Ace

Gods are a constant on the face of Sorneith. You cannot turn a corner without seeing a temple, or shrine. Where there is life, gods exist, coaxed into being by the intelligence and magical energies of those around them. There are of course the Big Eleven, the leaders of the Flights, but there are countless smaller gods, worshiped in their own way. Gods of trade crop up in areas where the Windsinger is not worshiped, gods of thunder and lightning in areas where no-one dares utter the name of the Stormcatcher.

Whether these smaller gods are their own entities, or merely facets of the greater Gods, is a matter of fierce debate among theologians.

What is agreed is that in order for many gods to exist in an area, a high concentration of sentient life forms is necessary, otherwise the emotion and thought necessary is unsustainable. So what happens in areas where life is sparse, intelligent creatures few and far between, the largest settlement barely what would qualify as a village? In areas like the Wasteland, where few dare to venture and even fewer stay?

Gods in the Waste are rare, but there are a few.

Ace slept, as he tends to do. Gods with few worshipers spend most of their time awaiting incantation or summoning. His sister, Heimenia, was there as well – although she was also overseeing several rites going on around the Waste, begging her for clear skies and fruitful bounties from what few farms could operate in the grand desert.

A single voice clawed its way into his mind. A dragon, one who did not truly believe, but who had nowhere else to turn. His name, cried into the empty winds. Ace normally would not be compelled by such a weak cry from one who did not truly believe in him – but something in the voice caught his attention, lodged in his mind. This was the voice of one innocent of crimes accused.

Quick as a flash, he coalesced his manifestation, nodding to Heimenia as he sent a portion of himself out to the middle of one of the many desert flats. He beheld a single dragon, buried in the sands until only its head protruded. A common, brutal method of execution in the Waste. As Ace slowly approached, he heard the chant of his name. No specific rite, no true invocation, just the desperate cry of one who had no other options.

“Speak, child. Why do you call upon me?”

The buried dragon, clearly startled, responded quickly “Ace! By all that is holy, I beseech you, I will do whatever you wish, let true justice be done!” With this he was silenced by one of Ace's talons upon his scaly lips.

“You did not truly believe until this moment. We are both aware. Still, I have heard your plea, and I would hear it in more detail.”

And so he sat, listening to the dragon's tale as the hot day crept towards the cold night. The dragon finally panted, exhausted, dehydrated even more than he would've been from his incessant talking. The situation was clear to Ace and, as god of Justice, he knew the tale he was told was true down to the last detail.

This dragon was accused of a murder. A clanmate had been killed when a heavy forge hammer had fallen off a high shelf – the victim's own fault, as they had been the clan blacksmith and hadn't secured the tool properly. The accused had simply been the first to stumble upon the body, but hadn't been able to find anyone to tell before others had come across him standing near their former craftsman.

The how had been obvious, and in the Waste, not much thought was ever put into why. Ace had heard “Throw 'em in the desert, and let the Gods sort them out” so often that he considered it an informal prayer. Sort them out indeed! He huffed, a heavy breath that unsettled the dragon before him.

“Please, Ace, whatever price I will owe will be worth it to be accepted by my village again.” The God nodded, and quietly spoke a summons to his sister. The goddess – or at least a large portion of her consciousness – was there instantly.

“Dear sister, Heimenia, heal this dragon and ensure he wants not for food or water. For justice to be served, he must live.” The goddess, in her usual form as a graceful Skydance, nodded and waved her paw above the buried accused. His face brightened, losing the tellltale discoloration of sunburn and his flesh filling out as the water in his tissue was replenished.

“Gods, I cannot truly find the words to express... Thank you.” Ace simply nodded again. “They will come to see if you are dead. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. We will stay.”

A week went by before the villagers bothered to check on the accused dragon – well after any dragon would have died of thirst in the desert, even if they were able to move. Ace growled to himself. They really had wanted to ensure a guilty verdict if they weren't even going to give the dragon a sliver of a chance to survive without intervention.

The surprise when the village's delegation arrived was total. The judge and jurors gasped as the accused, smiling and calm, asked how quickly they could dig him out, and would you please hurry up with those shovels? One villager hefted the shovel – but not to dig, to bludgeon and cut. Ace could take no more; this was not justice.

He stepped out, manifesting his physical form as he stepped in front of the attacker and intercepted the blow. The shovel, wood and metal, decayed and rusted as it breached his flesh, disintegrating in the attacker's hands. They stumbled back, dropping what remained of the handle in their panic.

“You accuse him. I, Ace, God of Justice, am here to exonerate him. The true killer has already been buried, as the victim was only truly victim to his own carelessness. So the accused tells me, and so I hear the truth in his words. Dig him up, and return him to your village as my priest. Know that I am watching him.”

A puff of smoke and Ace was gone from their sight, the only proof he had been there being a few drops of god-blood sizzling on the sand and a broken shovel. The villagers shared a glance that spoke volumes, and began digging. The dragon who was buried was teary-eyed with joy. This would be his price – to be a priest of Ace, spending the remainder of his life worshiping and espousing the rituals of his patron. A worthwhile existence for one such as him.