The village's resident priest was an…eccentric fellow.

  He subscribed to the cult of Estia, and had an admirable dedication to the faith if the amount of children he had was any indication. Personally I preferred Yorokrom, but that was only because a boon from the god of martial might and valor would be a tremendous help to my situation. Although plenty of elves pined for Estia’s attention, considering how hard it was for them to have children. It was funny, Estia’s the only human god my mother really respected…and my half-brother obsessed over.

  From his very unfiltered exploits I assumed he’d likely had a kid or two somewhere in the world, despite his lineage. He really needed to learn what stories were appropriate to tell children, especially his little sister.

  He should be coming by later in the year, it had been long enough. The priest would certainly be ecstatic for such a devout followers presence, I’m sure the village would experience many grandiose orgies.

  The priest only really tended to the temple once a week on the busy season, otherwise he was just a regular farmer, albeit one that produced significantly more than the rest of the farmers. Part of the proof that he was favoured by Estia, and considering he was the only priest in the village. He lived on the edge of the village, while the temple was placed directly in its center. He was plenty busy attending to the communion between mortal and divine on the days he was present in the holy sight, so I didn’t get the opportunity to deliver my offerings often.

  Yeah, I’ve got a bit of piety in my blood, but only because I knew without doubt that these gods were real, and plenty petty. Best not to get on their bad side by demonstrating a lack of reverence. It was definitely not because my mother approved of a break so that I can wait in the long as fuck line, why would anyone think that?

  It was a ridiculously long line, it was planting season now, so there was plenty of back breaking labour to be done before he could tend to the faithful. Which was everyone in the whole goddamn village. Except for Pol, but the tanner wasn’t the type for faith.

  The line shuffled quick enough, it was just a delivery of offerings to the temple that the priest’s harem would tend to. A total of fifteen women.

  Yeah, he got busy.

  “Good ‘morrow Yir!” a passing villager said as he spotted me, breaking me from my reverie. I turned to the source and nodded in his direction.

  “Good ‘morrow Recktor, how goes the loom?”

  “Splendid!” Recktor laughed as he stopped next to me, which got a glare from the person behind me but I knew Recktor wasn’t the type to cut in line if he were to deliver offerings. “The village is as busy as ever, especially with all that monster activity! Plenty of people need new robes commissioned, and I am happy to oblige.”

  I raised a brow. “Have the monsters been getting worse?”

  “You haven’t heard? Silly me, of course you haven’t! My mind forgot about your nail making spree. Yes, the monsters are acting up some more, dreadful for travel, no caravans in sight since the last one! Strange times I tell you, strange times.” Recktor nodded.

  I hummed to myself, that didn’t sound good. Monsters were a lot like animals in the sense that if they started acting strange then something was wrong.

  “Do we know what’s causing it?” I asked.

  Recktor shrugged. “No idea! The hunters have been scouring the forest high and low and haven’t found a thing. I think it might be a wendigo, buggers always cause a panic, and are plenty good at being inconspicuous. But look at me rambling, I have to get home! Nice eyes by the way, purple suits you.”

  “Thanks,” I grinned.

  He nodded and scurried away, likely because of the intense glare the person behind me was giving him for that entire conversation. The intensity of it might’ve even stimulated a human’s senses because it was loud. I didn't say anything of course, not interested in a pointless argument, but I would’ve liked to know more about the monsters.

  Another time, for now I trudged along the line, a new worry to add to the mountain of dread. After just a few more minutes I stood in front of a man in a rather ornate toga for a peasant. Golden silk woven into the garment to depict Estia’s scripture. The man himself was tall and intense of gaze, clean shaven with a bulk befitting someone who tilled the fields.

  “‘'Ello there little Yir, come to bring your offerings to Estia?” Tikin said

  “To the gods,” I corrected. “I think all of them deserve some praise, don’t you?”

  “That they do,” he said, but the twitch of his eye betrayed his irritation. “Come then, is there something specific you want prayed over you?”

  “Just a blessing for me and mine.”

  He nodded and extended a hand expectantly, I deposited a satchel filled with a collection of skinning knives, they’d likely be distributed to the hunters later in the day. Tikin snatched the satchel and looked at the contents. He nodded, then motioned to one of his sons, depositing the knives into his arms before turning back to me and returning the satchel.

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  “Let us begin then,” Tikin said, holding out a hand that landed on my head and closed his eyes.

  “Oh Mraringa, deliver onto this devout soul the strength to endure any coming hardships.

  “Oh Yorokrom, grant this pious child a spirit that’ll never yield.

  “Oh Holiksar, may you provide aplenty for her and her loved ones.

  “Oh Biakan, may you guide her hand in the act of creation.

  “Oh Iasolom, may you share in your infinite wisdom with your humble congregation.

  “Oh Reudenmire, may they always be filled with plenty to share with any of the needy.

  “Oh Unadine, may you entreat this soul with your warmth.

  “Oh Estia, may her future be filled with prosperity.

  “Amen.”

  “Amen,” I repeated, opening my eyes as his hand slipped from my head. He nodded to me, and I nodded back, moving on and letting the next supplicant deliver their offering. I walked back to my home a little lighter then when I left, striking a few conversations to find exactly what Recktor was talking about.

  There wasn’t anything new, but I got confirmation that he wasn’t bullshiting me, not that he was suspect of that.I walked back to the smithy with a light heart, giving to the gods always did that, I assumed it was some kind of manipulation because I didn’t really hold any love for them.

  Ah well, it was what it was.

  I had smithing to get to, and plenty of mana to drain, I wouldn’t get two thousand done that day but hey, why not try anyway? The nails didn’t really mean anything now did they? And neither did I. But I liked to think that I’d be made to matter as time passed, so long as I was alive to see it through.

  And I would see it through.

  I’d live forever.

  It didn’t understand.

  One moment it wasn’t, the next it was.

  Nothing became something at the behest of everything, one link digging through the dirt for a false freedom, all to shackle the word. It was something that only brought suffering, that is purpose, that was its purpose.

  It was more than instinct, more than reflex, more than any flimsy word adjacent to the concept of compulsive action. Like water, a necessity and curse and love and—

  Oooooh, it needed to sit down.

  The thing that wasn’t but was took a moment. Crouching next to the corpse of a furred thing with four limbs and suffering marked deep into its hollow eyes. It couldn’t help the chuckle that traveled up its throat, because pain delivered was kind of funny. It couldn’t feel pain. It wasn't made to feel pain, its Creator refused to give it the privilege.

  Its humour interrupted the feasting of its fellows for just a moment.

  But a moment was so very precious wasn’t it? Its entire being was defined by a moment, or perhaps the space between two moments? Snap of a finger and suddenly, something new, something sanctified by a cycle older than origin.

  Perhaps each moment had to carry something new, novelty somewhere and everywhere, so life moved forever more in a direction that no one could find because it didn’t really use direction. More like necessity. So it was necessary, the bleeding and the dying and the eating—

  All of it, necessity.

  But was it?

  The question invaded its…hmmmm, thoughts? Yes, it was thinking. That was strange, should it be capable of thinking? Something told it that it shouldn’t, something primal. But it was, and what was life if not a series of unexpected changes?

  So, it was thinking now, and with that novel blessing it contemplated the need for violence.

  Mmmm…it didn’t know where to start, all this was so very new. Maybe it could ask the corpse? Corpses should know plenty about violence, right? All the death it had seen had been violent, so surely the victim of such a thing would understand.

  Right?

  The corpse refused to answer.

  The thing that wasn’t but could think now growled at the uncooperative cadaver, tearing off an ear as punishment and munching through the cartilage. The taste wasn’t so bad, the texture could’ve used some work though.

  As it chewed, realization dawned that perhaps it was being unkind, it didn’t know how to communicate beyond growls and clacking teeth, and those didn’t really have purpose beyond intimidation and signalling.

  Maybe it could think its thoughts to the corpse, and the corpse could think back?

  It never had thoughts before, and what was something you never had but an opportunity to try something new? It huffed, and thought at the corpse, concentrating hard on its first memory, crawling out of the dirt to the embrace of reality. Hoping, hoping, hoping.

  It got nothing.

  The thing clacked its sharpened teeth, peeved at the lack of progress.

  It could think! Why couldn’t it communicate?

  Maybe the corpse was just being a cunt, considering it died to the thing clacking its teeth.

  The thing moped for a bit, before it heard the rustling of leaves to its side. It didn’t need to turn, wide eyes angled by a strange skull providing plenty in the way of vision. There, to the left, were three others like it.

  Skin varying shades of green, each with a distinct face that drooled at the sight of the corpse that refused to communicate, The thing that wasn’t but isn’t going to take this shit growled at them to fuck right off to their hovel.

  They, of course, didn’t do that. There was only one of it and three of them and numbers are a fun new concept that distinctly favors the latter.

  But it didn’t care, the corpse belonged to it, it was the one who jammed a javelin through its heart and clawed out its throat, to challenge it was to break the sanctity of doing, which was almost as important as being.

  They approached, growling and slobbering and snapping their teeth—

  A rumble traveled through the forest, so deep it shook their very bones, and all of them froze in deferent fear.

  Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, a thousand thousand feet crushing bushes and branches, all headed to one direction.

  In that moment, the thing that could think that wanted to speak received something like communication, except more in the form of a direction. In it was an image of fields and pale creatures surrounded by a wall.

  Another rumble overtook the forest, and a rage that didn’t exist a moment before overtook the thing that could once think, and it charged to the direction.