Message to Jack {Apollo, #1?, circa January 2018}

Prologue

In a lonely shack on the Path of Black Leaves sits a man. The shack is ramshackle, simple, and bare, containing only a table and two chairs. After all, there is no need for anything else. Food, shelter, and other forms of sustenance mean nothing on the path. The shack simply serves as a place for meetings.

The man inside is a man with no name, and many names. He is no one, and he is many. He is a ghost, an idea, someone who cannot exist. Let us call this man the Oracle, as he has the sight to see his own pasts, presents, and futures. He wears a blindfold over his eyes--not because he is blind (though in some worlds, he is) but because he sees so much. His sight is so potent that his only way of retaining some semblance of himself is to filter it out.

You may know him as the Messenger. Or perhaps Justice. Or maybe even Alan. These are, however, only the ghosts of a person who exist within him--and yet, separate from him.

So, if you find yourself on the Path, standing at the door of the Oracle’s shack, will you step inside? And if you do, which Oracle will be inside waiting for you?

The Broken Man: Justice

What happens when a man fights and fights to stay alive and stay safe, only to lose everyone around him despite his efforts? You may already be familiar with this man named Justice, who was thoroughly broken and responded by giving up. He has let himself become an empty vessel, allowing him to easily tap into the powers of the Oracle to let the Slender Man speak through him. While there are several incarnations of Justice, it could be argued that it is primarily this incarnation of Justice that gives the Oracle his powers.

While Justice has allowed himself to become an empty vessel and has killed his past self, there are still a few things he bitterly holds onto--namely TE-119H, formerly known as Poe, the woman he loved. He specifically transferred the former caretaker, Eddie, to provide himself an opportunity to frequently visit her. He would sit silently by her for long periods of time, often holding her. In those moments, he allowed himself a fragment of lucidity where he became more of his former self. However, this only brought him pain, as the only indication that there was any trace of Poe left was that she would calm down when he held her.

Justice’s administration was a rough one at first. He often made decisions based on emotion, and saw them fail again and again. However, roughly a year later, TE-119H died. In addition, In addition, his former Handler, Tempest, was killed, and his aide Turtle ran off with Nee-chan, one of his best Hunters and the only person in the organization that he knew well. Justice knew his emotions had resulted in many of these decisions, and he killed his former self even further. His meditation upon the Path began to occupy more and more of his time, and he was able to successfully let the Slender Man speak through him. The divisions under his control very quickly turned around, and he was soon given control of more.

At this point, the Highest are considering welcoming him into their inner circle, but at the moment it is only a consideration. After all, he does not communicate well with others, and honestly, many of them fear his power a bit. It makes no difference to Justice. He simply walks the Path, seeking what needs to be done.

The Dark Messenger: Prophet

Humans are, at their core, creatures of fear and preservation. They lust for power not to sate their greed, but out of cowardice. The only true way to keep yourself from being at risk is to accumulate power. It takes a weak, weak man to so willingly sacrifice everything that doesn’t matter to protect everything that does. And the Messenger was a weak, weak man.

While the Messenger who became Justice was constantly torn, daring to push back against his oppressors, the one who became Prophet never allowed himself to question whether or not he was right. After the death of his friend Caper, he became afraid of what would happen to him if he dared to rebell as well. So instead of being indecisive and going behind the organization’s back, he began brown nosing. If Poe showed signs of hesitation, he would talk sense into her (or at least what he believed was sense). Poisoned by his fear, she became who he wanted and needed by his side. And he aided in her work. There was no thought of running in his mind, but he allowed others to believe there was. He put on a hesitant face for them, faking close bonds with them to gain access to information they definitely should not be telling him. As Poe was a Tracker, tasked with finding runners, he was essentially supplying her with a barrel full of fish to shoot.

But as he was, he could only do so much. After all, he was too much of a coward to take action himself, to put himself on the line like his coworkers did. So when the Oracle at the time offered to groom him for the position, he gladly accepted the chance to have more control over his life while still keeping himself safe. He took over the position of Oracle, and in the process, took the name Prophet.

Does Prophet still fear? Of course. More power only breeds more paranoia. But now, people fear him as well.

The Fugitive: The Messenger

What if the Messenger had decided to cut his losses? What if, instead of waiting until he lost everything, he took what he had and he ran? There is a Messenger who, upon finding out about Poe’s conflict with her partner Screwtape, ran. Fled the organization.

The Messenger was too gentle a man, had too much of a conscience to let the darkness swallow him. He, alongside Poe, became fugitives.

There is not much to say about this man, for his story was unfortunately cut short. The Fugitive Messenger is dead. Has been for years. Had he abandoned Poe, he may have lasted longer, as her unique nature as a former Husk drew the Slender Man towards them. However, had he abandoned her, the result may have been very much the same. After all, the Slender Man’s influence on Poe was something she was aware of. Call it instinct, call it prophecy, call it sixth sense, but she had an awareness that got her out of as many jams as it caused. The two of them survived for a little over two years before they met their end. It was two years of hell. But they never once regretted their decision, right up until the end.

While The Fugitive Messenger may be dead, a fragment of him still dwells within the Oracle. Like all the fragments, you may still find him as a ghost on the Path.

The Blind Man: Alan

Do you remember Alan’s brother, Kyle? Let’s suppose Alan never sacrificed himself for Kyle’s sake. Let’s say Kyle willingly joined the organization on his own. Kyle, unlike his brother, was a talented and charismatic speaker. He, like his brother did in so many worlds, took on the mantle of the Messenger and quickly became one of the faces of the organization. He quickly rose in the ranks and is currently studying to become one of the politicians the organization backs.

However, Alan does not live an ignorant life. Fate’s branches have ensnared him as well, and he has become the Abel to his brother’s Cain. Though unlike Abel, Alan still lives. His brother, despite being the one who has introduced the Slender Man into his life, is a persuasive man. He protects him, much like so many versions of the Messenger did for Kyle.

It seems that there is a fragment of the Oracle who is stupid enough to be brave. Alan engages in digital subterfuge, whether helping hide the online footprints of his fellow runners or outright sabotaging the organization his brother is a part of. He plays a dangerous game, but it’s one he’s managed to survive so far.

The Prophet of Justice: Apollo

Let’s say, by some chance, the man who became Justice...didn’t become Justice. Let’s say that, after losing everything, having his life fucking destroyed, seeing it all crumble around him...he fought on. He fell into the Path, and rather than being consumed, he clawed his way back out.

This man would be Apollo.

Let me tell you, the organization fucking hates Apollo. After all, he absconded with a whole lot of insider information. Apollo wasn’t supposed to happen. The Messenger wasn’t supposed to end up in the Path and somehow come out the other end sane.

Well. Relatively sane, at least.

After all, Apollo is as aware of his role as the Oracle as Justice and Prophet are. He just fights for the good guys. He knows a whoooooole lot. More than he should. That’s why he’s so dangerous to them. That’s also why he’s able to stay alive. Being able to see his possible futures, on top of being able to see through Dimensional Bleeding? Let’s just say it helps out in a pinch.

But fate can only be avoided for so long. Yggdrasil only has so many branches, and those branches only spit off into so many twigs. And let me tell you, I don’t think many of these branches bear fruit.

Apollo has the same issue that all of Oracle’s fragments has: his ability to travel the Path through time kinda hurts his ability to travel the Path through space. He can’t use it to teleport himself like so many seem to be able to do. Well, he usually can’t. He’s done it a few times. But it takes a lot out of him. That’s why, if he gets that rare chance, he has to use it to jump Branches. Usually it’s just through text. But his body has jumped Branches once before.

Well, twice now.

It’s not gonna happen a third time.

I’m Apollo, by the way. Don’t know if you’d picked up on that, yet. And I think I’m probably pretty boned at this point. I don’t really have anywhere else to go. So it’s time to announce myself to this Branch. It’s time for me to try to do one last bit of good.

Pretty sure this Branch has termites. I’m gonna do everything I can to prune it before it takes the whole fuckin’ Tree.

~Apollo

Survivors (Sam, Entry #8, circa 2018)

Listen, I can understand fighting these big baddies, and I can understand being afraid.


What I cannot understand is turning against yourselves the way you do.


If you're bored sometime, look up the Crossroads theory.


No, no, not that mythological bunk. Or that admittedly cool song that came out a while ago.


Don't get lost in the quantum theory, either, it might make your heads hurt.


I'm talking about this.


It's the theory that all our major cultures, religions, and social attitudes have made us warring neighbors perpetually pitted against each other. That in truth, we're all far too alike to really be tolerating what's being done to us, but we're being distracted by petty differences, away from the ugliest shit going on underneath our noses.

Celebrities overdosing. Royal weddings. Oooh, who's wearing the cutest clothes today??! Eugh.


What it all boils down to is simple:


Our labels prevent us from coming together and unifying against our social injustices.

We judge and verbally crucify those that are different than us, rather than allowing ourselves to see the commonalities. We murder, and kill, and steal, and backbite, because we justify our bullshit with things like "but they're different than us! They did ____." What a crock of shit.

No one is any more evil than you are. Or any more good.


The social theory, by its end, recommends one thing I have taken to heart:


That a day shall come when these labels are mainly cast to the side, and that the common people shall forgive each other their minor transgressions, and fight for their rights. Protect their kids, unionize in order to protect their ability to work for a fair wage, and tear down the pillars of our civilization one faulty pedestal at a time, to be replaced by rules and regulations that actually protect us.


That said, it is predicted to be a social revolution spanning over the next 25-100 years.


I want to live to see a day where this comes true. Where we can all attempt to live together in peace.


But until then.. I don't want to be a part of a civilization that harms their own for profit.


That sells innocent children to the highest bidder, that trafficks victims for sex, that lets the hungry starve while the rich sit on what amount to thrones in beautiful offices and mansions.


Fuck that world.


It's why I've chosen to live on the outskirts, learning. Living. Surviving.


For those of us that've chosen to fight back against the status quo..


We are the Survivors.


Word to the wise:


It doesn't matter if we're in Overland, Underland, the Empty City, or some fucked up variance of the three. Cross us in the wrong way, and you may wind up in a fight for your life.


We don't tolerate losing what we've fought so hard for.



Be it our food, friends, or our own lives.



You shouldn't either.

Turn Left (Sam, Entry #1, Circa 2017)

There are those of us that have chosen to go by titles.


Pretty things, these labels that allow us to identify each other in a sentence or two.


In a world of hollows, traitors, and information leaks, these labels don't do shit for you.



I'd like to introduce myself. Not that my name really matters in the grand scheme of things.



It's as fake as some of your alliances.



I'm Sam.
I'm a Survivor.
I'm twenty seven years old.
The only reason I don't kick the bucket today is, well, I'm not allowed to.


You see, if I do, some very nice people will die. Or get ammo in a war I fucking hate.


I live in a world where the boogeymen are real. Where kid's fantasy has a greater chance of coming true than the white picket fence and 2.5 kids we were all taught was supposed to be our dream.


I'm here to be honest, or as honest as it gets, in this crapsack timeline.


See, the thing I've noticed lately is that as soon as some of you find "peace.."


You start getting weak-willed. And lazy. Start letting the snakes into the garden, so to speak.


That's when kids start getting taken, castles fall, and your 'best friends' get comfortable with stabbing you in the back. Sometimes literally! Everyone carries a blade these times, and gosh, that steel between the fourth and fifth rib slanted upwards tends to make even the strongest juggernauts fall.


There are those that would label me a Runner. Scorn me for the choices I turned down.


Once upon a time, I had a chance to choose an alliance.


The so called 'good guys,' the Runners.

The constantly shifting traitors to the humans, the Proxies.

Or, as my sisters have deemed it, the 'grey hats.' The Neutrals.


I'm all for peace and love and rainbow hippie shit, but I've seen a bit too much in my time to feel comfortable calling anyone an ally. Let alone giving away the information that matters.


In this shitfuck war you guys have been calling 'the Great Game,' no alliance is safe.


Right around the time I was supposed to be my decision, I saw behind the curtain.


Oh, you know the one. From that singing movie in the 30's, with the yapping dog and the really, really stupid heroine that gets in a land dispute over some freaking shoes?

Yeah. Remember the part where the country girl trips and pulls the curtain to the side, revealing that the big Hero of the story was no more than a sham with some pretty little baubles, speaking into a megaphone? I had that moment in my life. But instead of some old man in weird robes, I found something worse. Much fucking worse. A negotiation, years ago, between all the clans.

I'm not shitting you. I mean what I say.

One of the 'paragons of light,' a 'higher up' of the Board, and a neutral mercenary.


All discussing which way the coming years would shape the 'Great Game.'


Who needed to die. Who needed to be kept calm. Who needed to be paid to look the other way.


It disgusted me.


What's fucked up about it is that I found out what all this shit is really being fought for.


This 'Great Game' is a fucking distraction.


From the worst of the worst.


There exists a greater evil than the shit we've been fighting, the Fears, that makes them look like saints marching down Main Street twirling white flags of peace.

And we, the humans, are the lambs to the slaughter. The sacrifices. The distractions.


To appease this nasty motherfucker into not destroying us all.


And if we don't play this lovely 'Game,' we're all likely to fucking die.


Easier for us to believe the Fears are the bad guys.


Easier for us to fight, and run, and cry amongst ourselves on these online forums.


What a waste. And what a fucking joke.


I chose to Run that day. Not for an alliance. Not to spite them. But to save my own freaking hide.


I come from what you all would call a loosely-knit 'family' of women, that just so happen to almost look identical. This family doesn't exist across one timeline. It exists across twenty one of them.


One of our leaders, a woman by the name of Demi, had tried to approach me about 'being one of hers.' What she hadn't realized was that I had already discretely learned about who I was supposed to be, and hunted down which of the rumors about my 'sisters' were true.


It was the next day that I saw her in that clearing in the woods.


I wish I hadn't.


All I'd really wanted to do that day was forage for some fucking food and water.


My dad had just passed away, and unlike the others, I had nowhere to go after his death.


I'd been doing my best to pretend everything was okay.


Keep going to school. Keep my head up. Pretend I didn't live in a tent in the woods.


I had refused to live with the shitty people I unfortunately shared blood with.


Would you want to live with a rapist, a drug prince, and abusive fuckheads?


No wonder I chose a tent.


But, there for a while, I made it. Not even my counselors or closest friends realized what I had chosen to do. Make the rest of my seventeenth year my own, by my terms. Even if it meant starving.


Well, after that day in the woods.. you could say I got much better at learning to survive.


I had to.


These sisters of mine?


You won't see me calling myself by their nickname. D.I.A.


An absurd joke of an acronym, a twisted set of initials based off of our real names.


Each of us carries the same true name, beginning to end.


Walking down different paths that've branched a thousand times, like a fucked up broken tree.


I don't believe in being one of them.


Just because we share a name does not make one of them.


I've seen what my sisters have done in the name of love, nobility, and selfishness.


And for most of them, it simply got them killed.


So I left my entire life, and took to the streets.


Chose to abandon my dreams of college, of marriage, of children.


All to avoid a choice I didn't fucking want to make.

Faded Reflections (Jack, Entry #732)

Who follows that which is not announced or paraded in front of their noses?

I keep falling through cracks. Intermittently.

Sometimes a day apart.

Sometimes a week. A fort night.

Sometimes I'd get the blessing of a month or more in each place.

But hell began when entire years began to stack together. Families or alliances made. Torn asunder because of a shift through a shimmering mercury rift in reality.

Yanking awake to entirely different worlds after thinking I had escaped. Lives changed in the moment I fell through one of those accursed cracks.

Alice in Wonderland has been a bittersweet story for me for many years. To me, it feels like a.. very long time since I last saw my friends at the original timeline.

Bad enough recent events forced me to cycle through past phases in my life, and regrets. A constant montage in my head as I question how much time has truly passed.

Questioning the choice trees that lead me to this moment, how many times I had to ultimately abuse my ability to take a step through to a safer space until I lost grip of it.

Spend enough time on the Path, and you begin to attract attention from that which gathers outside the path's relative safety. Things that exist in the sideways spaces. Some things don't like being denied.

The demons as we understand them are incorporeal. Generally appearing as silhouettes of smoke or ash, sometimes they get a bug up their ass to manifest a form and find a way to get back on the path.

Stop me if this sounds familiar. You are Running, travelling, the boogeymen finally seem to have lost your trail permanently. You did it. You won. Or.. so you thought.

But once you begin to contemplate letting your guard down, a person stumbling across your path leads to a better and better chance of surviving. They're normally funny, witty, and haunted. Bonus points if they're actually physically injured when you encounter them.

They ingratiate themselves into your life, but then it begins to feel like they're slowly influencing you.

Things they say bother you, but when you try to say anything, your voice is gone. You find yourself trying harder and harder to do what is necessary to avoid having to keep Running alone.

Before long, a darkness begins to creep into your heart. You begin to slow and emotionally wither. You begin to realize your decision to trust this stranger was quite possibly the decision that could lead to your death.

So you begin to search for ways to escape this albatross.

Like a fog haunting across the night sky, you begin waking through it's influence. Enough to eventually begin to see their true nature and actions, and remember things that had been blocked out.

But their grip feels like Heaven.

They take the pain while they destroy you and your life.

But oh, when you finally attempt to pull them loose, they burrow deeper in with hands like blades. Eventually, you succeed at evading your demon for long enough their influence can completely leave your system. You can flush them out.

Be they the supernatural demons, or merely the emotional ones, be warned in either case: they will rob you of your joy. Find a way to slice and dice at the core of who you are in an attempt to carve themselves a permanent part of your life, and be they supernatural, a literal tie to them.

Exorcising their pull though, once you survive the emotional devastation they create, is more than worth staying under Their claws.

Freedom is worth having to survive the trip to earn it.

The Cost of War (Aphrodite, Entry #2)

~


Everything broke apart the day that civil war erupted between neighboring clans, and Aphrodite was swept up in the chaos. She attempted for a fortnight or so to continue going to her job, but the strain of her conflicting loyalties, and her constant need to keep secrets, began to leak out into her aura. The other tavern workers began to worry for her sanity, and question her home life.

It quickly became obvious that it was either stay, and reveal all to the tavern owner and hope for mercy.. or allow herself to be seen as mad, and leave quietly and not return.


She chose to leave, despite her heart's yearning for the place she had come to prefer over Olympus.


She began to aid in the war in earnest, working as a spy and a thief of knowledge, cryptically spreading information that harmed neither side, but saved innocents. The local watchmen quickly came to recognize her disguise and give her the joking nickname, 'the Doctor.' For everywhere she went, a life would be saved.. for a price. At first, they were grateful. After time, annoyed.


For she refused to reveal incriminating knowledge on the leaders of either side to the watchmen. Refused to aid in setting traps, refused to come formally work for the law. At this, they grew angry, and suspicious of her motives. Realizing her reputation for madness, they waited for her to call for help after a particularly vicious raid, and seized her from the outskirts of her temple. Tearing a small child she had saved from the crossfire out of her arms, and throwing her in the back of a wagon.

She cried out for the child's safety, and they smiled maliciously at her, making false promises of the child's security, that where she was going was the best for everyone. Aphrodite, realizing what they were doing, deliberately cast aside every bit of her magic into the dolphin pendant she wore round her neck, and with a last flare of mana threw it through the bars of the wagon to be picked up by a passing crow. A last message, to alert Hermes and the rest of her loved ones as to her situation.

~

They brought her before physicians who set upon her with glee, only to be disappointed by what they found. No obvious infirmities, no grand athleticism, no mystic marks to set her apart as who they knew her to be. Her magic had fled her, so there was nothing left to 'prove.' With this, the watchmen and medics grew incredibly angry. They knew her to be of perfect physical health, but mental.. they set upon her reputation, claiming her to have been massively poisoned, and a danger to public safety.

Locked her up in one hospital after another, feeding her lies as to when she could leave. Every day, she prayed for her friends' and family's safety in the war waging outside the confines of her prison. Wishing to whatever higher powers a goddess could possibly believe in for her freedom, to return to the life she had so carefully wrought. She bribed attending physicians and charmed those that brought her her food trays to get small messages back and forth to the outside, which she knew were being watched and tracked. She did not care. What destroyed her heart, however, was..

Rumors of her madness had reached her home, and spread like wildfire across the towns. Almost none of her messages had returning notes, and most of those that did follow scorned her. Those she had spent so much time and care protecting had turned their backs on her.. including Momus.

~

Eventually, the watchmen let her free, with strict instructions to keep to herself for the following months. To not get swept up in the war waging outside, to learn her lesson and find a way to survive with her reputation hanging in tatters around her. They offered to help her regain her life, shelter, with cruel biting smiles. For all her lands, priceless possessions, and chariots had been stolen from her. Her bolt holes raided for all their petty money and papers. Her place of work wouldn't even allow her through the front doors. The tavern owner threatened her with the watchmen if she returned.

And so, she wandered. She walked until her feet bled, head hung low, tears slipping to the Earth. For what life did she have remaining? Olympus had barred its gates to her, as had the Underworld. 

Claw Your Way Out (Entry #1, Demi)

There must always be an introduction post.

That in which we say our hellos, tell our stories, do some grandstanding.


Maybe even say some vague shit we'll reveal later through a series of confusing posts.


See, I'm not about all that.

I'm about telling the truth. When it happens, how it happens, no matter how strange the tale.


And so we begin with my story. My brokenhearted truth, of how I came back.


If I can persuade Jack to wake up long enough to write about who I am, about what happened to her and what she remembered during the poisoning attempt, I will.


But until then? My name is Demi.


I am a Dia.


I am also the only Dia left willing to take the mantle of Overseer of Sanctuary.


The others are either dead, in an insane asylum, missing, or just plain don't want the job.


I should never have had to come back to this life.


I lived a good life, once upon a time, with my Good Doctor.


We lived in the coldest reaches of the mountains of Alaska.


We lived paycheck to paycheck, despite how much we each made, because we always insisted on bringing groceries to the struggling in the middle of the night, donated our time for free with the local clinics and hospitals, volunteered with the children of the shelters.. tried so hard to help the Runners.


I thought I had well and true escaped my past with the Board when I met my husband.


My version of Advy.


Tall, lean, gorgeous. Wicked intelligent and kind. The best man I have ever met.


One day driving back from a party on Christmas Eve, it was freezing cold. Far below zero.


We were bundled for warmth, and not paying enough attention to the road.


We were with each other. We were happy. We were foolish.


The brakes failed on that thrice damned slippery backroad, and we slid sideways.


Straight into a snowbank.


What happened next is up for debate.


What I do know is that I was thrown from the vehicle, straight through the windshield.


I tried crawling back to the car, slumping on the passenger side's threshold, searching.


Ever searching for my Good Doctor.


He was gone.


I froze to death, there in that snowbank.



The doctors say with the condition I was found in, I should never have survived.


That the cold was all that saved me, sent me into a deep hibernation until help could arrive.


My pulse was almost at zero. My heart beat but a few times a minute.


The first responders told me they found the scene littered with footsteps and droplets of blood.


Like someone came to my body, and circled it, over and over, then left the way they came.


I politely excused myself from the hospital, as soon as my vitals recovered.


I tried leaving the world as a shadow.


Nothing would let me die.


Apparently, I tied myself to Jack's curse when I died and came back.


Their lovely little "loophole."


Now, Lilith has sacrificed herself to exorcise the Convocation and strengthen the wards to Sanctuary.


Jack has fallen into an azoth-induced coma, pulling a Sleeping Beauty.


I personally think she slipped away once she realized Bael was gone..


But that is neither here nor there.


The position of Overseer to Sanctuary, of Guardian to the Rabbit Hole..


Has fallen to me.


Things are about to change, ladies and gentlemen.


Y'all ready to hear the stories Jack would never share?


Y'all ready to wage war on Underland, and loot them blind?


Y'all ready to burn some shit to the ground, and build anew?


Because I am sure as hell ready for all of it.


Buckle up.


It's about to become quite a bumpy ride.

Ripples in Time (Aphrodite, Entry #1)

Another fairy tale for the ages.


This one of an Aphrodite, and an Ares.



Silly creatures, them both.



One beautiful in all her ways, surrounded by admirers and lovers, and yet yearning for something.. genuine. A life that actually mattered. A companion that wasn't swayed by her abilities. Wandered the land, picking up one occupation or another to learn new skills that delighted her, and make friends. Each time with a disguise of sorts on her face and body, so that she might be seen for who she was, not the legend she had become known by.



The other, a Frankenstein's monster with the mind of a prodigious savant, and burning eyes of coal. A creature of harshness and backhanded affection, born of pain and suffering, clawing his way through life one moment at a time, defeating the monsters that would have slain any other foe. Known for his withering comments and crude humor, all efforts to keep those of flimsy hearts at arms' length, with a fiercely hidden desire for the loneliness to end.

~


The woman, after many years of wandering, grew tired of her unending search for love and meaning, and began to seek friendly faces. Those that she had come to know in the course of her travels, that she could rest near and find comfort. After a mere month or two, she came upon a tavern in a northeastern land, catty-corner to a mage's college. A small thing, whose outer fascade looked as though it ought to be a failing business, with oddly loyal regulars and workers whose eyes twinkled.



As she pulled back the hood of her cloak, she looked up in confusion at the person manning the counter. She hesitantly took a step forward, then another, as he quietly counted through the day's till and sorted the tavern's painstakingly written paperwork. She thought she recognized him, but something of an odd aura almost seemed to be blocking his face from her view.


She continued forward slowly, before coming face to face with the man. He smiled at her, and asked, "How are you today, Aphrodite? Come to get something to drink, or a room perhaps?"


The self-mocking drawl of the barkeep jarred her memory into place.


It was Momus! An old friend whose smile and comfort had gotten her through many pains and troubles over the years, though was known for slipping away at strange intervals.


"Momus, you son of a bitch! What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since I met your children five years ago! What in the hell have you been doing with yourself?"


To which he ducked his head and began selfconsciously twisting a chain he wore round his neck. "Uhhh.. makin' another baby. I think I found myself a woman worth marrying this time."


He looked up at her critically, his eyes pausing on her worn and drawn features, her carefully held back multicolored hair, and the outfit she was wearing from the day's work.


"You look as though you have a few stories to tell, yourself. Why don't we sit down for a spell, catch up on old times? We can talk of babies and marriages and how on earth we both wound up here."


So, shaking her head in amusement, Aphrodite walked over to a secluded table in the corner, and pulled out the chairs for them both. For the next hour, she sat and spun tales of her daring do's and the ne'erdowells she had dealt with in the past few years, pausing each time a customer came into view or waved down her friend Momus. When he could, he sat with her and explained much of the same, coming to a point where he shly confessed that he had a new family now, that this job supported.


Aphrodite sighed and looked down at the scarred tabletop she was sitting at, spreading her hands wide as she did so to give her something to focus on. "I'm so jealous of you, Momus."

"I'm growing weary of the latest job I have taken. I am good at it, but I am surrounded by children, and expected to take commands from them. The pay is shit, but I don't want to return to my temple and go the easy way, again. I want.. a job I can actually enjoy. Before I get pissed and bolt again."


Momus looked at her assessingly, then let out a booming laugh that shook the small corner they were seated at. "Well, why didn't you say so, wretched woman? The tavernowner is looking for another set of hands as we speak. I know I'd look forward to seeing an old friend every day."

Aphrodite stilled in her selfconscious smoothing of her breeches, and looked at her friend in hope and near dismay. "You mean it? You would put in a good word for me? Just like that?"


Momus grinned then, ear to ear. "It won't hurt any to have a beautiful waitress bringing in new clients, now, do you think? The tavern owner is gonna love you. Come back tomorrow, in the morn."


And so she did return, with what paperwork she had grudgingly fetched from her various boltholes proving she was who she said she was (under an alternate name, of course). She charmed the tavern owner, and began work within the week, much to the chagrin of her family.

They had wanted for her to come back to Olympus, and stop meddling with human affairs as she did, and take up an occupation 'worth of her standing.' When she informed them of where she wished to begin work, and with who, they flew to alarm, and her brothers and sisters began yelling.

Momus and his friends were a 'bad crowd,' they said.


They would bring nothing but trouble in her future, they said.


She cared not, and threatened not to return to Olympus if they continued their antics.


They backed down, if grudgingly, imposing new tolls on crossing the borders to the heavens, asking new tithes of her followers, and treating her with disdain. She had newly become trash, it seemed.


~


She began work at the tavern, happily. Cleaning, meeting new customers, showing them to their rooms. Bringing food to the more recalcitrant members of the town so that they didn't have to step foot out in public, preferring their isolation. Smiling, gradually, more and more, as the days went on.


One evening, she was returning to work, and spotted a handwritten list tacked to a small board above the area where she would prep the food in the mornings. Odd things written on the list captured her attention, and began to make her laugh, for what seemed to be the first time in a long time.

 -scrub the walls
 -tame the manticore (or hire someone else to do it, we don't give a fuck)
 -stop frightening the townspeople, they are beginning to complain
 -feed the livestock (don't bring that shit home, it'll make you sick!)
 -incinerate the garbage

Barely suppressing giggles, she motioned over the tavern manager from where he was standing nearby, and pointed to the list. "Who in the blessed Hades is that for?"

With a surprised look, he said: "Why, the Mad Rus'. He's been with us ten years now."

After a pause, he asked "Have you truly not met him yet?"

She shook her head with a smile. "I think I'd know him if I met him."

With a wry laugh, the portly man turned to go back to his duties. "That crazy fucker. He's a good man, but shit he brings us a bad reputation. Keeps scaring people on purpose so they won't talk to him, and proudly announcing he works for us when he speeds up on his chariot to someone's home. We've had many a complaint over it, but honestly, it's too funny to truly make him stop."

With this, she began to hope to meet the man, if only to congratulate him on his ill reknown.

~


It took her a few weeks, but Aphrodite eventually got into the swing of things. Occasionally hearing rumors of her family and friends back home, even less frequently returning home to visit them and tell them of her adventures. Each time, they fractionally warmed to her, but made it clear:

So long as she kept employ for tricksters, double dealers, and humans.. she was not welcome to live in Olympus, merely visit.

And so, her visits home began to falter, then miss, then cease almost entirely.


On a night she would have ordinarily clocked out early to visit Hermes at one of his stray temples, she grew fatigued and decided against the journey. 'I'll get the morning's work done early, and sleep extra in the morning. These family feuds are beginning to wear on me.'

The sun had far past set, yet she had no inkling of a desire to return to her small hut.

As her hands began to knead the dough for the morning's rolls, she heard a voice cry out:

"Oi, who in the fuck is still here at this ungodly hour? Paean, if that's you, GO THE FUCK HOME!"


Not looking up from her work, she replied: "Even Paean has gone home. Said to hold down the fort while he was gone, and to lie to the tavern owner if he sends a messenger, to say he is here."


Pausing in her work, she turned her eyes to the figure striding by her and time stood still.


A man, moderate in height and stature. At first glance, barely worth noticing, the type of person your gaze might slip on by without capturing your attention. With a squint, she mentally disabled the illusion that covered his form, much like her own illusion covered hers, and gasped.


A pale man standing at roughly 180cm, with a warrior's undercut, the bangs of which messily falling into his face. Piercing eyes of lit coal staring into hers, his hands nervously readjusting their grip on the messenger's bag as he evaluated her. She got lost in his gaze for a moment, imagining the stillness of fires crackling at a traveller's fire, the heat and comfort of slowly falling asleep before the flames.


A rakish grin spread across his face as she visibly shook the cobwebs from her mind and returned to her work. "Oooh, happy Saturnalia, lovely young woman. Who might you be?"


Smirking, she continued to knead the dough. "Oh, you can call me Di. And who are you?"


Eyebrows raising to waggle, he stuck out his tongue. "Oooooh, you can call me Rus', maid."


With a cackle, she let the sticky substance fall from her hands, turning to look for a stray rag to wipe her hands on, passing by him as she did so. "So you're the Mad Rus', eh? I've heard tales of you."


Eyes opening comically wide, he put a hand to his heart in mock distress. "Me? You've heard stories of me? No, gosh, I can't imagine why. Pray tell, young maid, what have you heard?"


Cackling once more, Di finished wiping her hands and set across the room to place the kneaded dough on a tray. He motioned to let him finish the task as she spoke, so she leaned her form against a nearby counter and eyed him with amusement as he deftly went about his task.


"Oh, whisperings of your devilishly handsome visage. Your extreme speeds in that hellfire chariot of yours. Minor tellings of your silliness and antics. Your rogueish behavior behind closed doors."


With this, his eyes narrowed and he began to look at her analytically, his gaze attempting to break through her illusion as hers had his. He slowed in his motions as he did so, and came to a full stop as he outright stared at her. For this, she didn't blame him. Whereas his 'disguise' merely made him unobtrusive and barely worth notice, hers, well.. did a bit more.


To his eyes, she had first appeared as a bedraggled young wench, her hair barely maintained, slipping from her handkerchief to fall in her face. Her hands stained from work, nails rough. Loosely fitting clothing, lending an air of disregard or slovenliness, as if they might have been picked from a stray bin. Smears of flour dusting her front and brushed across her nose, as if she did not care who saw.


What he did see when he took the time to pierce her illusion brought him to a standstill, and it almost seemed as if he ceased to breathe. Without her disguise, she entirely seemed a different woman. Long, curly midnight blue hair held back by a tight black handkerchief, only small tendrils escaping to frame her face. The clothes that seemed so slovenly before, without the lens of disregard, seemed as if they were loose on purpose to hide.. a very curvy figure. A maid that wanted to escape notice, perhaps? His eyes continued to rake over her to note small objects tucked into folds of cloth, the small of her back, even the outline of a blade making a small outline against the dusk colored fabric.






Mildly distracted, he muttered to himself, "You aren't quite what you appear, are you young one?"

With a wry grin at his obvious dispelling of the illusion, Di stood up straight and shook out her shoulders, coming to splay her hands on the countertop behind her to rest her weight. With a blink, she let loose the illusion and a few others he had not noticed yet, to show her full aura.. for but a moment. In that second, her aura softly glimmered around her like blue fireflies in the twilight, as his aura still shone for her like shadows by the night's fire. With another blink, she shored up her mental defenses and returned in appearance to the unassuming tavern's wench she had begun as.

She giggled at his dumbfounded look, and acted as oblivious as she could, engaging him in light chatter about the tavern's patrons, woes, and worries. After they accomplished thenext morning's work, distracted by their conversation, she gently handed him the keys to the establishment, did a light curtsy, and began to walk away. Calling over her shoulder, "Lock up tight, now. Paean will murder me otherwise, there've been thieves prowling about lately, and the safe isn't that well hidden."



Softly shutting the door behind her, the woman left for the night, leaving the man to his musings. He handled the closing up of the tavern for the night, shooing away what drunken visitors had slumped in their chairs in the common area. All the while, looking back over his shoulder at where the woman had stood. Contemplating who she might be, and why she seemed so familiar..


~





Every meeting thereafter, the Rus' began to pick and play with Di, attempting to bait her into revealing more information about herself. Occasionally succeeding. All the while, his eyes would bore into her in a calculated gaze, as a mountain cat might a rabbit hopping along a nearby tableau.



Over time, they grew close. Began to create excuses to spend time in each other's company, separately requesting of the tavern manager to share the same work hours when they could. Sometimes, one would accompany the other on deliveries to nearby towns, citing boredom as their reason to anyone who dared question what they were doing. Most did not, and backed off after merely asking once. Paean, to his credit, quietly told them both only one would be paid per delivery.

Neither cared. They came to stand near each other frequently while cutting vegetables, cleaning, even chatting with other people. It was as if they were slowly drawn to each other, almost without realizing. Such was their life for months, happily reveling in each others' friendship.



Eventually, Aphrodite passed a scrap of paper into Ares' hand as she walked by him one day, a coy smile thrown at him at a moment's notice as she passed through the rear door to the building.


In minor confusion, Ares looked down at the paper to erupt into laughter.

For, written on its surface, were the coordinates to her true home, and the encrypted runes to the spell to summon her to his side. At some point, the barmaid had figured out his identity, and never once called him on the fact that he was just as much a god as she was a goddess.

Rushing through the door after her, he found only cricket's singing nighttime's quiet melody.

She was nowhere to be found.

Glancing down at the paper, he chuckled to himself and walked over to his chariot to ride home.

~

And so, their free time gradually began to be spent in each other's company as well. Typically the hours would fly by as they listened to music bespelled to play from the walls, told old stories carefully edited to keep from revealing the most sensitive of information, and without a discussion to the contrary began to sleep at each other's side several nights a month. Never breaking down to the point of physically having intercourse, occasionally sleepily pawing at each other. A kiss here, there.


For a time, they were utterly happy in their denial of what was going on. When asked about the other, both would laugh and wave it off. 'They're merely a friend.' Yet.. it slowly became clear otherwise.