Chapter 1: Life Up There 1

In a nutshell, being a God is a boring business if you don't have any pastimes. So what if you can fight and not die, or drink so much ambrosia, whiskey (vodka is better, some gods might argue), sake, soju, and not get drunk? Eat till it gets boring, sleep till it gets mundane, gossip till your tongue hurts? Meaningless.

 

Nothing matters when you know you are invincible, and can't be overturned like the kings down below, in the Realm of mortal moral and immoral beings. So, what should a God, when utterly bored, do? That's a question everybody knows the answer to. Make trouble. Make or invent an entertainment, then watch the show.

 

Depending on the duration of the novelty of the invention, phenomena, or the lifespan of a mortal, you can get a solid (this is all calculated by the lesser angels) 92 years of fun. After that, you take a break. ALL of Godhood takes a break.

 

You can't just throw wonders at the mortals without a stop. You'll cause chaos, and you'll have to clean it up. Sometimes, a clean-up takes a long time...or just a *BOOM*. Depends on a god, to be honest. There are bad eggs in every batch. But, let us leave this topic for some other time.

 

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So, how does the place where gods reside look? It is simply ineffable, but it’s worth trying to describe something like that place which only the chosen ones in their early years, usually, can visit. Still, describing the place is not where the heart lies. It’s its residents. It’s the gods. 

 

Let us make ourselves familiar with the roots of the figures that people mention and worship, but seipsists often meet, why don’t we?

 

~

 

There are cherry trees beside a wide and black wooden cottage. The flowers on the cherry trees blossom once a year, in a beautiful shade of blood red. Cherries themselves are sour or sweet depending on the year. Sour ones are made into jam and pies, while sweet ones are eaten freshly picked.

 

Under the oldest of the cherry trees is a marble bench, polished until it reflects the view of the branches above it. It is used for only three days a year, while the blossoms last.

 

 

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  The one who lives there is Brelle. He is a God of Beauty. Sure, you'd expect a gorgeous woman fully aware of her charms, but a man like Brelle was originally a mortal who painted the beauty itself, cruelly so. He used the juice of the ruddy cherries to portray a favourite garment of Melhen, the former Goddess of Beauty. The painting was beautifully done. It showed the sleeveless dress perfectly, down to its every detail. But the woman wearing it had no face.

 

 

  When asked why, he'd answer: 'For I do not know the grace of a woman who wears the garment, so I dare not sully her; if I were to paint her face, she would just turn into my ideal, she would become a mortal's obsession'.

 

 

Melhen, touched by his words, stole the painting. Brelle wanted the painting back, and she showed the way to her. He came and stayed. The moment he came, she bestowed upon him her title and godhood. After that, she remained immortal and went her way, never to reclaim what was hers. Brelle had no objections, for he had no mortal kin. He could travel between realms whenever he'd want to, so he always travelled, coming back only to paint the beauty he witnessed, pick the cherries he planted when getting the land, and attend the conference of gods. He never sired a child nor touched another person with impure intentions; quite unlike Priesten, but that's another story for another day.

 

 

  He had his inkish hair tied up in a fishbone braid, always resting on his shoulder till his chest. When he slept in the Mortal Realm, pixies would decorate the braid with daisies, poppies, and the leaves of linden. Paired with the onyx eyes, thin yet tender lips, and turned-up nose, he was a mix of male and female beauty. He wasn't tall, looking like a frail teenager. Still, his shoulders were broad and Adam's apple was noticeable.

 

 

  His clothes were simple, just linen pants bound with a red scarf around his hips and a shirt that covered him till the neck, embroidered with silken thread that showed the motif of black roses. His clothes never got dirty, so he rarely changed them, only when fairies were getting annoying with their whining about how other clothes would suit him. He wore boots that reached his knees, made of black deer's hide. He would lace them tight, accentuating his thin ankles. When the winter would come, he'd get a coat that draped to the ground, made of black bear's fur. Fairies always made clothes for him, pity that he didn't wear their innovations often, or else he'd be a creature no one could turn their eyes away from.

 

 

  He was silent, but everyone knew that he had a wanderer's soul. Most of all, he got angry just on occasion, usually during the jam-making. There were always little thieves that couldn't wait for him to finish. He was a decisive person, always taking the lead when complicated issues appeared. He had great ideas, and the God of Knowledge and the God of Musings loved conversing with him. He was that kind of god, lovely and calm, masculine, whatever some mortal punks may think. That was all well and good until someone angered him. That's when gods would take shelter or take a trip far away from the place that caused his fury.

 

 

  Brelle, he had a soft spot for children in general. But who he adored the most were the orphans that still saw some purpose in life after being left alone. Those who hurt them, whether they be a mortal or a god, would not be able to do anything before his rage. He was that kind of god. Ferocious, cold-blooded, and protective.

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