Rising Winds

On a high precipice overlooking the Sea of Non, a tall statue depicting Osk stared out over the waters. In front of the statue was a large, intricately embroidered tent, its purple and blue flaps straining against their stakes as the wind rushed by. Within the tent stood a golden shrine, with images depicting Osk creating the sea outside by cracking open the crust, and a pool of carp swimming in circles lay at the entrance. This was the temple of Osk, at least in its primary stage. Osk had insisted on a statue first, so the building had yet to be built.

Inside the tent Osk himself stood at the fore, his six peers trailing behind. In front of them stood Azazel, King of the Fallen, alone. In spite of the numbers advantage, Osk didn't feel comfortable at all, while Azazel bore the look of one who couldn't be more relaxed and confident.

"I'm glad we could agree on a place to meet." Osk began, implying that Azazel had easily capitulated to his demands, in an attempt to assert dominance.

"Yes, I'm agreed. Seeing the tower was meant for your edification, but if you deny my generosity, why insist?" Azazel politely smiled after the passive-aggressive barb. "All your cohorts are aware of the basics, I presume?"

Osk scowled at the dig, as Horchal reveled in his misstep. "They've all been informed."

"Then, to clarify," Azazel started to lay out the conditions, "I am prepared to grant you access to a forbidden ceremony which can raise your status as celestial beings. It is said if you continue without stopping, you will reach the place of the Most High. What happens after that is beyond even rumor." His tone carried an air of mystery and authority, drawing in the listening gods and goddesses.

"How is this possible?" interjected a dark-haired, green-skinned man in plain white robes concernedly. Rygald, god of spirits and undead, wasn't sure he even had such lofty ambitions, and based on every natural concept he understood, it wasn't possible in the first place. Osk waited attentively for the answer. After speaking with the Demon King he didn't doubt the voracity of Azazel's words, but that didn't mitigate his curiosity about the process.

Azazel, however, shook his head with a small smile. "I'm not giving up the goods that easily. Aren't we here to negotiate?" He was far more reserved with his information after being betrayed.

"What do you want Azazel?" Osk scowled impatiently. He had already made a pact with the Demon King, so he already had to agree. As far as he was concerned this was all pageantry and he didn't feel confident in his usual tricks in front of Azazel. He wanted it over quickly.

"Did you expect to gain supremacy for nothing?" Azazel mocked, misinterpreting the scowl on Osk's face. "The Magus' Order is a society where students may learn the mysteries in exchange for absolute loyalty. Yet, the things my subordinates and I can offer are volatile and need to be carefully assessed. So, currently, we lack enough knowledge to give to incentivize their loyalty." Azazel bared his dilemma before the sextet, who were growing apprehensive. "I need your magicks." Finally, the conditions were on the table.

"Not a chance!" Rygald flat out refused as soon as Azazel finished. The others excluding Osk were all murmuring in agreement a the refusal, also reluctant to release magical guides to their domains for wide view.

"Now, wait a minute Rygald, let's hear him out." Osk attempted to persuade his unhelpful comrade.

"What's to hear? He's said everything already." Rygald stubbornly refused to back down. He had good reason; it was more than unwise to allow humans the magics that dealt with his domain of spirits and undead.

"Lisma, you must understand what we stand to gain." Osk changed his target while Azazel watched on in fascination and amusement at the god who was doing his job for him. "The Most High. Just think about the meaning of those words." Osk pressed, scanning all five of his fellows with his intent gaze.

Lisma hesitated, temptation finding a hold in her mind, and Horchal stepped forward beside Osk, head held high. "For once, brother, I agree with you. This is our time to shine, our time to rise." He twisted his neck to look at the rest of their pantheon. "Don't wait when opportunities come. If you hesitate too long, it may never come again."

Shora's froggy form leapt to the side of the two brothers, "I almost couldn't have myself exceeded articulating the core of the situation like you just have, Horchal." She prattled her agreement. Lisma silently joined them.

Rygald's face was heavy with apprehension. He looked to the last god on his side, who rarely ever spoke. "Gehain, do you have any thoughts?"

The dirty, bulky figure raised his shaggy head and opened his eyelids slowly. A deep booming voice sounding like the ground itself spoke rang out as the god of fertilization, farming, and physical strength opened his mouth. "I don't begrudge the people my magicks. They are things that need the people as much as the people need them." Rygald's shoulders slumped at this answer, but Gehain wasn't finished. "This is just for my domain. Things like Rygald's spirits could be just as volatile as some of the things you profess need special attention." He cut straight to the heart of the issue.

Finally, Azazel had the chance to make his own case. "Naturally, processes will be in place to choose only the most trustworthy for magicks of the kind like Rygald or Osk wield. I am not foolish enough to hand out such powers at random."

Gehain looked to Rygald, "Is that satisfactory?" He had a small smile, warming and calming Rygald's tense heart. Gehain was a good friend.

"I will give what you ask." Rygald agreed, "However, I want not just your word here. I want a pact."

Azazel raised a single eyebrow. "A pact? You're not even worthy." He huffed somewhat angrily through his nostrils. Ever since his last pact with Armaros he felt subconsciously bitter about the entire process, his ability to trust deeply damaged.

"I could say the same to you about my magicks." Rygald didn't back down. He was stubborn to the core, and would rather die than not get his way at times.

Azazel stared down Rygald, who mirrored him. Even the air between them seemed to be competing. Rygald eventually blinked, but Azazel smiled. "You're bold, and your concerns aren't without merit. But for something like a pact, it can't be one-sided."

Rygald understood what he meant. The pact he proposed was specifically about Azazel using his magicks responsibly. Since giving them over was the price for letting the six of them use the ceremony, it couldn't count towards the pact. He had a sudden inspiration, but had to clarify. "If I decide not to hand them over, could my sister and her comrades still receive the benefits of your offer?"

Azazel shook his head. "I am dealing with the six of you as one." Even though his ultimate goal was their destruction, that didn't mean he wouldn't squeeze these gods dry first.

It was as Rygald expected. If he backed down, it was tantamount to cancelling the deal for everyone. "Then for our pact, what if I agree not to participate nor benefit from the ceremony?"

Azazel stared at Rygald in shock. This god didn't seem as prideful as the rest. "Are you sure?" He asked incredulously.

Rygald smiled at his comrades and sister, Lisma. "It is enough that the rest achieve their ambition. It was never mine anyways." Lisma beamed at him, while Shora licked him with her tongue. Osk nodded, satisfied with the result. It was enough to meet his duplicitous aims.

"It is enough." Azazel agreed. Gehain patted Rygald on the shoulder, before Rygald and Azazel approached each other, meeting near the pool of carp. "My flames have been bound, so you will have to do most the startup, I'm afraid." Azazel instructed, slight longing underlying in his tone.

Rygald nodded, and his body transformed into a grey and green dust, flooding into Azazel's facial orifices. Azazel shuddered as the dust particles flooded into him, but once they all entered he froze. The remaining members of the god's pantheon watched on passively as the pact was carried out, wordlessly as always.

Finally, Rygald's body reformed bit by bit as he flooded out from within the avatar to which Azazel was bound. Azazel gasped as if for air, though his avatar needed no oxygen. The experience of being stuffed with a secondary consciousness was extremely unpleasant. "That-" *cough* dust shot out from Azazel's nostrils and mouth, rushing towards Rygald's solidifying form. "-is the last time I'm making a pact with you." Azazel wheezed. "Why dust?" He asked with regret as Rygald finally finished reforming.

"It's merely a by-product of my domain. I apologize." Rygald expressed his sympathy as best he could.

"Well, since that's done, how about the main event?" Horchal interrupted impatiently in his typical haughty and boorish manner. While they felt disdain at his attitude, the others agreed that since negotiations had concluded it was time to make good.

One by one, books with titles such as 'Elemental Rage: Flames,' 'Lady Luck's Magic Guide,' 'Getting Stuff With Sorcery,' and so on piled up on Azazel's arms. Osk approached and gestured flippantly with his hand. A massive tome fell from the air onto Azazel's awaiting arms. The King of Fallen caught it without the slightest grunt or downward shift, much to the disappointment of the god of mischief.

"This is my comprehensive magical manual, worthy of the god of magic. I call it 'Magical Mastery.'" Osk declared with pride. Azazel rolled his eyes behind the thick stack at the word mastery. He was just a god, how could he approach the truest mysteries of the divine?

Rygald approached after, his magicks contained in a scroll. He tucked it into Azazel's elbow wordlessly and turned to leave. Their deal had been struck, there was nothing left that needed saying.

"Wait. That's everything?" Osk called after Rygald suspiciously. He didn't want anything to screw up his chance to gain a strengthened domain. If he played his cards right, he may even get both a higher level of existence and a powerful domain.

Answering for Rygald, Azazel pulled at the loose end of the scroll. It's title read 'On Spirits and Necromancy.' He continuously pulled on it like a ream of cloth, and the seemingly thin scroll went on endlessly.

"That's everything." Rygald stated, a twinkle in his eye as he vanished from the tent in a cloud of dust.

"I hate that weird green bastard." Horchal grunted.

"Hey! That's my brother, you know?" Lisma teased with a small smile. Her spinning eyes flashed with agreement however. She hated him too.