“Who wants to go first?” Imoen asked. “Think I need to think a bit about this. Sarry, how about you?”
“Me?” Sarevok asked.
”Well, yeah…you’re the only one of us who ever tried to become God of Murder before. I mean, come on, you must have thought about what it would be like, right?”
The warrior smiled a grim smile, golden eyes glowing brightly. “I did,” he said. “I envisioned myself at the head of an enormous army, laying waste to the countryside, spreading death, doom and destruction everywhere. I thought I would crush the puny humans beneath my feet, and that I would let the streets run red with blood.”
“And you even made yourself an outfit to fit,” Zaerini said with a quick grin. “Go on, big bro…I know you want it back, you’ve been complaining about that since you came back to life. You’re a god now, knock yourself out.”
Sarevok got to his feet, and laughed suddenly, a deep and booming laughter that shook the miniature pocket plane. “I will! Thank you, sister, for a brilliant idea. But I will not merely recreate my old armor, I will devise something even more awe-inspiring and magnificent.”
“Undoubtedly,” Dekaras said with a wry smile. “Please try not to impale any of us on it. Though I’m sure we’re more impervious to harm than before, I suspect it would still be painful.”
“Ha, do not fear any such thing! As a mortal my design skills were excellent, but as a god they will be unsurpassed.” He raised his arms dramatically over his head. “Behold!” he cried out. “Behold the power of Sarevok!” There was a loud thunderclap, a flash of red smoke welled up around him, and when it cleared, his normal armor had been…altered. He was now wearing a suit of very shiny golden armor, which had several foot-longed and slightly curved spikes emerging from the shoulder pads. Slightly smaller spikes decorated his knees and elbows, and he was wearing a helmet shaped like a snarling demon head. It, too, had spikes on it, though in this case they were shaped like horns. From inside the demon’s fanged mouth, Sarevok proudly looked back at his companions. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“It’s…very…shiny,” Rini managed. “And spiky.”
“I know! Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Not too shabby,” Edwin mused. “Were I a grunting warrior rather than a proud master of the arcane, I might consider something like it.”
“It certainly is unique,” Viconia murmured. “And have you decided what aspect of Murder you will personify? Murder by impalement? Murder by blinding?”
“No, I thought I would take murderous warlords under my protection. I know all the perils of being one, after all, so with my guidance they might avoid some mistakes.”
“What, like leaving your Very Secret Diary lying about to be read by people trying to stop you?”
“Well…”
“Or giving dramatic speeches?” Rini said, winking at her big brother.
“I…”
“Or hiring incompetent assassins,” Dekaras said. “I heard all about that Nimbul fellow. ‘I am Death, come for thee’ – honestly, what were you thinking of?”
“I had to work with what was available,” Sarevok sulked. “You people ought to advertise more, do you have any idea what a pain it was trying to find somebody halfway competent?”
Zaerini gave a small shudder. “I’m glad you didn’t, myself. Dekkie, I suppose you’ll be the aspect of Murder by Assassination then?”
“It would seem suitable,” the assassin agreed. “Now, let me think about this for a moment.” He closed his eyes, concentrating hard, and then opened them again. “There.”
“That’s it?” Imoen asked, sounding disappointed. “But you look just the same as always. I mean, not that I mind, you look great as it is, and black fits nicely, but I expected something a bit more flashy.”
“I don’t do ‘flashy’.”
“Awwww…come on. For my sake? Pleeeeeeeease?”
“Imoen…”
“Pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top?”
Dekaras sighed briefly. ”Oh, very well then. There is something I was thinking of, as a matter of fact.” He curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist, then opened them again, and suddenly a razor-sharp blade slid out from each fingertip, glittering brightly. As he experimentally moved his hand, the blades made little whooshing noises, cutting the very air. “Yes,” he said, “I know it’s slightly ostentatious, and yes, I promise I won’t take it further and go the lobster route.” He let the blades retract, and in seconds his hand looked perfectly normal again. “Still, I think it could make things very interesting.”
“Don’t forget to retract them before going to the outhouse,” Viconia smirked, “Or things might get more interesting than you’d like.” She frowned. “Though I suppose none of us need to do such things anymore.” She turned to the Solar. “What of mating? Is that still possible?”
“Oh yes. Gods tend to be very preoccupied with that, it helps while the eons away.”
“Mmm…well, that is something.” The Drow smoothed her silvery hair back across her shoulder, and her red eyes glittered with amusement. “I have decided. You surfacers have a term…a ‘crime of passion’, do you not? Murder committed in the heat of passion, murder out of seduction?”
“Well, sure,” Rini said. “Don’t the Drow have that?”
“Not in the same way. For example, a female might kill a male for straying, or another female for seducing her mate, but it is mostly a matter of power and prestige. How much more satisfying it is with murder out of true passion, or even out of what you call ‘love’!” Viconia smiled, a small, content smile, and her pink tongue briefly darted out to lick her lips. “And I might have such power, to inspire mortals in that way…yes, I may come to enjoy this.” She stretched slowly, spun around, and when she stopped her blood-flecked armor had been replaced by an elegant white and quite form-fitting white dress that contrasted nicely against her dark skin. Rini was momentarily surprised the dress even managed to stay up, but then she corrected herself.
Silly me. She’s a goddess, of course it’s staying up.
“Viconia, Goddess of Passionate Murder,” the Drow purred. “The mortals will desire me…and despair.”
Imoen clapped her hands. “Ooooh, that’s great, Vic!” she said. “Get out there and slay’em, huh?”
“It will do,” Viconia said, giving herself a satisfied look. “You may all start worshipping me too, if you like.”
“Enchanting a visage as you do present, my dear Viconia,” Edwin said, bowing briefly, “I worship only one woman.” He took Zaerini’s hand in his own, and brought it to his lips. “And for her, I would gladly murder thousands. (Though hopefully in a suitable manner that does not involve being splattered with various lifefluids.)”
“Which reminds me…” Rini said, snuggling up close to her lover and tickling his beard. “Which aspect will you choose, Eddie? God of Murderously Handsome Red Wizards? And I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore.”
“I could never stay mad at you for very long, and you know it, you infuriating little imp,” he said. “And though your suggestion is tempting, I had something else in mind.” He made an imperious gesture, and his red robes were suddenly covered with so much gold and jewelry that the red color was barely visible anymore. Also, he had acquired a new staff, a tall black thing decorated with esoteric and sinister runes. It had a knob on the end, and it glowed red.
“God of Fashion Murder?” Imoen giggled.
“Certainly not, little miss ‘Pink-goes-with-everything’. From now on, I shall be known as the God of Arcane Murder. For one thing, that will mean that all spells and artifacts devised to kill will fall directly under my domain. (And that I’ll have my pick of them all, of course.)”
“Mmm…not bad,” Zaerini agreed. “Won’t it make you subservient to Mystra though?”
“Not at all – I shall be a specialist, as I have always aimed to be, cutting the edge in my own field. Let her do the boring maintenance work of the Weave by all means – meanwhile I will entertain myself.” There was a rather sinister gleam in his eyes, one that made Rini feel a pleasant tingle along her spine. Good…gods…he’s so hot. “I think my first project will be to test all the spells in question on a certain interfering old busybody with a pointed hat.”
“Sounds good to me,” the bard readily agreed. “I’ll come watch, if you don’t mind.”
The Solar was looking rather alarmed by now. “But…you can’t do that!” it protested. “Elminster the Sage is a very important figure of the Realms, you can’t just…abuse him like that, for no reason!”
Zaerini shrugged. “He’s an annoying old creep, he threatened Eddie and I don’t like him. That’s enough reason, isn’t it? Besides, aren’t we supposed to be the God of Murder here? Yada yada, icky-nasty Eeeeevil and all that? Goes with the job, doesn’t it?”
“Still…” Imoen mused. “It would make Mystra pretty mad at us, wouldn’t it?”
“Fear not, my dear little simian,” Edwin comforted her. “I do not doubt that the old coot has been made resistant to all harmful magic, enough to that he won’t be outright killed. However, a ‘Jenka’s Jittery Jitterbug’ spell should definitely be enough to seriously inconvenience him. (He thinks he’s such a wonderful dancer, doesn’t he? Let’s see how he enjoys dancing for a week straight.)”
“Minsc likes dancing!” Minsc said, beaming brightly at the Red Wizard. “I was always having a good time around the campfires of dear Rasheman, oh yes. Little Rini, you know how well I dance, don’t you?”
“Um…yes,” the redhead replied, remembering Minsc’s two left feet. Minsc’s very large two left feet, as a matter of fact. “Minsc…I know ‘murder’ isn’t really the kind of god to suit you, but still, you’re going to have to make a choice like the rest of us. Have you thought about it?”
To her surprise, the large man nodded at once. “Minsc sometimes gets very, very, very mad,” he said. “So mad that not even my Boo can stop me. It is lucky that the sword of Minsc only ever split the bodies of Evil people then, scattering their wet bits all over and letting Boo nibble on their eyeballs. If I hadn’t had Boo, I could have hurt my friends instead. So Minsc is going to be the God of Red Mist Killing, and help other people find their own Giant Miniature Space Hamster to keep them calm and steady just like Minsc is.”
The Solar cleared its throat. “Would that be ‘The God of Murderous Rage’?” it asked. “It is a suitable choice, though I think my wording is more traditional.”
“Red Mist Killing he said, Red Mist Killing it is,” Rini said. “Immy? What about you?”
“Well, it’s a toughie,” the little thief said, chewing absently on a lock of pink hair. “But then I figured, people always go on about ‘killer dogs’, ‘killer birds’, ‘killer snakes’, ‘killer sharks’ and so on. So I’ll be the Goddess of Killer Pets! Neat, huh?”
“Killer…pets?” Sarevok asked. “Little sister, surely you do not expect pets to worship you?”
Imoen grinned. “Nah, course not. But other people better worship me, unless they wanna find a dozen vorpal bunnies in their bed or something. Take a look.” She snapped her fingers, pointing at Softpaws and Insufferable, who were sitting attentively next to Zaerini and Edwin. Immediately, both animals started growing, until the small cat and smaller monkey had been replaced by a huge black panther and a gigantic gorilla, both of whom were snarling menacingly at the new God of Murderous Warlords And Other Overlords.
“Point taken,” Sarevok said, holding both animals at arm’s length with some difficulty. “Now put them back to normal before they get drool all over my new armor!”
“Restore my familiar at once!” Edwin demanded. “He is meant to be small and c…that is, small and subtle, not a great big hulking beast! (Certainly he could never fit in my pocket this way, not unless I enlarged myself to grotesque proportions.)”
“Spoilsports,” Imoen pouted, and with a wave of her hand the two familiars went back to their regular size. At the same time, her normal clothes were replaced by what could only be described as a bunny suit. A pink bunny suit, complete with ears and fluffy tail.
“And I,” Zaerini declared, “Have made up my mind as well. We’ve got Murder pretty well covered by now, I think, so I’m gonna branch out a little. I think that stories are better if they’ve got a bit of blood in them, so I’ll be the Goddess of Fictional Murder. Including songs, theatre, ballads, books, you name it. Anybody wanting to write a story where ten people assemble in a spooky old mansion and get killed off one by one until the killer is caught by a funny little old lady or a gnome in a weird mustache had better worship me if they want to get their plot right.”
The Solar looked highly disturbed at this. “You…you seriously expect mortals to enjoy the wanton slaying of perfectly innocent fictional people, unable to defend themselves? That is possibly the most twisted thing I ever heard! Why not create something nice instead? Something pure, and pristine, something that will make the world a better place! Perhaps something involving noble elf maidens and cherry gardens?”
“Hmm…” the bard said. “Noble elf maidens choking on poisoned cherries…yeah, I can work with that. Got any other suggestions?” The Solar was biting its own fingers now, and didn’t reply. “Guess not.” She made a mental…shrug…yes, that was the word for it. A black bodysuit materialized on her body, hugging her form in a very comforting way. It was followed by a black…trench coat, yes, that was the word for it, though she hadn’t ever heard the word before. And a hat on top of her red curls. A…Fedora? Unbidden, the word ‘dame’ floated to the front of her mind. Weird. Guess it’s a god thing.
“And that’s it!” She exclaimed, smiling brilliantly at her companions. “The God of all sorts of Murder – and it’s a killer concept.”
