any moment, Waidwen learned a bit more of the world, of gods, of cultures, and of people seeking to meddle with all of it. In a way it was almost comforting, the knowledge that out there, authority was not allowed to simply stand, that there was resistance to power, even in this strange way. It made him feel oddly reassured, connected in a way that had nothing to do with the silent voice in his head.
With each amused story some of the heat drained out of him, like a cool evening wind blowing away the noon's warmth, and he relaxed. At one point a new tankard was placed in front of him and he absent-mindedly sipped the wyrthoneg. Eventually he caught himself laughing at a mayor finding the love letters to his 3 misstresses pinned to the village board one morning. For a moment suspicion sparked in the back of his mind, but it went as fast as it had appeared. He was tired of being suspicious and for the first time in months he found it difficult to even try. Sweetness on his tongue, drink in his stomach and only the gruff voices of the people around him in his ears he decided that maybe he could stand to let it go. Just for one night. Even the pain behind eyes subsided just a bit.
Eventually his companion's stories trickled off, leaving a comfortable silence between them. The lights of the tavern were warm, the wood soft, and Waidwen was content for just a little while. But this piece of relief brought with it something else: curiousity. Something was itching in the back of his mind, for once it had nothing to do with Eothas, at least not directly.
Waidwen took a sip from his cup, enjoyed the taste for a moment, and then broke the silence.
"So that personal relationship of yours, it sounds a bit... Vague. Removed. Hypothetically, wouldn't it be easier for both of you to just be more direct about it? Something like, I don't know, share a body? If that works. To let you talk more easily, make use of that power yourself." He shrugged and drank again. The heat swirling up in his throat had nothing to do with the drink.
The godlike tilted their head curiously. "Is that what you think your saint is doing?"
"I wouldn't dare guess what his holiness is doing, I'm just curious." Waidwen lifted his tankard and took another sip to not have to look at them. The taste barely covered the ashy feeling in his mouth.
The priest hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I for one hope he isn't, for his own sake." They paused for a moment, mouth still open and fingers tapping on the table twice. Then they apparently came to a decision. "You see, mingling with the divine is a little bit like working with a raging river. What I did is dig a little pond," they cupped their hands, elbows on the table and fully turned to him, "And then I connected that pond to the river through a thin canal that has a movable gate. And when I need water I use a cup to get some from the pond. I have multiple layers of distance and safe guards. What you're describing would be more like throwing the cup into the river, shattering it and polluting the river in the process. Both would be ruined."
Somewhere behind them a tankard crashed to the floor, followed by a roar of laughter. Waidwen blinked. The death godlike stared back. Probably.
"Well. That sounds... Painful." His mouth felt dry. He took another drink.
"Oh I'm sure it would be excruciating. And fatal." The godlike agreed cheerily, then drank as well, a content smile on their face.
For a moment Waidwen considered thinking further on the comment, but quickly thought better of it. The cup in his hand was a much better thing to contemplate. He lifted the tankard and nodded to his drinking friend. The flesh under his nails itched, like they didn't fit quite right on his fingers. His hand never wavered.
"To not doing excruciating and fatal things then." The godlike chuckled and clanked their tankard against his with friendly enthusiasm.
"To not doing excruciating and fatal things!" As Waidwen emptied the tankard with one large gulp, the liquid felt alien running down his throat, slimy and rough at the same time, invading his body even as he let it. He slammed the tankard down on the wood with a satisfying crack, smacked his lips and sighed in a contentment he didn't feel.
The soles of his feet started burning in his boots, and he decided it was a night for bad decisions. He turned to the godlike, leant back in his chair and theatrically let his eyes wander over them. He didn't know quite what to make of them, more than usually, with their covered eyes and strange growths on their face, but he supposed they were probably attractive. Tall and built broadly, in a way that spoke of hard work and good food. The hair was a bit odd. Then again, what wasn't odd about him.
"Hypothetically, what would you say if I asked you to leave here with me? For the night?" For some reason he expected something then, some emotion or reaction not his own. He didn't know why he was disappointed when nothing happened but his own tension rising. He closed the hand not gripping the tankard into a fist and hoped the stranger didn't see the way his knuckles turned white.
The godlike chuckled. "Hypothetically, I'd thank you for the compliment. But since your heart isn't in it, I'd leave it at that." Their smile seemed softer than the others, understanding in a way that grated against him more than anything else. He hated himself a little bit for the relief that was all his own spreading through his limbs.
He hmphed and turned towards the bar, trying to dredge up the appropriate anger for being turned down. As always he failed.
"Don't take it personally." The godlike shrugged, still smiling softly. "There's plenty of people who don't find sex all that attractive. It's hardly a character fault." His neck burnt, this time in embarrassment, but he ignored it, just as he ignored all else. He hated that a stranger had seen through him so easily. Still he didn't quite manage to be truly angry about it either. At least the rest of this conversation assured him that he wouldn't have to endure the constant judgement for much longer. That dark thought did elicit a spark of a reaction in a part of Waidwen not quite his. Another part of Waidwen took some savage pleasure in it. The majority of him ignored it.
"What, is my sexual behaviour your secret?" he grumbled into the tankard, glaring into its empty depths.
The godlike laughed. "Maybe. Who knows really." The entirety to the country. But who was counting. (The entirety of the country and they didn't like that they'd never gotten past zero.)
Waidwen sighed and dragged a hand over his face. It left a strange fizzing sensation in its wake. Everything felt heavy, dragging and bloated with a certainty that never stopped yanking him forward. The tension in his limbs had evaporated, leaving him with nothing but the ashes of himself. For once he could afford to run away from them. He pushed the tankard away and got up, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the ground under his feet rather than the swirling in his head.
"Well, either way I think it's time for me to turn in. Got a way to march tomorrow." The godlike didn't seem to mind his somewhat abrupt goodbye and simply nodded to him amicably.
"Good night and good luck then." Waidwen nodded back and turned, no doubt to never see them again, one way or another. Despite everything he still felt a twinge of regret, like there was something he was leaving behind in that tavern full of noise bullshit and lies.
Eventually he'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cool air of night, the noise behind him finally muffled through the door. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes focused on the surrounding houses and not the stars that hung like threats in the sky. He started walking towards the camp beyond the village border. He'd of course been offered to stay in the mayor's house, but first he'd have to change back into his own clothes, which he'd hid outside the village.
His hands starting stinging, like the fingers were about to peel off from both hand and bones. He flexed them for a moment and sniffed, a mixture of spite and tired acceptance filling him.
"Well. Nothing we didn't know before, is it." His voice was quiet, even in the silence of the night as they'd left the bustling tavern behind. Nothing like the booming voice of Saint Waidwen. Nothing like the grudging rasp of the soldier. Just him and a rapidly shrinking eternity.
Eothas didn't answer, but a soft warmth returned to his neck. Not burning, not pushing, only present as they moved onwards to something neither of them could stop.
It occurred to neither of them that they had never felt the need to ask the stranger's name.
And so lone soldier slowly strode through the streets, in the direction of the camp just outside the village, noted by no one.
Inside the tavern, a godlike clacked their tongue and sat, thinking.
Anyone bothering to ask the locals the next day about a death godlike drinking in the tavern would have their silly delusions quickly corrected. The village of Palemorn had not seen any godlikes in more than a decade.
