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Out of darkness, light
Out of dreams, function
Belief is to cry
I am religion
—Baldr Hildrson
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A narrow gray door bars the way, separating mortal from divine, and upon its silver knob hangs an “out of order” sign. Lady Darla Desire paces with a scowl marring her bronze-hued face. A wall clock ticks, resonating like a plucked razor wire. Patience is not a virtue of her fiery kind.
Down-filled pillows, plush couches, and a thick gray carpet—An ennui lover furnished this light-blue waiting room. Darla kicks a cushion. The softness inflames emotions rubbed raw, and her pointed toenails rip azure cloth. Feathers float like autumn leaves, and she coughs.
“Pantheon Gyme, damn you.” She bangs on the stone door. “I demand an audience!”
Her voice echoes off the hard surface and is absorbed by the padded furnishings. Underneath her teeth-grinding rage, a tickle of worry grows.
“Come on,” she says. “For an hour or even a minute, let me back inside my girl.”
Footsteps squish in the carpet behind Darla. She turns to face a green-skinned man with waxy wings. Lord Icarus Path’s physique is sculpted from the dreams of countless women. His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are thick with veins clear as a road map to all his points of power.
“They’re closed,” says Icarus.
Support drones are slaved to eternal service. How dare they be closed.
Darla narrows her ruby eyes at the hunky man. “I got booted from my host. I can’t reconnect, and now Support keeps my door shut. What is happening?”
He shrugs. “Technical difficulties.”
“Localized?”
“I’ve checked around. Not just our team. No one has access.”
In a contest for who rules all, any problem could be corruption.
Darla snarls, flashing feline fangs. “I must go see what she’s doing—”
“The lobby’s viewing streams are down too.”
“Impossible.” She shakes her head. “This must be sabotage.”
“Who would dare?”
Darla grunts and turns from Icarus, hiding her disgust. While he has a handsome face and a fit body, he is sentimental and naive, which has stymied their team over the years. She clenches her fists to keep her claws sheathed and practices a disarming smile before turning back.
A disembodied and genderless voice says, “Attention! All players have been purged from Pantheon Gyme. Until further notice, no new connections are authorized. Please return to New Ortome Central.”
“A purge?” Darla spins about, but the walls remain faceless; not even a speaker box presents itself as a target.
Every waiting room is unique, furnished to compliment an assigned user’s personality. Hers must have been designed by some halfwit psychoanalyst that picked blues to smooth her mood and soft surfaces to cushion her violence.
She settles on her winged companion and punches his chest. “My girl’s in the middle of a mission.”
Icarus grunts under the blow but does not stagger. “Sounds terrible.”
“Yes!” She punches again, but he catches her fist. “Can’t you let me hurt you?”
Letting go, he blows on his finger tips and grins. “Does your mission involve breaking more hearts?”
“It’s a controlled burn.” She scratches her furry ear. “Does the Gyme-clock tick on without us?”
He wiggles his finger in a circle. She flinches, and a dozen spinning plates wobble in her mind. If balance is lost, her delicate plans for expansion will shatter, and every detail matters when devils race to become gods.
Icarus says, “Is this concern for your chosen girl or for your view count?”
Abused and orphaned outcasts make the best hosts. Darla selected the young human Hildr over a thousand others. Prostituted by her mother and reckless with anger, Hildr was a choice mocked by Darla’s peers until Darla selected “desire” as her holy word.
“My compositions are too delicate for Hildr’s barbed mind,” says Darla. “Now, tell me a way to hack back in before my work is ruined.”
Icarus scratches his pointed chin. “Reckless, but I do have a thought. We have been kicked out of our host bodies, yet only been asked to leave the waiting rooms.”
Darla’s eyes glow like smoldering coals. “If this insanity is system-wide, Support could be restricted. I bet those snooty paper-pushers can close doors but cannot force us to leave rooms.”
“But that would mean Admin has been severed from Support, and that’s—”
She digs her fingers into his muscular shoulder, needling with her claws. “Stay here with me.”
Icarus flinches and tugs. Darla loosens her grip to avoid drawing blood, and he sidesteps free. Brushing away a stray feather, he strides to an archway marked “Exit.”
Darla forces a smile. “If Support is stretched thin, won’t they be relying on passive security?”
He slows and turns, brow wrinkled and arms crossed. It is annoying how pretty he is even when looking stupid.
“Icarus, you once wooed me with grand stories from your mortal life. On and on about how savvy you were, picking the toughest locks. You hacked for the rush because life in Old Ortome had no challenges left for you.” She sneers. “Or was that bravado, the idle prattle of a boy out of his depth?”
He spreads his wings, pressing them against the archway and leaving smears of wax on the stone. “All true.”
“Well, prove it, my limey friend.”
Icarus rolls his shoulders, making his wings shiver. “Hacking is a bannable offense. I’m more avocado than lime, and we’ve never really been friends.”
Darla pounds the blue wall with her furry fist. “This is my room. My access point.” She shrugs. “Only I will take the blame.”
“That tempts me.” He folds his wings.
“Good.” Darla points at the clock. “Now, consider your poor host. Young Ishkur wanders without your patronage to guide him. Don’t you want to at least check on the fool?”
Icarus drums his fingers on the wall. “I do wish to witness his potential bearing fruit. And your woman, you’ve left her with some heavy baggage. Do you worry she will pay for your misdeeds?”
Darla crosses her bronze arms. “I picked my host because she was forged by a perfectly abusive backstory. It’s taken years to sharpen her pain into a weapon: beautiful, manipulative, and deadly. Hildr can handle any mortal attempting to settle scores.” She raises a claw-tipped finger. “But, time will dull her. She will unravel without my missions to give her purpose.”
Tick, tick. Worlds within worlds. Plans upon plans. Darla shivers, and her teammate’s sculpted face softens.
Icarus steps to her and holds out his hand. “Then let us join my Path to your Desire and see where our passion may lead them.”
Darla’s eyes flare and then fade. Demigod-ranked players lay claim to a single word to define their divinity. “Desire Path” does have synergy. Lip curled, she shakes his hand, and they approach the gray door together.
PLAYER DESIRE\PLAYER PATH SYNC INITIATED.
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Mortal Hosts for the Founding Demigods of LUTE:
Ishkur; half-elf, scout, and ranger for Lord Icarus Path of Green.
Hildr; human, advocate, and valkyrie for Lady Darla Desire of Red.
Haden; orcelf, assassin, and champion for Lady Uostai Play of Black.
Krieg; human, general, and seeker for Lord Blitz Truth of Blue.
Goldstone; olympikin, scholar, and paladin for Lord Talom Mourning of White.
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Five Terms:
Demigod; the spirit of a worshiped word possessing at least one mortal host.
Hospitium; a commitment between a host and guest after food is accepted.
Overgod; the overlord of one of the five color-coded alignments.
Verdant; a vibrant color of green and the crusade to honor Overgod Gardener.
Yule; the measure of five thousand feet.
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Mystic Skills of Red:
Aura, Surface; to see feelings. An outer skill.
Imbue; to empower things. An inner skill.
Fire, External; to spread flame. A prime skill.
Fire, Internal; to become flame. A prime skill.
Rebirth; to change a soul. An inner skill.
Desire, Release; to enhance emotions. An outer skill.
