MintiLime

  The fire burns as the chicken heads wrapped in white linen smolder on a neatly stacked pile of firewood.

  “Divine Puppets are the creations that can serve as our muscle, our power. Every faction has some concrete power to help them in this world, be it money or fighters.”

  Tendrils of smoke are carried as whisps on the wind, flitting and floating with the smell of death.

  “We have nothing but the blessing of Spirits and the commands of Dieties. This gives us advantages in communication, foresight, the occasional upset in a battle.”

  The rusty perfume of corpses wafts through the open window into Vaza’s office. Vaza nearly chokes on his tea, muttering something to himself about hot manure, but still brushes off the strange odor.

  “Our power relies on carrying out the orders of beings stronger than us. Our abilities trickle down, growing weaker and weaker as they spread between more people.”

  Magpie’s nostrils fre as he breathes the fresh scent of death and ash in with a smile, continuing his pitch with renewed vigor.

  “Humans are too weak to contain the full power of the Almighty Beings in an unadulterated form. Yet, we are too few to gain that strength back in numbers.”

  He pces his hands on the desk, towering over the seated Vaza.

  “I propose that we craft vessels for the Spirits and Deities to inhabit unrestrained by the limits of humanity.”

  Across Vaza’s antique of marble, gold, and oak lies strange diagrams of wooden dolls and mud statues.

  “This endeavor seems… unnecessarily complicated and dangerous.”

  Vaza makes a sound point. Some may argue that he makes an obvious one. However, Perfidence’s penny novel heroes have been known to follow through worse pns in better situations.

  Magpie’s glib tongue works its magic, weaving tales of Spirits of Mercy and Kindness and Forgiveness that could heal the souls of the masses. He speaks of the Deity of Victory paving the way to Peace without War. No spider’s web could be as quickly woven nor so full of holes.

  And just like that eight-legged trickster’s home and trap, Magpie’s tale wraps around Vaza. It sticks to his body and mind, muffling his ears to the sounds of Scamp’s crying, of Afia’s pulsing anxiety, of his own heart’s warning.

  And so Vaza gives in.

  For better or worse, but most certainly worse, Vaza gives in to Magpie.

  “You can try your best to make these things from sticks and stones and mud, just promise me that you will not harm any living creatures in the process.”

  One hundred reflected Vazas bow their heads in tired resignation. One hundred reflected Magpies conceal a mocking grin. One hundred real people live their st day upon this earth.

  Harm no living creatures, what a joke! The Goddess of Death thrives off the concept of this eternal stronger, and Her faithful sve grows more powerful alongside her.

  “I will cause no harm to the people of the world more so than would have occurred without my doing.” Magpie promises with feigned gravity.

  Death will come for us all in the end. Bringing it sooner is a mercy in itself, for the now demands of life will no longer burden body alongside a weak, meandering mind. With death comes the only true peace upon this earth!

  ?? Warning! Transphobia, Misogyny, Sexualization! Warning! ??

  ?? No, Seriously, I felt disgusting writing this. Trigger warnings galore. ??

  Spoiler After all, look at Vaza. No, look at Varnika. The body was good but the mind? So weak, so stupid.

  She must have thought herself so smart. She’ll be a man and become powerful and everyone in that little backwards vilge will see her for who she is. Bh, bh, bh.

  How stupid and useless. It was nice when she would cry on his shoulder, pressing her warm, soft body up against his, so long as he blocked out the whining and compining.

  She was given such a gift at her birth. She should have shared it with the world! If she didn’t want it for herself, she should have used to please others. She should have gotten down on her knees and groveled like a dog before him.

  To imagine giving up the natural, seductive body for some fake, ugly thing. She wanted to be a man? Please, look at her. She doesn’t have muscles or a hard, square face, or anything you’d want in a real man. Not even the Goddess of Victory could give her that!

  She should have wished for a man’s touch instead. Was that it? Nobody embraced her so she had to become what she couldn’t get? He would have gdly obliged and shown her why she would keep that naturally sultry and licentious body. The only thing she still has now is that corn gold hair, and even that’s cut too short to grasp when pleasuring— Not that anyone would want to use her for pleasure now.

  That’s fine though. When the Goddess of Victory falls, Vaza will be dead and Varnika will be back. Oh, and how broken she will be.

  He can’t wait to see her grovel like a dog. And he’ll make her like it.

  [colpse]Magpie saunters out of the office, mind already miles away. He can see his victory now. Nobody will look down on him. He will be the Harbinger of Death. He will rule over the undead, the homunculi, the Divine Puppets.

  He will py that pathetic Holy Imanjar Silnarion for all they are worth and then throw them away.

  Now that childhood friend of his, he will have to keep them around. He will definitely have fun with them.