Just after dawn, Nastaya walked up the hill outside Mirosk, where she'd been told the cottage of an old man named Fyodor could be found. Fyodor, people said, could give you answers to questions that no one else could, though he was not a scholar, nor a priest, nor a man of learning. Fyodor of Mirosk was an just an old fool.

But he was no ordinary old fool.

Fyodor was a holy fool, and Nastaya knew that people came from miles around to seek out his foolishness, which was of a particularly blessed variety. Of course, many also said that he was only a common fool, and that folks simply read their own meaning into his ramblings. But Nastaya had nowhere else to turn.

Not long ago her parents had perished in a fire that consumed their home and all that they'd owned, leaving her alone in the world. She was bereft, but beyond that she also had no prospects, no dowry, and scarcely a penny to her name.

Nastaya's was without a home, her heart was broken, and she did not know what to do. In her desperation, she was willing to see if perhaps this holy fool did know.

She crested the hill and came upon the cottage, a humble little house of thatch and stone. On low stone wall that ran about the small house, a young man sat, whittling a piece of wood with a knife.

That was not old Fyodor, she was certain, for he was ancient by all accounts. It was doubtless one of the caretakers who looked after the old man. The lad looked up from his whittling, and gave her a curt nod, but he said nothing, and went back to his quiet work. That was the way of things, she'd been told -- you did not speak, at the old fool's cottage. You waited for him to speak to you.

And wait she did for quite some time, standing before the old cottage, until her legs were wobbly from standing so long. She feared to move, or to sit like the young man, terrified that in doing she would break some taboo she hadn't been warned about, and offend Fyodor -- perhaps even offend God Himself, from whence the man's foolish wisdom was said to flow.

The sun was high in the sky, before Fyodor finally emerged from his cottage. The rumors had not lied -- the stooped old man looked as ancient as the Earth, with wrinkles like deep canyons across his gaunt face, and a wispy white beard that hung down to his waist. He hobbled out onto the green around his house with the aid of a gnarled oak branch, moving slowly and with great care.

Nastaya hardly dared to breathe, as she waited for him to speak. But to her dismay, he seemed not to notice her.

He puttered around on his little patch of lawn, humming softly to himself. He paused to regard a red tuft-eared squirrel in a tree,

"Invest wisely, young man -- wisely, now!" he admonished the little beast.

He then hobbled over to another tree, to poke with his stick at a cluster of toadstools among its roots.

"Good, good. Just like that! Keep up the good work," said to the mushrooms, approvingly.

Nastaya's heart began to sink as she watched this display, listening with growing trepidation to the old man's meaningless one-sided conversation with beasts, birds, and plants. A part of her began to see how desperate people might make too much of a poor old man in his dotage, who was only giving voice to half-faded memories as his wits were failing him.

Her hope returned somewhat, when suddenly he turned to her.

"Sorry!" the old man said, looking suddenly abashed, and hobbling quickly toward her.

She almost said it was alright, that she hadn't minded the long wait, but then she remembered the injunction she'd been given not to speak. Regardless, she soon discovered that had not been why he'd apologized.

He gestured with his branch to the ground at her feet, where a small clump of flowers grew. "I'm sorry about those, young lady. There was no other way to go about it, you see."

Nastaya blinked in bewilderment.

"It's the way of the world, I'm afraid." he said, shaking his head sadly. "I'd love to grow flowers from honey, truly, but it just won't happen, not this side of heaven, my dear. I had to use other things, foul things, to be sure. Ashes, and bones, and foul night soil -- all sorts of awfulness."

Then he stepped close to her, eyes suddenly wide and pleading. "But...but they are lovely aren't they? Aren't they?"

Not knowing what else to do, she nodded, and Fyodor smiled at her, seeming relieved. Then he blinked stupidly, and gave his head a shake. He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time, and he frowned.

"What?" he said, suddenly fixing her with a disapproving frown. "Young woman! This is unseemly, very unseemly! Your husband in the churchyard is beside himself!"

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, remembering the rules. She didn't understand. She had no husband -- she had no one at all.

Fyodor shook his branch at her vigorously, and continued his admonition. "Have you no care for your reputation, woman? For mine? Imagine, wandering about outside a handsome bachelor's cottage, when your own husband has need of you! Be gone!"

She danced back with a surprised squeak, avoiding a clumsy swing of Fyodor's branch. She looked at the young man seated on the wall, wide-eyed, but he only jerked his head toward the path down the hill, and then went back to his whittling.

Head bowed, she retreated, and trudged back down the hill. It seemed the people who said Fyodor was only a mad old man had been right. She supposed she did not blame him -- not really. He had surely not asked for his mind to fail him in his old age, and probably had no idea what he was doing, or why all these people were visiting him. But her heart, already leaden with grief, was now heavier still, her last faint hope expended on a fool's errand.

But then, as she passed, the old village church, she heard a sound.

It was a sound she knew too well, so familiar to her that she touched her throat, half-expecting to find that it was her own voice crying out. That sound had emerged from her lips and rung in her ears long into the night for many days, now. It was the sound of inconsolable sorrow, of utterly desolate grief.

Hesitantly, she followed it.

There, in the graveyard behind the old church, she found its source. A young man dressed in black, beside a fresh grave adorned with flowers. She could see there had lately been a funeral there, but when all others had departed, this man had stayed. Whoever had been with him could not tear him away from the graveside, and had finally left him alone with his grief.

As if in a trance, Nastaya walked to him then, slowly and haltingly, as though while dragging the weight of her own sorrow, a portion of this lone mourner's grief had begun to descend on her shoulders as well, until it almost drove her into the ground with its weight. And yet, she bore it, because when it had been her, wailing by the ashes of her parents' home, she had borne all that sorrow alone. She could not let this stranger do the same.

At last Nastaya reached the stranger, and quietly knelt by his side. Silently sobbing as he mourned aloud, she bravely bore his pain. In the days to come, he would bear hers as well, and by bearing each other's suffering they at last would emerge together from night into day once again. And just as they had shared each other's suffering, they would also thereafter share each other's joy, and love, and finally peace, until the very end of their days.

Far above them, on the hilltop, Fyodor smiled.

Humans are space orcs prompt 438482

Alright, buckle up, kiddos!

Onboard a derelict freighter in a hexagonal corridor, the wall lights begin to flicker on one by one as the camera slowly moves toward a sealed bulkhead. The hull creaks every so often due to years of neglect. The camera passes through a cracked window on the bulkhead door and into a medical bay, where it begins to orbit around an array of cryo-pods in the center of the room. One of the pods has a metal beam jutting through the window and a red holo screen displaying "ERROR! POD BREACH DETECTED!", while each of the remaining pods has a blue holo screen with a progress bar slowly filling up.

Here, the party wakes up disoriented from extended cryosleep with no memory of how they came to be onboard the ship. From here on, the party will explore the ship and restore its systems until they arrive at the bridge, where they discover four pieces of information. First, the ship's navigational data has been corrupted, preventing them from plotting a course out of the system. Second, they are in a debris field orbiting a planet that registers as habitable to the ship's sensors. Third, in place of a star, the planet orbits a gravitational anomaly that doesn't match any known signature. Fourth, also in the debris field, is a crippled Eoxian ship of an unknown type split in two and is slowly repairing itself from the debris.

The working title is "The Ghoststar's Requiem."

[removed]

i thought the evil was greed or something, but no, dysentery XD

DAMN but I do love good secret test of character

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Phyria trudged along the mountain path. Her walking stick splintered more and more with each step. The bottom had started breaking about halfway up the rocky terrain. She thought about how few people had to make it this far for the path to be so wild. Phyria heard thunderous hoofbeats behind her.

A group of warrior men rode up the road on their horses. They looked forward with steadfast gazes and determination. It was like they didn't see more than the destination.

Phyria ducked into the ditch next to the road. The men raced right past her. She was right. They would have run right into her to get what they wanted. They were after the same prize as Phyria, but for completely different reasons.

She thought about her younger sister, Daphne. Daphne was all of 17 years. She had a long life ahead of her, or at least she did. An unscrupulous man with ill intentions paid for a curse upon her when Daphne rejected his affections. He did not deserve her. His crude comments alone proved that. Phyria regretted failing to teach him a lesson that day. Now, Daphne had days to live unless the seers gave a remedy.

A cough came from a bush behind Phyria. She slowly approached the bush and pulled back the branches with caution.

An elderly woman lied on the ground in front of her.

"Oh, dear me. I didn't mean to disturb you," the old woman said.

"No, no. I'm glad I stopped. How long have you been here?"

"Oh, I don't know. A few hours. I felt weak and had to stop for a rest."

"Are you looking for the seers, too?"

"Yes. I want to know that my daughter and her children have a long happy life. She is my everything."

Phyria held out her hand.

"Well, this place is not very kind. How about we stick together."

The old woman took Pnyria's hand.

"I would enjoy that."

The two walked farther up the mountain.

​

Phyria and the old woman approached the top of the mountain. The warriors from earlier sat at the summit. The anger emanating off of them was palpable.

"Let me handle this," Phyria said.

She walked to the most decorated warrior of the group.

"Did you find the seer?"

"There is no seer. Look," The man said.

He pointed to an engraving on a stone.

Seek the truth through kindness. Seal your doom with blindness.

Phyria felt her heart fall out of her body. She had come so far for nothing. She turned back to the woman.

"What is it, dare?" She asked Phyria.

"There's nothing here. I need to get back to my sister now."

"Oh, no. I'm sorry you came all this way."

Phyria closed her eyes and shook her head. "I won't dwell on what could have been."

"Oh, Phyria, when you get back to Daphne, give her some cillianberries and lion's root in some warmed wine. It does wonders for an ailing body."

Phyria furrowed her forehead in surprise.

"How did you know her name?"

She opened her eyes and the old woman was gone. Phyria started to run back down the path.

The old man had his eyes closed. To me, who slept with one eye open, it looked like madness.

"Hey."

His green eyes stared into my soul.

"Food... Medicine." My world turned upside down and darkness took over.

When I woke up, my arm was wrapped up. The old man sat by my side.

"Welcome back."

Trying to be discrete, I groped around for Otis.

"Looking for your knife? I've put it away. It had many shades of red on it."

"Give it back to me."

"We don't allow weapons here."

"We?"

"About 120 people here."

"What are you guys? Some sort of a religious cult? Newsflash, God's dead."

He smiled.

A bunch of huts around a clearing. There stood a clay figurine with its face was covered.

He smiled mischievously. "Prayer time. It's safe here till you are healed."

The people gathered and went up to the figurine in pairs. They raised the cloth covering the face, looked at it, hugged their partner and went back. From this angle, I couldn't see the face.

I also noticed a few kids and old people. Maybe this place was safe after all.

I gathered my things.

"Come see our god before leaving."

"No need."

"Humour me. I saved your life."

"For a while. The world can't afford to leave us alive."

But I followed him.

He held my hand. We walked up to the figurine, and took off the veil.

I saw two faces. Mine, haggard and scarred. His, scarred but smiling.

"The world didn't end when the bombs fell. The world ended when humans decided that it was survival of the fittest. You called us a religious cult. We don't worship gods. We worship humans. If we can be human again, we can rebuild the world. All of us together."

Word Count - 300

[removed]

If only we had realized the danger sooner.

We are immortal. We do not fear that which humans fear. The poisons that harm our prey do not harm us, and the diseases they carry cannot infect us.

This 'climate change'? Ha. What was that to us? In the worst case scenario, the oceans rise for a while, and at most one in ten prey die off -- we live thousands of years, and only ever number in the tens of thousands, while our short-lived prey reproduce like rabbits, and are counted in the billions.

Even "disasters" like Fukushima were of little note to us -- the only radiation that harms us is that of the sun. Were they to bomb themselves back to the stone age with their nuclear arsenals, there are still so many of them that there would almost certainly still be enough to maintain a viable herd. Their lives might be short and miserable for a long age, while the fallout faded, they might be wracked with chronic diseases and mutations, but what did that matter? They are kine, cattle! We do not care for their comfort.

Those who thought they could taste a range of subtle flavors, who swore that they preferred the blood of contented, healthy prey were as deluded as those prey who obsess over the supposed qualities of wine. Blood is blood!

Or so I thought.

It began when a few of the children of my nest began to grow...ungainly. Slower. Their strength had not diminished, and of course we do not age or become diseased, but they could no longer move as they once did. It was...perplexing. The arcane mysteries of our unlife, of the dark and subtle thaumaturgy that allows us to defy death, had no explanation for how this could be so.

Desperate, I turned to mortal science, bringing some of their brightest minds under my thrall. They examined our flesh and blood with the instruments of their craft...and found the source of our malady.

Plastic. It was plastic.

We do not conform to laws of mortal biology. We do not "digest" or "metabolize." But we are subject to a more fundamental law of nature, that holds true in both the arcane and mundane realms: that which you consume becomes part of you.

The mortal doctors tell me that contamination in the food chain becomes more concentrated, the higher you go up the chain. It is why even the prey must take care when consuming predatory fish, who have accumulated the most mercury in their bodies by eating other fish. But we are at the very top of the food chain, for we feed on the creatures that feed on everything else.

Slowly, over time, microplastic contamination had built up in our prey. It could not poison us, we are beyond that, but it could make us become it.

I have brought more mortals than ever under my thrall, compelling them to campaign against this contamination on my behalf, straining the limits of my powers to control so many at once.

And yet, more than half of my brood lie helpless and inert in their coffins, more lifeless plastic than undead flesh. The rest help me gather blood from remote places to feed the ones who cannot move, blood from more primitive prey. We hope it will be untainted -- or at least less tainted -- and that it will reverse the transformation, given enough time.

So far it has not.

And despite the care we now take in where we obtain blood, my still-moving children are still slowly changing. They are becoming something neither dead nor undead, something less than either: they are becoming non-living. Like a stone. Like plastic.

I fight to save them. I drive and scourge and browbeat my thralls to work faster and work harder to find a solution, to stop this contamination -- to use that damnable boundless cunning of theirs to find a way to reverse it! But it is growing harder.

And I am growing slower.

Classic Loki.

Gotta stop the tourists coming up your mountain somehow, right? :D

Glad you enjoyed it. And thanks for leaving a comment. Means a lot!

I love that the ingredients are meaningless, and how much you foreshadowed that.

Also, the implication that stopping to rest is actually a secret test of character

Debris

Occasionally, some disgruntled local would chuck a piece of masonry or rebar over the wall into the green zone. Most of the blocks to the north were bombed out. Endless debris. We started issuing helmets to the civilian contractors after one got clobbered by half a brick while he was out jogging too close to the shit.

In time, I found out that Eleni carved little figurines out of those chunks. She wanted to make one for me. Why? I didn’t want one, but I didn’t say no. At that point we had three, maybe four translators left inside the walls. She was the best of them, and I didn’t want to piss her off.

When I met her, she was shouting over the engine noise of this rust bucket Toyota that had pulled up to the north checkpoint. Calm, because if you panic at someone they’re usually going to panic right back. She was shouting without panicking, telling the man to put his vehicle in reverse and return to the main road or those soldiers in the towers were going to shoot him.

Any rev of his engine, sudden acceleration in either direction, boom, done. We would have shot him. He didn’t, though. She got through to him. He put it in reverse and idled away.

She carved a Saracen warrior for me with a sharp little beard and a scimitar sword on his belt. I still didn’t want it, but it was for me.

Me, who doesn’t think about the 30mm round I shot through another Toyota at another checkpoint. Me, who doesn’t think about the one that exploded in the courtyard.

Me, who thinks about that damn figurine, and all the other ones she made, and what became of them after the end.

The young man walked into the cave, hunched over and panting, sweat dripping from his forehead. Pyira looked at him and tutted. He must've done the whole climb in one go. The eager ones always do. Think they're too good to take a break at that campsite halfway up the mountain, 'only the weak and feeble need to pay some peasant for a tent for the night' they say to themselves as they march on by before collapsing of exhaustion two hours later.

The other seers saw him too.

Pyira sighed. "I got him."

She got up and walked towards the mouth of the cave, feeling the heat of the summer sun creep in through the entrance. Who the heck wants to climb a mountain in this heat?

The young man tried to catch his breath before sinking to one knee and bowing his head. "Prophet. I have completed your trial. I have climbed the mountain of Yawaog, traveled across the country to pick the herbs you demanded, and collected the blood of a pure-bred shark." They always added the pure-bred bit themselves, Pyira thought. What would a non-pure-bred shark even look like?

The man stood up and began walking towards her. "Ever since I was born, I've known I had a magnificent destiny. My family had ruled our town for many generations, we have used the man of our village to fight off countless invaders and cement our power. However, I know I have more to do. My father told me I have a greatness inside of me. Tell me. What is my destiny?"

Now he was closer Pyira could smell the sweat dripping from his skin. It soaked his clothes, polluting the cave with a foul odor. Her face instinctively squirmed, and she fought against the impulse. "Come, place the objects on the ground."

Nervously, the man opened his pack and took out the objects. He placed each one down with care, as though putting a child to sleep. Between each herb he looked up at Pyira, checking if the objects were in the right place. She nodded confirmation, wishing he'd hurry up and leave the cave quicker. Finally, he took out a small vial of blood and placed it by the herbs.

"Well done, traveler." Pyira said nodding, breathing through her mouth. "Now, do you have your donation?"

"Y- yes." The young man reached into his pocket and took out some coins, and reached out his hand.

She placed her hand beneath his and the coins dropped into her palm. As the copper hit, the visions came. Her head shot back, her eyes rolling into her head, as she saw every moment in the young man's history. His joy at his first horse, the time he and his brothers ransacked that neighboring village, the promises his dad made of his coming glory. And then she saw the future. What the young man wanted to know.

Pyira lowered her head.

"Did you see it?" the man said, standing. "What did you see? What is my destiny?"

Pyira thought for a moment, forming the sentences in her mind. "There is a great evil in this world, one that attacks people's souls, and turns their blood brown. This evil will come for you too. You will be a warrior against this evil."

The man nodded along, waiting for the next part. However, Pyira was silent. He waited for awkward second upon awkward second, his eyes nervously looking at the cave around him, trying to work out how to release the next part of the prophecy. "That's it?" he eventually blurted out.

"Yes."

"What evil?" the man asked.

"One not of human form."

"A dragon? A ghost?"

"The prophecy is what it is," Pyira said, waving her arm through the air with pretend symbolism.

"But. There must be more? Can you not tell me any more?"

"The prophecy is what it is." The same arm motion.

"Can you at least tell me when I have to face this foe?"

"Sooner than you may think," Pyira nodded.

"Soon?!" The man checked his sword was still by his side. "I will face this foe, I will defeat it and rid the world of this evil. What can I do to prepare?"

"The prophecy is what it is."

"But you saw my whole future. My destiny. Tell me what it is." There was a degree of anger in his voice that irritated Pyira.

"The prophecy is what it is."

"Come on. I climbed this whole mountain and now I have to rid the world of evil and you won't give me anything useful."

Pyira was growing weary with his moaning. "You must go now. The winds are changing." They are changing, Pyira thought, blowing more of your stink inside. "Your destiny awaits. Go. Onward to your destiny."

"But I need more information-"

"Quick. If you wait your destiny cannot be fulfilled. You must go."

That seemed to trigger something in the young man. His back shot upright, and he quickly grabbed his pack. "Yes. You're right. Thank you. Thank you."

Pyira stood with her hands clasped in front of her as the young man gathered himself and headed for the cave entrance.

She watched him leave and let out a long sigh, her body slumping, her stomach paunching out with the release of tension. The annoyance over, she turned back to the other seers in the back of the cave. "I dealt with the idiot, someone else can clean up that mess." She waved a hand over to the pile of herbs.

"We should add something," one of the others said. "Maybe the egg of an eagle and the claw of a lion? That sounds mystical but hard to get."

"Can we not just ask them to bring us a dog?" a younger seer whispered.

"No. No pets," an older woman barked. "Not again." She shook her head.

Pyira reached the group and took a seat around the fire.

"So what was his dessss-tiinnnnn-yyyyy" a woman chuckled. "He off to greatness?"

"He catches dysentery on the walk back down the mountain," Pyira said, placing the coins in a box. "Dies in a week."

More words at r/ArchipelagoFictions

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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C smiles over the desk at F, “You’ve done your homework?”

F nods, “I have. I understand all the changes I want to make.”

“And you remembered not to make your changes too different from your current self?”

F nods again, “I have. I’ve thought long and hard about this.”

C smiles again, “So has everyone we’ve invited to use it. You’ve seen the video footage, and we’ve done our background checks. There’s just one more thing.”

F nods desperately, “What is it?”

“You need to sign this contract stating that you will never reveal how you got your changes. We will provide you with documents proving you went to a surgeon in Taiwan.”

F nods, and holds out their hand for a pen. They don’t even read the contract before they sign. C sighs and shakes their head, even if they did, they’d still sign. Standing up, C leads F to a room covered in mirrors, except for one floor tile that has the edge of a glowing red rock protruding from it.

C looks at F, “Strip, and put your foot on the rock there. It’s easier to see what you’re doing that way. You’ll have one hour to make your changes. In 90 days time, we’ll give you the opportunity to make further changes. Do you understand?”

F nods, and starts stripping before C has even turned away. C can’t help but see the Caucasian skin as they hurry back to the desk. So many of them are like this. So eager to get out of their own bodies that they forget why they have anonymity procedures in place. Not that it actually protects them from C if they wanted to know. But at least C has set it up so they have to check first.

Turning back to their desk, C opens their laptop and starts looking through the transgender, intersex, and body dysmorphia groups looking for those desperate enough to take a gamble.

It’s nearly an hour later when F comes out of the room on their own, and C closes their laptop before banging their head against the desk.

“F, the requirement to looks similar to your previous self were put in there for your protection, not ours.”

C pretends not to notice as F slides some of her red hair under the head mask, “I know, and I did. But I…”

C nods, “I understand, I really do. At least you’ve kept things in the realm of human variation. Unlike the notable man, who went from five foot nothing to six foot four, and over 18 inches.”

F nods, “I remember that on TV, he was sent to a mental hospital.”

C nods again, “Yes, we were unable to provide his follow-up appointment. If you wish, for an extra £15,000 we can arrange for your hospital visit to be extended until your follow-up, and provide you with a temporary identity in another country.”

F looks down, “What if I wanted to stay like this, or didn’t want to go back.”

C’s heart sinks, but they say compassionately, “If that’s the case, we can offer you a trans-dimensional move to a new life. There you will be contracted to work for our organisation for 10 earth years, and you will be trained in the use of magic and any other skills you need. If you prove yourself, you may even be assigned to help other people like you.”

F nods, “I’ll take it. I never want to go back to there.”

C nods, and indicates the door behind F, “If you go through there, T will guide you through the forms and contracts you need to sign.”

As F leaves the room, C sighs and takes off her own head mask. Standing up, she makes her way over to an unassuming tile on the wall and traces a glyph. Smoothly, a section of floor falls away into a staircase that she walks down before reaching behind the stairs and flicking a switch on the underside of the floor she was just on. Making her way along a short corridor, past the laser tripwires she just turned off.

Reaching the room below the changing room, she removes a glove and carefully pricks her finger to allow 2 drops of blood to fall on the large glyph on the floor. Then she walks over to the large pillar and disengages the mechanism that’s not just holding it up, but also triggers the explosives built into the floor of the room above. As the pillar lowers into the floor, she looks at the glowing red rock that took her 1,000 years to create. Picking it up, she briefly shifts so that her chest opens up, before placing the rock back into it’s proper place as her heart.

As she makes her way back up the stairs, her form flows as her skin takes on a reddish tone, and her hair turns black. Wings grow from her back, along with a thin tail. After closing the floor she creates a glowing red portal, before turning back to the room, “Only two years, 47 days, and 15 hours to go. At least time passes faster here.”

It wasn’t until a millennia that Trogos truly understood his folly.

Trogos was always the mischievous one: a prank here, a trick there, and suddenly some God is out of a favoured possession (or into a humiliating position, preferably both).

But Gods are patient. And they have time eternal.

So it came to pass that they figured out how to deal with Trogos. And the best way was to completely ignore him. After all, you can’t be humiliated by someone you never interact with, right?

Trogos took it about as well as a hive of live wasps in his bread. His whole existence revolved around mischief, and without mischief he started to fade.

In desperation (and a little bit of anger), he created the ultimate prank: He gave away parts of his power to seven misfits, seven human beings who were crazy even by human standards.

This was epic madness even by Trogos standards. Sure to drive all the Gods nuts and make them finally acknowledge Trogos again.

But for a while nothing happened.

Curious, Trogos peeped into the world of the mortals again.

The first human, used his power to bring fire and civilisation to humans. These pathetic creatures could now form city and city states. He died in the process, and his story was told as a cautionary tale.

The second brought maths and science to the humans, and the human civilisation grew by leaps and bounds.

The third created arts and philosophy, and humans became worshipers of beauty, patrons of the abstract.

The fourth used his power to become the immortal empire, the ruler of all human subjects.

The fifth used his power to overthrow and imprison the fourth, with help from second and third. Unfortunately they spent most of their energy in the effort, and died shortly afterwards.

The sixth taught empathy, and medicine, to the subjects of the broken empire, and the humans were back to becoming altruistic.

But the seventh….

The seventh turned out to be deadliest of all. He further distributed his power to his kin, and their clan has slaughtered all the Gods except Trogos. They did this in order to become the new Gods.

Even now, Trogos knows that he is being hunted. The father of the seventh, ancient and brainwashed, imbibed with what originally was Trogos’ power, now hunts Trogos himself. He truly believes that he is a God, lord of the hunt, the Allfather.

And the seventh appears from time to time to Trogos, only to taunt and remind him that Trogos’ time is at an end, and disappear.

And Trogos shivers, and feels cold as his immortality and Godhood slowly leave him. He can already feel the humans forget him, forget that a trickster God name Trogos ever existed.

They only remember the Seventh and his clan now. They believe that the seventh and his clan has always existed.

They worship the Seventh as the only trickster God to have ever existed. Loki.

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Astronaut I am, floating in the endless void. Just as my breath is meant to end, a nice curvy lady appears. She welcomes me to the after & moves me back into a new womb. But before I leave, I ask if gods real. A yes I hear, anger boils inside my skull. If he’s alive, why did he make humanity so evil? Why are we suffering? Is it just a game? A play? The lady responds “He would if he could. But currently he’s occupied with the star.” “The stars?” “The stars.” I learn of the true origins of our cosmos. A blinding creature was sent from another, made to rip & tear. But god captured the pest. He severed its illuminating body bit by bit into our stars. If god even let’s one star break away from his might wrath, all will be consumed. For the time being, god will hold these stars together & let them die out, killing the pest.

Obligatory alt account since I don’t want my family to find out about my main.

Hey Reddit, I’ve got into a bit of a situation and I could use some outside perspective. Basically, my rich brother recently died, and instead of his inheritance transferring to me it was given to his little crotch goblin. The reason? Apparently the kid’s more “fitting” then I am, and is “gifted”.

(For the record, I’ve seen how the kid acts, the only gift he has is finding chocolate no matter how well it’s hidden.)

So I took action, consulted my lawyer and friends (who agrees with me) and took what was rightfully mine. Don’t worry, I didn’t harm him, but he won’t stop crying.

For some reason, the mother is saying I’m a monster for doing this. And for even more bizarre reasons, the whole family is taking her side. But I probably did the crotch goblin a favor, he’s not going to have to worry about adult responsibilities for a long time…

So help me out here Reddit, AITA?

It has been 20 years since the Monkey King imbued the seven with his powers, as time passed, the power has warped their minds and caused them to crave more power. The Seven have amassed massive armies and became warlords. Now, the 7 are united in their quest for more power and are planning an attack on the gods of man.

As the Jade Emperor and The All-Father meet to unit forces to help stem the tide of chaos, The Monkey King stands in chains on the Bifrost looking down at the chaos he created he lets out a laugh, “I will get a rise out of the gods this day.” As the Army of Asgard, led by Thor, meets the The Army of Heavenly Light on the battlefield in the Human realm, Odin and Yudi are discussing strategy to stem the end of times. “Yudi, How could this happen? This will surely bring Ragnarok upon us!” “Alas I have been to lenient with Sun Wukong. He has finally gone too far. I never expected that it would come to this. Once he became the disciple of Tang Sanzang I expected that he would become more regal, and I would finally be able to welcome him back to the Celestial Palace.” Exclaims Yudi with a fatherly disappointment in his expression and tone. “I know the story of Your battle with Sun Wukong, I too have a son that is a Trickster. Although I am surprised to find that this was not the doing of Loki,” states Odin as he puts a hand on Yudi’s shoulder.” We will figure this out, my friend.”

 Loki, not to be out done, sneaks past the guards to get to the Monkey King. The Monkey King, able to see through Loki’s trick, starts talking to Loki. The guards on watch assume he is up to a trick and pay The Monkey King no heed.” I am here to free you so we can have some fun,” states Loki. Laughing the Monkey King asks” What is your plan to get us out of here?" “Oh, you’ll see,” in a flash, Loki takes out the Asgardian and Heavenly Light Guards, snaps his fingers and the Shackles restraining the Monkey King disappear as if they were never there. “I see that they used dwarven steel to restrain you. No wonder you couldn’t free yourself.” Giggling the Monkey King replies,” Not a lot of dwarves in our realm. I am Sun Wukong, The Monkey King” he states as he gives Loki a comical bow. “Loki, Son of Laufey, and Blood Brother with His Mightiness Odin.” Loki states, returning the same comical bow. As the two tricksters smile at each other, Loki asks,” Are you ready to make some mischief?” The Monkey King nods and giggles as they are transported to the human realm to cause Chaos. Unknown to the Monkey King, Loki plans to bring about Ragnarok to finally end Odin’s Reign over Asgard, pinning the crime on Sun Wukong.

You wrote it perfectly. I was just playing on the notion that your reply could have been to either sentence.

Mister Bin Man

If you're assigned to the goblin enclave in New Vulpa, you either deserved it or your superior hated you.

As Damien could attest, he was victim to the latter.

He grumbled to himself, idly rapping his fingers on the wheel of his sputtering old garbage truck. It rattled and shook as it drove across the potholes of the neglected streets. It was dismal, especially since the draft was whisking away good people.

The truck coughed and groaned as it came to a stop beside a worn down bakery. 'The Rye Idea'. The name made him snicker.

Damien clambered out from his truck, sighing as he approached the alley aside the run down bakery. The smell was foul. The grimy, dented trash cans were loaded into the back of his truck, rattling around like bowling pins. Yeah, maybe some bowling later might be good-

A tap came upon his thigh. He looked down, finding a green little girl.

'Umm, mister bin man... I think I lost something in one of the bins.'

"Oh?" he scratched his head. "Sure, I could check for you."

He pulled one of the bins down and rattled through the dirty metal can, soon pulling out a crude figurine of wood, painted green.

"What's this?" he asked, showing it to her,

'Woah! Thank you, mister bin man, that's it!' she exclaimed, a sparkle in her eyes. 'My older brother gave it to me when he went away, I didn't want to lose it.' Damien couldn't help but smile, seeing her so joyed.

The owner of the bakery burst from the front door, rushing over to the two and putting a hand on the girl's shoulder.

'So sorry, I told her not to get in the way. She's a handful.'

Damien shook his head.

"No, she's just fine."

[WC: 300/300]