Anneliese entered into a shabby old hut by the oceanside. As the door shut behind her, memories that she had long ago forgotten came rushing back. She and her mother had lived here, for a time. The little Anneliese walked to the center of the room, carrying the fish. She hung it up on a rack, where various implements for cleaning fish rested just beside. And there, back in the corner of the room on the bed, was Anneliese’s mother. She was unmoving, deep in sleep.

The door shutting behind Anneliese jolted her back to awareness. The little Anneliese, meanwhile, walked to some logs. They were nearly as large as she was, but the little girl crouched down, gripping them with her tiny hands that already bore some calluses. She dragged them across the ground quietly, looking toward her sleeping mother again and again to be sure she was not roused. When they were in the fireplace, she gathered some kindling, and then a flint and steel. She struck the flint, again and again, both implements larger than her hand. Feeble sparks barely dyed the dry grass black, but the kindling never caught aflame.

Anneliese walked over and lit the fire with a simple spell. She saw the small version of herself widen her eyes, and open her mouth as though it was the coolest thing imaginable. She didn’t forget to look back and whisper, “Thank you very much.”

Anneliese crouched down beside her past self. The little girl kept her white bangs over her eyes, and a forgotten memory flooded back—Anneliese had kept her bangs like this to hide her eyes from her mother, Kressa. Hiding her eyes helped her avoid inspiring a foul mood.

Anneliese knew there was a puzzle she was intended to solve here, but her own curiosity drove her forward. “Why are you doing this?”

Little Anneliese looked back to her mother, and then to the fire. “I light the fire to warm mommy, and to get cook ready. Then, I gotta gut the fish, and unscale… no, descale it. Then, I gotta make a soup.” She counted on her fingers as she ran down the list. “Mommy eats the soup—I eat later. And then, I gotta get the wet laundry from outside, and put it by the fire. But if I put it too close, the clothes go black. Mommy hated that last time.” Her fingers traced a bruise on her arm—obvious hand marks. “After that, I gotta—”

“Why is your mom making you do all this?” Anneliese asked.

“Shhh,” little Anneliese held her finger to her mouth. “You’re angry. You can’t wake up mommy.”

That the little her could read her emotions better than she realized surprised Anneliese, and she looked over to the sleeping figure once more. How old had she been at this time? Five, perhaps, maybe a little older? Veidimen children grew larger than humans, so that sounded about right.

“Is your mother sick?” Anneliese questioned, whispering this time. The little Anneliese shook her head, white hair whipping about quickly. “Then why are you doing all of this alone?”

Little Anneliese blinked innocently, eyes barely visible behind her bangs. “I’m supposed to.”

“Why?” Anneliese pressed, the fire crackling in the silence that came after.

“Mommy told me,” little Anneliese said. “And everybody else says… I should listen to my parents.”

A memory came back, unbidden. She was a child again, looking up at her mother who seemed tired from carrying wood. Kressa cast a few logs down, then looked to Anneliese bitterly. You do it, she’d said, utter resentment on her tongue. You can do me some good. Not that it’ll make up for your birth.

Anneliese blinked, feeling nauseous. “What else do you do?” she asked quietly.

Little Anneliese raised her hands, counting again. “I wash the clothes, the underwear, the blankets, I go fish with the old misters, or help carry things for the farm men. Oh! I also—”

“Not those things. What about things for yourself—things you want to do?” Anneliese pressed.

“I want to do this,” little Anneliese insisted. “Mommy doesn’t like me. I knew already, but she told me a few times. And sometimes she loves me. She holds me tight, and she cries, and she says she’s sorry. I like those days.”

“Isn’t it hard?” Anneliese swallowed, her throat feeling like it had a rock in it.

“Mommy says that pity—” she stopped, having bit her tongue. “She says that pitying yourself is useless. She said that, no matter what she does, I can’t pity myself.”

Little Anneliese left words unspoken, but they came rushing back as memories. You don’t deserve to pity yourself, Kressa would say.

Anneliese rose to her feet, feeling like a veil around her had been shattered. She had been so proud of this creed of hers—proud enough she’d boldly shared it with Argrave. She’d told him that self-pity does nothing for no one. She thought it a strength she’d found—a power that she’d clung onto to cure all of her misfortune.

But it was a phrase her mother had given her, all for the sake of justifying her beatings, her reckless neglect. And the others in this village… they all knew. But just as they knew, so did they fear to welcome a Veidimen child into their home. She remembered craving help, seeking it, but most of them insisted that she should remain with her mother.

And looking down at this girl, she saw a girl that covered her eyes with bangs to avoid being hit because her mother didn’t like their color. She saw a girl with a mother who utterly resented her, yet gave small and infrequent drops of affection to keep some lingering hope alive.

Looking down at herself, Anneliese saw a broken girl who wanted love, but never got it.

Anneliese had forgotten about this girl, forgotten who she was. She’d forgotten the longing to be saved, and the utter lack of any reprieve no matter where she went. When returning to Veiden, things had become better by a small margin, and so it was all too easy for her to shut away that past.

Anneliese knelt down before the old her, once again. She tried to keep the sadness from her voice as she said, “You know, your mommy doesn’t need you to do all of this stuff today.”

The sheer joy and confusion that lit up on little Anneliese’s face was so infectious. Perhaps little Anneliese knew she was lying, could see it in her face… but the girl so desperately wanted help that she was willing to believe even lies. Her eyes grew bright enough to shine past her bangs, and her smile showed brilliant teeth. “Really?”

“Really,” Anneliese repeated, brushing back the girl’s bangs to see her eyes. “How about… we go outside? I could teach you how to read. I could teach you how to do this,” she said, conjuring a snowflake in her hand.

Little Anneliese reached out, gingerly taking the snowflake with utter awe on her eyes. After a few moments, she looked up, like all the troubles she carried were gone. “I wanna see,” she said longingly. “But…” she looked back to her sleeping mother.

“Don’t worry about that. If your mother says anything… I’ve got your back. And I’m bigger than her.” She stood up tall. “Let me carry you.”

Anneliese took herself in her arms, rising to stand. The little girl looked around with wonder at this shack, like she’d never been carried before. She looked so happy, so excited, as she delicately handled the snowflake that had been conjured by magic. She looked like the child she was meant to be. Anneliese pushed open the door and stepped outside…

Where endless whiteness greeted her.

Anneliese looked to where she’d been carrying the little Anneliese. Strangely, she felt immeasurably sad. The girl was gone. But as she pondered it more, answers came to her. No—that girl wasn’t gone. She was standing here, today. And for the first time in perhaps her whole life, Anneliese allowed some small amount of pity for herself.

Then, she spotted someone. Tall—a little taller than her. Black hair, black as night, almost the opposite of hers, dropping by his shoulders. Unblemished white skin. Gray eyes as steady as stone. He had a smile on his face as soon as he saw her, and in those eyes… there was love for the unloved girl. Far more love than she knew what to do with.

#####

Durran walked through the endless White Planes, clearing his mind of that encounter with Garm. Or fake Garm, he supposed. But slowly, it drifted back to his responsibilities, and the things that he needed to be doing in this place. And as if this place was reading him, the moment he did… he very nearly bumped into someone.

He took a step backward, spotting one person and then three. He put names to some faces—the hulking giant, about as large as Orion, with half a dozen weapons hanging from his body and a huge red mane of hair was Sataistador, the god of war, chaos, and ruthless destruction. He wore barbaric armor that exposed much of his ridiculously toned white body, and his green eyes pierced Durran effortlessly. Yet the woman beside him was no slouch in the muscle department—wearing a wolfskin over her head and body paint most everywhere else, he recognized her as Stout Heart Swan.

The third off to the side wasn’t familiar. Tall, and skinny enough for his skin to draw tight against his bones, he struck an imposing figure nonetheless… but further scrutiny made him seem a little off.

“Recognize those two, but… who’re you?” Durran inquired of the man.

“I am Gaunt.”

“I can see that, but—” Durran cut himself off, recalling a name. And as he looked further, he realized the man standing there wasn’t a man at all—he was undead, his eyes glowing with the fires of some of the highest necromancy Durran had ever seen. He was Gaunt, a god of death.

“Speak. We are aspects of gods, and you sought a connection with us. What’s your purpose?” Stout Heart Swan beckoned for Durran.

Durran straightened his back. “I represent a group organizing a heist against Erlebnis. We intend to steal from him, and war against the Ebon Cult. I am a pivotal part of the organization that would do this, and I come on their behalf to secure alliance. I would be the vehicle of your divine championship, in return for your support and your connection with Vasquer.”

Sataistador snorted loudly, then turned and walked away. Durran was flustered at this, and stared after the red-headed man. Durran had seen many killers, but none quite like that man—it was in his green eyes, his soul. There was chaos there, so intense it projected outward enough for ordinary people to perceive. Perceive, and fear. And that was only his aspect, not the god himself. Sataistador… a god allegedly as powerful as Erlebnis himself.

Having botched negotiations with him already, Durran looked to Gaunt and Stout Heart Swan with some trepidation.

If they perceived his anxiety, they didn’t show it. “What you seek aligns with our goals, the both of us,” they said at the same time.

“But I am not content sharing a champion with another,” Gaunt cautioned. “I can offer total support in the heist against Erlebnis, for I bear a grudge against him. I would ask for a tithe of souls every moon from you in exchange for my mark of authority. For my blessings, you must content yourself with one of three: dominion over souls, being able to trap and contain any that leave bodies within sight; dominion over flesh, being able to command it without the use of souls; or dominion over memory, being able to instill true thought into the necromantic beings you create.”

Stout Heart Swan focused on Durran. “I offer my full support, and my full suite of blessings. All I ask is for a hunter’s will—you must hunt gods for me as my champion, and offer a portion of their bodies as tribute. In return, you will always know the locations of the prey you injure, you will never again be taken unawares, and you can call upon my spectral hounds to track any foe you seek with the smallest clue.”

Having seen Sataistador so obviously leave had rattled Durran, and though he briefly questioned if he might be able to extract more from both, either in the form of greater support or lesser tribute… in the end, caution won. He looked to Stout Heart Swan and nodded.

“I would champion you, Stout Heart Swan.”

“Good,” Stout Heart Swan said as Gaunt faded away into whiteness. “I look forward to meeting you. These aspects carry but a fragment of our true personality.”

Durran nodded, somewhat comforted by his choice of deity in wake of her earnest behavior. In the end, he didn’t feel he’d promised too much for too little—the blessings that she offered seemed quite fantastic, and they were the extent of her offerings. Perhaps if Gaunt had offered all three of his dominions, Durran would have been swayed.

But perhaps after the meeting with Garm… that might not have swayed him. Perhaps necromancy was better left dead and gone.

#####

Argrave held Anneliese’s hand—she was particularly affectionate after whatever she’d gone through. She didn’t mention what it was, though. Perhaps she might share later.

“So, I assume I was the last?” Anneliese questioned. “Shall we stride boldly forth, earn our blessings?”

“Nope. Second to last. Still waiting on Melanie,” Argrave responded.

“I see,” Anneliese nodded. “Will you wait for her?”

“Seems only just,” Argrave nodded.

“Then I shall wait too,” Anneliese smiled. “What do you think she endures?”

“I can’t see it being anything other than her childhood,” Argrave said. “For Durran, maybe something changed—I mean, we’ve travelled with him a lot. But Melanie was a player character, and that’s what hers was. It’s a little too strong of a forgotten memory to change.”

“But what was it?” Anneliese pressed.

“…rough,” Argrave said simply.