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There are tales told far and wide of the punishments of arrogant mortals who defied or maligned the gods. The Sages of Sumeru who sought to imprison Lord Kusanali and the Lawrence Clan who presumed that their tyranny would go unpunished in a land blessed by the god of freedom are only the most famous.
Marya thinks she may be living inside of one of these tales, or at the very least witnessing it.
Her friend Dmitri has made no secret of his casual attitude towards the gods. From half-assing his offerings to sleeping in during festival days to irreverently tossing around their names as exclamations, his little blasphemies seem to know no bounds. Even so, he’s never gone far enough to draw the eyes of the gods.
The same cannot be said this time.
“My beloved’s beauty surpasses even that of the Ninth Harbinger,” he boasts, and Marya can’t help but feel he’s pushing his luck too far.
Even putting aside the fact that the Lord Pantalone is literally the god of beauty, to compare any god unfavourably to a mortal–much less a Harbinger, much less a god who despite being primarily worshipped for his power over beauty also holds power over deceit and temptation –is asking for trouble.
Even Marya’s warned him. She doesn’t know what he thinks will come of this. Perhaps he thinks the gods’ eyes won’t be drawn to a place so small, so remote, so out of the way as their little village.
She disagrees. The gods are exactly that: gods. Even their names carry power when used right. It’s just foolish to think that disrespect on such a level, claiming a mortal to be above a god, wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Everyone seems to know this but him.
Whatever consequences his madness brings, she just hopes they’re for him alone.
—
Madness.
In the divine city of Zapolyarny Palace, a laboratory sprawls. Disembodied laughter and screaming echoes through the halls. Mouths with razor-sharp teeth and eyes with pupils blown wide in terror open in the walls, closing and rippling back into undisturbed metal mere seconds later.
And red eyes narrow behind a beaked mask.
Mortals are arrogant. Dottore knows this well. Normally it matters nothing to him–what does the leviathan care if the insect plays at greatness? If it struts and boasts and pretends? It is still infinitesimal. It is still nothing.
He does not quite know why this bothers him so, why the Regrator is an exception. He has been trying to figure out the answer to this particular question for centuries now: what makes Pantalone different?
He does not like to be bothered. And this is such a simple thing to fix.
It is so easy to pinpoint the offending mortal. To reach out, to grasp the fool’s mind in his hands. Everything that defines the mortal, both subconscious and conscious. And when he twists, breaks, shatters, it barely takes a thought.
Sanity is such a fragile thing.
—
Everyone agrees: Dmitri has changed. And not for the better.
The day after comparing his lover to a god, he became… withdrawn. Erratic. When people tried to talk to him, he started spouting nonsense, unrelated words strung together. Divine punishment, madness, people whisper, and despite herself, despite all the distress she feels at the state of her friend, Marya cannot help but speculate.
There are two possibilities, if the state of Dmitri’s mind is a result of a god’s malevolence.
The first: the god of madness, the Second Harbinger whose name is rarely spoken, took offense to Dmitri’s insult towards his fellow divinity. But that implies a connection between the two, a reason the Doctor would care what a mere mortal had to say about the Ninth.
Or the second: the Ninth took matters into his own hands. But Lord Pantalone, so far as they know, is not a god of the psyche. For him to have the ability to do this means either he has a domain they don’t know of… or every god can do this.
Three days in, Dmitri’s family takes him to see the village wise woman. One of the gods-touched, she has the unique ability of sensing the influences of the gods. Sometimes just knowing who to pray to for respite is enough. Hopefully it will be like that again. Marya goes with them–despite his idiocy, Dmitri is her friend. She enjoyed his company, before.
The wise woman looks him up and down, then walks around him in a circle. Her face grows grave in reaction to some sign, some aura lingering around Dmitri that Marya cannot see.
“Indeed, this is no normal occurrence,” the wise woman says, voice wispy. “I fear this may have been the work of the Lord Second Harbinger, though to what end I do not know.”
And oh, Marya does not like the implications of that.
—
The eerie laboratory has more than one occupant. This is becoming ever more commonplace nowadays.
The first figure leans casually on the operating table, which is (for now) free of blood and guts and creatures living or dead. Blue hair and clothes dishevelled, the beaked mask and the reptilian tilt of his head give him the appearance of a curious magpie. Something about him fits right in, seems as though he belongs here with the laboratory equipment and the austere walls and floors.
The second figure sprawls on a settee, put in the operating room specifically so he would have somewhere to sit when badgering the Doctor. With an appearance immaculately put together and a face that any mortal artist could spend their entire life trying to capture and still not get quite right by virtue of its sheer perfection, he seems completely out of place.
“I must admit, Doctor…” Pantalone’s voice is honeyed, amethyst eyes opening just the slightest bit in amusement, “I do find it rather cute when you get defensive over me.”
Dottore knows Pantalone can’t see the light flush that comes to his cheeks under the mask, but he turns his head away with a scoff regardless. “Oh, do shut up, Regrator. He was just lucky I got to him before you did.”
“Oh? Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, woe betide the day that finds you genuinely angry with a mortal. I bet you would have been more creative than I was, for starters.”
“You know me so well.”