#gale standing in the corner like: 'please can i have a magic sock to eat it hurts so 🥺'

[shadowphoenixrider]

I am *trying* to romance Karlach in Baldur's Gate 3, but Gale is Right There being a sweet guy with Sad Wet Beast vibes, and my need to adopt him is overwhelming.

[blacknovelist]

deities

Your first memory of this world is chaos.

You don't remember it, not like how all creatures know the sun on their skin or the warmth of a body beside them or anything quite so material and simple, but there's no mistaking it for a figment or the like. There's no mistaking the moment in which the force of the world's  d e s p e r a t i o n  and  h o p e  brought forth life, demanding with all the force it could muster that these new forms (brother and brother and sister and sister and neither and neither, what are we meant to be?) demanding with all the force it can muster that these new beings -- the very compounds of existence, pressed into a form visible to the ordinary eye -- fix the mistakes of its own making.

The marks of that first life are everywhere, saturating everything; it's in the tangs of magic on your tongue, in the crackling howls of mountains and forests and storms as they recognize one of the deities who destroyed and remade them once upon a time, in the low hum of your soul whenever you’re in your siblings’ presence, no matter how many lifetimes have passed. There is no forgetting the sensation of nothingness coalescing into something, into you, for the first time. There's no forgetting the first time eyes open and bear witness to the tumultuous nature of life, no losing the memory of being everywhere and nowhere all at once, of coming into being knowing three things; something is wrong, it needs to be fixed, and you are not alone.

Mortal life, in comparison, is blissfully mundane and refreshing all at once.

The lives bleed together sometimes, your aged feathered form giving way to youthful fur giving way to sleek scales, a transition between bodies in mind and memory and soul. Some lives see the relics of your siblings return to you once more for safekeeping, the familiar thrums of their essences bringing a thread of comfort and home -- others see your fragile body destroyed far too soon, leaving you to wander between nonexistent breaths until consciousness tugs yet again. Sometimes you forget your roots and are drawn into the practices and faiths of those who look upon the first lifetimes in worship. Sometimes you remember too much, and all you can do is drive yourself away so as not to see the eternal reminders of family and separation at every step.

Above all else, you do two things; you think, and you learn.

Today is a thinking day, you decide from your deck table at the Four Wings. A friend you were supposed to meet here is running late with absolutely no indication as to why, though you can’t quite bring yourself to mind. Children dash back and forth across the empty street, tossing a worn leather ball between them as they giggle and sing an old nursery rhyme. Faint breezes send the ball tumbling just a little bit further whenever a throw seems lacking, ruffling hair and tugging at clothes. Down the street an acolyte calls out from a church's open doors, bidding welcome to those who would seek council from the Eight through prayer and worship. It’s a wonderfully simple moment.

“Traveler, Traveler, tell us a tale, tell us of the mountains and the lonely vale. Stranger, Stranger, show us a dance, blind us with fire and put us in a trance.”

Sometimes you wonder why you’re still here; why the magic in your soul is allowed to thrum beneath your skin unchecked, waiting ever-so-patiently for the moment it can again stretch your feathers and soar just like that first life, a wanderer and teacher in equal parts. You wonder how the thoughts of ordinary creatures (like you, nowadays) could have created beings so mighty, all twirling winds and writhing waves and flaring forces barely kept at bay by such simple physical forms. The memory-sensations of being made and unmade, the impressions of sweet freedom and crushing nothingness, leave you desperate to rip yourself apart to reclaim that power some nights and it's terrifying. Most nights, the thum-thud of your heart and the aches of your muscles and the low, even push-and-pull of breathing drown out the feeling entirely.

The itch fades with every passing year and faded new lifetime. It’s something of a relief.

One of the café waiters places a single glass by your elbow, the air around their hand tingling with residual cold. On the street a young couple giggles and laughs as one prods the other with a single sparking finger. The now-soaked ball tumbles from the sheepish grip of one of the kids, sending water and rock flying with each bounce. Their voices, but quickly pick up again.

“Teacher, Teacher, where do we go from here, lead us by the hand and whisper in our ear. Saint, Saint, come be our friend, stand by our side until the very end.”

You’ve already done your job, technically. Belief brought you and your siblings into existence for a reason and now that reason is finished, the fruits of your efforts now resting in the hands of those who wished you to life in the first place. Other gods, ones from before you, still have their names passed around, but you’ve never seen them yourself. Where did those gods go, you wonder? Do they still wander the planet that so loved and loves them dearly? Did they wander back to their realms where they need not worry about the toils of the mortal material world?

Did they fade away, heart and soul drifting off to subsist in that nothingness forevermore? Did they ever really exist outside of the plaintive calls of their most devout, deep in the corners and churches scattered across the city? You shudder, the ice in your drink rattling against the glass.

“Mystic, Mystic, give us a song, show us how to play and sing along. Thinker, Thinker, riddle us this, what is the secret to true bliss.”

Of course, no one has answers. Here's one of the things you’ve learned over the years - you are loved, very dearly, by the world around you, and the world will always do its best to forget you exist at all along the way. As much as your names (the true ones, the ones wished into being just as you were) reverberate throughout the world, you and your siblings are but strangers. Will you stop existing, one day, when the world finds someone new to put all its belief into? Maybe, maybe not. In the words of your brother -- offered in a life where boulders cracked at the force of your gales and grass curled over his toes and fingertips like his fire, between breathless laughter and the heady relief of companionship -- you’re likely better off not lingering on it.

You take a sip of the light green drink at your side. It’s delicious.

“Whisperer, Whisperer, Lady of the Sea, share all your sorrows over a cup of tea. Protector, Protector, lower your shield, the war is won and the world is healed.”

Where are your siblings now, you wonder? Maybe they’re bound in service to the relics you all made so long ago, or perhaps they were drawn in by the steady faith the church has to offer and are lingering there. They could be wandering the globe, bearing witness to the incredible marvels of the planet… or they could be sitting around a table and running through the streets, as carefree as can be, without a worry on their mind.

“Eight, Eight, I see Eight, come from the heavens to save us from our fate.”

"Hey, let's sing it again."

"Okay!"

“There you are, Mavis.”

A weight settles on your shoulders from behind, arms draping carelessly over yours and barely missing the glass in your hands.

“Vita,” you say. And then, “please get off me so I can finish this and we can go.”

“Alright.” Your companion drapes himself on the chair beside you instead, all melodrama and feigned exhaustion. “The order’s been placed, so all that’s left is to head home. Thank you for ditching me and my work, by the way.”

“I literally gave you the invoices you were supposed to get and organize, you’re not allowed to complain,” you reply. Your drink is just as delicious when you chug it as fast as your body can handle and as the glass drains you feel satisfied.

Then a cold aching chill settles behind your eyes and at your temples, and you groan.

“What were you doing over here?” Vita asks, offering no sympathy. Idly, you weigh the pros and cons of petty vengeance.

Beware wet socks in your future, my friend.

“Contemplating the nature of my entire existence,” you say instead, because watching Vita make faces over your brutal honesty is always fun. “Now that my purpose is over, I’m wondering why I’m still around. Maybe I’m not actually around and this is a constructed life that my subconscious designed because I don’t like the idea of not existing anymore.”

“I,” Vita declares, nose and eyes scrunching hilariously, “am going to pretend at least half of that made sense and that you didn’t say the other half.” He stands. “You ever read that one collection in the back room, ‘I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon’?”

“No.” You follow as he ambles down the street, tossing money on the table as you go. “Not really a fan of them, myself. None of the shorts make sense, or if they do, I just get mad there isn’t more somewhere.”

“That’s fair, I’m a little mixed on this one. But, well, you ever read something in a book or hear something from someone on TV or the radio or in real life and it just kind of sticks to you?”

“Yeah?”

“Well there’s this one thing that the author said in the, uh, intro of the book, and I feel like you should hear it.” Vita throws an arm over your shoulder, drawing you in with a grin. “He said, ‘reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away’.”

“…hm.” You blink, turning the words over in your head. Something inside of you settles as you do, taken by the simple phrase.

“It’s good, hey? I thought it sounded nice, but you know what I think now?”

“What?”

“You should use this phrase to soothe all your worries so you can stop all the deep-ass philosophical thinking and go eat cake next time,” he says. “Seriously, all this free time and all you got was a drink and brain freeze? Bad trade-off, my friend.”

“You’re definitely not wrong.”

So maybe today is as much a learning day as a thinking day. And maybe you really do only exist because other people believed so hard you appeared one day, and maybe you only still exist because people still believe in you. That suits you just fine. Yes, you and your siblings were born from faith and hope to fulfill the dreams of those who, once upon a time, wished for another chance, but this right here as you work and breathe and play just as everyone else does?

At the very least, it’ll make for a great story in the end.

(x)