Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,
Sythyry
sythyry

Kismirth Against The Gods, part 2

Mirrored from Sythyry.

The intruding goddess was a tall and chubby Rassimel in shape, with a very long neck and hypertrophied female attributes. She was a sculpture of quartz and silver and gold. The flames in her eyes were twin suns of rage, and the smoke of her tail coiled far over her head like a serpent ready to strike. She wore a mighty iron helm worked with nine-knobbed rings, with a pair of vast iron horns that did not do well by my ceiling. In case it’s not obvious, she is a goddess with a huge portfolio — seen from one angle — covering Airador, Pyrador, and Durudor. Her twin swords were sheathed, which is good. The last time she had come visiting she chopped a hole in the front door. She had a bright orange cat on her shoulder, which was even better; if she is picking up local animals for pets, she can’t be too angry.

The cat was just a cat. I checked.

“Hello, Thefefy,” I said.

“Sythyry,” she said.

The last time I had seen her, my associates had tricked her — one had annoyed her into a fight, while others robbed the greatest treasures of the Heaven that was her universe, and others rescued a few of the blessèd spirits who were her charges and whom she compelled to an endless cycle of assorted minor enjoyments and pleasantries. Sort of like a Kismirth without (1) names, (2) different species or even genders, (3) Arfaen’s superb gourmet touch, (4) death, (5) exits, (6) various other things, some of which we are better off with and some which they are better off without.

“Welcome to Kismirth, mighty goddess,” I said. Politeness may or may not count. If Octagons and Folded and Namie know much — and they were her compulsory and well-treated guests for unknown aeons — Thefefy rarely stands on ceremony. But I am well-read in theology, and most gods do care.

Her cat was just a cat. I checked.

“Yes,” she said.

I inspected her in surreptitious ways. Not surprisingly she was a terrible tower of thaumaturgy, a mountain of menacing magic. In Heaven she had been inexorable, unbeatable in any sort of physical or magical contest. Even Vae, who is far and away the deadliest creature in Kismirth, could do nothing against her there, and she brushed my best spells aside like so much tinsel. And of course she had already gotten inside of Kismirth’s mighty walls, which, I thought, she shouldn’t have been able to do without me noticing it. On the World Tree, far from her Heaven, she was moderately diminished. If everyone with any substantial power on Kismirth assaulted her together, I guessed, we might perhaps be able to injure her, if we were alarmingly lucky.

Her cat was just a cat. I checked.

“To what do I owe the surprising occurrence of your visit?” I asked. We had stolen mighty relics from Heaven, three chalices full of the blessings of Mircannis — the goddess who had created that Heaven, and abandoned it for the World Tree. I would sorely miss them; they were wonderfully useful tools. With them, I had restored the dead to life, I had healed wounds to mind and spirit that no mortal artifice could have helped unaided, I had built devices which healed the wounds of space itself, and I had reattached the pulled-off antenna of a farm-girl on her birthday. But they were just things, and I would make do without them.

Or did she want the three escaped Elfimel? Denizens of her Heaven, whose fate was an eternity of light enjoyment, cooperative board games, public lesbian cisaffectionate sex, and broccoli-and-cheese sandwiches miraculously created for them in silver pyramids. I didn’t have much to do with the Elfimel, who generally kept to themselves and to their local wife Simmerene. But the Elfimel are people. I struggled to think of a trick I could play on her to get her to depart without the Elfimel. I would fight her if necessary, but that would not be fun.

Her cat was just a cat. I checked.

“Revenge. I’m here for revenge,” she said.

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