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god talk
When Peren had described to him the way the Sea Father watched over his followers, Ashraf had asked how he could see them. The Sea Father lived in the sea, after all, and many times his followers were on land.
“You think a god needs eyes, boy?” Peren had grumbled, his enormous and craggy firbolg frame filling the entire doorway of the little church as he swept its wooden porch and stairs.
Ashraf, perched on the wooden bannister, gave this a moment of consideration.
“Does he hear them?” he asked, and Peren snorted.
“Gods don’t need ears, either. If you need him, you reach out to him. Simple as that.”
“Will he be there even if I don’t need him?” Ashraf asked, unable but to wonder just what necessitated an actual need.
“Worth a try, ain’t it?” Peren grunted, and had gone on to drum up a few chores for idle hands to consider instead of endless questions, as was Ashraf’s preference.
This was the conversation that floated in his mind as he watched the gentle waves lap at the bow of his borrowed canoe. The fish were still biting, but he’d pulled in a good haul for the day some half hour ago and saw no need to keep baiting the line. Instead he’d taken to watching the life around him. Most of his company was fish, flashing silver through the glassy waves, or gulls, sweeping low for a mouthful of careless breakfast, but already his little boat had been briefly circled by three curious porpoises and nudged at by the broad back of a turtle nearly wider than the entire canoe. Ashraf had reached a hand to feel its shell once he was reasonably certain the little boat wouldn’t capsize, and he was rewarded with the texture of sea-slick ancient shell, so much more storied than the fist-sized babies that made the mad dash every year from sandy nest to surf.
But was the Sea Father here too? Ashraf darted a furtive look about him as if he might spot evidence of divine presence, but this far from the docks all he saw were easy waves and boats too far off for a canoe to hail.
“Peren says maybe you’ll hear me even if I don’t need you,” Ashraf informed the wide blue horizon. There was no response, though he waited at least twenty seconds. Tentatively he continued, “Is it true? He says you know what’s happening all over the Port, even though you’re out here and we’re on land.”
Again, there was no response. Ashraf’s searching gaze grew less ambitious, dropping from the horizon and back to the water directly around him. That was when he spotted movement below.
It wasn’t a turtle this time. Something as broad and flat as the ocean floor itself rose quickly to meet him, and Ashraf caught the wooden side of the boat in alarm. As it drew closer he saw barnacles, scratches, ancient scars. It clicked suddenly into place: a whale. This was one of the enormous ones, longer than entire ships, only spotted at great distance off the island on their yearly path past it. They were peaceful giants, Ashraf knew, although he’d also heard stories of accidental capsizing on their breaches. A gentle animal could still cause harm, Peren had told him, and a canoe couldn’t ride out very much harm at all.
When the breach came, the boat rocked but held steady. It was a gentle motion, barely more than what the waves alone could do, even though the whale’s back had risen like a new sandbar close enough to touch. Ashraf did indeed touch, leaning half out of the boat to brush his fingers against the cold, wet wall of smooth skin. Rivulets of water ran down its dark gray flanks as it rose higher still, and Ashraf’s fingers trailed across it as the creature drifted slowly through the water. He watched it sink below the waves with a splash that sent him once again rocking, but this time he rode it out with a grin.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked of the empty air, the space where the whale had been. His answer was a second breach, this time to the other side. This one came with a puff of breath, the water venting magnificently twenty feet into the air overhead. Ashraf laughed in delight as it rained down, soaking his hair and clothing. An entire pod began to crest through the waves around him, all of them breathtakingly close but each of them threatening no more than a bumpy ride. Ashraf even met one deeply set eye, wide as the dinner table he and Peren ate from. He felt that it watched him as it passed, and in that solemn gaze he felt some kind of acknowledgment, some kind of joint understanding.
Ashraf was back at the church several hours late from fishing, but Peren, who always seemed to know when the boy had been speaking with gods, offered no scolding on his return.
“You think a god needs eyes, boy?” Peren had grumbled, his enormous and craggy firbolg frame filling the entire doorway of the little church as he swept its wooden porch and stairs.
Ashraf, perched on the wooden bannister, gave this a moment of consideration.
“Does he hear them?” he asked, and Peren snorted.
“Gods don’t need ears, either. If you need him, you reach out to him. Simple as that.”
“Will he be there even if I don’t need him?” Ashraf asked, unable but to wonder just what necessitated an actual need.
“Worth a try, ain’t it?” Peren grunted, and had gone on to drum up a few chores for idle hands to consider instead of endless questions, as was Ashraf’s preference.
This was the conversation that floated in his mind as he watched the gentle waves lap at the bow of his borrowed canoe. The fish were still biting, but he’d pulled in a good haul for the day some half hour ago and saw no need to keep baiting the line. Instead he’d taken to watching the life around him. Most of his company was fish, flashing silver through the glassy waves, or gulls, sweeping low for a mouthful of careless breakfast, but already his little boat had been briefly circled by three curious porpoises and nudged at by the broad back of a turtle nearly wider than the entire canoe. Ashraf had reached a hand to feel its shell once he was reasonably certain the little boat wouldn’t capsize, and he was rewarded with the texture of sea-slick ancient shell, so much more storied than the fist-sized babies that made the mad dash every year from sandy nest to surf.
But was the Sea Father here too? Ashraf darted a furtive look about him as if he might spot evidence of divine presence, but this far from the docks all he saw were easy waves and boats too far off for a canoe to hail.
“Peren says maybe you’ll hear me even if I don’t need you,” Ashraf informed the wide blue horizon. There was no response, though he waited at least twenty seconds. Tentatively he continued, “Is it true? He says you know what’s happening all over the Port, even though you’re out here and we’re on land.”
Again, there was no response. Ashraf’s searching gaze grew less ambitious, dropping from the horizon and back to the water directly around him. That was when he spotted movement below.
It wasn’t a turtle this time. Something as broad and flat as the ocean floor itself rose quickly to meet him, and Ashraf caught the wooden side of the boat in alarm. As it drew closer he saw barnacles, scratches, ancient scars. It clicked suddenly into place: a whale. This was one of the enormous ones, longer than entire ships, only spotted at great distance off the island on their yearly path past it. They were peaceful giants, Ashraf knew, although he’d also heard stories of accidental capsizing on their breaches. A gentle animal could still cause harm, Peren had told him, and a canoe couldn’t ride out very much harm at all.
When the breach came, the boat rocked but held steady. It was a gentle motion, barely more than what the waves alone could do, even though the whale’s back had risen like a new sandbar close enough to touch. Ashraf did indeed touch, leaning half out of the boat to brush his fingers against the cold, wet wall of smooth skin. Rivulets of water ran down its dark gray flanks as it rose higher still, and Ashraf’s fingers trailed across it as the creature drifted slowly through the water. He watched it sink below the waves with a splash that sent him once again rocking, but this time he rode it out with a grin.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked of the empty air, the space where the whale had been. His answer was a second breach, this time to the other side. This one came with a puff of breath, the water venting magnificently twenty feet into the air overhead. Ashraf laughed in delight as it rained down, soaking his hair and clothing. An entire pod began to crest through the waves around him, all of them breathtakingly close but each of them threatening no more than a bumpy ride. Ashraf even met one deeply set eye, wide as the dinner table he and Peren ate from. He felt that it watched him as it passed, and in that solemn gaze he felt some kind of acknowledgment, some kind of joint understanding.
Ashraf was back at the church several hours late from fishing, but Peren, who always seemed to know when the boy had been speaking with gods, offered no scolding on his return.
Xin Gods
A top favorite, he can get lost for ages in dreams. Dreams show you to the subconscious, a great way to check in with the self and recenter. He trusts her, and trusts that loyal service will see his questions answered in time. He calls on her often for magic, which is comes with an airy, dreamy quality. A waver of unreality, wounds heal as if they were nothing more than dreamed.
Rooyun
The other favorite; Rooyun seems most human and relatable to him. A god of comfort and stability, Ashraf looks to him for helpful magic, buffs etc. (Firestorm, when he's feeling spicy.) It comes with woodsmoke and cooking herbs, and the warm glow of sitting near the fireplace.
Gore Drinker
Brinir introduced him to this one, and he's a little starstruck. He's always admired and appreciated warriors and their physical prowess, and the Gore Drinker is the king of these. A powerful force, Ashraf views him with a healthy respect and admiration. He's not warrior class himself, he only dabbles.
He calls on Gore Drinker for battle magic — holy weapon, spiritual weapon, enhance ability, etc. The magic comes hard and fast, with a clash of steel and the coppery scent of spilled blood.
Chambreon & Elti
These gods are kind of paired in his mind, both powerful forces shattered by pain and trauma into unpredictability. They both have their domains and their gifts — he looks to Elti for sturdiness, every con save is with a prayer to the Green Expanse, every nature spell is with his blessing. His flavors are as varied as the types of earth, but there's an ever present crushing pressure to them.
Chambreon brings the magical force, the spells whose only purpose is firepower. Sharp ozone, the breathless chill of thin atmosphere. He doesn't call upon her often, he would rather ask Rooyun or Peryun to guide his magic, or Gore Drinker for the destruction.
Septeem
She has her uses, and he leans on them when necessary. Hold Person, Suggestion, Command; she's in the spells that enforce will upon the target, and they snap their bindings in place with the scent of iron and leather, old dark stone. Ashraf is not super into this, and is looking respectfully from a distance.
Demon Sleep
Well, he sparkles with divinity, so Ashraf is into it, but what a dark and terrible place he created. The jury is out on this god.
Bloody Snarl
No! Do not interact! ❌