Map Location: The Mansadom occupies a circle of systems ringwards of the outer regions of the Augustan Empire, an area normally referred to as either the Boukour Loop, the Circlet of Mandé or the Edge of the Storm. The reason for this naming scheme is that the hyperlane network between the solar systems of all the Mansadom worlds form a ring around a supermassive black hole at the centre of the loop, called the White Eye, the Storm in the Void or the Bright Grave. This black hole has a bright accretion disk and severely hampers hyperlane travel anywhere near it, forcing travel around it instead. Due to its energy output, many power companies and state engineers have proposed enormous projects to capture its beams in massive solar panel arrays; however, no such project has been completed as of yet.
Government Type: Oligarchic monarchy lead by Mansa Abdoulmaye II of the Khourboukdao dynasty, a harkback to the ancient kings and emperors of the First and Second Malian Empires back on Earth. The mansa is in theory supposed to be kept in check by the Parliament in the capital system Manden, but the current mansa’s grandfather, Ahmoud II Khourboukdao, initiated several reforms to strengthen the monarchy in the face of widespread rebellion in the autumn of his reign. His son, Ahmoud III, continued in his father’s footsteps and had the Parliament pass the Renaissance Act, which made it so all decisions made by Parliament would have to be approved by the mansa or the mansa’s small cabinet of advisors, known as the Elders’ Council or Les Anciens. The class of religious scholars and imams known as the Learned, or Les Ulames, also holds considerable power as they made up the mass of bureaucrats, statesmen and clergy that enact the mansa’s will on his peoples.
Furthermore, the Mansadom is a vassal state of the Augustan Empire, but has recently wrested additional freedoms from their overlord during a short period of decline. However, as an independent state, the Mansadom would never survive - as it is wholly dependent on access to the internal imperial market and the protection of the imperial armed forces.
Demographics: The Mandenic Mansadom is home to both humans and many species of xenos, all united under two principles:
1) their faith in Allah and in that Muhammad is His prophet.
2) their fear of the extrasolar barbarians beyond the Boukour Loop.
The majority of humans in the Mansadom are descendents of colonists who arrived with the Orion Rim Colonisation Programme (ORCP), colloquially called “Le Deuxième Jennat” or “the Second Jennat”. The ORCP was initiated several centuries ago by the Federation of West Africa (La Fédération d’Afrique Ouest) back on Earth, a union of francophone African states who had united to become a considerable player on the Tellusian stage. The Mandens, as they are called, are largely black or dark brown with black hair, with local variations resulting from planetary conditions. The humans of Manden are the most similar to the original colonists, while the Mandens of the tunnel-cities on the frozen planet of Koufada are almost pale and gray with albino features. The majority of Mandens are farmers, fishermen, pastoralists and asteroid miners. Many also make up much of the middle class in the form of merchants, teachers, clergy and academicians. The upper class are almost exclusively made up of Mandens.
Hailing from the planet of Simkoufa-III, an ocean planet barely dotted with other land than a few islands and polar ice caps, the xeno race known as the Géless dominate the waters all pelagic zones of the unending oceans. The Géless are a race of “xenocetaceans”, classified thusly because of their outwards similarity of Tellusian whales. However, many will find after examining them more closely that they could hardly be further from the fact. The Géless are colony-feeders, meaning they feed on the enormous quantities of algae and plankton that grow in the thick “beard” of bristles around the length of their long mouth. Their migration patterns expose them to nearly all layers of the sea where life can thrive (at least to an extent), filling their bristles with nutrients that the algae and zooplankton can grow numerous on. The Géless can grow up to forty metres in length and weigh up to 150 tons.
Similar to hypotheses about cetaceans from Old Tellus, initial colonisers of Simkoufa-III proposed that the Géless were intelligent beings with complex social structures. They regarded them as an alien whale and gave it little thought beyond simple biometric scans for the sake of expanding the genetic biobank. However, as the years passed, a Manden biologist by the name of Aboubakher Ismaïl Doukana was listening in on a Géless colony in a nearby ocean sector when the clock struck five in the afternoon. What he initially mistook as the sound of the minarets coming from outside turned out to be coming from the Géless: The oldest bull was singing its own adhan while the others were silent. Dr. Doukana couldn’t believe what he had found and soon after received funding from the House of Academicians to conduct large-scale research into human-Géless communications. After nearly ten years, his team produced the first comprehensible translation programme to enable cross-species communication. What followed were inquiries into how the Géless had come to learn and practice Islam; over the years, the trend Dr. Doukana had initially discovered
(The people of your nation, human, xeno or both. It could be as simple as a percentage list with pics, a small paragraph or whatever you feel is best)
Military: (The fun part! What’s defending your nation in these uncertain times? You can provide as much or as little detail as you like. Can’t also forget, showing tons of pictures of what their soldiers, vehicles and ships look like :P)
History: The Storm in the Void, a massive black hole, dominates the centre of the Mandenic Mansadom, spewing forth great bouts of energy that feed the solar arrays on Manden and Gao, but also complicates hyperlane travel and intersystem trade. This has forced each world within the Mandenic Mansadom to grow increasingly independent, which has weakened the throne on Manden. (Speaks for itself. It can as brief or detailed as you wish.)
It began with the tribe of Ozymandia. Ozymandia and her kin had been unfortunate enough to count among the few elves to be spawned outside the fortress-city of Earthwall. To demonstrate the reasons why their caring mother Celestine had forged the city in the first place, the Ozymandians - even in their mighty elven forms - had struggled against the wrath of nature. The taiga offered little of sustenance beyond hunting, forcing migrations that teared at the stamina of the tribe as a whole. Boar hide and stag skin made for decent clothing in the summer, but once the winter came, the taiga became its own kind of hell. With game suffering as much as they did, the elves were forced to chew on lichen and bark for sustenance. Further casualties resulted, for even a resistance to winter cold couldn’t sate their crippling hunger.
It wasn’t until Ozymandia’s eldest daughter, Ozara, discovered the entrance to what would be their salvation, that the Ozymandians could truly know peace and security. Ozara, while scouting for game with a party of her siblings and cousins, had stumbled upon a cave in the snow. Fearing it might be inhabited by beasts, they had advanced with care. However, as minutes gathered in the tens, the party quickly realised that this was no mere cave, but a tunnel - and it sure was a lot warmer than the outside. A messenger had been sent back to tell the others; swiftly they had followed him back, for the camp was already packed at that point. The Ozymandians arrived in the cave to settle, but only a generation passed before they outgrew their own ability to scavenge the overworld for food in a sustainable manner. Ozara and Ozymandia then fell out over the next course of action.
Ozymandia wanted to remain at the cave mouth - perhaps try their luck again in the overworld.
Ozara, on the other hand, wanted to delve deeper - further.
In the end, the mother and daughter would separate, most following their chieftess while the bravest - or most foolish - followed the heiress.
In the years to follow, Ozymandia and her tribe would never hear from Ozara and her followers again. They sent scouts into the caves on occasion, but they always returned empty-handed - if they returned. However, the bond between mother and child is strong, and the chieftess could feel her daughter’s pulse through the fabric of space.
She was alive… Somehow.
Deep in the black belly of the world - beyond the edges of light and air - one would think nothing could live. At least, nothing not accustomed to the life down below. Here, where surfacers came to die, another people thrived. Kept secret from the heavens, these creatures knew only the shadows of the earth and the light of its veins. Their diets of alkalichen, cavern cantarelles and irongrubs turned their skins red as clay, brightened to a flaming crimson by the underground magma offering what light it could. Their skin filtered out the vast amounts of chalk in their water sources, which formed a porous, yet helpful natural armour layer atop their skin. Considerably shorter than they used to be, their forms had to change to fit the narrow channels through the stone, as their bones changed to resist the many dangers of the Underground. These creatures grew numerous and pioneered new caves in the Hob, the great networks and pockets of limestone caverns. Led by their new chieftess Ozara, these new hobgoblins spread far and wide within their new home, taking in the glorious creations of the Earthwarden… And of their patron.
With time, each cave developed into their own tribes and engaged in trade with one another, helped by the Worming Bazaar led by the Procurement-Princes of the Umbralground and their host of mercenaries. These were the Centaurions of the Crater, humans, kinnaras and centaurs fighting for a living, and the hunters of the Rimeteeth tribe, legendary trackers of the Tundra - all of them demonstrating the vast diversity of peoples in the Underground. Connecting to the greater network of the Land Under Land, the hobgoblin tribes prospered under Ozara.
But then, as surprising to the hobgoblins as as super volcano to the Steppe dwellers, Ozara died - not of hunger, not of wounds, but of age. The hobgoblins realised then that the agelessness of Elvenkind had left them and they prayed for their patron to come save them.
And so he had come - on time - the Bureaucrat, to oversee his latest pilot project. The reasoning had been, since the Ferryman and his Souls Inc. were already immensely overworked, the Bureaucrat would solve the problem at its roots: Too many people were dying. Changing otherwise doomed creatures into something else had been quite successful, as the hobgoblins had shown. However, death followed all life all the same, and the Bureaucrat knew that anything done to help the living was always a temporary solution.
The hobgoblins pleaded with him: What should they do, they asked - their leader had left the world and would never return!
While the Bureaucrat was very aware of the ghost of Ozara before him weeping for all her kin that she had left behind, he nonetheless offered them consolation. New leaders would rise, surely - right now, it was more important to ensure that the corpse of their chieftess would be properly cared for and that her ghost would be properly tended to until the Ferryman would arrive. At this, the hobgoblins frowned in confusion, but then the Bureaucrat shook the hand of Ozara's daughter. An eerie blue flash blinded everyone present, and when their vision returned, nothing had changed. Well, nothing drastic, but Ozara's daughter Ozymala was crying - crying and reaching out into the air before her. Her hand gripped something, but nothing could be seen - yet it was far too firm a grip to be grasping simple air.
As the hours of resting neared, Ozymala would hold a ceremony for her mother, lighting Monoxen coal aflame and burning her corpse down to the alkaline ash and glowing iron at the core of their beings. The ashes were then spread over the three rivers of her home village. As the others rested, Ozymala remained awake for the whole night, singing in a mystical language that rumours said only ghosts could understand. When she sang, the deep seemed to quiver; the waters seemed to ripple; and, most frighteningly, a most unfamiliar phenomenon to the underdwellers could be felt - gusts of wind flew by as they would on the surface.
Thus was created the first Death-Singer, a most trusted colleague of the Bureaucrat.
And surely, new leaders did rise, and like on the surface, disagreements brought them to separation. The hobgoblins thus spread out throughout the Hob and beyond, exploring the Underground as new citizens of Lektor’s realm.
Some Elves got fucked by fate and put in the taiga. Temperature is one thing, but there’s jackshit to eat, so they die like flies. They eventually find shelter in some caves, but soon have to move on account of the areas around the cave running out of food. The majority decide to move on while the minority decide to delve deeper.
Those who delve deeper become hobgoblins with a lil’ help from the Bureaucrat. The hobgoblins then experience their first death by age, which alerts them to the fact that they are no longer virtually immortal. The Bureaucrat cares as much as he’s expected to to be polite and makes the Necromanagers, a holy order of babysitters for the dead.
Then the hobgoblins spread around the Hob and beyond in the underground.
The Ferryman/The Bureaucrat 5MP/5AP 4MP - Create the Hob, a large, limestone cave biome in the northeastern caverns. Despite the fact that the only thing saving this realm from pitch-black darkness is weakly glowing magma veins, this biome thrives with thousands of species feasting on the rich mineral soil or on whatever grows from said feast. There are lakes and rivers aplenty full of calcium-rich waters to the point where the water is constantly white or gray, and lichen fields and mushroom plains give the whole Hob a mossy texture. As the caves are made of limestone, they are also quite porous and moldeable.
Some charismatic species here include:
Alkalichen which grows like a spongy grass on the cavern floor, walls and ceiling;
Cavern cantarelles, which grow tall as reeds on the cavern rock; Irongrubs, which are juicy, metallic little caterpillars the size of rats that feed on rust and exposed iron veins;
Monoxen, coal-black sponges that eat the carbon in carbon monoxide and release oxygen. Form porous coal structures when they die;
Underpeas, a colourless legume that grows on limestone and next to chalky water. They absorb nitrogen from the air and become nearly the only source of it for other creatures. This makes them a keystone species in the Hob as many creatures depend on nitrogen-rich feces from creatures eating underpeas to survive;
Lobstermites, a large lobster suited for subterranean life that eats most of what it finds down here. Very territorial and extremely dangerous if threatened;
Maxolotls, monstrous aquatic beasts that rule the chalky lakes and rivers in the Hob. In truth, they are mutated dragons of the surface, morphed from lost dragons found in the Underground caves. Like their surface siblings, the Maxolotls are apex predators and rule their territory with tooth and claw.
1MP - Mutate Elves into Hobgoblins: The Elves of Ozara that journeyed into the Underground have become Hobgoblins. In exchange for their 350-year lifespan and resistance to temperatures, the Hobgoblins have perfect darkvision (though have very poor sight in daylight); they sweat limestone which gives their skin a porous but helpful natural armour; they are not as tall as their Elven kin, but their iron-rich diets give them powerful bones and thick blood to the point where their skeleton is immensely hard and rust when exposed to air.
2AP - Create the Cadaverpillars: Known more commonly as Market Maggots on account of the Umbralground Umbra using them as moveable bazaars. However, in truth, the Cadaverpillars double as effective transport for both the living and the dead. Born with a natural affinity for sensing and, more importantly, interacting with the dead, these 35 metre long, 6 metre wide worms are technically tasked with carrying the souls of the dead to afterlives all around. In truth, what ends up happening is that the living learn to tame them, pack them with harnesses for their stores and wares, and then the dead just hitch a hike. Cadaverpillars feed on cave moss, mushrooms and alkalichen.
3AP - Create The Necromanagers: A holy order under the Ferryman created by the Bureaucrat. Seeing as the Ferryman cannot be everywhere at once, the souls of the dead might find themselves waiting a bit for their ride to the afterlife. This is where the Necromanagers come in. Death-singers, witch doctors, undertakers, grave-dancers, mediums - they go by many names. Common for all Necromanagers is their shared purpose of looking after and caring for the dead until their souls are picked up and safely escorted to the afterlife. As such, they have natural affinity for seeing and speaking to the dead, and can interact with them as though they were alive.
Sashla stood motionless on a rock on the empty plain. Blood trickled from her knee in branching paths, and her torn robes danced in the wind like banners on a pole. He held in her hands a necklace - the only remains of her mother. At the roots of the tower of smoke splitting the endless horizon in two, the smoulders of her home village surrendered themselves to a settling cloud of ash and dust. Her elven eyes were not strong enough to make out details, but in the centre was the unquestionable shape which had heralded the tide of doom for her people:
Druzhik Maneshaver. “Those are some beautiful locks you have.” An ever-young man, hair like gold flowing over long, sharp ears, glared daggers into the flesh of his adversary. A tough, leathery hand held him by a fistful of those golden strands, one not even his elven strength could best. Its owner, a bald, ox-horned centaur with bloodshot eyes, brought the hair closer to his nose and gave it a deep whiff. The man struggled against the perverse beast.
“Unhand me, you animal!”
“Ah…” whispered the blissful creature. “You must bathe regularly. An impressive feat out here in the grasslands…” He lowered himself to eye-level with the man. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”
The man grit his teeth together. “I… I will rip your disgusting, fungus-ridden tongue out–!” All around the two, a rocking choir of laughter rang out and hooves clapped to the ground. The man withered briefly. The Maneshaver grinned mockingly and stuck his tongue out.
“Heeh! Go a’eah! Guh ih ou’!” After seeing nothing but a fading scowl from the elf, the Maneshaver sucked his tongue back in to the sound of more laughter. “See, this is why I don’t like your kind. You’re just so…” He snapped his fingers searchingly. “... Well, you just don’t know when to quit, you know?” He gestured to the charred ruins and several corpses around them. Groups and lines of prisoners tied with simple rope intermittently appeared in between walls of centaur slavers. “I didn’t -have- to kill and enslave all of you. You could’ve just paid up as I asked.” A mighty hand extended to accept an obsidian knife while the other lifted the elf by the hair. “And yet, you always resist… Always, always, always.”
“You… Horsefucker…!”
“Don’t bring Aslimor into this!” The Maneshaver sighed. “Honestly, I almost don’t feel like punishing you.” A brief pause. “... Longlegs, what are your thoughts?”
An imposing mare answered sharply: “Grind him into the grass, I say!”
The Maneshaver nodded. “Towfur?”
A blonde stallion tugged at a link of ten slaves and kicked up a front leg. “INTO THE GRASS!”
The Maneshaver nodded again. “Mossnibbler?”
A black-spotted white mare with great horns rubbed her chin pensively. “The grass is thirsty at this time of year. It would do good with some moisture.”
Yet again, the Maneshaver nodded appreciatively at the advice. “And you, my dear lieutenant?”
A mountain of muscle, bulbous from hoof to halo and crowned with a forest of antlers, huffed like a bull in heat. “He insulted me by name. I will peel off his skin with my nails and use it for rope; I will grind his bones into meal and use it for facepaint; I will plant tree seeds in his organs and bury them, then chop down the trees that grow from them and use them for firewood. All this I will do, or my name isn’t Aslimor Horsefucker.”
The Maneshaver nodded one last time. “My bloodsworn have spoken. You now know what fate awaits you, little man.” He then brandished the knife in front of his eyes. “... But first, I will have my way with you…”
Before the man could reply, an unspeakable pain sliced into the top of his forehead, slowly and coarsely making its way along his entire scalp, far down his neck.
A super short post! Here we meet the centaur band led by Druzhik Maneshaver as they fuck over an elven village in the grasslands. Confronted by the village chief, the Maneshaver contemplates what to do with him. His bloodsworn companions, Longlegs, Towfur, Mossnibbler and Horsefucker all agree that he should be ground into the ground. Maneshaver agrees, but not before scalping the everliving fuck out of him.
Hell had just been created, but the Ferryman had been living it for weeks now. Back and forth, back and forth to the Ghostel to drop off the souls of the dead. Of course, he had no idea that Hell was a thing. All he knew was that souls were appearing like flies - recently, the grass plains had offered souls by the score, with villages laying in ruins all around them. This latest shipment was its own horde of children, parents and smelly old people. The Ferryman could hardly muster the spirit to share tales with them on their travels.
As Wellington made landfall and the souls hopped off and into the grossly overcrowded Ghostel, the bell of death rang once more in his breast pocket. He felt his eyes roll back into their sockets and released a primordial groan. When the Ferryman groaned, it was always from the bottom of his soul - it was the one action he poured his entire spirit into. The sound was so powerful that living flowers died and passed into the afterlife all around. The souls in the Ghostel, so packed with cacophony, all fell silent. The Ferryman cast the building and its inhabitants an exhausted glance and sat down on the rim of Wellington.
Over by his side appeared a concerned shadow, mostly appearing the same as it always had except it now wore an apron and a funny hat. The Umbra, whom the Ferryman had named the Chef, patted his master on the shoulder and whispered, “The Chef senses the Ferryman struggles.”
“The Chef would be right,” the Ferryman concurred. Another two Umbra came out from the Ghostel.
The Janitor adjusted his shirt and offered the Ferryman a handkerchief. The Ferryman took it and dabbed his forehead.
The Groundskeeper picked one of the flower souls and offered it to its master. The Ferryman took it and gave it a scenic sniff. He paused and sighed again.
“My friends… I fear I may have grown overworked.”
“Should the Janitor fetch the Masseuse?”
“No, that’s alright, Janitor. My shoulders are fine.”
“Perhaps the Bartender, then,” the Groundskeeper suggested.
“No, I’m not thirsty…”
“Is the Ferryman bored, perhaps?” It was the Puppeteer who had come out of the house, and already he was playing around with shadows from the ghastly lanterns, forming pictures and dancing animals. From the Ghostel came light applause.
“No! I mean, yes, but… I’m sorry, Puppeteer, I don’t think it’s the sort of boredom that can be cured with shadow puppets.”
The Puppeteer shrank and got a shoulder pat from the Janitor. The Ferryman sighed for a third time. “Look, it’s nothing personal - not at all. I love your puppet shows. It’s just… I guess boredom isn’t the right word, either. It’s just… Work. A lot of work. And it doesn’t end. I pick up souls, take them here, and then repeat it. This is no afterlife, it’s just a Ghostel!”
“Not to mention the souls run off all the time,” the Groundskeeper added sourly.
The Ferryman blinked. “Wait, run off? What do you mean?”
The Groundskeeper shrugged. “The Groundskeeper has no idea. They keep saying they can’t help it and we have to escort them back and put them in the chest in the cellar.”
“The Janitor counted six souls down there last time he checked.”
The Ferryman felt a tug in his brain signalling that he had heard something like this before. However, he couldn’t put his finger on it just yet. His mind boarded instead his earlier train of thought and made him purse his lips. “... Well, uh, that’s odd. Anyway, I’ve been thinking I need to expand my staff somewhat.”
The Umbra looked his long rod up and down. “The Puppeteer thinks the Ferryman’s staff is sizeable enough as it is.”
The Ferryman blinked. “No, the–... Nevermind. What I meant to say was that I think adding another colleague to our party would be beneficial for future management of the Soul Business.”
“The Chef thinks a different name for the firm would be better…”
“Right, we can vote for the name later,” the Ferryman conceded witheringly. “Either way, we need someone, in my opinion, who can take over management here and (Homura willing) in our future branch offices while I’m out ferrying. Someone with a mind for numbers and efficiency.”
The Umbra exchanged looks. The Ferryman snapped his fingers. “Someone who fixed stuff like -that-, you know? Like a really good deputy manager.”
“The Ferryman speaks in riddles,” mumbled the Puppeteer.
“Oh, sorry, the corporate lingo comes all too easy to me.” He snapped his fingers again. In an instant, a ghostly man in strange clothes appeared. Lacking significantly more colours than the rest, the white and black gentleman adjusted a tie about his neck and combed his hair back, sticking the comb into a small portfolio suitcase in his opposite hand. He then stuck out that hand, palm open and welcoming in the Ferryman’s direction.
“Afternoon, Mr. the Ferryman. Name’s the Bureaucrat.”
The Ferryman blinked and shook the hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bureaucrat, but you can drop the ‘the’.”
“Oh, apologies. My bad.” With lightning speed, he reached into his suitcase, took out a form, crossed out a tiny word and filed the form back in its correct folder. The Ferryman clapped in brief awe. The Bureaucrat grinned and pulled out a different form. “By the way, I trust you will fill this out at your earliest convenience.”
The Ferryman took the form and scanned it briefly. “Terms of employment?”
“For the archives, you understand,”
“... ‘The employee reserves the full right to spend divine power to’... Wait, what?”
“Why yes! It’s in my contract.”
“What contract?!”
The Bureaucrat produced a separate document. “The one you signed by summoning me, of course.”
The Ferryman scanned this document as well, discovering that, indeed, someone or something had signed The Ferryman in neat little cursives at the bottom of the page. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You won’t, but your passengers sure will,” chuckled the Bureaucrat and filed the contract under the correct folder once again. “Well, circa 59.2% of them. You have collected a considerable number of sinners. You would want to ship them to the Hellforge right away.”
The Ferryman blinked. “The Hellforge? What's the Hellforge?”
The Bureaucrat nodded with infinite patience. “That would be the afterlife, sir. Well, one afterlife - I’m certain someone will make another once they read the reviews for it.”
The Ferryman could hardly believe it. An afterlife had been made. A real, proper afterlife! A place where he could take the souls - well, at least sixty percent of them! The ecstacy boiled him to the core and he hopped into his boat. “People! Gather all the souls headed for the Hellforge!”
“But how will the Groundskeeper know–”
“Not to fear, my solar urticariatic friend,” said the Bureaucrat and popped out a list. “I have a registry right here.”
Aldion and Zylana walked the streets of Hell, pondering new ideas.
”Hellspawn,” Aldion said aloud, before shaking his head. ”No. Forgeborn? Ehhh…”
“Aldionites?” Zylana offered.
”Tempting, but no. Hm. The Fallen? The Reborn? No, no. The Convicted? The Wardens? Such names will only convey a part of their role.”
“Have you settled on a name for the larger island around us?” Zylana asked.
“Hm? Oh, yes. I have. Infernus.”
“Hellcast Infernals,” Zylana proposed.
Aldion stopped, and his eyes widened. That was the greatest name he had heard yet! Unfortunately, it had not come from him. He shook his head. ”No, too long. Let’s keep it simple. Hm. Made from the souls of the damned. Damned. Damnen. Damnon. Damon.” He snapped his fingers. ”Demon! Yes, demon. That will do nicely. Rolls off the tongue easily, and it is its own word.”
“You are truly clever, Your Infernal Majesty,” Zylana said in a tone that sounded sincere, but definitely wasn’t. Aldion allowed it. It may not have been intended as truth, but it was the truth. And besides, inferiors should always be prepared to flatter their betters.
Then, a presence. It was hard for Zylana to sense, but to Aldion it was as tangible as a touch. Another deity was approaching, and the black flames of Hell boiled hungrily as though sinful souls were near.
Aldion looked up. ”A visitor?”
Zylana shook her head. “An invader,” she corrected. “They bring an army of sinners with them.” She extended her claws and licked her lips, eagerly anticipating bloodshed. “Perhaps even using their souls to track us.”
”Well, that won’t so,” Aldion remarked. ”But it would be best to determine their intent first. It could be an offering of tribute, or perhaps the Trade Goddess making her first shipment - she is the only one I told, after all.”
Zylana looked disappointed. “That may be so,” she reluctantly conceded.
”Still, best to be on our guard. Here in our Realm, we hold the advantage. Let’s not squander it.”
And with that, Aldion and Zylana returned to the top of the tower, where they awaited the newcomer’s arrival. Though the colourful smoke emitted by the Forge might make it hard for a mortal to see, for a divine it was clear enough.
On the Horizon, a small boat sailed swiftly on a magical river of light that formed before it and faded behind it. Aboard were, to the soul-seeing eyes, a veritable crowd of anxious dead, all gulping as one at the torturous purgatory designated as a forge. At the back of the boat, steering with a stick, a bald humanoid in a robe whistled joyously to soothe the situation, much like an ant attempting to lift a melon.
As the boat approached, the robed man waved and shouted from a distance, "Pardon me, sir, but is this the afterlife where all those mean souls are supposed to end upl?"
”That is one way to describe it, I suppose,” Aldion replied. ”What is your purpose in coming here?”
The boat stopped right at the edge of the tower and the pilot smiled from ambiguous ear to ambiguous ear. “Fantastic! You have no idea how happy this makes me.” He stuck a hand out. “I’m the Ferryman. I’ve been looking for places to take the souls of the dead for, oof, ages now. Heard from an acquaintance of ours, Miss Ashevelen, that a Mister Aldion collect the sinful sort. Are you Mister Aldion, by chance?”
”King Aldion,” Zylana corrected. “To be referred to as ‘His Infernal Majesty’, and to be addressed as ‘Your Infernal Majesty.’”
Aldion waved her off. ”He is a fellow god, Zylana. Some liberties may be allowed.”
Zylana bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she said, clenching her fanged teeth.
The Ferryman waved his hands apologetically. “Oh no, please don’t apologise! I confess, I only glanced over the contract (especially the introduction), so I only caught bits and pieces relating to titles and such. I’m in the wrong here.” He cleared his throat. “So, uh, Your Infernal Majesty - where’d you like me to put’em? Got about, uh, seventy in here with another two hundred or so back at the Ghostel ready to be shipped.” The souls aboard squealed and begged loudly for mercy and forgiveness. The Ferryman regarded them largely as a fisherman would regard dead fish in his hull.
”Into the Hellforge,” Aldion said, gesturing to the mass of colourful flame behind him, which was already hissing with the burning of screaming souls. ”Cut them loose and the forge shall do the rest.”
“Yessir!” trolled the Ferryman and sailed off. Once over the sea of fire, he whistled a little jingle as he shoveled weeping souls into the gruesome pit of doom and destruction. It was brief, swift and professional, and the Ferryman had soon pulled up next to the tower again and offered Aldion and Zylana both a courteous nod. “Right, that was the first delivery! Say, Your Infernal Majesty - got a moment to discuss that contract of yours with Miss Ashevelen?”
”Indeed I do,” Aldion said, flipping open his Black Book. ”If you would step off that vessel and come over here…”
The Ferryman nodded again, brought Wellington to the bank of its magic river, and stepped comfortably off the boat and onto the tower floor.
Aldion gestured for the Ferryman to stand next to him, then showed him the book. ”As you can see,” he said, ”The terms of the contract are quite clear.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Oh, absolutely - and just to make this clear - I don’t intend on challenging any of these clauses and upset this very nice cooperation you’ve got going with Miss Ashevelen, cross my heart.” He paused to briefly regard the book’s pages. “Lovely handwriting, by the way.”
”Good.” Aldion nodded. ”Then I suppose I must also inform you that it is not just umbra souls I will be claiming. My judgement must extend to all mortals who sin. In many ways, this contract is merely a formality, one I primarily agreed to because most of Ashevelan’s ideals seem compatible with mine - in letter, at least, and I find cooperation preferable to conflict.”
The Ferryman nodded politely. “Yessir. That soul business was actually what I wanted to talk about. If it’d be alright with you, I’d like to sign on as your main partner in shipping.” He supported his fists on his hips and equipped a smile.
”My Forge already draws all the souls I lay claim to on its own,” Aldion noted. ”But I must confess it is a slow process. Another deity willing to transport them manually or introduce his own system will greatly expedite this process,” he mused. ”And yet I must wonder what you gain from this. What are your terms?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I suppose I gain the satisfaction of doing my job,” he reasoned. “Besides, seeing slow processes in need of effectivisation be unmanaged and unimproved makes my fingers itch.” He hummed as he looked down in the books’ pages. “I guess if I had any terms, uh… Don’t sign on with a competitor without consulting me, I guess? I don’t know how many are in the soul shipping business, but can’t be too careful, right?”
“That is a reasonable request,” Aldion decided. ”I shall in turn put forth a term of my own. Should a soul qualify for two or more afterlives, and one of those afterlives is Hell, I have right of first refusal.”
“You’ve got it, Your Majesty,” jingled the Ferryman. He held out a hand. “Looking forward to a good and fruitful partnership!”
”As am I,” Aldion said, but he did not yet accept the hand. ”Before we shake hands, however, we must first discuss the finer details of our cooperation, and also draw up a contract.”
“Oh, uh, right!” The Ferryman cleared his throat. “The Bureaucrat’s a bit sharper on this than me, but I’ll try. What do you need from me?”
Aldion quickly launched into an explanation of his ideals, and what sort of behaviours he deemed worthy of eternal damnation. He provided a few examples as well, in some cases becoming surprisingly heated as he described them. A few other minor terms were raised - things that should mostly go without saying, but Aldion thought were best to have in writing. He also included a helpful definition for the term ‘right of first refusal.’ As he spoke, he wrote all this down, and added the Ferryman’s own condition as well.
”Would you prefer your copy in stone or in parchment?” Aldion asked once he had finished.
“Uh, stone, I suppose. Nothing lasts like stone!”
Aldion snapped his fingers, and a stone tablet fell into the Ferryman’s arms. ”Just sign your name there,” Aldion instructed, handing him a hammer and chisel. ”Then sign the copy in my book,” he held up the quill.
Amateurishly, the Ferryman chiseled in his signature, then signed the book page in ink with similar green inscription skills. Evaluating his work for a brief minute, he shifted to Aldion and nodded. "That should do it, I think. This'd go nicely on the wall of my house… If I had one." He eyed the rest of the forgegrounds "You do real estate, by chance?"
There was a look of appraisal in Aldion’s eyes, as he signed his own name. ”Why do you ask?”
The Ferryman waved dismissively. "Oh, nothin'. Just thinking out loud. Alright, got everything you need, Your Majesty?"
”I shall inform you if I require anything else,” Aldion said.
"Sounds good, Your Majesty." The Ferryman offered a polite nod and strolled over to his boat. Setting a foot aboard, he faced Aldion and gave him a thumb-up. "Well, I'm off to fetch another shipment! About a hundred-and-sixty-seven additional deaths have passed over the course of our conversation, so there's plenty to do." He boarded fully and grabbed his oar. "Farewell!" With that, he sailed off.
The post opens with a very overworked Ferryman taking even more people to the Ghostel. He shares his frustration with his Umbra colleagues for a bit and then makes the Bureaucrat, an avatar of extreme patience, efficiency and management skills. The Bureaucrat tells him to take sinful souls to Hell, so the Ferryman loads up and boats off.
Cut to Aldion and Zylana discussing what to call the Servants of Not!Satan. After a lot suggestions, Aldion suggests demons. After reaching this genius conclusion, the Ferryman arrives. After brief introductions, the Ferryman explains that he wants to be Aldion’s DHL. Aldion initially asks why, and the Ferryman says he wants to. This sounds good to Aldion and the two sign a contract - Satan gets the right of first refusal on sinful souls and the Ferryman gets to do his job. Afterwards, the Ferryman bounces.
The Ferryman (5MP/5AP) 5MP - Create avatar: The Bureaucrat. The Bureaucrat is a friendly, organised and diligent paperworker with a knack for business and effectivisation. He carries around with him a suitcase of forms, applications and statistics which he uses regularly to support his boss the Ferryman and manage his soul moving business. End 0MP/5AP
A howling cold wind washed over the island of Genesis. Sharp sparkles of ice and chill came carried in on it, sifting over the snow crusted ground and cutting into the crooked island trees. Local elk were sheltering in the thickest forests that dominated the center forests of conifers, while the bathing lizards submerged themselves safely in the surrounding geysers. Towering over it all was a hissing volcano, where longhaired alpacas greedily enjoyed the heat spilling from the lip.
The wind swirled and spat, but beyond the geysers and volcanos, there was another spot it dare not go. By the shore, where the coast rolled upland enough to meet a field of oats sat a village, glowing orange with fire. Cheer erupted from the area, laced with laughter and joy.
Po sat happily in the middle of the village of Genesis, ritual fires flickering around her while Porry after Porry rushed to her with big grins and bigger offerings of charred meats, ornate wooden carvings and even whole fish.
One family even came with a fat block of browned whale meat for her to snack on. There was a bittersweet contortion of pride on the matriarch's face - rumour had it that the whale, the first to be brought ashore by Porry spear and Porry hand, had claimed four lives - two of which had been of her own kin. A fifth was nearly taken, but they were submerged briefly enough to reignite after being pulled from the icy waters. Bitterness had plagued the village, but now there was sweetness - with the offering came honour to their memory, sounded by both cheers and the salivating sizzle of bubbling whale oil.
The Porries had quickly come to realize after their creation that unity and kinship were the keys to the gate of survival. After all, a fire is only a gathering of sparks and fuel. A lone Porry was a candle in the wind; a clan could be like a forest fire, capable of withstanding the worst of storms. Furthermore, should the storm manage to extinguish the forest fire, the Porries had observed that sparks could smoulder underground for a long time, ready to set the woods ablaze again. Such would be the kinship of the Porries. The thought put a smile on her face, the future would only prove bright.
“Oh my favorite!” Po snatched Matriarch Burning Snow’s offering and quickly devoured it. A scratchy voice emanated from smacking lips. “You have my favor, my oily, delicious favor. What’s your clan name, again?”
"Clan Highgeyser, Great All-Warmer!" saluted the Matriarch proudly. "Your gratitude is all we could ever want. That and the knowledge that the lives of my brother Flickering Wick and my oathsister Wild Smoke have offered themselves in your glory." She prostrated herself along with the rest of her clan.
“Mm! They burned well. It’s a shame the water doesn’t light… yet.” Po reached forward and placed her hand (as was custom already) on the Matriarch’s scalp, her flame turning a bright blue as the heat intensified. A proud gleam could be seen in Po’s blazing eyes and she removed her hand, the blue flame lingering as it normally would — for now at least.
The Matriarch tearfully rose her head, the lava droplets burning pock marks in the ground. She ran her hand over her scalp and let her fingers dance before her eyes, blue flames spitting and kicking from her fingertips before finally dissipating. She turned to the rest of her clan and yelled, "The Sapphire Flame is with us!" A united roar clapped like thunder in response. She then stepped aside, helped by a young woman and a middle-aged man due to a poor gait of hers.
“Bring me my next offering!” Po sat back down in her glowing stone throne. “Bring the next clan!”
"Hep!" shouted an imposing figure, torso hidden from hand to hand and neck to knee. Like a cloud of colourful bats, the group strode into the offering circle like a patterned tide, jaws dropping like flies all around. At their head was Dancing-In-Ash, kicking and punching at the air while chanting in tongues. Up next to him stepped his daughter, Lights-in-the-Clouds, wearing a similar outfit to her father, but with her flaming scalp adorned with a crown of cracking stone. The rest of the clan formed a ring facing outwards towards the rest, hissing and flicking their tongues at the other Porries. Meanwhile, a particularly beautiful piece of fabric was being brought along behind the father and daughter, folded in thirds and sprinkled with obsidian dust.
"SHABOOBUH-BULAH!" howled Dancing-In-Ash as he kicked a footful of sand and grime at an unfortunate bystander.
"My father, the Ever-Seer, greets the Eternal Flame with the most profound respect," translated Lights-in-the-Clouds proudly.
“Oo!” Po cooed with fascination. “Your clan seeks my favor? Name your clan and present your offering.”
"HAJA AD-HAJAHAJA! MAWAHOOEE!" The Ever-Seer ran over to a nearby rock, kicked off and spun through the air. Then he mimicked two horns on his head with his fingers and crabbed menacingly beside one of his brothers, who returned the gesture as though he was repelling an evil spirit.
"My father confirmed that the greatest clan, Clan Peakfire, humbly seek your favour, Magnificent Mother of Magma." She clapped her hands. "Bring the Volcanic Queen her gift!"
The fabric-holder stepped forth, presenting the triangle of colour in her hands. Eight hands surrounded her to unpack the work, fold by fold. The tongue of metallic wool uncurled itself slowly into a tapestry of history, a work depicting the creation of the Porries, of Genesis and of the world, all at the hands of the Eternal Flame and He-Who-Sails-the-Heavens. The fabric's final shape resembled what the whole clan was wearing - a triangular attire that covered the torso and kept the warmth in and the cold out. The Ever-Seer and his clan froze so that she could regard the gift in peace.
Po gripped the poncho, sending the metal into a steamy hiss as she looked it over. Save for the dancing and festivities of the clans long since favored by the pyres, the area was silent in anticipation. FInally, Po shoved the poncho under her hood with a gulp. “All is consumed by fire! I am fire!” A burp. “You have my favor, clan Peakfire, show me your flame.” She held out her hand.
The clan exploded with roars of cheer. Dancing-in-Ash whooped like a howling ape and cartwheeled over to Po with all the agility of someone twenty years younger and stood right before her, eagerly bouncing up and down to the hoo-hoo-hoos of the hooligan horde behind him.
Palming Dancing-in-Ash's head, Po ignited his hair a brilliant hot blue. "Spread heat wherever you go."
The Ever-Seer cast himself in another cartwheel, whooping like a flock of birds. The rest of the clan followed the sapphire wheel out of the circle, breaking formation to form a triumphant train of dancers who celebrated the name of Po and clacked together bone percussion sticks. Like a conga line, they stopped intermittently to kick their legs out to one side, then the other a few steps later.
"Are there any clans left?" Po held her stomach.
For a brief minute, there was silence. Then one of the smaller clan matriarchs, Clan Glacier-Foes’s Star-of-Red, shouted, “The Blackshores haven’t presented their gift yet!” A rumbling mumble rolled through the gathered clans; the richest ones displayed borderline mockery - the poorer ones, concern. Another half minute managed to pass before the circle parted; the background music had slavishly followed the dying enthusiasm, and Clan Blackshore, a small family of hardly seven porries, stepped forward.
Empty-handed.
Seeing how skinny they all were, one could easily make the argument that they were no more than four in number. They stopped before the goddess, their clan head Matriarch She-Who-Shatters-Waves leading the pyrrhic charge. They prostrated themselves as deeply as they could and, to the crescendo of silence, the matriarch spoke, “Eternal Fire, please accept our most sincere apologies and regrets for failing to present an offering.”
Po leaned back on her throne. The air was thick. The porries knew she wasn’t the quiet type and seeing her silently tap her finger on the arm of her chair was more than enough to send a fright through them. “What?” Her voice finally came, snappy and hot.
A quiver rocked the matriarch and her family to the core - they stood shaking like pebbles before a quake. Grasping for an escape like a drowning sailor, the panicking matriarch defaulted to the truth: "The, the, the winter - the winter was cruel to us this year! It took all our food, our home - my niece Braving Seas flickered her last in the early Spring. We, we…" The lava tears rolling down her boney cheeks threatened to choke her out. From the other clans, the response was mixed, ranging from shifting eyes to spitting and snarling.
“You brought nothing.” Po’s scratchy voice seemed to be in disbelief. It quickly turned to a growl. Her fire roared as it grew. “Fire is all consuming and you brought nothing?!”
"Then I will offer myself!" came a declaration from the matriarch's right. Considerably younger, likely her son, a boy in the eve of his teens fought severe nutrient deficiencies to erect himself to his full height, which compared to many others around was nothing to boast about. The stunned mother took a little too long to recuperate from the message and yelled, "He will do no such thing! Please, Infernal Mother, this spark knows not what he says!"
"For the honour of my clan!" the boy insisted as his sister and cousin tried to wrestle him to the ground.
“I accept!” Po hissed, her flames still licking angrily. “From fire to fire!” She held out both her arms, as if offering some strange hug. “Come ‘ere!”
"NO! Nuh! Not you, too, my little Blaze!" the matriarch wept and joined in to hold back the youth. The teen struggled against the three adults and moved not an inch, but all around the Porries egged him on and denounced the rest.
"You shame him and your own name, She-Who-Shatters-Waves! Keep it up and his sacrifice will be annulled! To think such disgusting behaviour could be exhibited by a neighbour. Puh!" chastised the matriarch Burning Snow. When it became clear that the starved boy would never break out of their hold, zealots from every clan great and small stepped forward to peel the family off of him. To a chorus of wails from the Glacier-Foes, Blazing Woods was finally released and, with what little strength he had left, he stumbled into the arms of the fire goddess.
There was a flash of light as he hit Po’s breast and without a trace of dust or ash, he was gone. The goddess sat back down, her flames quelling but slightly as she did. She held out a single hand. “Remember… someday I’m going to eat the world. Everything will be fire, like how we are fire. One fire. Collect my favor.” She stretched her fingers.
Shattered, the matriarch stumbled forward robotically and presented her scalp, the flames on her head burning small and orange, almost red. Po placed her palm on her head and with a rush of heat, sent the matriach’s hair spiraling up in a blaze of blue.
“One fire,” Po reiterated and retracted her hand. The matriarch silently turned around and shuffled emptily back into the ring. Meanwhile, the chorus around had forgotten her and her clan; they looked only at the goddess, shouting as one voice: "ONE FIRE, ONE FIRE, ONE FIRE!"
Weeks had passed since the offering, and life on Genesis had a way of returning to normal once the cold winds reminded everyone that they were, indeed, on Genesis. Food didn’t appear in one’s belly on its own; it was a struggle - a condition for life. The Porries were quick to labour and toil for survival; after all, a flame will consume everything it can to stay alive. So long as there are things to consume, that is. Fortunately, the island of Genesis was fat with sustenance, with forests full of beasts and waters full of fish. A wooden boat from the main village on Genesis, Polis, had cast off the shore and drifted into the ice cold waters, eagerly following the rivers of silver twisting and rolling under the lapping waves. Aboard were four people, each from a different family:
Born-Aflame of the Peakfire, every bit as eccentric as his grand uncle;
Fiend-of-Shadows of the Singewalkers, the oldest of the crew;
Two-Flowers of the Charr, a robust and patient fisherwoman;
and Yellow-Scalp, a hotheaded young man of the Highgeysers.
Asail as the four of them were, each were busily tending to their tasks in a search for distraction as the monotony of the sea eventually settled down over the boat. Nets were mended and prepared; fishing spears were sharpened with rocks; wicker baskets were checked for holes. Before too long, however, the two youngest ones, at least, found themselves running low on tasks. The boat being so small as it was, one couldn’t move around much before it began to upset the balance of the vessel. It therefore quickly got on the others’ nerves when Born-Aflame, restless as he had always been, started pacing back and forth impatiently.
“Sit down!” Yellow-Scalp, without much filter, grumbled. He himself was sitting squarely by some wicker, weaving it into this and that to pass the time. Born-Aflame ignored him.
“There! That one! I swear, it was a fat one!” he said eagerly and pointed into the water with such vigor that Fiend-of-Shadows had to lean out on the opposite side to balance the boat.
“You heard him, sit down!” Two-Flowers demanded. Born-Aflame turned around and rolled his eyes before sitting down to poke at one of the nets. Mustering the sort of groan that only teenagers can, he looked longingly out into the water, distant glaciers contrasting the black peaks of the surrounding islands.
“Are we throwing the net out soon?” he tested.
“Soon,” Fiend-of-Shadows replied patiently.
“Uuuuugh… I see the fish - they’re right there! Let’s catch them already!”
“There’s a trick to it, you dolt,” Yellow-Scalp chided. “Not that you know much about thinking.”
“What was that, you little flicker?!”
“Boys! Po almighty, we’re just fishing,” Two-Flowers moaned.
“Yeah, we’re fishing, but I don’t know what he thinks he is doing.” Yellow-Scalp crossed his arms and cut a smirk. Born-Aflame was the type to bear everything on his sleeve - had the term been literal, he would’ve been weighed down to the ground at all times. The rage within him thus wasted no time in manifesting in a sharp kick, breaking straight through the wall of Yellow-Scalp’s wicker basket.
Yellow-Scalp threw the scraps still in his hands at the other boy. “What the hell did you do that for, you animal!” He stood up, nearly rocking the boat. “Why did you even bother coming!?”
“Why did YOU bother coming?! This is MY clan’s boat! You’re just here because Two-Flowers likes you!”
“Sit down, both of you! You’re rocking the boat!” Two-Flowers snapped back.
"You're wasting your breath." Yellow-Scalp started daggers at Born-Aflame. "You can't reason with animals."
“Animals?! You dirty–!” Born-Aflame snatched a fishing spear and tried to smack Yellow-Scalp across the face.
Yellow-Scalp leaned back to dodge the blow, but suddenly felt his stomach lurch as the boat followed him just enough. His knees locked up but it was too late - he lost balance. His hands flew behind him to catch anything but there was only air and with a sizzling splash, he landed overboard and into the water.
All three of the ones aboard panicked, and Two-Flowers almost instinctively jumped after him. However, mid-jump she was grabbed and held back by Fiend-of-Shadows, the boat only not tipping over because Born-Aflame fell backwards into a broken-backed seat atop some more baskets. While he slowly recovered, Fiend-of-Shadows blared at him, “YOU STUPID CHILD! Two-Flowers, grab that spear and help me fish him out!” The two tried their best to get a good grip on him, but as seconds became minutes, hope slowly faded for the crew. After a great deal of maneuvering the boat and labouriously trying to balance and counter-balance one of them leaning out to pick him out, they finally managed to recover Yellow-Scalp, now a flameless corpse.
When it became clear that his life was beyond saving, the other two turned slowly to face the very quiet Born-Aflame. Fiend-of-Shadows cast him a brief scowl before looking down in the belly of the boat. “You’ve caused such a shitshow, you stupid boy.”
Born-Aflame’s eyes flicked from side to side scouring for a reply, but even a youth like him understood what this meant. Two-Flowers said not a word either - she only glared beams of fire at him. Fiend-of-Shadows mustered only a sigh as his mind was still processing what had happened. After a moment passed, he added, “When we reach the shore, you will be given one day’s amnesty to return to your kin to say your farewells…”
Two-Flowers spat into the sea. Fiend-of-Shadows tossed her a brief stare. Born-Aflame moved not a muscle, but merely looked out at the distant icebergs drifting in the ocean. Fiend-of-Shadows continued, “... Afterwards, you will present the corpse to the Highgeysers and offer up your own life as an apology.”
Another period of silence, broken only by waves kissing the frame of the boat. Then Born-Aflame mumbled, “It’s not fair.”
Calmly, Fiend-of-Shadows replied, “Yeah, I’d wager that’s what he thought as he felt the heat sap from his body. All over a little dispute…” He shook his head.
“You better show,” hissed Two-Flowers.
Born-Aflame swallowed nervously. Fiend-of-Shadows nodded. “Yeah, you better sit at the other end of the boat until we reach the shore, boy. The Charr are sworn to the Highgeysers through blood.”
Born-Aflame suddenly quickened to and shot up to a stand. “But wait! Your brother and chief, Slagstone Singewalker, is a bloodbrother of my mother, the clan heiress! Therefore–”
“Therefore I will do jackshit, boy. Good luck finding a single Singewalker who will follow a murderer.” The boy deflated. Fiend-of-Shadows turned the boat around and started paddling back to shore, helped by Two-Flowers. With his last ounce of patience spent, the old porry spat in the sea and growled the words: “Now sit your stupid ass down.”
We open with the Feast of Po, a festival where the Porries give stuff to Po to eat. Here, we meet two of the big shot clans, Clan Highgeyser and Clan Peakfire, and one tiny poopy clan, Clan Blackshore. Highgeysers give Po whale meat, Peakfire gives her a poncho and Blackshore gives her squat. When Po gets angry, the Blackshores offer up a son much to the matriarch's dismay, but the others think this is very honorubru.
Cut to four people on a fishy boat, two young lads, an old man and a woman. The two lads, Yellow-Scalp of Highgeyser and Born-Aflame of Peakfire, get into a fight. Born-Aflame accidentally then kills him by making him fall into the ocean. The old man and the woman, now hateful towards the young lad, paddle on home to take him to be judged.
Midnight was never bright, but in the Umbral Woods? Hoo boy, even gods could mistake shadows for beasts. In his short, busy life, the Ferryman had admittedly seen very little, and the darkness of the forest wasn't helping much. He had seen the invoice for the pick-up of three souls, however, and it has said that they would be waiting right here.
Right here.
The Ferryman looked around with feigned patience. A little whistle escaped his lips, drawing on in its lifespan as the Ferryman's semi-visible eyes rolled casually around in their sockets. A little finger drum on the rim of Wellington decided to join in.
Another minute passed and the Ferryman regarded a little hourglass from the breast of his robe. Softly, he called out: "Hey, uh, dear souls! Your transport has arrived." Silence. The Ferryman exited his vessel and extracted a small scroll from his pocket. "Anyone? I'm looking for the souls of… Okay, how do you pronounce this?"
“ Umbra.” came a voice out of seemingly nowhere.
Ashevelen just finished her contract with Aldiona and was about to take off, to watch the Umbra from the darkness and see how her mortal deal without her presence to keep them on the straight and narrow path when she felt the presence of another divine approaching. Truly a busy day for the lady of the trade.
Watching from a distance, she noticed a small boat approaching and on top of it, the divine being she felt. Ashevelen shouted out the name of her creations from afar upon hearing the Ferryman’s voice.
“ Greetings divine brother and may I say, your vehicle looks truly magnificent. My name is Ashevelen, the lady of the trade and I beseech you, don’t harm the Umbra for they are my creations. If they did something to offend you, I’m sure we can work out a deal ” said Ashevelen, her voice as always, was sweet like honey.
The Ferryman offered her a small bow. "Evenin', miss Ashevelen. I'm the Ferryman. And thanks - yeah, Wellington's pretty sweet, isn't she? An eight-footer, she is. Flat-bottomed and fit for pretty much any body of water, should that ever be relevant." He waved a hand in small circles. "Don't be concerned for your creations, by the way. Hurting people is not my thing. Life always finds a way to hurt itself, anyway - don't need more of it from me." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm more of the sort who cleans up after. Speaking of, you wouldn't happen to have seen three souls on a stroll, would you?"
Ashevelen returned the bow gracefully and smiled at the Ferryman.
“ Wouldn’t you be able to make it levitate above any body of water? I could probably work out a deal for you with another divine if you wish me to. ” if one would even exist in this place but of course, Ashevelen didn’t say that out loud.
“ “Life always finds a way to hurt itself”, you can say that twice. I’ve seen many of my creations destroying themselves over the most basic need they seem to have, greed or fornification. Disgusting behaviour in most mortal races that I’ve seen. Three souls, you say? ” said Ashevelen inquisitively.
“ And what would you do with those souls if I happened to know where they are? Would you try to take them away? ” the recent contract she made with Aldion was fresh in her mind, if this new divine being would try to take them, Aldion might see it as a way to get out of the contract.
The Ferryman shrugged. "I guess so, yeah. Not sure where to, though. I'm building up a bit of a backlog, you could say." He showed her the scroll displaying the names and death location of the souls. "See, I'm supposed to take them to the afterlife, but there ain't none around. It's pretty frustrating, actually."
“ Then I know exactly where they are. Aldion, another one of our divine brothers who answered the Call, took them. As much as I could understand from him, he plans to punish all the souls that break his rules. Here, I can show you. ” replied Ashevelen and with a snap of her fingers, the contract which she signed with Aldion as well as their conversation about it, appeared in front of the Ferryman.
“ Feel free to read it but don’t touch it. No offence intended. ”
“None taken,” said the Ferryman with a polite smile and leaned in for a closer look. “... Let’s see here… All Umbra souls go to… M-hm… Attract to a place… Ah… Hmm… For every ten thousand souls… Uh-huh… Mine (being Aldion’s, of course) by right… Yeah, alright, I think I get the picture.” He pulled back and rubbed his chin. “So souls’ll go to him by themselves, huh?” He clicked his tongue in the same way a disapproving party would when trying to display neutrality. “Sounds slow and inefficient, if you ask me.”
Ashevelen waited patiently for the Ferryman to read the contract, watching for everything that could give an insight to his motives. Anything that might prove useful in further negotiations and her waiting was rewarded.
“ Slow and inefficient, you say? Would you have a better way? Maybe you’d want to cart them off yourself, just in case the souls will try to run away from the punishment that surely awaits them if they end up with Aldion? ”
“My thoughts exactly, honestly,” the Ferryman agreed. “That’s, uh, that’s why I’m here. Wellington’s pretty fast, so it’d be a lot faster than souls walking. They’re slow as decay.” He nodded. “So, got a way to contact this Aldion fellow?”
“ There is no need for that, is there? You’ve read the contract yourself. It is stated that the souls must reach him, the manner of how they must reach him is not specified. In other words, if you wish to take the souls to him, you are free to do so. ” clarified Ashevelen “ Provided of course, that you won’t take the souls to someone else, consume them for whatever needs you may have or anything that may damage the goods. Not trying to insult you or anything, I’m sure you’re good at your job but just want to be sure everything is clarified. ”.
“Oh yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” mumbled the Ferryman. “Well, since the souls here have already been swept off, I guess I should be heading to the next ones.” He gave another small bow. “Miss Ashevelen.”
“ If duty calls, then be off on your way, Ferryman. I am sure we’ll see more of each other in the future. Actually, do you have space for another divine on your magnificent boat? I’d like to let the Umbra roam the world without being shadowed by their creator. ” asked Ashevelen with a smile and a wink.
“Yeah, there’s space,” replied the Ferryman with a polite smile. “Here, watch your step - stepping in the soul river won’t hurt, but it doesn’t wash off so easily.” He knelt down and pulled the little dory even closer to the bank of the eternal river of magic that began and ended on average two metres in front and behind the bow and the stern, respectively.
Ashevelen took a deep breath and jumped on the boat, careful not to land in the soul river and hopefully in nothing that the Ferryman might have inside it.
“ Onwards and…upwards? Yes, ONWARDS and UPWARDS my friend! ” shouted Ashevelen happily.
“Yup.”
Ferryman arrives to scoop up the souls of the three cannibal/cannibalised Umbra and finds Ashevelen instead, who tells him the souls are in another castle - specifically the castle of Aldion’s fist. Showing him the contract and explaining that there’s no clause prohibiting transport of souls so long as they get to Aldion, the Ferryman puts two and two together and decides to move on. Ashe joins him for a hitchhike.
Someway or another, Po ended up on a rocky peak that jutted out from coastal shallows. The sky above was pallid, as if threatening rain (much to Po’s dismay) and there was an unpleasant chill in the ocean air, one that just made Po hungry and upset with the two emotions not being exclusive to one another. However, the fiery goddess did find some comfort in being perched so far above the coastal shallows below, and with the veritable buffet of crooked and stunted trees that had clawed their roots into the rocky spire.
So that’s where she was, standing under bloated clouds, snapping twigs and branches from defenseless trees and shoving them into the fiery white void that peeked out from under her hood of flames. The only sounds to accompany the snapping of the branches was the gusto of her gulps and the crash of the water below, that is until someone else spoke up.
“Who… who are you?” A confused elvish voice creaked from behind the goddess. Po turned, an ash covered branch poking out from her hidden mouth. Her gaze fell on the figure of a young elvish man, draped in nothing but the wind. Goosebumps pricked at his arms and a slight shiver caused him to shuffle with every burst of sea air. Po swallowed her meal and let her glowing red eyes soak in the scene.
“Are you cold?” Po’s scratchy voice asked with genuine care.
The man was thrown back by the sudden compassion but nodded nonetheless. The glow of Po’s eyes softened to one of helpful pride. Her voice came again.
“I can help!”
“You can?” The man didn’t dare take a step forward.
“Mm!” Po nodded. “But after, you have to promise to hangout — it’s getting awfully boring ever since I left the others.”
Before the man could even utter a response, Po shouted “Here goes!” And lobbed a pillar of fire at the man. The air screamed with the sudden intensity of heat and the shadow of the man’s body imprinted on the sudden blast of white and yellow, only to disappear along with the flames. All that remained was licking red embers that clung to whatever vegetation wasn’t wafted away by the blast.
“Hey!” Po growled. “Where’d you go?”
A ghastly specter materialized above the largest of the scorch marks on the ground. It was silent and had fear painted on its blurry face.
“Oh, there you are!” Po said… loudly.
“You’re… Sure you know where you’re taking me?” said one of the impatient passengers. The Ferryman’s first day at work was growing more stressful by the minute. First, he’d have nothing to do; then, with the appearance of mortals and beasts, the requests ticked in by the minute. Problem now was: he had no place to take them. He pursed his unclear lips and shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” came a snap from another passenger.
“It means, uh… Yeah, I’m not too sure here, fellas,” the Ferryman conceded to a choir of sighs and groans.
“Life was already shit -before- I died,” muttered a third passenger.
“You can say that again!”
“Hey, it’s not so bad. My dysentery has passed, my bowels are all calm…”
“Yeah, that knife wound doesn’t hurt anymore!”
The Ferryman felt a smile return. Like they said, a smiling chauffeur was paramount to a happy and successful voyage - it just felt a little easier when the positive energy reflected back.
“I’m bored!”
Well, it couldn’t last forever - hardly a minute, really.
“Say, have any of you got any stories?” the Ferryman prodded. “A story makes the day go around, as they say.”
“Who says that?” came a knife-like reply.
“I did, just now,” the Ferryman glimmered back. “C’mon, anyone? Franky, how about you? C’mon, you ate that poisonous mushroom. That must’ve been something, right?”
The one named Franky shrugged somberly. “Peak of my three hour existence, I’d say,” she mumbled in return. The Ferryman deflated a bit.
“Well, uh…”
Then it came again - that snap in his nerves; a little, instinctual bell knelling softly to let him know that, indeed, another one had passed. A little scroll of cosmic paper appeared in the breast of his robe and he fished it out with the expertise of someone who has been practicing all morning and afternoon. The scroll unfurled and depicted the story of a very unfortunate little elf - death by disintegration. The Ferryman eyed briefly the passengers - one more would fit, but it’d be cramped… Very much so, admittedly.
“Say, I think we’ve reached out stop, fellas!” he said suddenly and stopped in the middle of the tundra. The passengers looked around bepuzzled, heads spinning and bobbing around like the blinking eyes of a frog. The Ferryman brought Wellington to a stop at the metaphorical shore of the perpetual magic river beneath it and tied the boat to a nearby tree. One of the passengers raised a hand.
“Are you sure this is the afterlife? It looks an awful lot like the now-life, in my opinion.”
The Ferryman knocked at the bark of one tree and paced over to the next, knocking on that one, too. “Well… Your afterlife started the moment you died, so the time you’ve spent away from your corpse until now - that’s your afterlife. I’d call it your afterbirth, but that’d force some nasty associations, forgive me.” Knock, knock. “Oh, this one’s good.”
The passengers were beginning to exit the vessel, the Ferryman having weakened the seal around it. The ghosts, too, paced around the nearby woods, kicking through rocks and wailing creepily at the birds, who couldn’t hear them much but nonetheless flew away out of some esoteric fright. The Ferryman had by now chopped down several trees and fashioned from them good-quality planks. In the trees’ stead appeared ghosts of trees, leaves blowing angrily in ethereal wind at this blatant murder.
“Look, apologies, fellas, but you’ll get a very nice place in the garden, how’s that?”
One of the ghosts came over, curiously regarding the Ferryman in action. The god had quickly built a fairly large house of planks, leaves, ash and fibre. All around, he dug out a small beck, filled it with aesthetically pleasing stones and built small wooden lanterns all around. More ghosts had by now come over to behold the spectacle.
“Say, what’re you building, mister Ferryman?” came an inquiry.
“Oh, I’m just building you a little resting place, if you will.”
“But I’m already buried, I think.”
“Oh, apologies, uh… Well, I guess an inn is equally descriptive, huh?”
Clapclapclap! sounded the palms of one of the ghosts before the others stared him down. One of the especially grumpy ghosts muttered, “What’d you do that for? What, you expect us to cheer? To laugh?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t expect anything from you,” the Ferryman replied diplomatically, “but I hope the lodgings are to your liking.”
“Lodgings?” Then, as quickly as it had burned to the ground, the ghost of the inn appeared in its stead - the same building, but visible and usable only to those who could see the dead. A choir of gasps restored the Ferryman’s confidence and he took them for a brief tour around the facilities: He showed them the kitchens, the bedrooms, the wine cellar and the main room. In the beck, there were ghost fish to pike for, and the lanterns provided an eerie light which could give them comfort during those scary nights. Around the inn stood the ghosts of the trees used to build it, horrified at the angles the Ferryman had bent their bones and organs into. All in all, it was a wonderful place to be a ghost.
“Right!” said the Ferryman eventually. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back for you in a bit. It’s just… Until I have a proper place to send you all, I’ll have to ask you to stay here and, uh, please don’t wander off.”
The mood averaged out in a semi-patient miff, but the Ferryman didn’t stay long enough to hear the complaints. He just rushed off to his boat, untied Wellington and soared off to the next passenger-to-be. It wasn’t too long of a trip, but so few were aboard Wellington. After a brief detour around a sour-lipped cumulus, he came to a stop on a small mountain top surrounded by shallow sea. Eyes fixed and nose dug deep in the text of the celestial scroll, he read, “Mollart Lark?” He then looked up to see a horrified ghost and a very active fire.
“That’s…. that’s me.” The ghost wailed.
Po’s voice came in stronger, pushing herself between the god and the ghost. “Are you fellas friends?” A tinge of jealousy or at least worry seemed to seep in her tone.
The Ferryman blinked between the two. “No, we’ve just met.” A small lip smack indicated a hint of disconcertedness. “Are, are you fellas friends?”
“N-”
“Yup!” Po shouted. “We were just about to do some stuff. I was thinking of starting a few fires; are you in?”
Growing increasingly disturbed, the Ferryman exited his vessel and walked over to the ghost. “Ma’am, you do realise…” He stuck a corporeal hand through the very incorporeal body of poor Mollart. “... That this man is dead, right? Gone? Kaput?”
“Dead maybe, but not gone, see!” Po waved her hand through the very upset ghost as well. “He already promised to stick around with me for a while.” She swallowed and pushed forward a serious tone. “But are you in or are you out, because we’ve burned enough time on this as it is and there is plenty of places me and my new pal have to see and light up.”
“N-no, see…” The Ferryman sighed. He had been practicing a few sentences for thing in his head during his downtime, but he wasn’t ready just yet. This would be the first draft of a first draft if anything. He drew a breath and said, “Mister Lark here, he’s… He’s passed on. He’s no longer alive, which means that the time has come to, well, move to the next phase of life - or death, in his case: I’ll be taking him to the, uh…” A second went to naming his earlier structure. “... The Ghostel, where he’ll be staying before he’lll be moving on to the next place (wherever that may be).” He sighed. “Sorry, does that make sense?”
“No, it doesn’t!” Po crossed her arms, her fires growing hotter. “Because Mister Lark is coming with me to set some fires, and no scrawny boat-boy is changing that fact.”
The Ferryman frowned. “Look, no need to get upset. Death is as natural as life and he’s got to move on - like you should.”
Po’s red eyes turned to slits as she hissed. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She took a menacing step forward, her shoulders squaring. The Ferryman raised his staff defensively.
“Look, ma’am… I’ve never fought anyone before, but I have a purpose, I do. If you get between me and Mister Lark here…”
“What?” Po goaded. “What happens?” She took another step forward, her flames turning white hot and igniting any last holdouts of vegetation in the area. The Ferryman took a small step back, trying to find a balance between standing his ground and deferring diplomatically.
“All I will say is that he’s coming with me.” He tested the balance of his staff with small movements.
“No he isn’t!” Po shouted back, her bellowing voice sending a wave of heat outward. By the hem of her cloak, the ground started to bubble and melt. “He’s staying with me! I’m not done with him yet!”
“Mister Lark, please feel free to have a seat in my boat,” said the Ferryman while his eyes remained fixed to the glaring inferno before him. Around him, eerie lights began to bubble forth, flocculating into a halo around his silhouette. “We will be leaving shortly…”
“Rah!” Po shot off from her back foot, arms outstretched as she dove for the Ferryman, tackling him to the ground with an explosive blast. Volcanic ash thrust into the air from the impact and drips of molten rock splashed from the crater of the struggling gods. The Ferryman’s halo, a shield as it had been, shattered under the destructive power of the blast. He groaned sharply and struggled to regain his composure, now being under his adversary.
The crater was a hissing heat as glowing rock started to drip down the edges towards the fiery clash. Po’s eyes were a glowing blue as she stared down at the Ferryman. Her usual scratchy voice was akin to a roaring fire. “Do you give up!?”
The Ferryman’s frown had become a light glare and he felt the blazing heat sear at his body. Hot brimstone still drizzled from the sky above. The Ferryman then sucked in some air through his nostrils, swiftly placed two palms on each of her shoulders and… Pushed. His body phased straight through the ground and out of sight.
“WHAT!?” Po shrieked and let loose a massive punch where her nemesis once was. The mountain cracked and a splash of molten rock blasted from the growing hole as she punched again. “Where did you go!?” She roared.
Debris started to rain from the sky as she continued her barrage, the molten rock splashing into the sea below in all directions. Po screamed, “Show yourself, coward!”
Just then, a foot placed itself right under her chin - the Ferryman was back up, both hands sticking straight up, one leg pointed out perpendicular to the torso and the other bent under his bottom. “HYAH!” he shouted mid-jump and followed his kick up with a downward smack on her scalp with his staff. Po smashed into the ground from the blow, a billow of smoke and flame spitting from her cloak. The already cracked and molten mountain shook from the blow and one half of it began to slide off with an ear-splitting grind.
“You bastard!” Po’s shout riled back up after a moment and she sprung up, one hand on the top of her hood, the other slugging the Ferryman in the gut. The Ferryman went flying into the sea, the seabed folding up behind him like a scoop of ice cream. Sand and stone crumbled into a small island, and the Ferryman stood up groggily in the centre of the crater, the seawater rapidly washing in around him. Before the sea could swallow him, however, he kicked off and flew into the sky. Mid-flight, he pointed his staff at Po, the tip flaring blue. Nothing happened. Po growled from below and shot up into the sky after him, her take off ripping another side off the mountain below — the sea hissed with molten rock. Then, before she could follow up her earlier attack with another, the bow Wellington the Dory smacked her straight down from above.
“WUHB!” Po went slamming down into the sea below. The water screamed as the goddess of fire entered the already bubbling waves. A second went by, long enough for the Ferryman to lower his guard, but then an eruption of magma blasted from the waves, forming a cylinder of rock hissing at the angry waves. Po was at the center of the trail of flame, blasting straight up. Her hood was knocked off her face, revealing an angry grit, narrow eyes and streaming hair of fire. With an explosive bang, she reconnected with the Ferryman, her lightning fast punch uppercutting his chin, only for her to pull him back with a terrible grip. She pulled him in tight, her hug pinning his arms to his sides. A devious grin split her face and with a puff of her flaming wings, she flipped them both upside-down. The Ferryman struggled, but realizing the ground awaited him, he only focused his energy into forming another shield - it would not form in time.
The sea all but jumped in the air along with a shower of stone and fire, a clapping explosion blinding the area as the two gods stamped the ground with all their power. Dust blocked out the sky and the smell of sulfur gripped the region. Minutes went by, the only sound being hissing stone and angry water, until suddenly the gasp of breathing life joined it.
Po was still struggling with the Ferryman on a small volcanic island as the sound started. She was just putting him in a headlock as he was prying her away when she froze in surprise. Mortal eyes were peering at the wrestling gods with wide, astonished gazes. The Ferryman squeezed his head out of her arms to get a better view, freezing in equal manner.
“What is tarnation?”
The mortals had an elven shape - two legs, two arms, a head and a torso to connect all these. However, that was where the similarities began to fade. When Mollart Lark and the rest of elfkin would usually sport a mane of hair, these creatures’ heads had more in common with torches and braziers. Each one blazed with a brightness close to Po’s very own, illuminating and warming the surroundings to the extent that they could be made any warmer. One of them stepped forward, then spun around and shouted to the rest, “BEHOLD! OUR CREATORS!” All of them descended to their knees and hands, humming and mumbling prayers in chorus.
“Um… buh…” Po scrambled over the Ferryman and found her footing. She stood up straight and pulled her hood back over her face. Her fire died down to a red and she peered out at the people. “Hello.”
“They acknowledge us!”
“Praise be to the creators!”
The Ferryman squinted. “Hey, you’re obviously hers, alright? I think there’s been some mistake here…” He wormed himself up to his feet as well and dusted himself off. “Well, if you don’t mind, I have a soul to ferry. So I…” As he had spoken, he had spun on his heel and extended his leg to take a step. Then, right before him, he saw one of the mortals - however, its presence was obviously one of the soul, and not too far away laid a corpse bobbing in the sea. The Ferryman, God of Death, almost fainted. “Good cosmos! H-how has one of you died already?!”
“To die is to live!” exclaimed the soul with feigned pride. She was obviously in deep shock.
“It’s the water, sire!” said one of the living, oblivious to the soul. By the corpse, others had begun to tearfully attempt to fish it out of the foaming waves. “It’s coming for our fire! Everyone! Shelter your flames from the water and wind!”
“Uh oh!” Po’s demeanor was completely different now. She gripped the Ferryman’s robes and gave him a tug. “We have to help them!”
The tug pulled the Ferryman back into reality. “O-o-okay! Okay! Uh! Uhm!” He bit the nails of his free hand. “Uh… Houses! Mortals like houses, right? I mean, I built a house for some ghosts–!”
“Houses!” Po exclaimed and leapt forward. She slammed her fist into the ground, popping a slate of stone into the air with a crack. As it landed she smacked it in half so that the two sides leaned against each other like a tent. Filled with the same gusto as one of their creators, some of the fire-haired people were already diving into the shelter. Po yelled at her nemesis-turned-partner. “Quick! More!”
“O-okay!” The Ferryman followed her example and stacked slates into lean-tos and triangles. “I, uh, think it’s working! Hey, are you comfortable in there?” A small family of lava-haired mortals packed themselves together in the improvised shelter. The mother of the group looked sympathetically grateful.
“It’s better than the wind, that’s for sure,” she replied with a smile. The Ferryman sighed in relief.
“It’s been confirmed, it’s working!” He then put his hands on his hips and looked around. “... I feel like something’s missing, though,” he mumbled as his eyes jumped from one lean-to to the next.
“You’re right!” Po gasped. She started pointing to various locations across the make-shift settlement, sprouting blooms of fire to each location. “We need more fire!” One of the fire-people’s children waddled over to a fire and stuck his hand in it. The little girl pulled out a lick of fire and quickly sucked it down like a drink before smiling content, the tiny flame on her head growing brighter. The Ferryman clapped his fist in his palm.
“Like that thirsty guy earlier! Well, you wouldn’t know him… Plus he drank the same water a rat had died in and… Well, that’s not important. They drink fire - that’s nice to know. Uh… Let’s see…” He looked around the still barren archipelago. “They’ll need stuff to burn. A lot of stuff to burn.” With the snap of his fingers, Wellington filled with all kinds of seeds that could handle the cool air and chilling storms in this part of the ocean. “I’ll just fly around a bit and plant some! Keep the people here safe, alright?”
“Uh huh!” Po nodded eagerly. She paused as a thought crossed her mind “Before you go, what’s your name?”
“Oh! Uh… Just the Ferryman’s fine.” There was a small pause. “What’s, uh, what’s yours?”
“Po.” Another pause. “I guess that makes those guys… Po..fers? Ferpo…” She pinched her unseen chin. “Feporry…?”
The Ferryman glanced over at the small rock village now forming. “Does Porries sound nice?”
Po gave a deep nod. “Yes! I think that’s perfect.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Right, Porries it is!” He glanced over one more time. “Look, uh, sorry for hitting you with a boat. I did many stupid things, but that in particular was pretty uncalled for.” He bowed remorsefully.
“Erm.” Po crossed her arms, clearly struggling with pride before sighing. “And I’m sorry for throwing you off a mountain.”
“It’s okay. It happens.” He put one foot in the boat and said, “Well, I’ll be taking this around the island. Don’t really know what else we should d–” He paused. “Say, uh, do these porries eat?”
“If they are anything like me, they definitely do.” Po held her stomach with one hand. “I’m starving, I could eat an entire everything.”
The Ferryman stepped out of his boat again, conjured forth a stick and walked over to one of the porries. “Here, friend,” he said with a smile, “have a nibble.”
The porry eyed the stick searchingly, then took it and bit into it. She gnawed and exerted great effort in doing as the deity had said, but after a minute or two, she surrendered the stick back with a hanging head. “Forgive me, my liege… I simply cannot chew through it! Plus it tastes yucky!”
The Ferryman felt himself begin to sweat. “Po, they don’t eat like you do! What do we do?!”
“Quick!” Po stomped the ground, summoning a myriad of animals and knocking them right into the air. She flicked a dart of fire at one particular squealing and very upset pig, roasting it midair before it fell to the ground, sizzling and ready. All the other animals, from birds to mammals to lizards scurried (smartly) away. Po pointed at her prize, a hunger in her tone as she said. “Try this.”
A porry man standing by the crisped animal poked it with his finger and then licked his prodding appendage. His eyes lit up and his hair perked. “This is delicious!”
The Ferryman ignored the weeping ghost of the pig for a moment and went over to poke the crisped animal. “Dang, you eat this?” he marveled. Looking at the scurrying animals and the great ocean, he cast a piece of pork into the sea. A minute later, great rivers of silver flowed to and fro under the waves, fish filling the waters with bounteous food. Seaweed rusted the shores with a brown sheen, and seals with wooly fur and walruses with six tusks crawled out of the foam to relax on the beach. “Diversity is the key to survival, me thinks. Let’s see, what else?”
Po shivered for a moment and looked around. Despite the various volcanic spouts, geysers and hissing hot springs, the place was rather cold and snow was already starting to layer on the archipelago. “Maybe you should plant your plants so we can get to making some fire for our little friends.”
“Oh yeah.” The Ferryman hopped back into his boat and took off into the sky. As he sailed between the steamy clouds accumulating over the hissing seas, he cast fists of seeds all across the archipelago. Some places filled with thick, diverse forests of pines, evergreens, beech, oak and ash; others swallowed the seeds in flame or sea; some yet tried to destroy the seeds, but empowered them to grow into magmangroves, trees so magically heat resistant and pyrophilic that they could not grow anywhere but in the lava deltas running from volcanoes into the sea. Plains of grasses, flowers and hardy cereals sprouted forth where the soil was too shallow or matte for trees; some of the animals Po had created began to snack on these plants. One in particular was a thick-woolen alpaca, its vaguely metallic wool heat resistant enough to withstand the sudden geyser splashes around their grazing grounds. Lastly a small flower aptly and quickly named heatpoppies started to sprout in colder areas, the tiny balloon like pedals popping with a hiss of heat whenever disturbed. The Ferryman, satisfied with what he had sown, landed his vessel by the first porry village and stepped onto land.
“Well, this sure is a lovely place now!” he lauded. “Could almost live here myself.”
Po held her hands to the sky. “It’s brilliant! Look at all this heat!” She looked to the Ferryman. “I wouldn’t have guessed this right away, but you have quite the spirit of fire in you.”
The Ferryman blushed ethereally and waved his hands with humility. “Oh my, thank you. Well, you know how it is. Birth, life and death are all equally valuable and equally important. Just as I want people to have a good last journey in death, so does it comfort me to know that they have lived good lives.” He looked over his shoulder at a small group of ghosts formed from a few more careless porries and one very angry pig. “You, too, by the way - I didn’t know you had it in you to create, uh… Non-burning things.”
“Oh!” A giggle. Po’s red eyes squinted with mischief. “They burn alright.”
The Ferryman blinked. “Alright. Luckily these islands are plenty scenic, so I don’t mind coming here often.”
“Are the other islands as beautiful as this one?” came a voice from the Ferryman’s feet. There, a little porling had grasped the hem of his cloak with one hand and pirouetted himself into a roll. The Ferryman looked puzzled for a moment.
“Oh, uh, yeah, they are! But pray tell, why do you ask? Can’t you just go see—” A brief glance at the ghost who had fallen into the ocean came to mind. The ghost stared at him knowingly. “Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “One last thing – uhm, everyone?! Can I have your attention, please?” A crowd slowly formed around the two gods. The Ferryman gave Po a look and said, “I was just thinking I’d give them some tips on how to get around these islands. If you’d like to stay around or move on, I won’t hold ya back.”
“Erm no, I think that’s a good idea.” Po gave a nod. “But I’ve already tried to evaporate all the water, there’s just too much of it. I don’t think these porries will have a better chance than I did.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much. I had something else in mind.” He pointed his finger out to the side and guided everyone’s glances. “Everyone - this is a boat…”
Po: 5 might, 5 AP 4 might discounted to 2AP to make volcanic archipelago 4 might discounted to 2AP to make fiery ecosystem 1 AP used to teach Porries how to make fire
end: 5 might, 0 AP
Ferryman 5MP/2AP 4MP: Create Porries, a race of fire-headed humanoids who drink fire/lava. They are by nature passionate and quick-tempered, and their connection to fire forces them to live close to sources of carbon or lava. If their fire goes out, they die, and thus they live very precarious lives. Their closeness with death makes it something to be celebrated, not feared. 1MP: Teach the Porries how to boat (build/sail/maintain) 1AP, down from 2: Build the Ghostel, a monument which serves as an inn and spa for ghosts. Attracts other ghosts to it if these ghost know about it somehow, kind of like any fancy hotel/spa. Invisible to the living. End: 0MP/1AP.
Okay so we open up with Po on top of a seaborn mountain. Like it’s a mountain peak surrounded by shallow sea. Anyway, she is there eating everything when an elf shows up. Po is feeling playful and accidentally blasts the fucker. Cut to Ferryman. His boat is full of complaining dead things so he decides to build them a ghostel to put them in whie he figures shit out… only to get the contract for the elf that Po just vaporized.
Long story short, Ferryman arrives to take the soul but Po doesn’t want the soul to leave yet and so the two have an explosive and heated tussle that results in the creation of a volcanic archipelago in an otherwise frozen area as well as the creation of various fire themed fauna and flora but more importantly, the Porries. The Porries are fire-haired humanoids who drink flames and die when their fire gets extinguished. The two god spit aside their scrap and work together to baby the new sentients.
The charred remains left naught behind, or so the blind would think… In truth, just then, one was assigned to bring them to the brink. The brink of what? Why, life of course! It lives as best it can. Now comes a time of deep remorse, next to the Ferryman.
A leftover product of the former universe: death. It reeked of it. Of course, the cosmos wasn’t a great, big screaming void of suffering, but the stench clung to it like the mouldy odour of an old washroom. The death and suffer of the primordial universe had long since peetered out on its own, flocculating into globules of non-living energy that could not even be separated anymore. Powers oozing from the origin of creation - so raw and basic that they only possessed instinctual processing power - still managed to think, hmm, maybe someone should ensure that doesn’t happen again.
And so it was that Anath Homura’s message snuck through a cut in the fabric of space and time, echoing between the realms of the multiverse until they bounced off of something. A pair of eyes rolled open. A misty hand grasped at a long staff. A pair of mysterious feet settled in the bottom of a cryptic boat. The hand on the staff tightened its grip, and the robed arm leading up to the rest of the body flexed its muscles. A second hand coiled around the staff at a higher point and pulled down as well. A blink of a million worlds passed by before the vessel emerged through the cut in the fabric - a small, grey dory with a tall bow and an equally tall stern. Standing a bit further behind than in the middle of the boat, a lanky, featureless figure sailed a constantly forming and disappearing river through the empty space above the palace. A purpose laid stuck in his head like dust glued onto a wall: Find the souls of the dead and take them somewhere - anywhere - just so long as they do not just sit around and cause havoc.
Sounded reasonable enough, he thought.
The Ferryman sailed gently, for he needed time to smell the world he had been birthed into. Dared he sail too fast, the coldness of space would pollute his soul-smelling nose. Yet the universe was in its infancy; he soon realised this when there were no souls to smell - none except those of the other divines brought into this reality, and some weak, very weak signals coming from the world below.
The Ferryman scratched his bald head in thought. Had not the powers of the universe been urgent? Why make him now if there was nothing to ferry? After much a-pondering, he found himself gently miffed. First day on the job and nothing to do.
Well, he could wait either here or down there. He saw colour flick across the world below. Something was happening there.
Seemed like a good place to start.
The Ferryman pops into existence and realises there’s no dead stuff yet! He decides to hang out on Galbar until shit happens.
Start 5MP/5AP 3AP (down from 5AP): Create artifact - Wellington. Wellington is the Ferryman’s legendary vessel. The small ferry can traverse air, land and water by sailing a magically forming and disappearing river of magic. This also allows it to travel with incredible speed. The boat is nigh indestructible and can carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death. End 5MP/2AP
Base Form: The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.
Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.
Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls) The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.
The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death.
Persona: Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.
Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.
Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!
Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.
Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.
“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”
Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”
Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”
“Woof! Rough day, huh?”
Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.
“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”
“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.
“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.
“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”
The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”
Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”
The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”
Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”
“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”
The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”
“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”
Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”
Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.
“By the gods…”
“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”
Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”
The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”
“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.
“Yup.”
“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.
“Yap.”
For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”
The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”
Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”
The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”
Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”
“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”
“I guess. Why?”
The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”
What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”
“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”
“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“It never is, is it?”
Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”
“Please, I appreciate it, but…”
“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”
Base Form: The Ferryman’s base form is difficult to put into words. Well, the form - or the shape - comes fairly obvious to those with human eyesight: He, she, they appear as a lanky, bald humanoid in some sort of robed attire - a shepherd’s gown, perhaps? His, her, their hands reveal only a collection of skinny digits and an indication of long nails. The rest of the body hides within the folds and shadows of the gown, showing no further detail beyond the implication of a body.
Facial details appear unclear to onlookers - to some, they are sick and bony; to others, full and fair. No matter who looks, the face is either way always overshadowed by an obfuscating shade, perplexing onlookers further. That being said, the Ferryman can be perceived perfectly fine - he, she, they may just come off as somewhat off-putting.
Aspect: Death (Ferryman of Incorporeal Souls) The Ferryman is a god of death, though not necessarily THE god of death. Death is a natural process, no less natural than being born and living - things are born, they live, they die. Everything from stone to mortal understands this cycle. Yet where the souls go after that? That is not necessarily a natural process. How do souls know how to get to the afterlife? What if there is no afterlife at all, but a reincarnation process instead? Hell, what if the souls don’t even realise that they’re dead?! Well, someone’s got to tell them and take them where they’re supposed to go, whether it be to some infinite field of reeds or inside some pregnant lady’s belly.
The bottom line is that souls, like people, need infrastructure. The Ferryman exists to meet that demand. This gives the Ferryman power to transport souls, as well as a natural affinity for finding, seeing and speaking with the dead. His, her, their powers are split between the self and the vessel (to be constructed IC): The small ferry known as Wellington can traverse air, land and water and carry several more souls than it should seemingly have space for. To make sure souls cannot escape, Wellington's passengers are, uh, protected by a barrier meant to keep the rowdy spirits in and, uh... Well, it doesn't protect against outside threats, so it's more of a seatbelt or a straightjacket for those extra fearful of the life beyond death.
Persona: Despite being a god of the dead, the Ferryman is far from dreary. After all, one can’t be wearing a sullen mug when everyone’s dying to meet you! As death gets the reputation it gets, the Ferryman makes great efforts to ensure that the passing into the afterlife becomes an interesting - if not fun - journey for all parties. He, she, they are quick with a joke and even more interested in hearing the stories of the many dead - as well as sharing stories they’ve picked up along the route.
Alone, of course, the Ferryman understands that life is not all sunshine and rainbows. He, she, they take time to sit quietly on the eternal sea of existence, contemplating the meaning of life, death and everything in between. They fashion themself somewhat of a philosopher, and will gladly sit for hours discussing.
Raff had done it. He had sworn he had done it. It, it had been right there in his hand, right? He, he had surely felt it being there, then in his neck pouch. The earl’s ring! He had had the earl’s ring - he had seen it; he had felt it; for crying out loud, he had even smelt the sweaty gold stink coming off of it! So why… Why hadn’t he had it when he was supposed to turn it over to Hawaldr? What had gone so wrong?!
Slowly, the boy felt a strange cold squeeze at his extremities. The pooling blood underneath his run-through torso began to seep between the planks on the floor. Above him, he saw the giant of a man, Hawaldr, the earl’s disinherited brother, wiped clean his sword with a sorry, deflated woolen cap - Raff’s cap. His muscles twitched briefly and he tried to say something - a bloody ball of phlegm was all he could muster. He heard some response from Hawaldr, but his ears felt numb and stuffed - all he heard was a rumbling voice that slowly, yet faster and faster, ebbed out into nothingness. His vision blurred over; he lost control of his limbs, his tongue, his neck. Whatever nerves still lived reported a pressure point coming from the shoulder area - Hawaldr had surely kicked him. Yet Raff could do nothing to retaliate. The last sparks of life faded from his eyes and so did the breath from his lungs. Raff, son of Rudol, was dead.
Just as the fact of death was established, something else was born. Or, well, to say that it was born would be to gloss over its already seventeen year long existence. It was just that now, upon its second birth (perhaps a better term), the soul of Raff had to go on without a body. Only, he hadn’t realised this just yet. The vengeful emotions within the boy boiled over and in a burst of rage, he pushed himself to his feet and stabbed a finger in Hawaldr’s direction.
“THIS IS UNFAIR! I HAD IT IN MY HAND! I SWEAR IT!”
Hawaldr did not reply. In fact, he slowly turned away and mumbled to one of his cronies, “Get rid of him… And have Kraca bring a mop!”
Raff blinked ethereally. “H-hey!”
“Woof! Rough day, huh?”
Raff spun around and beheld a man (or possibly woman, or maybe something in between - its voice gave no clues) leaning over a boathead snaking upwards. Raff followed the humanoid’s puzzlingly featureless (yet also fairly featurefull) face down along a pair of gowned shoulders leading to two slinky arms, fingers interlaced on the tall wooden head of a small dory with an equally long tail. Raff took a moment to rub his eyes as he noticed that, within the warm, cushy longhouse of Hawaldr’s farm, there was now an iridescent river flowing in from nowhere and out into nowhere. Upon this river rested the little boat and its grinning master. The Ferryman shot a glance down and clicked its figurative tongue.
“The ol’ belly shank, huh? Not the best way to go. Usually pretty slow, but you got lucky - he cut into your liver, so you bled out pretty quickly.” There was a small pause. “Hey, look on the bright side - at least he didn’t stab you in the back!”
“B-bled out, wha–?” Raff cast a look down, then slightly sideways to follow his corpse-prison with his gaze as it was being dragged away, leaving a trail of red behind it. He heard Hawaldr yell furiously: “No-no-no! Did your mothers drop you on your heads?! You’re getting blood all over my floor!” Raff felt another sting of rage and clenched his incorporeal fists hard.
“Damn, what an ass, huh?” the Ferryman added supportively.
“I had it. I had the ring. How, why was it not in my pouch?” He patted at the spiritual representation of his clothing and grabbed his pouch. With a deft squeeze, it gaped and revealed its contents - a copper coin and some pretty shells, but nothing else. “Why?!”
The Ferryman shrugged. “Couldn’t say, mister. I usually only show up a minute or two before a passing - must’a lost it before that.”
Raff paced around briefly. “The, the mud pools! The mud pools under the earl’s fence! I had to crawl through to escape the fort and, and…” He grit his teeth and kicked at a nearby chair - his incorporeal leg phased right through. “Damn it!”
The Ferryman’s grin faded somewhat and she rubbed her cheekbone slightly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, mister, I picked up his cousin a few years back, and he had gotten the axe merely for spilling water on this guy in the presence of the earl. To put it bluntly, he’s not the forgiving type.”
Raff deflated. “How is that any consolation at all?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I guess we can establish that it wasn’t personal?”
“Just… I don’t need to be consoled right now. This is it. My life is over…”
The Ferryman’s grin returned in full and they sat down in the boat with a small chuckle. Raff spun angrily. “What, are you laughing at me?!”
“Oh, oh no, mister!” the Ferryman replied gleefully. “It’s just that your life, well, it’s only just begun.”
Raff blinked and walked towards the boat. “Y-yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” said the Ferryman with a nod. “Consider that whole “living” business the trial package; now the real thing starts.”
Raff swallowed and took a nervous step into the boat. He hadn’t been much of a sailor in his living days, but oddly enough, this little dory felt steadier and safer than the largest longship he had ever been in. He made himself comfortable and the Ferryman gripped a long stick from inside the vessel and stuck it in the (for the lack of a better term) river. The scene of Hawaldr’s house quickly faded into nothing as the boat phased through the wall and soared into the heavens, sailing the ether of souls. Raff sat agape and took in the sights of the world below.
“By the gods…”
“Yeah, it’s a sight, isn’t it? Doesn’t get much better than this.”
Raff swallowed again and sheepishly tucked his hands between his legs as he looked down at the floor. “So… What’s our destination?”
The Ferryman hummed in thought. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, mister, but we’re going to Aldion.”
“ALDION?!” Raff squealed in fear.
“Yup.”
“Y-you’re sure it’s, it’s Him, right?” Raff mimicked horns on his head with his fingers.
“Yap.”
For a brief moment, Raff sat still in shock. Then, with the vigour of a spooked rabbit, he shot up and tried to jump ship. However, before the Ferryman could warn him, the ghost hit the invisible wall at the vessel’s edge and bounced back dazed into his seat. The Ferryman sighed.
“Are you okay, mister?”
Raff quickly regained his senses and pushed himself to a stand once again. “Why?! Why am I being sent to Hell?! Explain it to me - WHY?!”
The Ferryman pursed his lips and pulled out a small scroll from the inside of his gown. “Let’s see here, Raff Rudolson… Well, I’m happy to tell you that your atonement, Mr. Rudolson, will likely be a short one. Theft, while a crime, is not at the top of Aldion’s naughty list. You should be out of there in no time– oh… Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait… Brokeoathto… Huh… Uh-huh…”
Raff furrowed his brow. “What? What?! Spit it out, man - am I just dropping by or…?”
The Ferryman frowned sympathetically and flipped the scroll so he could read it. “Yeah, no - see, your theft was at the top there, so I read that first - my bad. Says here, though, that you’ve been in the earl’s service for a good while - your whole life, it seems. Your father was a huscarl, right?”
Raff rolled his eyes. “More of a steward, that old geezer, but yeah…”
“Mhm, making you a serviceman by blood - you were a servant at court too, no?”
“I guess. Why?”
The Ferryman tapped the sentence under. “Looks here like you swore an oath of service to him at some point. Last year, was it? Stealing from your master, well… Aldion might not care all that much about theft, but breach of loyalty - hoo boy…”
What colour remained in Raff’s face drained. The Ferryman re-furled the scroll and put it back inside her gown. A half hour passed without a word before Raff whispered, “I… I thought I would have time to make up for it…”
“Mhm. Lotta mortals seem to think that way.”
“It… It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“It never is, is it?”
Another pause, this one shorter. The Ferryman eventually offered Raff a smile and said, “Actually, I had this other passenger whose story reminds me a lot of yours!”
“Please, I appreciate it, but…”
“No, no, no, you’ll love it. Now this guy, hoo boy… See, about a century back…”
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