Mirrored from Sythyry.
Gods do not generally apologize for anything.
Flokin: “You’re going to have to heal yourself in a minute, but don’t do it yet.”
Me: “Why not?”
The parlor caught flames again, only this time the flames were made of manes, like horses’ manes, and I had to braid them all, but I couldn’t, because they weren’t solid.
Flokin: “If you do, I will have to make you sick again.”
Me: “Why do you want me sick at all?”
Flokin: “I don’t want you sick. I need you healthy! So don’t heal yourself!”
I was running around the parlor frantically, trying to catch the horses, except that it was in the execution-chamber in Hanija where I had been beaten until my wings broke a couple decades ago, and my first lover Ilottat was there explaining to the judge (who was also there) about how I should be given extra wings to make the punishment something closer to sufficient.
Me: “Then why shouldn’t I heal myself healthy?”
Flokin: “I need to talk to you first!”
Me: “I’m loopy and hallucinating from the fever!”
I told Ilottat something about how not giving me extra wings because I couldn’t eat all the ones on my plate already. They weren’t even cooked; they were raw, looking as if they had been hacked off of Saza and my ~mother~ and tossed on a piece of bread. Curst hallucinations!
Flokin: “Well, the other choice is sending you smoke signals. Or burning little words on the bed, or something. This is better, I get to tell you more lies.”
I was back in Applied Theology class, listening to Vae lecture about how gods always lie to you when they’re telling you important things that you absolutely need to know. Thefefy was pounding on the classroom door, every blow harder and louder than the one before it, and very quickly she was joined by Boomstarter the Khtsoyis drummer, and the two of them started breaking the classroom door down to the tune of “Bonnie Come Over For Oral Sex”. Which wasn’t even written until fifty years after that Applied Theology class, I know, because the Orren who wrote it was my houseguest when he wrote it. Curst hallucinations! Not enough that a god was lying to me, but I was obviously lying to myself.
Me: “Lie away! I am looking forward to adding an amusing footnote to the next theology textbook.”
Flokin: “Anyhow, Thefefy’s here on a mission of revenge and murder. She’s upset that Mircannis put her in a silly little universe and abandoned her there.”
One other note from theology class: (1) Fever is a Pyrador substance, as well as Corpador, and hence in Flokin’s domain. (2) Fever dreams are an aspect of fever. (3) So, if Flokin wants to have a bit of a private chat with you, it might do so in a fever dream.
Me: “Namie too. No. Octagons. Folded? I can’t remember.”
All three of the Elfimel came into the room, with burning torches in their hands, and started to beat me for ignoring them just like their goddess.
Flokin: “Maybe even all of them. We could be in for some war among the gods, with the Elfimel’s almighty powers of cookery and same-species copulation matched against Mircannis’ almighty powers of … does Mircannis actually have any powers?”
Retrospective: (1) Mircannis, being one of the greater gods, has plenty of powers, many of them attested heartily in the literature. I doubt that there is anything I can do better than she can, except, perhaps, get myself in trouble. (2) Flokin, being one of the lesser gods, frequently must be involved in these powers, and surely knows about them. (3) Gods lie a lot.
Flokin: “Probably not, or she’d be doing things herself rather than sending her poor overburdened (but obnoxious and febrifacient) fire elemental to do it.”
Me: “You have my symapthy.” That didn’t sound right. “or sythpymy” That sounded too much like me. “Symypsy.”
I said this largely because Arfaen had just conscripted me to skin a nearly endless sequence of cats for her world-famous cat casserole (which I was feeling very guilty for never having heard of before.) Most of them still alive, and all of them just cats. I checked.
Flokin: “Not too much sympathy! Now I am making you the one in charge of Thefefy! You and you alone must save Mircannis from the wrath of that shiny metallic deity over there!”
Me: “Why don’t you do it? It’s hard to imagine me winning a fight that you could not.”
Flokin: “Mircannis doesn’t want her killed. Not even hurt!”
Me: “Why not?”
Flokin: “I didn’t ask, but I think she forgot to pay Thefefy her last seven billion paychecks.”
Me: “So what am I supposed to do?”
I was obviously supposed to fight off the giant tick-demon who was making eyes at Arfaen, but I couldn’t, because I had accidentally wrapped myself up in the +4 Purple Plaid Overcoat of the Elder Gods and I would fall down the stairs if I tried to spread my wings. Terrible situation. Curst hallucinations.
Flokin: “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Me: “Then how…?”
Flokin: “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Heal now!”
I obviously wasn’t going to get any good answers from it anyways, and the rasp-beaked penguins were about to eat my eyes and my collection of antique Herethroy mallets, so I healed myself. The fever and all the hallucinations went away. So did the secret conversation with Flokin. The quest, of course, did not.