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The beings we worship as deities exist but whether they are truly divine is a matter of fierce debate among the modern magi. The ‘deities’ do possess a modicum of power that would entitle them as creatures of reverence but even they fear a greater power than themselves, and what is higher than a god?

The Garden of Congregation is a vast interdimensional space, crafted from the remains of two long-dead entities who were worshipped as the embodiments of the endless stars by their long-forgotten peoples. It is in this place, that the still-living gods and goddesses meet and discuss affairs, pertaining to their spheres of influence.

In what was designated as the center of the Garden for this particular event was a wide, stone table with eight chairs of the same material arrayed around it. There was no-one around yet, only the multitude of fantastical flowers found only in dreams, which surrounded the table and chairs. The floor was covered in engraved spirals that shimmered in between long intervals.

A cloaked figure holding a gnarled, wooden staff was the first to arrive. The figure pulled off his cowl, revealing the face of a grizzled, old man who was completely bald. His mouth was covered in a white beard, and he was missing his left eye. He went down the low steps that led to the table, and at the bottom was a shallow, circular groove. It was there that he tapped his staff and the spirals glowed bright silver. “Know me as the Hanged One,” his voice was sonorous and old, bringing with it, thoughts of dead battles and ancient oaths. He sat on the northernmost chair.

Following soon after was a whimsical thing dressed in the most flamboyant of colors but with bare feet and with butterfly wings fluttering on his back. He floated like a mote of dust caught by a gentle wind. His face was that of a young man with sun-baked skin, and his hair was long and flowing – the color of the midday sun –, and upon his brow was a crown of thorns, if it bore him pain, it was cleverly hidden behind his enigmatic smile. He touched the circular groove with his toe, and it glowed a vibrant green. “The Hobgoblin,” he said with a bewitching smile and a voice that was more than a greeting but less than a conversation, it was only a fleeting thing. He went and sat the westernmost chair.

Next was a deity that constituted of only a helmet made from black metal and shaped into the face of crying demon, and supported by a white, translucent smoke. Inlaid on what was the helm’s temple was a series of multi-colored crystals. It moved over to the groove, and the spirals glowed the dimmest blue. “Ko’saz-Uri, wishes no harm upon you.” Its voice did not exit from its being, but it manifested, directly into the ears of the listener, clear and precise, sending shivers down even a god’s spine. It sat as it could on the southernmost chair.

A woman bent down, and touched the groove, making it glow a lovely red. “The Deer presents, herself,” she said. Her voice sweet and gentle like a morning kiss. Eyes the color of the evening sky shone as she gazed upon those present. Light-brown hair framed her beautiful face while a dress of tiny flowers covered her lithe figure, whilst revealing her red-brown arms and accentuating her ample bosom. Elegant, black-inked tattoos ran along the length of both her arms, seeming to draw the viewer in. She sauntered over to the southwesternmost seat.

Walking on the steps leading down to the Garden’s center was a woman of great allure. Her comeliness wore a blue kimono – bestowing to those who saw: the depiction of a majestic serpent entwined with a flowing river – that went past her ankles and hanging just slightly above the ground. Her black hair was free of imperfection and cascaded down her back like a waterfall. Her face was chalk-white but her lips were blood-red. She stepped on the groove, and the patterns on the floor glowed a brilliant azure. “This one is called the Lady of the Flow, this one is most grateful for the invitation,” she bowed. Her voice was the calmness of a silent river. She walked over, and sat on the easternmost seat, with unparalleled grace.

The space over the groove distorted itself, and a rift emanating sickening magic, formed. Long, spindly talons erupted out of the rift, and tore it apart. A tall, boney thing, vaguely humanoid, came out and the rift vanished. The creature was an abysmal black but tinged with faint green. Several horns spiraling backwards, protruded out of its head, spine, and elbows. It had no eyes, no mouth, and no face. It stood on the groove, and the patterns glowed a sickly purple. “The Old… Fear.” Its words appeared in your mind, like a sudden thought, but it stayed hiding in your psyche, like a repressed memory. It stepped out, and sat on the southeasternmost seat, like a puppet with its strings cut.

A large spider appeared on the steps but then it transformed into a man of large stature. The man was handsome and dark-skinned, and naked, save for the lion-skin skirt that hung from his waist covering his thighs, crotch, and buttocks. His hair was in wild disarray like the spines of a porcupine. He lifted a foot, and brought it down onto the groove, upon impact: the markings glowed a static white. He let out a joyful laugh, “the Trickster at your service,” he made an exaggerated bow, and sat on the northwesternmost chair.

The skies above the Garden parted, and a column of light descended upon the steps. The light then vanished, replaced by a brown-skinned woman who looked like she just came out of her teens, barely an adult. Her face was devoid of emotion as her copper locks, swayed with the coming breeze. Six wings of light haloed around her back, they were the symbols of a Seraph. Her small body was covered in a white robe and embroidered with brass thread. She flew over the groove, and the engraving glowed a fierce yellow. “I bear the Will of His Grace on His behalf,” she proclaimed, her voice, sounding almost like a song, and she sat on the northeasternmost seat.

In the middle, atop the table, a hole appeared, and emerging from the hole was a large emerald crystal with eight facets, each reflecting the image of a guest.”I am an aspect of the Garden. I am here as Observer. We are here to partake in the summons of the Hanged One,” a voice said, coming from the crystal. “Now, present your grievances, the Hanged One.”

The old man stood up with the help of his cane. “It seems that only few see the threat that is the True Ragnarök…” his ancient gaze saw all those seated, “the Ragnarök that came and destroyed my people, the End of the Fifth Sun that devoured the Aztlan, the Serpent that gorged itself on the dead of almost very pantheon in the Pacific…” he stopped and took a breath. “Those are but all snowflakes compared to the blizzard that is the True Ragnarök, and now, twenty-one of the twenty-seven seals that imprison the Abomination of Desolation have been destroyed…” he looked around, and saw that they were now listening intently to his words.

“Where are the next seals, then?” The Deer-Woman asked, leaning on the table, her breasts resting on its surface, looking to spill out at any moment, as she looked to the Hanged One.

“Back, when I was a young lad,” the Hanged One sat down, and pressed his forehead, “my father told me that Eikþyrnir, the Oaken-Antlered, was appointed the task of guarding Hvergelmir, by the First Ones, themselves, and Eikþyrnir was the one who sired the next four seals...”

“So, a father forced to lock up his children, eh?” the Hobgoblin mused. “The First Ones are absolutely ghastly…” he turned to the Old Fear, “but you are the exception, of course, are you not?” his grin was wide, filled with a dash of malice, fitting for one of the Fair Folk.

The Old Fear sat still, unmoving, a puppet bereft of its strings.

The Deer-Woman was kissing the smallest finger in her right hand. “What about the Guardians? Surely, they must have the resources to protect the seals,” she said, an attempt to cease the Hobgoblin’s provocations. The Deer-Woman knew of the Old Fear’s power, and it would be suicidal to anger him.

A gloom overcame all those present, except for the Old Fear and Ko’saz-Uri, and in their minds, they saw a memory: “I remember when the Archmage came. Brilliant and Dashing. Every step part of a graceful dance. He became Lord-Warden. Excitement and wonder flooded my heart, at the thought of following this mortal god. Now, only hate and fear and confusion, remain. He slaughtered every one of us… I only managed to have my legs cut off… I’m going to die, today… Blood trickling down my eye, flesh slowly melting, bones slowly turning to ash. It’s too hot. My heart’s breaking. Why?” And the memory ended.

“Would you be most kind, to explain the memory you have given us, O’ revered elder?” The Lady of the Flow hid behind her silver fan, but she was staring at the Old Fear.

The Hanged One answered for the Old Fear: “That memory was of a young guardian and of Mímisbrunnr’s destruction at the hands of Archmage Levio Flammas. A total of five-hundred magi, considered to be the best of the best, perished…” the Hanged One looked down, and saw his reflection in the table looking back at him, a frail, feeble, old man. “They were utterly insignificant.”

“This one apologizes for her questions…” the Lady of the Follow was staring at The Hanged One, a horrified look on her face, “but doesn’t that mean the Archmage was responsible for the seal’s release? How could a mortal even achieve such a feat? When even gods find it impossible?”

The Trickster laughed, and waved his hand, summoning a cup of hot tea. He took it and had a sip. “A wonderful question, but mine is…” he paused, to let the silence build up, “…where are the twenty-one?” he said, while he gave a wink to the Lady of the Flow, who turned her gaze away from his amorous glancing.

“I… know not of their whereabouts,” the Hanged One said.

The Old Fear moved, and another memory came into the minds of those present. “The ancient-man appeared after the heaven-light vanished. Brothers and sisters were afraid, they left, went back home, but I hid behind broken-stone, I was bravest. Heaven-light came, again, but smaller, brighter. More ancient-men, no ancient-things, had appeared, but first ancient-man was older, more ancient. Ancient-man made movements with hands, and all ancient things, withered, turned to dust, taken by the wind…” And the memory ended.

“Splendid. Simply splendid,” the Hobgoblin smiled at those present. “The bloody Eldritch One killed them all, I presume?” Although, he was speaking jovially, inside: he was jittery, nervous, and – Faerie be damned – afraid. Who wouldn’t, when after nearly two millennia of inactivity, the damned monster had killed all the other monsters?

The Deer-Woman was twirling her hair, her smile: vexing. “So, the Eldritch One killed them all? Less problems for us, then.” She locked gazes with the Trickster, who was smiling at her. She smiled back with a wink.

Then, a rattle sounded, coming from the southernmost seat. “Apologies of the sincerest nature: Ko’saz-Uri has matters that need Ko’saz-Uri’s utmost attention,” Ko’saz-Uri said before imploding into itself and vanishing, leaving only lingering, white smoke behind.

“What was that thing, again?” asked the Trickster.

“Ko’saz-Uri is an old deity as old as the Old Fear,” The Hanged One said before turning to the Hobgoblin, “What of you, Puck? Are you here under the Fairy King’s call or on your own whimsy?”

The Hobgoblin gave the Hanged One a smile and leaned back, placing his feet on the table while tilting his chair in a relaxed manner. “I am here of my own accord, Oathbreaker,” he then moved his gaze across to the Lady of the Flow. “The Beastlies will be leaving together. Have you a companion to escort you, Lady Benzaiten?” he gave her his most-charming smile, and she blushed behind her fan.

The Hanged One stood up, slamming the base of his staff on the floor, gaining everyone’s attention. His face was red, written with a furious scowl. “We gathered, not for flirtations and petty dalliances! We gathered to prevent the threat that looms over us all!” his voice boomed all across the vastness of the Garden.

The Trickster laughed. “Actually, the flirtations are why I’m here,” he gave a damning wink to the Deer-Woman, who gave him a smile of reciprocation. “Lovely,” he muttered.

The Hanged One's eye glowed a murderous red and he gazed daggers at the Trickster. “Do you think this is a farce?” he was huffing, angrily, and his face was filed with a growing hate. The tip of his staff was the head of a spear now, a spear that never missed its mark.

The eyes of She-who-bore-the-Will-of-His-Grace lit up and she stood, her open mouth glowing as her eyes did. “Ragnarök is of no concern to Me,” the voice was of a young woman and an old man speaking in unison, “My representative shall take her leave, now.” Wisps of light gathered around her and she became intangible like light, then the wisps around her dimmed, and she became corporeal again, shocking her immensely. “My Lord?” her voice was nothing more than a whimper.

The emerald spire on the table, fractured and it shattered: a great number of shards glistening like morning dew over grass. Everyone present was now alarmed. Then, a gathering of Shadows – creatures that looked like small children with skin the color of obsidian and eyes the size of small moons – skittered along the steps, and a tall man appeared. The Shadows lined upon both sides, a dignified aura around them, two flanks of humble creatures presenting their master.

The hearts of the beings around the table sank, and The Hanged One's mouth could only sputter, “T-The Eldritch One!”

The tall man smiled at them all, an all too human smile, that hid something far more sinister, more insidious than anything a god could ever claim, as something he crafted with his hands, and with steps that seemed to shake the very heavens, he placed his feet on the groove. The whole floor shimmered and even the flowers bathed in its wondrous glow, a one-dimensional aurora that flowed like the churning waves of an iridescent ocean harassed by thunderous gales.

"Hello," said the tall man with a grin, there was no malice in his voice, only a bewildering kindness. “I'm bit saddened, to inform you...” he walked closer, “that I am not the Eldritch One. Do not be so crass as to elevate my status to that of our esteemed Father… he was a bit disappointed, though, that you did not invite him but we wanted to see him smile, you see. It has been a very stressful year for him. So, we thought, we’ll invite ourselves, and tell him what happened! I hope none of you oppose, I mean you do have an empty chair – two empty chairs, in fact. How could little, old me make a difference? Worry not about my brothers, they hate sitting on chairs anyway.” He then looked at The Hanged One with a pleading face.

"What do you want?" the Hanged One stood resolute, he was a King of Warriors, he gave an eye for knowledge and he sacrificed himself to himself. How could he be afraid of this tall man who wasn’t even the Eldritch One?

The tall man just chuckled at the Hanged One's valor, “Firstly, I am Adego, eldest of the Shadows—” he was lunged upon by a woman with rays of light for wings.

She-who-bore-the-Will-of-His-Grace had become afraid not because of the tall man's presence – his presence was of no concern to her – but because she could not hear His Voice anymore and that was the most frightening for her and with that fear comes despair and desperation. She could not handle it, the tall man had shut His Voice out and thus, he had to die. So, she flew towards him, a comet across the sky but she was thrown away back into her seat, unconscious.

The Trickster stood up, a finger pointing to the tall man. “You would hurt a young maiden, Adego? My forebears speak of your honor and kindness but the Norsemen tell tales of your savagery and arrogance. It seems that my forebears were deceived, the Norsemen spoke truth.” He lowered his hand down, the look of disgust, obvious on his face.

“You must make observations first, before you can claim a conclusion, Kwaku,” the tall man named Adego pointed downwards – where a large Shadow was standing, it had blue, misty eyes and was covered in black, shiny fur. “I suppose Librarians must have their own favorite stories. I apologize, I may have presumed otherwise.” He clapped his hands – the Shadow went back to its line – and bowed to the Trickster

The Deer-Woman looked at the Shadow, and visibly shuddered. “W-Why did you bring a Feral Shadow here? It will destroy this place!" she wrapped her arms around herself, “you intend to kill us all. I should not have come here. I should have listened to Coyote’s warnings,” she was breathing, heavily, and then looked to the other Shadows, flanking him. “T-They're all feral!” and she fainted.

Adego seemed amused by the intensity of the Deer-Woman's reaction. He spoke to the Shadows in their tongue and they left one by one, with annoyed grunting. “Perhaps, their absence might calm all of you down,” he waved to the floor, and a seat emerged from the ground. “Now, let us discuss our futures, dear children.” He sat down and all those standing did as well, they could not argue back.

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