Empire: Total War Heaven

The gods were angry.

Very angry.

Pissed off beyond a comprehensible degree would be a better phrase. And probably more accurate.

It all started with the Convention. Every so often, when all of the gods were awake at the same time, they would gather in the Great Hall of All (More commonly known as the Humungous and Enormously Huge Divine Celestial Palace Dedicated to No One God or Goddess or Other Deity in Particular). This Hall was so great and so big, enormous really, actually titanic, that all the multitudes of all the gods and their minions and demigods and archangels could all fit inside and still have very much space left over for the barbecue, magical waste-disposing thrones, and other sundries no self-respecting god would dare refrain from bringing to the Convention.

The Convention began as it usually did. A casual get-together that began with bits of ambrosia served from glittering platinum trays and sipping spiced nectar from crystalline goblets. The Blind Crocodile of the Discworld would chat amiably with Horus of the Nilus, while that gorgeous goddess Ishtar and the hot little Brigit of the Flames traded secrets of ‘the perfect hair-do’ with the Lobster Lady of the Deep, whose head was that of a gargantuan shrimp. Aphrodite of the Greeks would twirl her hair around a finger sighing as if all the stares she got were just so passé, while beside her Venus of the Romans did the same. Hera was there of course, with a spear at the ready to spit some insolent little minx, since Zeus was again complaining of a headache. The last time he had one, she got saddled with Athena- great, thought the Queen of the Greek Gods, another mouth to feed- and on the same limited budget as before. Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Flying Serpent of the Teotecs would show up and freak out the Muses, as usual, who really hated snakes after that whole ‘Medusa’ episode.

Then the Germanic gods would arrive, late as usual, bringing their usual cargo of a million barrels of beer which they made Ratatosk the Gossipy Squirrel stack on the shelves as punishment for sowing so much discord in their other-wise happy halls. Some of course would spill, to be lapped up, and spread its usual cheer. Invariably, Dagda of the Dozens would begin that awful song again as he emptied one after another.

“A million barrels of beer on the wall,
A million barrels of beer,
Take one down, pass it around,
Nine hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred ninety nine barrels of beer on the wall.”

And so it would go, all twelve of the Dozen God singing in chorus, counting down each barrel as they drained it. It made most of the assembled deities sick with its repetitious drivel. Especially when others- like the Japanese gods- joined in.

“A mirrion ballers of beer on the warr,
A mirrion ballers of beer...”

And then the fights would break out. It happened every time. Little Hermes would play a joke on Thor by hiding Mjolnir in Jupiter’s toga, then wait until Loki notices and asks Jupiter “How’s your hammer hanging?” Jupiter would get upset and throw a lightning bolt at the impudent question, not remembering after his spiked nectar (courtesy of the Impish god Ferrecus) that the same thing happened last time and that Loki was referring to how did Mjolnir hang in a toga with no belt, as opposed to how Jupiter’s personal hammer was doing, with Juno being so damned jealous and all.

Thor would see the lightning, and that being his favorite thing as well, reach for Mjolnir and find it missing. He would see Loki and Jupiter, and Mjolnir through the toga- as well as Jupiter’s personal hammer. (Sometimes having divine vision was not always a blessing). He would be offended and enraged as was his wont, and the rumble would begin.

The goddesses would usually stand aside and watch the divine testosterone flow, picking ambrosia out from under their nails and exchanging beauty tips while saying “Ooo” and “Aah” as the gods battled madly around them. Sometimes one would jump in to save a favored lover, or rescue a dying husband, but mostly they held to the sidelines, and used their high heeled sandals to kick errant fighters back into the main arena.

After a relatively long and arduous battle with each other, the gods would begin to sag as wounds and spiked nectar took control from their limbs and they would sink to the floor. Now the goddesses sprang into action, raising the dead, curing a wound here or reattaching a severed arm there, and bring their gods back to health. All of this required intimacy, and in such an intimate environment, anger and rage often turned to lust, desire, and other carnal desires.

Soon the fighters were lovers, and the orgy of battle and blood turned to a true orgy of flashing limbs and divine groans of pleasure. Not all of the gods were satisfying the goddesses, however. Hermes and the Egyptian Set would often discretely vanish behind some convenient curtains for their own form of sharing brotherly love.

As time went on, the piles of legs and arms and beaks and claws and tails began to separate into corporeal beings once again as the gods and goddesses stirred. Couples found their partners, and holding hands, would depart the Great Hall for their own realms.

Here is where the fecal matter truly intersected with the rotating oscillator. Or simply, when the shit hit the fan.

Upon their return, the divine ones would find that in their absence, their seraphs, angels, and cherubs had been running their realms with less than perfect attention to divine will. Cherubs were racing through the gold-paved streets and pulling out bricks to trade in the world of men for the favors of naughty ladies. Angels sat back on the thrones of the gods and drank deep of the spiked nectar they had appropriated from the divine cellars, while the seraphs ran around lording it over everyone and everything to show off their high status- and were mostly ignored in the process. No prayers were being answered- except their own- and the flocks of faithful crying for aid were heinously ignored in a debauch of power.

In one such realm, the returning god was extremely vengeful. His heaven was a wreck. There was refuse lying in the gutters, and where there was no garbage, there was no gutter. The flowers were all picked bald, with one mischievous little cherub- we believe it was Ankalus, but the histories of the moment were understandably confused when confronted with an angry god, was holding the last golden daisy saying ‘She loves me, she loves me not’ as he plucked the gilded leaves from it and let them fall one by one. Then another little cherub- Mythic something or other, would swoop in on his stubby wings and scoop up the metallic leaves then go off howling with laughter to the mortal realms below where he would trade the gold droplets for naughty toys with which to satisfy the succubi of the netherrealms.

Not only was the lawn littered, the streets vandalized, and his flower garden picked bald, but his house was also in disarray. The curtains were hanging oddly, and there was divine toiletpaper decorating the trees. This trebled the anger of the god, turning his mood from ‘a bit pissed’ to ‘most foul.’ The sky turned black and rain began pelting the area, crushing what little life was left in the garden.

The falling rain woke the seraph Yak, who had passed out with a carafe of spiked nectar on the divine couch, watching re-runs of ‘My Mother the Angel’ on one screen, with the pornographic parody of a mortal preaching show the ‘Tower of Power’ on the other. He managed to wake and scurry out of the way before being seen. He cast a quick glance toward the heavenly throne, and thought briefly about warning the two angels slumbering there, but decided not to risk the anger of his god any longer. He merely flipped off the divine telly and bolted for cover.

The god entered his house. The rainclouds followed him inside, to his dismay. He dispelled them in his wrath, then took in all what had happened in his home in his absence. He was not pleased. Two of his servants were curled up in drunken slumber upon this roomy throne. He kicked first Gaius then Pitt under his nectar-softened bottom with an iron shoe he had somehow acquired during the brawl.

“Get out of my chair, you insolent fools!” the god bellowed.

“Ouch,” cried Pitt, rubbing his instantly-sore bottom. “That hurt!” The two angels looked up at their god, recognized him as such and apologized profusely, then, in bowing, Gaius noticed the shoe.

“I see you stole the Iron Shoe from Vidar again,” Gaius said with a smile. “Another party, lord, like last time?”

The god smiled. The brightness of it blinded poor Gaius and poor Pitt, creating the word ‘Pitty’ to express the feeling people had for him upon seeing his melted eyes streaming down his sun-burned face. Mortals, being lazy, would do as EoJ and corrupt the word to Pity, but that is another tale for another time. A second cherub came into the chamber at the display of radiance to greet his returning master in a more proper greeting, but was clearly bowled over by a tremendous explosion of nectar-gas and digested beer fumes erupting from the god’s buttocks in a gigantic, world-shattering fart of biblical proportions.

“I see,” said the now-blind seraph to the now-deaf cherub.

“I task you, Gaius Colinius, and you too, Pitty my boy, with the restoration of my realm,” commanded the god. “Right the wrongs you have inflicted, answer the mirrions of prayers you have ignored -damn those Japanese gods and their delicious sake!- and discipline the naughty you have let run rampant.”

“We will most certainly try, your divineness,” the two angels pleaded. “If we could see what we were doing. Vision helps, Lord.”

The god uttered a ‘hrmph’ and granted his servants vision again. He pulled a mighty hammer from his pocket. It shone with a brilliance unseen ever before. Gaius smiled broadly at what he thought was the Mighty Banhammer, but his smile froze then fell as he realized it was not that mighty instrument of discipline.

The god handed the hammer to the deaf cherub behind him, whom he willed to hear again.

“Hmmm, not what I was looking for. Ser Woof, take this back to Thor, over in Valhalla. Tell him I am sorry.”

Then he turned back to face Gaius and Pitt. He pulled another hammer from his pocket. This one was better. “Take this Banhammer, Gaius, and clean out those who do not toe the divine line any longer.” Turning to the cherub he had dispatched with the first hammer, who was currently using Mjolnir to tap loose a golden brick outside, he bellowed, “Ser Woof- stop stealing the roads and get your butt in motion, before I ‘punnish’ you by making you bark out hideous puns for a year!!”

The Enemy of Jupitor and Yak rushed out from their hiding places to scoop up the mischievous cherub and send him on his way before lightning began flying again. Once burned by lightning, one does not relish its touch again. Triple that pain and anguish by multiplying in the divine factor, and Ser Woof was on his way faster than a cockroach can infest your house.

“Pitt,” the god continued, “While EoJ answers the millions of prayers in the backlog- and without making a spelling mistake, hear ye!- and Gaius restores my realm back into its original, tidy self, I command you to gather talent from all the realm with which to entertain me. You fix my foul mood, and Gaius here fixes my realm. You both do well, and I shall be happy again. The sun will come out and the rain currently drowning the winged horses in the divine fields will cease. And of course, I will not tear your silly wings off and cast you below among the mortals.”

“Why does Pitty get to party, while I must clean house?” bawled Gaius in defiance of the command. “It is not fair!”

“Because I left you in charge, Gaius, while I was away and you screwed the pooch big-time on this.”

“Screwed. The. Pooch. Big-time?” Gaius repeated in confusion. He had come nowhere near a canine in over a month. What did the god mean?

“A term I picked up at the party, from Mars, before he slipped off to slip something to the hot little wife of the Greekling Smithy-dude. Never mind. Fix what you broke, then come back here and satisfy my wrath. And Pitt, I expect entertainment better than the last time. Much better.”

Pitt gulped. His master had consumed nectar by the barrel, and spiked nectar by the carafe. His ears had been massaged by musicians while dancers frolicked for visual pleasure. Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll- none of which were here- had abounded. And above all that, His lord had surely slept with half-dozen or more goddesses, including such lovelies as his personal favorite Venus, and probably that stuck-up, jealousy-goddess Hera as well- if but for the irony. How would he hope to surpass such entertainment as that? He would need help.

Gaius was done with his task almost at once. The Banhammer made the setting of the heavens in order easy. In very little time several ruffians were cast out from the heavens. Upon the worlds below, the Banhammer restored order quickly and efficiently, as did the presence of its wielder. Order was restored, but now the second- and most difficult task- remained. It would have to be something spectacular.

Pitt had gathered some help and was setting about contemplating thinking of planning an idea when Gaius arrived. Both began brainstorming, but at first the ideas were more brainfarts than brainstorms. Several were rejected right off the bat- such as throwing another divine party here. This heaven was too small to hold all the gods, plus cleaning up after them... Yuck. Divine vomit was still vomit, and Poseidon almost invariably pissed on the curtains, thinking the displayed map of the worlds was his personal toilet. And then there was the repair work to do when Thor would see a small peg sticking barely out of its wall and would use Mjolnir to give it “just a little tap.” No, holding another All-Powerful Party here was out of the running.

Building a second, better, heaven would be just as much work- though a tad less, actually- then repairing the current one. So presenting the god with a new home was also out. As was spiking the nectar again- the god had already had his fill, and it usually put him in a foul mood the day after. Divine days could be incredibly long.

Then it came to Pitt. He worked hard on the idea, but his inspiration was... well...divine. He made the necessary preparations, and fetched to him those who must help him or suffer divine retribution, from both the heavens and below. Holding the Banhammer he lifted from Gaius’s pocket made it easy. When all was ready, he had Yak escort the god out to the parking lot, where the cherubs had already moved the sleighs and chariots parked there and scrubbed the place down until it shone like gold in a sunset. He and Gaius were ready.

“I see a parking lot, Gaius,” the god rumbled. Like most gods, when he was angry, he had the habit of making the sky angry as well. Hailstones like golfballs (a pleasant little game he had learned from Nuada) rained down upon poor Gaius.

“Patience, dude,” Pitt requested. “Pardon, lord. I meant ‘Divine Dude.’ El Bandito, come forward.” To el_Bandito he said, “Do your stuff, Mongol lord.”

El_Bandito bowed to the god, then turned to the empty lot.

The god suddenly noticed something. He turned to Pitt, deafening him with his roar of “A mortal! You bring me a mortal as entertainment? Are you daft?”

Pitt cringed in fear and physical pain. Gaius stepped in to deflect some of the sheer volume of the god from his fellow angel, which was enough of a shock that the god ceased.

“You deserve the best, boss,” he said, pointing to the Mongol. “He is the best.”

The Mongol lord stuck his hands deep into the pockets of the robes- which were themselves highly magical, and with the gizmos, gadgets, and whizz-bang thingamabobs he brought forth, began to weave an incredible lightshow before the yawning god. Deities were evidently not amused by laser shows and the like. Think about it. If you could cast lightning out of your fingertips or create the aurora borealis with a belch, would you be amazed at a simple techno light show? So was it with this god. Ho-hum nice lights, but what is so special about that? Until the finale, where el_Bandito poured such vitality and ingenuity into his creation (and with a bit of divine power tapped by Yak from the house’s light circuits) that it sprang from the two-dimensional portrait of a grand palace complete with radiant guards clad in platinum to become a three-dimensional, fully-functional palace of magnificent proportions, complete with that newfangled ‘indoor plumbing’ the master would so appreciate next time he had guests over.

The god was indeed pleased. The rain ceased. “You, wizard. You have impressed me. Upon you, el_Bandito, I shall grant the honored title of Imhotep- Master Builder- and you shall retain this honored title for such a time as until another likewise impresses us.”

“Which will be in about six months, or a year- we have yet to decide,” mumbled Terikel to himself as he examined the much-larger wings he had so recently acquired. He still thought the wingspan was awesome.

“I can make those go away, you know,” the god reminded the impudent angel.

“Sorry, lord,” Terikel replied, folding his wings in, looking at his feet and biting his lower lip in feigned remorse. “But it is true.”

“Hmmmmm. Pitt, Gaius, thy Imhotep has impressed me, but this rapscallion of an angel has again aroused my ire with his snide comments as to the temporary nature of the honors I bestow. You both must do more, much more, than simply turn my parking lot into a cottage. Even one with indoor plumbing.”

“And an indoor parking lot, in the basement, lord,” HussarKnight added. “Beneath the heated pool, where we have two nymphs waiting to massage that angry knot out of your muscles.”

“Your idea, eh, HussarKnight?” the god rumbled. “Nice. Just don’t let that irate jealous goddess who some idiots saddled me with find out about them, otherwise we shall have nice ivory nymph statues. Hear me?”

HussarKnight nodded. “And we brought this, in case you would like to try out the indoor plumbing Imhotep gave you.” He handed the god two scrolls. “This one is Funny, Wierd, Clever, Yet True Facts, and this one is Lead Pipes and Other Noinsense. They were chosen from among all of your faithful as the best historical scrolls recently written.”

The god smiled, and blinded all with his radiance. “Oops. Sorry.” He waved his hand, and healing rays shot forth to return sight to the melted eyes of his angels and mortal servants. He looked down at the scroll, now turned to embers and ash from the blast. “Sorry again. Do you have a second copy?”

“Of course.” HussarKnight replied, and handed over his back-up copies. He knew his god almost too well. “Shall I lead you in, lord?”

“I am a god. I am an all-powerful, all-knowing being. I think I can find the men’s room on my own, but thanks anyway.” With that, and the scrolls tucked firmly under his arm, the god strode through the glittering portals of his new palace. He stopped briefly in the doorway to turn to HussarKnight, who discretely pointed to the left.

“I shall name you Augustine, my helpful one,” the god said, then disappeared into the palace for what seemed like ages. Verily, on two worlds below, several Ice Ages had recently come and gone before the god of these heavens returned, scrolls in his pocket and (closed-mouth) smile upon his face. He crossed to the waiting angels and sat upon the bench Imhotep provided, and reached out for the mug of mulled nectar Augustine handed him.

“Tell me a story, Gaius, to aid in the relaxation.”

“I have brought to you a skald of immense reputation, master. A poet, a bard, a master story-teller, and not too bad with knuckle-and-skull or swords either. I give you Egil Skallagrimson.”

“Egil died a thousand years ago,” the god rumbled, darkening the skies. “I heard him say so himself, over in Valhalla.”

“We have one here, too,” Pitt replied easily. “Two, actually, twice as many as that hosebag Odin can boast. At least we call these two that. They are those of your flock voted best storyteller. Terikel, you first. Weave your magic.”

Terikel stepped forward from the shadows, and strode boldly to stand before the god of cosmic mayhem and divine order. He stretched his new wings, flexing the muscles there as he thought over a tale.

“Get on with it,” Pitt urged in strong whispers. ”You know how he hates delays!”

The angel in his skald outfit stepped forward and planted his sword in the divine earth before him. He drew himself up behind his sword, took a deep breath, and began his tale of wondrous events and doughty battle, of loves lost, and won, and of many other things. The god heard the tale, and wept a single tear, which fell to the worlds below and caused a tsunami killing thousands of hapless, blue-skinned creatures and shorting out the robots and war-machines hounding them. Oh well, never mind, they were not his faithful...

“That was not too bad,” the god murmured. “But too much of that lovey-dovey crap and mundane miracles. I want blood, by myself! Give me blood, in story form!”

“We have another who tells tales of blood and battle, with very little of that romantic horseshit,” Terikel replied, a bit put-off by the deity’s anger. “Legion of Hell, get over here.”

The mortal storymaster stepped forward, uneasy before a deity of such power, and bowed. Lightning crackled and somewhere below a jetliner exploded after a collision with a duck, but that did not stop his mind from racing through its memories to find a wonderful tale of bold battle, fraught with intrigue and wrapped in valor. This tale of magnificent struggle he did tell, and was rewarded by being blessed with a tiny radiant glow in the form of a ring. The clouds above had parted to allow sunshine to penetrate just around him, warming him from the cold rain.

“I enjoyed that, Legion of Hell,” the god replied with a small nod. He raised his voice to reach back to the new angel playing with those new wings of his. “And yours too, skald. You may both share that title Pitt gifted you as well. You truly are an incarnation of that Viking story-teller, Legion of Hell. And you aren’t too bad either, Old One.”

“Daddy,” called a small voice from the god’s knee. A demigod was there, trying to climb upon the new throne where once his swing-set was. “Can I have a story, too?”

“Egils, give us another,” the god demanded. “One suitable for my son here.”

“But with no really humungous, gargantuan, big words, Legion,” the demigod demanded. “Or that funny speech you sometimes use, Terikel. That is sooooo irritating. But funny. And I want lots and lots of pictures. I like pictures.”

Terikel bowed with a sneaky smile spreading across his wrinkled face. “Our fellow bard Snorri Sturlason here excels in telling tales with many, many pictures. I am sure he has a tale for you, that fits your tastes. Lord Aftermath, you are impersonating Snorri this time, yes?”

The angel Aftermath scowled at Terikel. “Thanks, for nothing,” he whispered. “Just what I needed.”

“You are more than welcome,” Terikel replied, quietly but happily, with what could only be described as a shit-eating grin across his countenance.

Aftermath stepped forward. To the lord of the realm’s questioning glance as to having a tale, he replied firmly and loudly, “I do.”

And he told a most fantastic tale of miracles and battles, victories snatched from the jaws of defeat, and of defeats snatched from the jaws of victory. His images were bold and detailed, his words carefully chosen. And not too large. Both god and godling sat back on the throne, stuffing heavenly popcorn brought by Augustine, and listened as if enthralled to the tale now told.

The tale drew to a close. Aftermath bowed deeply at its conclusion, banging his forehead on the swordhilt left by Terikel and causing both Terikel and Legion of Hell to chuckle in amusement.

The god looked to Gaius and Pitt with merry eyes, as the demigod in his lap drifted off to sleep. The skies cleared, and the sun could be seen settling on the horizon. “You two have entertained me sufficiently, and actually pleased me. You both have redeemed yourselves in my divine eyes. For that, and for getting this little brat off to sleep well before his bedtime, I shall grant you both the honor of the title Good King Wenceslas. Good night, Wenceslas I and Wenceslas II, and to you all. Well done.”

The god withdrew to his chambers, and the small cluster of entertainers dispersed back to their dwellings, wherever they may be. The heavens were as they should be once again, and new titles and honorifics dispensed.

Until the next time there is an All-Powerful Party somewhere in the heavens....


Ye Olde Results:

Imhotep Award (Best Modder) - el_Bandito

Augustine Monk Award (Most Helpful tech/mod help) - HussarKnight

Good King Wenceslas Award- (Favorite Moderator) - Gaius Colinius, Pitt (tie)

Best History Thread (Self explanatory) - Funny, Wierd Yet True-Legion of Hell, Lead Pipes and Other Nonsense-Legio Yow (tie)

Egil Skallagrimson Award (Best Story) -Peloponnesian War Volume I- Legion of Hell; The Eagle and the Wolf-Terikel Grayhair (tie)

Snorri Sturlason Award (Best AAR) - The Sun Always Rises in the East- Aftermath