A large wave crashed upon the island shore, not far from where several of the others now stood. And as the water receded, it left behind a man. Or not quite a man, though he certainly had the beard of one, the clothes of one, and he was currently proving he could snore as well as any of them. Still, very few men ever quite reached the point of drunkenness where they shapeshifted their own head into that of a bull aurochs, though many have gotten quite close before dying of acute alcohol poisoning.
No, this was a god. One of the big, shiny ones, who went around handing fancy weapons to heroes, throwing lavish feasts, chasing whatever looked vaguely attractive, and otherwise making a complete arse of himself (not that he ever seemed to notice or care). He was Ylagi, the Questing Blade, the Guardian of Wanderers, the Hero In Triumph, and whatever else he cared to call himself. He was also a drunken oaf who'd managed to fall off the boat, presumably while attempting to show off.
Lucky for me, he decided, slowly opening his eyes and cursing the sun, as was expected of a god in his position. I washed up in the right place.
The god rose to his feat, his head shimmering until it was a good deal less bovine and a good deal more hominin, though the bull's long beard only grew longer in the process. Another wave crashed just behind, leaving a great axe buried in the sand. This he picked up, casting a friendly nod out to sea before turning once and heading inland to begin his great work. That great work being, mainly, to force humans to do great work in his name.
So the god grinned at the first poor fool to cross his path, standing at the very edge of the forming settlement and looking out beyond it. A woman, tall and broad-shouldered, with the lights of the Old World in her hair and the New in her keen eyes. A traveler, then, and an adventurer, here to see distant lands for herself. Perhaps a farmer, oonce, given the calluses the god could see upon her hands as she turned to him. Perhaps a former thief or soldier, from the wary glance she gave as she turned. Or perhaps a sailor who'd just happened to see him fall off the side of the ship and was hoping he wasn't planning to make yet another foolish decision.
A silly hope if so, in his opinion. The greatest lives are built upon foundations of brave foolishness.
"You." The god's voice boomed, trees quaked, a newly erected hut swayed dangerously and threatened to topple over. The woman pressed her hands to her ears, and a look of faint panic crossed her face. "You, who bears the eyes of a wanderer, searching tirelessly for the path before you. I claim those eyes as mine own."
"You're planning to pluck out my eyes, now?" She blinked, then glared at the god. "If you try it, I swear to you I'll cut out yours first."
"What, no, I-" The god paused, then he began to laugh. The hut collapsed, much to the consternation of a nearby worker, who'd built the damned thing from scratch with his own hands. Even if he did a pretty terrible job at it. "Ah, SPIRIT! Yes, you will do well in the trials ahead!"
While the woman watched in bafflement, the god picked a stick from the rubble of the hut, exhaling his mighty breath upon the wood until it blackened and hardened, and until the tip was strong and sharp as fine bronze. Satisfied with his creation, he offered it to the woman, who after a moment's hesitation took it in her hands. "This simple spear I give to you as a gift, though it does not yet bear any power beyond your own."
The woman stepped back, hand tightening around the spear as she gave the god a slow nod, and he nodded approvingly in return. "Explore the island. Learn of its threats. Seek its treasures! And, when you have done this, return to me, so that your true trials may begin."
The woman nodded more earnestly, now, and even began to grin before she raced off into the forest, there to pursue its secrets and adventures. Satisfied, the god turned and headed back into the slowly forming town, there to... find whatever he could find to drink, mainly. Then to kick himself for forgetting to ask his new agent whatever her actual name was. And THEN, once he was suitably appeased, to build himself a suitable shrine.
Suitable shrine, here, meaning "small arena." Blood sports were, after all, the ultimate form of worship, and champions the ultimate form of worshiper. And even if those weren't likely to be a possibility in the near future, normal sports would do nearly as well.
--Will determine costs and stuff tomorrow--
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Topic: Colonial Gods [IC] (Read 2363 times)