At the Big Table
Prologue
To call the great hall silent would be unjust. Small groups spoke under breath, symbolic accoutrements rattled. Ever-present babble from the little table at the other end of the gallery raked already frayed nerves. But for such a grand gathering of gods, debating what was unquestionably a contentious topic, the room suspiciously lacked actual discussion.
Some hesitated to speak their mind, fearing the ridicule of rivals. Most watched and waited. Perhaps one of the older gods would think they were all in this together and unintentionally reveal a weakness or a young god might overstep and meet a swift end. It had been a very long time since the last Council; decorum was in short supply.
There was one amongst the gathered working hard to contain her anxiety. The discovery of this Vault of Mysteries had created an unexpected opportunity. Not one diety would have faith in another to secure such a magnificent collection of relics. Everyone here held a stake in that race. They would all be untrusting; all on edge. They just might be open to hearing her revelation, if she could slip it in at the right time. With the Council finally and truly in session, and without that snake's meddling to distract, it was time to hold this room accountable.
It is hard to be the hero of your own story when you are the villain of everyone else's.
The Mistress of Midnight, dressed in her finest nightmare black, took a seat at what was clearly the undesirable side of the old oval table. She had intended to draw no attention, not yet. Of course, it didn't work, and not because she was entirely overdressed for the immediate company. Disgusted scowls and murmured gibes washed over the Mistress reminding her of long-held hatred. Ignoring them, she slowly spun a silver serpentine bracket to focus her calm, and waited.
"Enough with this idle chatter," the Premiere slammed a fist onto the table, silencing most of the conversation and even quieting, for a brief moment, the little table's raucous banter.
Gleaming in his usual gold and red armor, the Premiere stood out in almost any crowd. Amongst this assembly of idols, he looked like the costumed knight in an outlandish stage performance. Many took him as seriously.
"Oh, now that the prince of elves is interested, it must be time to start," The Keeper interrupted with sarcasm. Organized by nature, the dwarven god of policy and contract had tried and failed to bring order, but this irritated tone was reserved for the Premiere. Their rivalry went back ages.
"We can no longer let this grave injustice remain!" As he continued in pompous presentation, wholly ignoring the Keeper's taunt, Premiere swept the room with an open hand; a fruitless attempt to gain universal acceptance. "Once again the mortals seek power to rival our own. If this new technology wasn't hazard enough, we discover they are hoarding old relics. Our own gifts have been amassed in this Vault! How did they hide such an undertaking from us, their guardians?! It must be destroyed, or we face a second-" He stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on the Mistress of Midnight sitting cross-armed and eying him intently. Those impossibly black eyes matching her impossibly black evening gown stole his attention, and the Premiere recognized her wily smirk all too late.
"You mean this last vault?" She said in a curious tone.
The Premiere was throw off, as much to hear the Mistress's cool voice as to any words it formed. She hadn't addressed the Council in millennia. She hadn't been welcome.
Sensing her grip on the room, Midnight played into the uncomfortably charming demeanor. "Of course, you only intend to destroy this new vault, prince? The one you don't control? I expect you want to keep the others your people built. The one in south Til-Gathien at Aender, the one below Lac Grande De Cul, the one..." She paused for a moment, eyebrows raised, pleased with her performance.
Small discussions returned, this time with bitter overtones. The Premiere, still the lone god standing, surveyed the room for allies. Midnight used this wasted effort to close her attack.
"I understand. I do," she said sweetly. "Your precious Silver Chain needs someplace safe to hide all of those dwarven artifacts they rescued from the Shadowhorn."
A heavy chair slammed against the floor, drawing dozen of eyes. The Keeper, face glowing red with rage, jumped onto the table. Shouting her battle cry "All Sales Final", she charged a stunned Premiere. With that, the room exploded.
The Axe of the Moon, the only other-world god invited to this Council, looked up from her ale for the first time in hours. For Saoirse, this whole experience had been dreadfully dull. But now... now she was interested. The wild redhead reached to her back before remembered she'd come without weapons. "Fists it is!"
Her twin, the Pale Maiden tried to step in; to hold her back. The two moon goddesses were twins in domain only. Whereas Saoirse was stubborn and selfish, the Maiden had become the consummate protector, especially after her years spent as a mortal. If they shared anything it was their wild hair and moonlit aura, and each considered one a gift and the other a curse.
Woodland spirits exacted old debts against the gods who had brought war to their land for eons. Primeval elemental forces grappled with the adolescent Squall, sending drink carts crashing and glasses shattering. Massive wings cast a shadow across the table, threatening but never approaching.
All the while, the Mistress of Midnight sat, arms crossed, leaning back in her chair. Out of habit she reached to twist her long dark locks but found no loose ends to grasp. This brief break in her calm quickly turned to relief when she remembered putting her hair up for the gathering. A sad smile crossed the Mistress's face. Not one spirit had noticed.
The enemy of my enemy likely has trust issues.
Midnight sighed, rubbing her bracelet absentmindedly. Finding a comrade would have been nice, or at least someone who didn't already hold a sour opinion of her. Resigned, she studied the room. Instead of settling down, brawls continued to escalate. Half a dozen deities lay motionless throughout the hall. Midnight caught the eye of the impatient figure, a wraith dressed in dark rags. He stood out of the fight, a few steps back from the table, brooding. Perhaps she'd found an unwitting ally.
"This will cease!" A voice of thunder rocked the room. Father of Dawn, the Morning Lord, stood and stared the Council to silence. Only a distant snarling "I was promised a feast" could be heard from across the hall before even the little table joined in stillness. Ever playing arbiter, the Morning Lord wore basic gold-trimmed white robes to accentuate his original god image.
"We are here to discuss the fate of this Vault, this abomination created by followers of our lost Lady of Mysteries," his voice continuing to boom, the Morning Lord illuminated the hall with blinding rays as most of the assembled cowered. He turned to the Mistress on the other side of the table, cast in a solemn shadow where his light would not pass. "We will not waste this Council's time on rumors and lies."
For a moment, doubt crept in. Had she played her hand too soon? She wondered if there was any real chance of success, going at this alone, knowing none here had faith in her words. But there would not be another chance. Leaning forward, her hands fell to the table with a clink. She stared across but looked past her father, instead locking eyes with the wraith. After a long moment, he stepped forward.
"We are already wasting the Council's time on this meanless debate." The Wraith's voice sounded small compared to all who had spoken before; a raindrop to the Morning Lord's thunder. But everyone in the hall froze as he talked. Despite giving up his powers, the Unrisen, Voice of the Void was more feared than any god in the chamber. He could harm none one and had little chance of defending himself, but he commanded the Endless Void, where he would return upon his death, and where all gods would eventually meet their end. The Wraith wasn't as much final judgment and a mirror into each immortal's fate.
With hesitance, La'Vie rose. The Mother of Life rarely spoke in large gatherings. For many, the frail spirit's whispy tones were a treat. For the Mistress, her old rival's entrance into the arena was more than she could have hoped for.
"Unrisen, my dear," as La'Vie bowed cordially to the wraith, red and gold leaves fell from her halo of woven branches. "Mortals in possession of these relics, these gifts, will be a plague on our lands and our followers. They will destroy each other, and us. They do not know any other way."
Midnight watched intently as the Wraith held firm. "Have you paid no attention to the world you protect," He stabbed. "This Vault was keeping relics out of mortal hands; far better than any of you ever did. It was an Ancient who stole relics, who threatened your followers, who sent countless souls to the Void. The Ancients are the plague. This Council wastes its time debating trinkets instead of your survival."
Sensing his authority at risk, the Morning Lord admonished the threat, "As I said when we called this Council, you have prepared your champions to defeat this new threat. Have faith they will succeed as they did before. We will no longer interfere-"
With that, the trap was set. "Father," The Mistress grinned and continued. "Do you have a champion in this fight?" Now he just needed to take the bait.
And the Father of Dawn jumped at it.
"I field no champion, as this Council is well aware," the Morning Lord bellowed, growing in stature and brilliance. "The skirmish with these so-called Ancients is well within your power, and well beyond my grace."
Starting from one end of the massive table, the Morning Lord's light began to refract, creating a dizzying light show, as a pair of unfathomably large jagged wings encircled the hall; not shadowy insubstantial forms threating from a distance, but shimmery wings of indigo-tipped silver scales. A deep voice from above spoke loud enough to shake the table. "I risk the souls of two champions to save this world and its children. Yet you, great father of the dawn, sacrifice nothing!?"
Midnight looked up to catch a glimpse of the Unchallenged. Even though this great hall didn't actually exist in any real space, it was somehow smaller than their largest Council member. Either that or the king of dragons did not really want to be seen, despite his grand entrance.
The Morning Lord's rebuke came quickly, but his taunting tone was unmistakable, "Isn't this just your style, defiler, sending champion to battle in your place? Unchallenged?! You hold that title only because you wouldn't show up for the fight, even during the Collapse. You coward. How many of these treasured souls have you lost?"
Murmurs once again filled the hall. This time, the Morning Lord's dominance could not dissuade them. The Wraith's questioning drew them in. Unchallenged's rare entrance into the arena rattled their confidence. Now it was the Mistress's turn to shock the assembled into action.
Change has no partner, but it does have followers in the brave and the wise.
"Father, how many still follow you?" All eyes fell on the Mistress, as she intended. There was no more controversial subject amongst their kind. "How many truly believe you are needed to raise the sun every morning, with four centuries of scholars studying the movement of stars?"
The Morning Lord's face turned from yellow to orange, shifting the color of the room. Bouncing off the Unchallenged wings, rays of red and gold played like fire across the table. Before the elder god could challenge his disobedient daughter, she deftly turned her attack.
"And LaVie, great earth mother, aren't you looking lovely," The frail spirit covered up a scar on her face in response to Midnight's syrupy jibe. The old wound would forever be a reminder of their last encounter. "Do your people thank you for the land's diversity, or do they create new life on their own?"
This time, the Mistress paused. She needed La'Vie to show her true colors. "This cross-breeding of flowers, beasts, and-" the fragile woman spat, only barely catching herself. "It is vile. All due to your corrupting influence!"
"They figured that out entirely on their own," the Mistress replied, "even without my corrupting influence or yours. I for one am quite proud."
La'Vie's huff of disgust was her last response. The room had turned on her in an instant, in a mix of revulsion and pity.
Midnight rounded on La'Vie and the Morning Lord, riding the newfound wave of support. "You are no longer their focus. The mortals have more important things to do with their short lives. Get over it and find something else to do with yours."
"Blasphemy!" The Morning Lord's declaration shook the room, sending cracks across the old oval table. "You will not speak your poison here," He took a deep breath, eyes glowing radiantly. "Your presence is-"
"Father, she is one of us, despite your best efforts," The usually warm, calming voice of the Pale Maden was all daggers to match the look she gave her father as she cut the Morning Lord off mid-proclamation. "Midnight will be heard. But sister, I beg you to be constructive."
"Fuck constructive, I want to hear what dirt sis has on dear old daddy!" Saoirse shouted as she slammed an ax into the table, surprising herself as much as the gathering that a weapon had materialized in the great hall.
Of all the support she'd received today, none was as heartwarming as her older sister's. Getting encouragement from the Axe, that was a new experience. Emboldened, the Mistress of Midnight stood up and addressed the room, "When is the last time any of you crossed paths with a follower of my father or the great earth mother, save for some excluded monastery? Yet she fades away while he grows in power to outshine us all."
Questioning looks quickly faded into nods of agreement.
"I ask you again, father. Do you have a champion in this fight?" Before he could answer, she swiftly removed her silver serpentine bracelet and, with a flick, spun it on the table.
An image appeared across the old surface, broken by newly formed cracks and Morning Lord's lightshow, but still clearly visible to all. A large chamber, probably underground, was awash with eerie light from tainted pools. Underway, a small skirmish over a bridge, one figure fighting half a dozen. The lone aggressor shone brilliantly, yellow light leaking from wounds in his back and chest. His eyes burned like suns.
"This is deception, trickery." The Premiere blasted, even before the image had fully formed, but all certainty drained away as he looked over to his mother. She had backed away several steps, eyeing the Morning Lord with dread.
Wraith reached to the table, touching the image as the battle continued. "This is no lie. Who is this my champion fights?"
The Mistress placed both hands on the table, sharing what little magic she had with the bracelet. Sounds of battle filled the room. "Defiler, I will cleanse you with Father's divine light," the burning man shouted and charged. A large copper dragonkin raised his shield to protect the party; the famed shield of the Unchallenged. When glowing hands met this most recognizable relic, the entire table burned blinding white before fading, taking the image with it.
"How dare you?" the Unchallenged roared, his head descending into view for the first time. More than a few deities dove for cover.
"Father, why did you lie to us?" The Pale Maiden scolded.
For Saoirse's part, she was getting confused, "It looked like daddy's champion was hunting ours. I'm starting to wonder what this has to do with the Vault."
"My dear sisters, this was never about the Vault. Our illustrious Morning Lord used that excuse to bring us all together; to keep us busy. All of his insistence that we say out of mortal affairs, that was to give him time."
"Time for what!?" Wraith's patience was just about spent.
The Mistress reached into the bracelet, now lying motionless on the table. She pulled out a book much bigger than the opening, dropping the large, well-preserved tome on the table with a thud. A single symbol adorned the book's cover, a circular ring of metallic links. The book opened itself, pages flying by until settling on a chapter written in pristine elvish script. Detailed drawings depicted twisting caverns, serpent embossed tombs, and an ornate staff. At the top, a single word: Valenzon.
"With the help of the Premiere and his loyal Silver Chain," she declared, "my father discovered how our champions banished the Ancients. And then found a way to bring them back."
An uproar filled the room, signaling the Mistress that her job here was done. Struggling to maintain the same calm and dignity that started her on this endeavor, Midnight grasped her bracelet tightly and slipped it back onto her wrist. As she turned around and took a step away, two beams of light erupted from across the table.
"It's too late," The Morning Lard snapped. "You've wasted your time debating, your power fighting, and my champion will have the last piece in his hands within hours."
"Oh, father, how precious. You still think you were the one stalling for time." The Mistress of Midnight stood in shadow at the center of two blazing beams. They had burned ashen lines into the old oval table, but on her, the Morning Lord's assault left no visible marks. She looked back to her father with a sad smile. "Your champion is dead, and now I know exactly where I need to go. Enjoy the rest of the Council everyone. It was a pleasure."
Epilogue
As the Mistress walked off, cries of battle and suffering erupted. This was not like the brawl earlier. Something had broken in the hall; the honored agreement that kept powers at bay was crumbling. Or perhaps she had broken her father's influence over the Council. Either way, an exit now was favorable. She had little further to contribute and much to lose. So when Midnight felt a tug on her gown, she almost panicked.
"I like your hair," a girl, a child really, suddenly materialized next to the Mistress. She wore a simple, worn dress that almost remembered the color white. Her amber eyes stared up into Midnights', a tentative smile locked in place; the girl was waiting for something. Then, without warning, she cocked her head, frowned bitterly, and vanished.
The Mistress paused, confused. Child deities were virtually unheard of. Deities dreamed up by children, of course. But those were most often horrific beings. Her on-again-off-again associate the Spider Queen was one example. Conceived by youngsters trying to solidify their fears, she now ruled over a vast underground civilization.
Shaking her head to refocus, Midnight continued her exit, but again, she was accosted by a diety she did not recognize. A young woman with raven black hair almost as dark as hers, cut short in a clean bob, appeared without warning much like the other. With so many fresh spirits on the loose, no wonder her father-
"She wanted you to say thank you." The young god's matter-of-fact statement was near-emotionless. It matched perfectly with her look; some sort of modern military uniform in blue and grey, simple and practical, the name Carpenter printed on her chest.
How convenient. Maybe the Mistress should suggest name tags the next time she attended the Council... if she was invited back... if there was another Council.
Distracted by her own thoughts, Midnight managed only a weak "Huh?"
"She's upset because you didn't thank her for the compliment." This time the flat response carried weight. Scorn was a familiar greeting to the Mistress, as was revile and outright hostility, but she could not remember once a compliment being the start of a conversation.
The Mistress turned back to inquire further, her curiosity piqued. She knew she needed to leave, but what could it hurt for a proper introduction? Unfortunately, she'd already lost the focus of this raven-haired woman; her face now buried in a rectangular tablet. Typical. So many gods spent their days writing rules for worthy followers. The Keeper had built her entire domain on stone tablets of rules and regulations. If the Mistress wasn't mistaken, one of those marble monoliths had just been smashed against the Premiere's face, its sundering reverberating off the far wall. This Carpenter's tablet looked thin and light; rather ill-suited for combat. Its glow, however, had entirely captured her attention.
With an audible sigh, Midnight turned and walked off, leaving the big table in the background, past the little table with its casual conversation, somehow oblivious to the bloodbath at the other end of the hall. Perhaps someday the Mistress would fit into one of their worlds. Today she had someplace important to be.