tell me, cecilli, may i love you?

Orwynna tried knocking a few times. Quite a few times, really. The first time she slammed her fist at the front doors to the palace, she was greeted by a sullen attendant who just escorted her back out to the path and locked the entry gate.

So she hopped the fence and tried to sneak into the bestiary through the back entrance. She would have made it too, if it weren't for the fuss some of the magical birds kicked up upon seeing her again. The ruckus drew just a little too much attention, and Orwynna was once more escorted from the grounds.

Indignant but unwilling to put the beasts in danger, Orwynna stuck her tongue out in the direction of the castle and stuck out into the woods. Once she was sure she was out of sight of any castle watchtowers, she sat down to plan.

She needed to break out the beasts somehow.

Fortunately, Orwynna had enough experience taking the magical beasts out around the castle grounds that she felt she had a decent chance at sneaking in without getting caught so easily again. If it was about the noise from the beasts recognizing her, she could always just disguise herself and wait for the particularly loud ones to be asleep.

It took Orwynna most of the day to finalize her plans and backup plans, though she was unsure how useful her backup plans would be in the moment, considering she was attempting to infiltrate the royal castle itself, and alone at that.

No matter, she wasn't going to find more success if she was sleep deprived.

In the young hours of the morning, just as the sun started on its path across the sky, Orwynna was awoken by a soft, wet nose and the sudden crowing of what she recognized, even in her mostly asleep state, as a griffin.

Orwynna sat up and wiped the slumber from her eyes, then looked around in silent disbelief. She blinked a couple of times, as if to dispel the dreams from her waking world, but the magical beasts surrounding her faded not, and Orwynna took a deep breath.

Next to her, the griffin nipped at her wrist and she dug her hands deep into the feathers at his shoulders, ruffling them as he butted his beak into her chest. A fawn, taller than deer should be and who Orwynna guessed to be the owner of the wet nose, grazed nearby, but as Orwynna stood, the fawn met her gaze and bleated softly.

Orwynna looked around and counted. Aside from the griffin and the fawn, a cockatrice, four pegasi and a pair of caduceus snakes were gathered around her. The snakes slid up her legs and Orwynna did her best not to flinch until they each were perched on one of her shoulders. Orwynna smiled to herself and, sparing just a glance back toward the castle, climbed aboard the griffin's back.

"I can't do that. The heroes are getting restless. They need a villain."

"You must be quite desperate, then, coming to me."

Myorik turns back to Ioranh and his eyes glow bright white. He steeples his fingers and considers the young god for just a moment before tossing a key made of bone at Ioranh. They fumble and drop it, then lean down to pick it up. Myorik swallows a laugh.

"That should keep them distracted for some time."

Ioranh clutches the key to their chest and makes a strangled sound, as if they have a question but can't bring themself to ask it. They leave without another word, leaving Myorik alone with the hollow clanging of the door.

A week later, Ioranh returns, fierce and with renewed vigor. They stomp up to the door of Myorik's manor and ring the bell, sending a clear clanging through the entire house. Myorik peers down at them from the library, seated on a plush bench in the bay window.

"Curious," he murmurs.

As soon as Ioranh is let in, they follow him straight to the library and hold out their hand. Myorik narrows his eyes and ignores it.

"The heroes dealt with the skeleton army. They're ready for your next move."

"I do not have a next move."

"What's your plan, then?" Ioranh frowns.

"I have no plan."

"Then how are the heroes supposed to defeat you?"

"By leaving me alone. As they have done thus far."

Ioranh scoffs. "I'll figure out your secret plan soon enough."

"I told you, I don't have one."

"Then why did you give me the key?"

Myorik whirls around, glaring. "To get you to leave."

"Oh."

Ioranh takes a step back, sets their jaw again. They roll a question on their tongue and Myorik waits for their next words with a sigh already bubbling from his throat.

"You're a lich. You're supposed to want to stand in the way of the heroes. I don't believe you."

And just like that, Ioranh is gone once more. Myorik stares in muted disbelief at the spot where they had just been standing, then sits down and begins to write mindlessly. His troubles are only beginning, it seems, and he doesn't have a clue how to stop what Ioranh seems hellbent on accomplishing.

Days pass in silent monotony, days that quickly turn into weeks. Myorik basks in the quiet routine that his life has returned to, now that there is no young foolish deity at his door, begging for trouble.

Until there is.

Two months after their second visit, Ioranh shows up a third time having grown much too quickly into their godhood. He can see the power bursting from their pores in a soft, ambient purple glow that lingers on their skin. Ioranh watches him for a minute and then just smiles.

"I figured it out, you know."

"What?"

"The key." Ioranh's smile widens.

"And what did you do with it?"

Myorik's stomach turns. He is already anticipating the answer he does not want to hear. He doesn't want to hear it. He does not want to hear it ever.

"Well, the first few copies of it went rather haywire, summoning strange nonsensical skeletons."

Myorik stops listening. It is exactly what he had hoped Ioranh would stay away from. But Ioranh keeps talking.

"Luckily, the heroes all thought that came from you, so they're a much more united front now. They have a common enemy. Oh, but the last few attempts yielded fair results."

"I see."

"I'm quite proud of myself, really. The celestial powers I have are really good for creating undead that are stronger than yours, actually."

Myorik winces and whispers, "That's not a good thing."

"Hm? Are you praising me? Don't, it feels slimy." Ioranh shivers. "Anyway, I'm not going to do your job for you forever, so get off your arse soon and give them a real fight."

"You don't need to do anything for me, least of all this job you've hoisted onto me."

"Do you have other minions, by the way? Or is it just skeletons?"

Myorik's eyes blaze white again and his lip curls into half a snarl that shakes Ioranh out of their giddiness. As if remembering who they're talking to, they shut their mouth, one hand suddenly surrounded with celestial fire instinctively. Myorik points at the door. Ioranh does not argue.

The next time Ioranh rings his bell, months have passed, nearly totaling a year, and Myorik has nearly forgotten all about the spritely young god hounding him. He answers the door himself, then slams the door when he sees who it is.

For a moment, he does not recognize the face he caught a glimpse of. Their eyes carry a burning curiosity that sends Myorik into a panic, the first real panic he has felt in many, many centuries. There is a sort of frantic energy buzzing around them and it seeps through the closed door, through the cracks in Myorik's mental walls, until Myorik can almost see the schematics snowballing in their mind.

The bell rings.

And then it rings again, then again and again until the manor itself is all but ringing.

Myorik wipes a hand over his face. Then he opens the door.

"You need to tell me what's going wrong with them."

For the first time, Myorik looks behind Ioranh and actually sees what they have brought to him. On his doorstep, wildly out of place in the span of woods where his manor sits, is an army of creatures he has never seen before.

Skeletal remains twisted into horrifying caricatures of the life they attempt to resemble have fused with the celestial power Ioranh possesses, leaving them bursting at the seams with raw energy. Some look as if they might explode at the slightest touch. Most of them glow with the same purple glow Myorik saw on Ioranh before.

In fact, Ioranh's celestial purple glow is stronger than ever, and their shoulders are set with a newfound confidence, contrasting the confusion and uncertainty in their eyes.

"I cannot advise you with this. You have created abominations, young god."

Ioranh levels an accusatory finger at Myorik. "You started this."

"I gave you a distraction for your precious little heroes. You catalyzed the rest. Fix your own mess."

"I don't know how. So I'm coming to you for advice."

"I have never attempted to bring together two so strongly opposed domains into a single being before. I have no advice for you."

Myorik shuts his door and walks away before Ioranh can say any more. He ignores the ringing of the bell, and when it continues long into the night, longer than he thought possible, he retreats into the basement cellar, the one place he left with no such bells, and reads the silent night away.

For a few years, all is as it should have been from the start. No heroes come to his door, no godlings ring his bell. Myorik resumes the life he had been living, as if he had never met Ioranh at all. In time, he pushes the memory of Ioranh out of his mind altogether.

Until once again, that memory lands on his doorstep.

Myorik floats through the entryway of his manor, headed toward the bath, when a loud thud echoes through the foyer. He cocks a brow, then opens the door a crack.

"P... please."

The voice is dry and strained, and when Myorik looks down, he can only wonder what it was that he might have done differently to prevent this.

Ioranh is sitting--well, sitting is generous--on his stoop, leaned up against the doorway. Their clothes are intact but scorched all over, the celestial fabrics just barely enduring whatever it is they walked through. Streaks of burned skin on their face betrays that they have cried one too many celestial tears, and as Ioranh shifts painfully, Myorik counts more injuries than healthy parts of their body.

"What did you do, you foolish young god?"

"I fought them. My creations. I've broken my own power thresholds three times over, you know. I'm stronger than you."

"And yet you are here, at my door, all but begging for my help."

"I don't need your help," Ioranh snarls. It doesn't seem that they even believe their own words.

"Very well."

Myorik moves to close the door and Ioranh barks out something that almost sounds like "wait." He looks at them and they gasp for breath, nearly heaving the contents of their stomach in the process. Myorik is patient. He waits. And waits. And waits.

"I do. I do need your help. Desperately."

Myorik closes his door and Ioranh starts to sob. The sound is muffled through the thick walls of his manor, and yet even as he walks away, Myorik cannot shake the pitiful wailing from his head. He heads straight for the vault in the basement, removing a small pan flute.

When Myorik opens the door again, Ioranh has fresh burns on their face, and they try to stand but lose the strength to do so very quickly. Myorik hands them the flute without a words and trundles back into his home. He will not open his door again, not if it means more of this.

A decade passes, a blink of an eye really, for a creature like Myorik. He has long forgotten what the passage of time really feels like, and even young liches will see twenty years pass without flinching. It is as such for immortals and near immortals, and Myorik is no exception. The occasional wanderer finds his manor in moments of desperation and he wards them off as usual with delusions and hallucinations, just as he has always done. The forest is quiet, and all is well.

Until, and he should come to expect this by now, it isn't.

Myorik answers the ringing bell to see Ioranh, aged far beyond their godly years, leaning heavily on the railing of his front stairs. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. It seems to nearly blow Ioranh over. Their purple celestial glow has dimmed considerably and it does naught to hide the gauntness of their cheeks or the way their limbs can barely hold themselves up, let alone the rest of their body.

"I am quite the sight, aren't I?" Ioranh chuckles weakly, and their entire form rattles.

"Why are you here yet again?"

"Odd, isn't it, that the only person to have shown me any kindness is the one monster I should be fighting with all my might."

"Odd, isn't it? I have shown you no kindness whatsoever."

"And yet I serve superiors crueler still." Ioranh lifts a papery arm. "I am drained of any significant power I had even two years ago, and still the upper celestials are not satisfied."

Myorik purses his lips. "Why?"

"They insist I find a way to bring the villainy out of you. As if the only way they can feel fulfilled is if the heroes are dependent on them."

"The very nature of a celestial domain fueled by humanity's belief in them is to continually prove its own usefulness. When left without a villain to tower over humanity, the gods become irrelevant."

"Indeed." Ioranh sighs bitterly.

"This is a longstanding truth, young god, one I could have told you much earlier on."

"I wouldn't have wanted to listen. And now it is too late."

Ioranh wobbles, and Myorik reaches out a hand to steady them. He doesn't know why. It just happens. They put up a hand to stop him, though it takes all of their strength to do even that.

"I will not last much longer. I can already feel myself withering away. There is no need to help me anymore."

"Then I ask again. Why are you here?"

"Your secret plan. I've figured it out."

Myorik shakes his head. "I told you when you first came to me, and I'll tell you now. I don't have one."

"No," Ioranh mumbles, and they start to sway dangerously. "But I'm going to give you one."

Ioranh takes out a jeweled dagger swimming in necrotic energy and Myorik recognizes it as one of his own. His stomach curdles with one last prediction that he hopes desperately, as he has done every time Ioranh has showed up, is wrong.

Once more, Myorik is proven devastatingly correct.

Ioranh takes Myorik's arm and in one swift motion, forces his hand to plunge the dagger straight into their heart. Celestial blood oozes out of the wound in rivers of golden light, godly ichor that drips away into nothing as it leaves Ioranh's body. Not a single drop even makes it to the ground.

Myorik stares in horror as Ioranh collapses into a heap at his feet. He drops the dagger and it bounces off the edge of the stairs, but Ioranh only smiles peacefully. They look grateful. Myorik bites back nausea.

"I finally made you a villain, you know. You've killed a god."

Two months later, or perhaps two years later, Slaide looks up from her book as the door opens. The plants have been moved to the other side of the room to give her a clear view of incoming customers, and as the door clicks closed again Slaide cocks one eyebrow.

"You're here again."

The warrior almost smiles. "Good day."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Is it dangerous here?" The warrior frowns.

"Not like that. You shouldn't be able to come here a second time."

Slaide closes her book around an old receipt and leans forward, resting her chin on her hands. The warrior's face remains stoically warm even as she sizes them up. Inquisitive brown eyes, a wide nose, and the slightest of twitches at the edge of their lip.

"Very well. You're here now. What would you like?"

"Same as last time. Just one dream, something nice for my daughter."

"What's her name?"

"Mattie." The warrior folds their hands. "Not short for anything. Just Mattie."

Slaide laughs. "My mother was like that. Just Emmie."

The dream crackles with dying firelight this time, and even in the warrior's pocket, Slaide can see its glow. The warrior gives her a shallow bow and with hardly a sound, is just gone again.

For who knows how long, every so often, the warrior strides silently through Slaide's doors and orders the same dream for their daughter. Slaide has never been one for keeping track of time, but she starts to anticipate the warrior's visit, regular as it is.

It takes the warrior longer than usual to show up at Slaide's door, one day. She watches the entrance to her store apprehensively, and though she tries to distract herself, her gaze ends up drifting back to the door anyway.

By the end of the day, the warrior has not come, and Slaide chews on her bottom lip. but closes her shop for the night regardless. The warrior shouldn't have been able to find her shop more than once anyway, but they had become a familiar face.

Early the next morning, when Slaide unlocks the shop to open up, the warrior is sitting on the step, dozing lightly. She feels her heart hammering in her chest at the surprise but says nothing, instead leaning down to shake the warrior's shoulder.

"Hey, I'm guessing you didn't mean to fall asleep here."

The warrior blinks and raises their head, then stands hurriedly, brushing the dirt from their pants.

"I'm so sorry, I arrived later then closing hours and earlier than opening. I didn't know where else to go."

"No need to apologize," says Slaide. "Come in, I'll bottle the dream for you."

The warrior smiles sadly, the first full smile Slaide has seen from them, and shakes their head.

"I don't need it anymore. My daughter has grown and I have fulfilled my final wish."

Slaide absorbs the new information, takes a deep breath in and slowly lets it out. She nods and waves the warrior into her shop, and before the warrior can protest she bottles a single dream, a larger and clearer dream than any she has bottled before, and presses it into the warrior's hand.

"For you, then. For the first friend I have made in a long time, and the only regular I have ever had in my entire tenure as shopkeep here."

"Thank you," says the warrior, a tear slipping down their cheek.

"You are very welcome."

Slaide keeps her gaze firmly trained on the warrior even as they start to fade. Before they even make it to the door, they are gone, leaving only the empty dream bottle and a rusty, blood stained sword. Slaide picks up the sword and turns to the wall behind her, then hangs it under a withered and long dried flower crown.