Gods of the Autumn Harvest

Chapter I: Sweat, Liquor, And Poetry.

   A young boy, no more than a hundred years old, and a woman carrying herself with an elegant and ancient demeanor cautiously maneuvered themselves off a boat gliding in a pale pink river, driven by a cloaked figure. The boy gleefully retrieved a rock from the black sand once docked and skipped it across the abyssal creek.

   "That's the Cauldron of Man, Nephistes," cautioned the woman dressed in brown robes. "A primordial distillate of all nectars that make up humanity – don't play in it, darling, you'll dirty yourself."

   She turned back to the dark man handling the oars and politely thanked him for a safe passage, he gave a quiet acknowledgment and rowed away. The Cauldron was a large, viscous blender of blood, sweat, liquor, and semen; the juices ran from a monumental sculpture of a gowned woman with a tilted vase, carved straight from the caverns above – from a distance, the glossy pink cataract skewered the landscape, coagulating into a stream that ran by the palace. Occasionally, a vivid red luster would conjure at the bottom of the pool and slowly take the vague form of a person, then float out onto the surrounding woodland to join troupes of other phantoms. Nephistes and the woman, however, entreated at the port-side ingress of the palace, they were company to dozens of ships, boats, and small vessels – some air-borne, docked high above – which gave passage to hosts of spirits to and from the castle.

   Nephistes looked up from the stream and retracted his hand, "Yes, mother. It just smells of oranges and nectarines."

 
"And tastes of berries," she smiled. "It's only human, to add charm to sin."

 
"Indeed," agreed Nephistes. He was small, decorated with a sleeveless olive-green tunic and two silver bands on each forearm and a silver laurel wreath adorning his long black hair to match – while most were still, some leaves on the wreath fluttered gracefully around his head, in a mellow dance. A small satchel bounced on his hip with every move. His skin was dark gray, like soot packed between his flesh and muscle. His left eye was blue as lapis yet his right was a timid purple.

   "Good boy." His mother smiled, lacing her fingers with his to guide him.

   "If I may, mother, why are we in the depths of the world?" asked Nephistes. "There's a certain baseless opulence that upsets my stomach, the luxury tastes bitter; taunting; angry – it feels almost spiteful... the lavishness."

   "You know the old myths," she smirked. "...But, I suppose, one more time. Veksys is the master of the Lower Dominion – yet, not by choice. When Adhen had his children, they chose each Dominion as they were born. His first daughter Netar chose the World; his son Kosm chose the Heavens; and Veksys, his third-born son, was left with the Realm-Forge," she rehearsed calmly. "His following children laid claim to more abstract concepts yet to be needed in a realm without men: War, Malfeasance, Debauchery, and such. As for this place's luxury, Heaven and the World were beautiful – all the vibrant hues of the sky printed on every shade of blue and green on Soyl. A natural, dynamic portrait of creation—"

  "And Veksys, never seeing morning, never seeing color, stuck in the humid caverns below," pondered Nephistes. "I can understand how that drives a God to anger."

   "Heed caution with your words, my love. Bitter, perhaps, and robbed of opportunity, but he is not an angry God. He does with what he has, builds with what there is, and enjoys what he can. He is fair, unlike many of our peers," said his mother. They spoke with soft, delicate voices: if a human were listening, they would find themselves inebriated by each smooth murmur.

  "Yes, I apologize. Therum has told me many stories of the Lords, and I found the ones of Veksys most passionate. He is kind and forgiving, but stern and powerful," Nephistes amended. "I apologize if you interpreted my curiosity as protest, it was not – I am excited to meet him."