Fordess't

Oh those complacent gods, ah oh, sounds like a contradiction doesn’t it, Solis on the half-shell waiting to be served. What is the other side of the coin for an immortal, almost without fail their malady turns out to be a general lack of substance. And I don’t mean context, it’s always content, hell they’re just not really there. They’re apparitions, they seem real enough, but it’s all smoke and mirrors, they do actually exist, but they can’t touch, just photons, with an attitude. Are they relative, I mean if you think the sun shines out their ass, and I say their shit stinks, are we just two relative observers, or are you just refusing to admit that you smell something too?

Sometimes the world becomes incredibly small and objective when two relative observers happen to be standing nose to nose in the same place, no matter how disparate their personal views, they are both compelled to come to the same conclusion, relativity is relative in a constant sort of way, Ah Shit!!!

“Man it just doesn’t look that way from over here, does it.?!!!”

No matter how omnipotent, even if they can’t manage a fart, there always seems to be something. For god it’s the inability to feel, and it vexes them something awful. They will pretend, cajole, and act as if they feel everything to the greatest possible degree, far beyond the capabilities of real beings, because their own hubris makes it impossible for them to admit that they are less than perfect. But it’s just for show, there is no empirical reality, they are nothing more then the vapid musings of any creature willing to believe. They exist, but without the prayer they are nothing more then a bump in the night, so do they rumble, they do.

When your entire existence relies on your creating a row, you tend to get rather good at it, when the only way you get to feel gratification is by gleaning some remnant of emotion from the real beings that surround you, you tend to become sullen and perverse. Unfortunately it is easier to conjure negative emotions rather than positive ones, anger generally rules, because of the simplicity.

This is why the gods rarely bother with the beasts, their actions are pure, albeit terrible. No, they require intellect, without rationalization a lie just doesn’t have a chance. The more complicated the better, and they absolutely insist on the one major relative element that allows them to empathize completely with whoever the off ending oaf might be, pride.

“Always remember, they didn’t need it, they wanted it.”

And you know what happens when we want things, they’re never quite what we expected, always a little shorter, a little fatter, “I mean really, shouldn’t you be mo better,” and there lies the rub, the eternal curse, “walk a couple steps behind me baby, somebody might see us.”

The gods were vigilant, once they discovered this new toy, emotion, they began to explore from one end of reality to the other trying to find the most passionate, and the most volatile. Then came the fatal day, why not play with creation, why not mix and match their toys, why not create the perfect warrior lover, and let the games begin.

All of the off ending artisans played the game so their folly was complete. They competed amongst themselves to see who could create the biggest asshole in existence, and the battle was epic with the pantheon darting all over reality splicing this gene, and that just to see what sort of monster would result. They were beings of light, fast and immortal, they developed the means to move mortal beings from one planet to another without touching them, that was the kiss of death, no mortal could survive the touch of a god, but they enjoyed their ability to create an effective apparition that could appear to interact with the rabble, and fool them into believing they were more then just a thought.

This went on for billions of years so the width and breath of the known world took on a very familiar edifice, there were always slight differences depending on the rough conditions of any given planet, but truly they were a family.

And again the gods were diligent, they constantly played with the formula. It was a real coup when one lord or another would discover some new untested being, “lab rat,” that would offer the possibility of a new and better high. Something crazier, something braver, or just prettier, anything to accentuate the symbiotic nature of their shared experience.

At some point, at least for certain gods the quest became the thing, they were more interested in finding the perfect being, and by perfect I mean the most flaming piece of crazy in existence. So essentially, “The play became the thing,” Solis became the master practitioner, with an endless list of accomplishments. His rival Pol was long on rhetoric, but woefully short on deeds, it annoyed Solis so that he searched eternally for the new thing, the wunderkind, the uber man.

Unfortunately they had been everywhere, they had seen everything, and they had bred everything that walked on two legs. It seemed that they had exhausted the pool, and all but Solis gave up the quest. Even Pol gave up the sword and decided to just revel in the debauchery, and ultimate pleasure of just enjoying the sordid reality that they created even though on some level it had become passe.

Solis was on the verge of joining in the orgy, even if it was just an eidolon, when he stumbled into an epiphany, if he wanted something new he would have to expand the parameters, he would have to exceed the empirical, “and sail into the mystic.”