As I write these correspondence, revealing the nature of one I find to be the most incredible of individuals, my reminiscing has forced me to comment on my lack of factual knowledge regarding the Deities I owe my existence to. Many mysteries surrounded my creator, the Ancient and his son, Ramza, at that time. One aspect of Deities that I am fully aware of now, but didn't even question back then, was how they reproduce. Did they have mothers? Who was Ramza's? The reason this thought strikes me now, was that Ramza's genuine personality did not suit one whose morality was modeled after the male half of his creators.
The aversion to violence was the only trait the two seemed to share, next to the Godsend power, obviously. Their views of the many alien races of our relatively new solar system varied, though. The Ancient was benevolent and empathetic for the most part, but rarely, if ever, made himself available to the needs of those many. He was responsive to us of his home planet of Oym, but even then, was aloof, like he wished to be anywhere then where he was.
Ramza, by contrast, took the additional step of actively interjecting in the lives of those same individuals, albeit clandestinely. He didn't want the people to believe in him, but in each other, which is why he went incognito. Like the time we were on Aphlis, the water world under the control of the Klugh. They are a race of conquerors who had subjugated every other race on the planet. It's unknown to this day how many sentient species existed under the seas of Aphlis, but they didn't live like they were under oppression. Ramza and I spent a great deal of time there; him as one of the Klugh and me, his living weapon, a rapierfish, learning of the Klugh and their culture.
The underwater city of Dehiemo held at least half a dozen distinct cultures, all living together in a harmony I rarely see off my own world. A little pixie dust gave us official documents signed by Gammon the Conqueror, ruler of the Klugh, that Ramza hands over to the city's Overseer, a Klugh whose typical burgundy skin was covered in tattoos that glew in the near lightless water.
We were assigned to patrol a neighborhood of homes made of the same substance as the Overseer's tattoos; a beautiful sight swimming into the city, if you have the benefit of night vision. During one such patrol, a school of whippersharkers had ambushed a group of teenage fish folk out for a good time.
The whippersharkers were doing what comes naturally to them, while the teens were daring the open waters surrounding the safety of the city, seeking adventure. My friend and I felt a kinship with them and humanely directed the carnivorous fish out to more easily preyed upon, non sentient sea life. The pacifist deity was conflicted by this outcome as well; for animals didn't eat each other where we were from, only the fruits and fauna found in nature. But the serpentine fish needed sustenance and neither of us had the ability to miraculously fill empty stomachs. Even with the ever versatile pixie dust, which should never be consumed or used on anything to be consumed. He had to choose which lives were unlucky that day, knowing that nothing he did could stave off the circle of life. Death was a constant threat to mortals everywhere and couldn't be prevented. But sometimes, those who bring finality, do so under nefarious reasons and those are the people that deserve Ramza's righteous anger.
Those like Van Black, who, during his epic encounter with the Deity of Unluck, had no qualms in the taking of life. I can remember as clear as if it were yesterday; my lovely wife, yelling at the holoview image of a shadow with striking muscle definition, approaching a distracted Ramza from behind. With no natural light in the Underbay, it was hard to tell, but Van Black's open hand looked like it was vibrating. The four women in view were chained together by the ankles and wrists, clamoring out the back of the overturned transport with Ramza's help and only had time to react to the danger with wide eyed fear.
The decision to free the captives override self preservation and he gripped the chains between two captives with glowing hands. The bonds crumbled to rust colored dust, a microsecond before Van Black's shaking palm entered Ramza, mid back. My friend actually screamed, scattering the freed women into a run from the wreak. The Superstar from Quil extracted his hand, while light brighter than the star engulfed him. Van Black recoiled from it, hands to its featureless face, while the light produced by the wound he caused, seals up, the clothing gone from Ramza's bare back. Simultaneously, the smooth stone form of a Yuni emerged from the cab of the vehicle with a look of confusion.
"After the merchandise," howled a voice of deep baritone that made my wife jump in her leafy seat. The Yuni leapt from wreak, dashing off screen, followed by two big bodied Dagons, one on foot, the other, piloting a two man hovorskift. Ramza was preparing to intercept, when Van Black slammed him across the face with a fist that issued a whip like crack from the holoview. The Deity went through the box vehicle and into a nearby, graffiti covered, squat building. Van Black pursued him in a mad dash, but stopped short when Ramza flew from the crumbling structure in pursuit of the slavers.
The holocams caught my dear friend freeing a Human woman from the grip of a slaver with a wrist lock. The taller Dagon uttered no sound I could hear as it pulled a lancer pistol and fired it in Ramza's face. The beam of energy was absorbed into his pores, then extinguished by Ramza crushing the weapon with a free hand. He casually tosses the Dagon off screen and my wife and I laugh upon hearing the cluttering of a disrupted trash pile. The woman was about to rush to his side, I'm assuming in thanks; Ramza greets her with a smile, then he receives another punch to the head, which sends her fleeing into the darkness.
Ramza returned Van Black's blow with one of his own and the two were once again in a whirlwind of fists and feet. Ramza's movements were slow enough for me to see clearly, which my beautiful wife picked up on instantly. "What's wrong with Ramza? He's moving is much more sluggish."
I didn't respond, watching my friend get knocked to the pocket marked street with a powerful kick. Van Black came in for a landing on top of him, but Ramza was no longer there, or anywhere on screen. The holoview splits between Van Black rising on a cloud of green radiated particles, head swerving in search of his opponent and Ramza, freeing another former captive, this one a Dycordian, from the Yuni. Ramza used a nearby street light to bend around the slaver. He turned to comfort the woman, only to find her running down an alley. The screen condenses once more and Ramza was again locked in brutal combat.
He must have seen or heard something not picked up on holocam, since he abandons the fight again, causing another split in the coverage. When it finds him half a minute later, the Deity was standing next to the crashed hoverskift, while the Dagon, bleeding from a gash in the rough looking skin of his forehead, held a lancer gun next to the head of the Tilris captive who initially begged for Ramza's help.
"I'll blow her damn head off," the slaver screamed. Unbelievably, at that very moment, the scenery of my living room and the company of my wife was changed to that of the Ancient, reclining on a cloud, drink in hand, within his relaxation chambers.
"Were you aware that Deities can die?" The Ancient's words were matter of fact, my response was gibberish, as I recall; my mind still reeling from my creator's teleportation method. I was used to instantaneous transport, thanks to pixie dust, but having it done without warning or consent was jarring on my senses.
"Ramza is essentially immortal," he went on after taking a sip from his golden goblet. "His power can be taxed, however. The more he expels, the more injuries his body is forced to heal, the more it eats away at his Godsend." The cloud on which my creator watched his son do battle was magnitudes larger then the setup in my home, and the picture of Van Black's slow ascent over a building that was missing half itself, brought me back to mental stability.
"What happens if it runs out?"
"He becomes that which he loves so much," was the reply, as flat and unemotional as I've ever heard him speak. "He becomes mortal." My creator emptied his goblet in his mouth, then refills it with a wave of the hand. "As weak as a standard Human."
This answer surprised me. I never gave it any thought before, but the Ancient and son both appeared Human, from the type of hair to the number of fingers and toes. If not for the Godsend that separated them from the mortal coil, they would be indistinguishable from the frail, flightless beings. Was Ramza's mother a Human? Was the Ancient's? My thoughts drifted briefly to the times Ramza and I spent with them. We split a century between living among the Humans of Earth, and those of Braloor, and I must say, the differences are more then just what planet they live on.
Both share the same aspects on the surface, body design the same, as well as the multitude of hair and skin colors. The similarities end there; those of Braloor depend heavily on magic, while Earth, more on technology. Both are capable of unique ingenuity in the application of these advantages, and for some reason I was never able to learn the origin of, hated each other to the point neither were welcome on the other's planet. Our time spent on Braloor was unlike that of any time experienced on the other worlds, and one that best fits the narrative I am attempting to coherently weave together.
It was 1035-080-TC, so memorable was this event, the date has been forever etched in my memory. We had been living life for the past few decades as guidance counselors for the Institute of the Acolyte, where all Braloorians who wished to attend school had to enroll. The ages for attendees were as young as eight and as old as twelve and Ramza felt that these next generation of Humans would benefit the most from our millennias worth of wisdom. We were aiding a youth in his decision on which secondary school he would attend when he turned thirteen, when an Armageddon Event alarm was issued by the institute's Headmaster.
Armageddon Events were when a practitioner of magic loses control over their actions and go on sprees of devastation. The government format of this world was anarchy; citizens were allowed to do what they wanted, when they wanted, provided they graduate from at least three of the twelve institutes set up by the Wise Ones of Braloor. As Humans could be quite emotional, this type of society was sure to bred those of ill will. This particular event was on a scale of five, the highest of event measurements and required every mage on the planet who was combat worthy. The Headmaster of the Institute of the Acolyte and a Wise One, a sly woman named Lew Boza, would led a counter attack.
The Armageddon Event was a child whose magical Talent level was higher then any Human currently on the planet. She had destroyed an island of special students and was floating across the continent, raining destruction on everything in her path. When we confronted the child, it was over a crater we were told had been a place of healing. I could see rendered bodies below where Ramza and I floated next to dozens of flying carpets ridden by determined Master Mages and their Apprentices.
My friend asked for a chance to talk to the child, but was denied. Up to that point, the other instructors saw the two of us only as a moderate mage and his familiar. After the intense battle that followed, a battle that, even with Ramza present, led to many deaths, my friend was acknowledged by the Wise Ones as a true god of pacifism and wisdom. It was the child that was known as The Set that made me doubt the so-called weakness of mortals. And here was another mortal, posing an even greater threat to a much more powerful then before, Ramza.
"He's distracted," the Ancient was saying as I refocused my attention to Ramza as he was trying to talk the slaver into releasing his captive. "Leave them to their fate, my son, or the Death Hand will defeat you."
"He won't lose." The words had slipped from my mouth before I could prevent them. Thankfully, my creator didn't seem to hear my disagreement. My great and noble friend, who fights for a peace that was currently in a state of disillusion within a galactic puzzle pieced together by an unknown that could be a Deity itself, would never fall to one so devoid of anything humane, that features could not be bothered to manifest on his oval head.
The slaver was screaming still at Ramza, who held his hands up in a peaceful gesture. When the huge man blinked, my friend held his weapon in one hand and the slaver by the collar of his tunic. The woman blinked in surprise before smiling up at her savior. The holocam took on a green hue that obscured all vision, accompanied by the sound of rushing wind and screams. The screaming was almost familiar and when I could make out the origin, my heart sunk to my belly. Ramza stood holding the extremely thin, bleached bones of the Tilris, the remains of the Dagon at his feet. The ungodly noise was an enraged Ramza, eyes blazing white hot as it turned towards the camera. Fear struck me like a tidal wave and I thought, for an instant, the Ancient had took matters into his omniscient hands; but the view pans out to capture Van Black on his green cloud, hands steaming with the same color.
"He wanted Ramza's full attention," the Ancient was smiling broadly, eyes sparkling as well, but no where near as bright. "Now, he will have it."
The energy emitting around my friend was volumes greater then any past conflict ever produced. He came at Van Black with a fist that would have impaled the Death Hand, but struck the solid air of his Aura Cloak. The cloud whisked its rider away, Ramza giving chase, and ran into a giant fist of radiation. It had no effect, the Deity plowing through it as if it were composed of the clouds of his father's home. Van Black met his charge with a glowing fist of his own. It landed clean on Ramza's cheek, sending him crashing through the street below. He was back in less then a second, a flying kick knocked Van Black over two dozen meters back, cloud still underfoot. Ramza was glowing with more brilliance then the seconds before.
The Ancient was resting his white haired head on the knuckles of his right hand, the goblet of refreshment now gone. His eyes were half closed, like he was bored, but they never left the clash of the two titanic powers.
"It's the adulations of others that recharges him." The words were so softly spoken, I barely heard them over the den of battle. Van Black tackled Ramza out the air and they disappeared into a building. The structure looked more together then its neighbors so there had to be others inside; more innocents for him to protect.
"I must help him." The thought that I might offend the father by suggesting his son needed the aid of a mere Pixan, never occurred to me.
My creator didn't move an inch, but his voice was huskier. "Outside help is prohibited."
"My Lord, may I return home?"
"God speed, friend Plunk."
I was in my dwelling of earth and fauna the following instant, scaring my wife off the leaf couch to flutter about near the grass ceiling. "Plunk, my Ancient, you startled me!"
She lands next to me, her light green house dress billowing around her thick calves. "Where did you go?"
I hug her tight and she returns the affection. I pull back, looking her in the eye, then turn to the holoview. Ramza and Van Black were pummeling each other on the street, both glowing white and green, respectively. My friend was no longer a miniature sun, chasing away the shadows that rule the Underbay, but still luminated the crevices of every mortal made structure in sight, I'm sure even beyond the geodome.
"Ramza needs our assistance." I explained what the Ancient revealed about Ramza and my plan to help. She rushed to her wand on the table in front of the holoview and with an elegant wave, for the third time in as many minutes, I was transported somewhere else. For the second time, I also scare someone I care about half out their skin.
Kimukor, my Taurus friend, tossed the apples he was picking over his head with a cry when I popped up in front of him. His back legs bucked up, involuntarily, but he was quick enough to compose himself and speak before I had the chance. "Plunk? Have you recovered from our last adventure, that you desire another?"
"Ramza needs help."
"Our god never needs-"
"It's different this time," I exclaimed, maybe a bit too harshly. "This may sound weird, but I need you to tell as many people as fast as possible, to tune in to Coalition Carnage and watch Ramza fight."
"That is weird."
On a world where it was impossible to so much as shove another in anger, televised programming depicting violence did not draw in the ratings. And not everyone owed a holoview; the Taurus live without modern conveniences, while the Sandmen spend any time not inserting dreams and extracting nightmares within their oceans of sand. I'm not sure about the Sandmen, but the Taurus still had means of watching the Deity of Pureness, the title some of them refer to for Ramza. Which was why Kimukor was the Taurus to come to. When gathered together in prayer, they could mentally see the Deity, from which they make supplications. Kimukor had mental links established with more Taurus then any one I know. Doing this and praying for a victory, was the best I could hope for.
Using the pixie dust I equipped myself with before visiting Kimukor, I go to a quaint village of straw and heated mud houses. Atop each dwelling were sophisticated looking dishes that felt completely out of place. One such structure I remembered from a previous adventure involving a disgruntled Gnimini broadcasting himself singing on every holoview, that got progressively louder. The Gnimini who helped catch the culprit was seating on his porch, drinking a steaming liquid from a cup.
"Why, if it isn't the Deity's little pet," Rigmore Rubenit, founder of the Gnimini News Network, GNN for short, said in a barking laugh. He was no taller then three feet and wore a pointy red hat that added an additional foot. "Care for a hot cup of-"
"Ramza needs help." The words were heavy on my tongue every time I uttered them. They carried a weight that Rigmore picked up instantly. He tossed the remains of his beverage in the neat and even grass surrounding his and all the other homes in uniform.
"Come on," he waved at me to follow him through his front door, the speed of his movement reminded me that Gnimini were swift when motivated. "Explain."
One hurried explanation later, and he was at his electronic workstation, stubby, but agile fingers moving along the doodads of the computer terminal. He paused, takes in a breath, and turns to me. "Lots of folks are going to be cross with me."
"I will take all the blame. Where do you want me? Over here?" I take my place before a floating orb with one electronic eye. I made sure the cam-bot and I hovered at the same level, when Rigmore gave me the go ahead. I clear my throat and begin my speech. I won't go into too much detail into what I said. Honestly, I just said what my heart and not my head told me to say. I know I had to make it quick and convincing enough to have people switch stations to watch a battle that I hoped wouldn't scar their minds. I'm the only person I know to have witnessed every Coalition Carnage; a few friends have seen some with me and Lorix only just started watching Ramza's contests, but by and large, I don't think a quarter of Oym's population even knew he was participating.
I dusted back to an empty house, knowing it would be pointless to visit the Sandmen. They were not known for their fond words or thoughts when interrupting them from their activities. Ramza needed encouragement, prayer, so to speak. The holoview was showing my friend avoiding a thrown building, then emitting light from his finger tips that disintegrated the incoming radioactive hands. Ramza was notably less vibrant as he blocked a knee from Van Black that shook the air with a boom.
Lorix appeared soundlessly in our living room with the scent of sweet spice, her favorite aroma. "All done," she announced with a quick smile and kiss. "Of course, that Lily Gloom was like, 'Since when do the gods need us?' 'Since today!' I told her. 'Our Deity of Unluck wants us to cheer him and that's what we're going to do!'" My wife sat, legs crossed, pulling at the hem of her dress. "The women will be sure every Pixan household is tuning in."
"The Daughters of Oym come through again," I said, returning her earlier kiss. We focus on the battle as the subject of our concern was contending with Van Black and his two giant hands. Ramza's earlier glow returned in a sudden flash of brilliance, and two more giant hands appeared in the air above him. These were the pulsing white that radiated from the Deity and responded to his will, grappling, fingers intertwined with those of the orange variety. The landscape around them was practically decimated. A few untouched, by the combatants at least, structures sat in the light produced by Ramza. It would be better to keep these terribly vandalized dwellings under the cover of darkness.
The Superstars mimicked their humongous creations, locked in a test of strength. Their bodies strain, Ramza with eyes of white fire, teeth shown in a grimace instead of a grin, sweat shining on his skin, hair clamping to his face. It came as a shock that Ramza could sweat. He was suddenly on one knee, the pavement beneath the warriors cracking under the strain. He told me afterwards that the gravity around him had increased to the point he needed all his strength just to stay upright.
Van Black's control over radiation allowed him to, not only use the gravity produced by the spin of the planet, but also absorb at least a portion of the light generated by Ramza. This type of Soul Style had been used multiple times throughout the centuries, yet never to this degree of skill and strength. Once again, I wonder at the identity of the masked man.
Van Black rocked Ramza with a gravity powered kick to his sternum. Ramza freed a hand to throw a wild punch that missed, and was struck yet again. More and more of the Death Hand's strikes were connecting, but Ramza was far from done, catching both of his opponents fists in his palms. Holding form, my friend rose to his full height, body glowing brighter then ever, to ram his head into Van Black's faceless skull. It was the mysterious one who took a knee this time, but only for a second. He was back up, body glowing a larger volume of leaf green then before, matching Ramza's blinding light.
Lightning flashed with explosive suddenness between the two with enough force to part the unbelievable duo. Lorix squeaked in shock; standing next to a still glowing Ramza, was the Ancient. The Father Deity's eyes mirrored his son's and he stared right in the holocam, words like thunder.
"Ramza forfeits." Actual thunder signaled the Deities were gone. I turn to my wife, who already held her wand. "I love you," she said before she sent me as close to the Ancient's home as his decree would allow. It was a seven minute flight before I saw the ivory castle nestled in a bank of clouds. I wondered what I would find as I enter through the cloud floor into the audience chamber, where I knew they would be. It was as expected, Ramza protesting his forced surrender and his father attempting to explain how close his son came to becoming 'the mundane'.
I was there less then a minute before my friend said we should go. I take my place on his shoulder and he sinks below the cloud floor the way I came in. As we flew off, he explained the argument I missed and that his father would teach him how to control Tier Beta energy more effectively. He also wanted to dull his son's empathy so he could focus on the bigger picture of preserving the many over the few. Particularly, if the few were 'low of life' as he coined the term.
My inner thoughts are just as troubled as my friend's outward mannerisms as the first twinkle of Ramza's parentage wriggled in my brain. I wish with every fiber of my being, that what I know now, I knew back then. I would have told him who his mother was and why, for reasons I will not put to record at this juncture, she left him as a crying infant at the foot of the Ancient's throne.
End chapter