Archer

Tion had found a seat on a log bench in the shade of a nearby building. He was sharing a loaf of bread with an older man, with a grey beard and bushy eyebrows, who was laughing heartily. The god nodded at Sagitta as she approached. “Bread shop’s over there! Buy yourself something for lunch, I’ll just be a minute.” He then jumped back into the story he was telling. The other man looked Sagitta up and down lewdly but was soon distracted by Tion’s continued recollections. Five minutes later, Tion brought the discussion to a close with one last joke and a handshake, reclaimed his horse, then went looking for Sagitta. “Hope you did better than I did,” he said as he swung his body up onto his mount’s back. The deity noticeably winced as his legs fell into place, already feeling saddle-sore. “Best I can tell, this town is on edge. Their leaders are scared, and that makes them scared, even if they don’t know what they’re supposed to be afraid of. We’ll have to watch ourselves tonight. When people start acting more guarded, it makes the vagabonds more desperate, and right now, we’re their easiest target.” He tapped the rapier on his belt. His next words were chosen carefully, laced with subtext. “I can disarm a man, but I’m above killing them. Sadly, I don’t think that that will be enough of a deterrent, if it comes to it.” He waved for the other two gods to follow along behind them when they were ready. "They can stop time, they'll catch up. So where are we going?"

Tion dismounted but left his horse where it was after tying it to a hitching post. As he walked towards Sagitta, his expression seemed to lean towards disappointment. His shoulders pushed back as he dramatically inhaled deeply, as if holding himself back from lashing out. However, when he spoke, his voice was cheerful. “Seems like you need some practice then.” Suddenly, he was shouting in her face. “What do you mean you lost the map, woman?!” He leaned in towards her, fire in his eyes. The god’s breath smelled like mint. Oddly, the anger had evaporated as he whispered in her ear. “You are my daughter. Use your real first name, but don’t offer your last. I know you’ve scoped out this crowd already, you know who’s stealing glances at us. Get one to approach. They’ll probably use their Instinct on you, so it’s okay to use yours back. Find out about the disturbance we felt. Go.” Tion’s hand moved upward as if to slap her, but he held back. “Always an excuse with you! Bah.” Radiating disgust, he turned his back on the soldier and made a beeline for the well, muttering about his empty flask as he stomped away. The assembled nomads stepped out of his way and avoided making eye contact.

I think you mean, Salad asked what A.C. was willing toothpayste.

“I think everyone likes art,” the god replied easily. “We just have different definitions of what art is. Hundreds of years ago they thought that arranging rocks into vast gardens was awe-inspiring. Today, people make complicated designs out of cloth and string. Then there’s music, and dancing, and poetry. I’ve even seen displays of swordplay by some of your countrymen that were so deft and dexterous that many called it an art. Anything done very well for its own sake can be considered beautiful.” Ahead of them, the road between buildings led around a shallow bend, then into a shaded courtyard. Tion could see the well at the center of it coming into view, and the couple of nomads clustered around it. As they started riding into the breeze, he also began to smell the scent fresh-baked bread on the air. It distracted him from thinking about Sagitta’s comment about her art’s soulessness. That was nagging at him for reasons he did not care to confront. “But what fascinates me more are the artists. To the unenlightened, art has always seemed like such a waste of the precious time they have in their lives, since its not ‘productive’.” He put the last word in air quotes, his horse swerving slightly beneath him as he did so. “Naturally, there are logical counterarguments to that rationale. If everything unproductive is a waste, why bother with friendships? Or families? And ultimately, what is the value of your material advantages after one, two hundred years? The dead own nothing but their secrets.” “Artists rarely engage in such debates though. Rather, they engage in a form of mental transformation. They take base materials or concepts and they instill upon them a value that instinctively, even the most pragmatic among us can not help but recognize. Something about the way they flavour their text or paint their pages makes giving up a few irretrievable seconds of our time to see more seem worthwhile. Artists gently prod at their audience’s auras, challenging them to think difficult thoughts, making them feel unexpected emotions, consensually shifting our perspectives – and they do it all without the use of magic. Not the conventional kind anyway.” Not the type they would get from me. “It’s a masterclass in manipulation that even I learn from sometimes.” Tion realized he was being careless with thoughts, so he decided to shift the conversation back to his guide. “It’s hard to say what’s supernatural magic and what’s just skill and experience. Or if there is even a distinction.” He pulled Jessic to a halt as they strode into the courtyard. Before he moved to dismount, his eyes lazily scanned the space from his vantage point to look for patterns in the people’s behaviour he could mimic. Most of them seemed to be women, dressed in shawls. A few were toting hefty clay urns, others had buckets. Tion reached into his coat and procured a small waterskin. As he surreptitiously dumped it out, he locked eyes with Sagitta. “You don’t seem like the type to rely on your Instinct, which can be wise. But I wonder, how well do you really know the power that lies within you? Is it still a foreign force, or have you conquered it, soldier?”

Tion politely suppressed his smirk at Sagitta’s horsemanship. Gently, he reached out with his Power to grant her confidence- but nothing happened. The place in his soul where the magic once resided was still an empty void. “The old nomads weren’t known for working with stone,” he began to lecture as they rode. “They had no need for such permanence. Many of the roving tribes still prefer simple wood and thatch structures, they’re easier to build, and easier to move on from. But the, um…” The god trailed off, struggling to recall the name of the original settlers. “But the ones who came before were drawn to this place. Something about it made them want to stay here full time. And as the generations went by, the people learned to reinforce their homes with clay and rock. They went on to make streets of beautiful buildings, myriads of different colours and shapes and sizes of stone arranged in patterns that made up their walls and foundations. I wish some of the more intricate designs had survived, this place was quite the sight to behold before the exodus.” He grew solemn at that, remembering. “You’d meet them on the roads, for years after. Refugees, heading away from the city, as far as they could get. They were good folk, earnest and kind. But they all had a blemish on their auras, this mix of fear, anger, and this foreign third emotion which I could never figure out.” He pointed to the base of a small home they were passing, which was half made from several ancient boulders glued together with a burgundy mortar. A sizable crack ran through middle of the cornerstone. “The ruins they left behind lay abandoned for over a century before one wandering tribe of fools made their way to it. The basements were there to build on. And I’m told that the land was singing once more. It proved too much to resist for the weary men of Tiska.” “This was all well before your time. A couple hundred years ago, if I’m doing the math correctly. They’ve had time to put their own mark on this place, blend the cultures of what they found and what they brought. There was an artistic movement of rock carving that I was quite fond of, but they must have done something to the statues that came out of it, I haven’t seen many since we arrived. You don't seem like you'd be much interested in art though, no time for that in the army, eh?"

Tion raised a hand in greeting. His horse stopped in the middle of the road a few meters in front of hers, under the shadow of a single-story building on the outskirts of the city, likely a storage hut of some kind. Its base structure was akin to a log cabin made of driftwood-like tree trunks, but one of its walls had been created out of a pile of incongruous mud bricks of varying shades of red, brown, and black, giving it the look of a mosaic. “The buildings here are stolen,” Tion mused, pointing at the homes in front of them. “The current residents built on top of another city, when its previous occupants abandoned it. Apparently, they left some solid foundations, better than the nomads had had before. So, the Tiska tribe settled down, and added their own flair to the place.” He paused to take in Sagitta’s appearance. “You look like a spy. Slouch your shoulders more, and loose the intensity! I’m amazed no one’s run you through yet. You’d probably be better off not even trying, like us. At least then people think you’re being honest.” He nudged Jessic to move closer, so he didn’t have to raise his voice as much. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure by now you’ve found where the local watering hole is. Some place to chat people up, we’ve got questions that need answering. How about you lead us there. Safety in numbers, right?”

The buildings stared back. From the taller structures, the cold gaze of rooftop gargoyles took stock of their approach. The stone statues seemed weather worn, but they sat stoically in their poses, wings tucked back in their crouch, almost ready to dive into the streets and feast. Closer to ground level, Tion’s keen eyes saw decorations of a different type on the smaller buildings: wooden hoops hanging in windows and from the overhangs over doorways. Lithe spiderweb-like patterns were made inside of them using string, then at their center, lines and lines of thread were sewn together in a mass to create the distinctive shape of a human eye. The hoops ranged in size, but most were about the size of a head. As they twirled gently in the wind, their eyes seemed to look back and forth in front of them, nothing escaping their notice. “Those are new,” Tion remarked. “I liked the statue aesthetic better.” As if on cue, their horses passed a small pile of rubble by the side of the road. A few of the larger pieces were still recognizable as being the remnants of a chiseled bear. One paw was still intact, its blocky claws outstretched. Based on the sharpness of the new edges, it seemed to have been smashed recently. Tion pulled on his reins to slow Jessic to a walking speed as they got closer to the city limits. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Tiska.”

Tion's brief adrenaline high wore off two minutes after the gods started riding again. His eyelids became heavy, and his head slumped slowly towards his chest. He vaguely remembered hitching his reins to the back of the horse in front of him, but it felt more like a dream than reality at that point. He promptly fell asleep after that, only re-awaking when Jessic's regular canter came to an abrupt stop. "Stone him," he mumbled as he came out his stupor, rubbing his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. "Hey, how long was I out? And where are we?"

Hey, Ashspren! What if no one actually dreams when they sleep, we just make up stuff when asked based on the power of suggestion mixed with peer pressure not to be the only dreamless people. And those who push it absurdly far and craft really elaborate lies are the most delusional, which is why psychiatrists ask us about our dreams to see if we're crazy.

Cahaya. Near the Straight Path. A little after dusk. “Agreed, Alar. I believe my Lord will find that acceptable. The boundaries will stay as they are until the harvest in complete, then move to align with the river, upon delivery of the prisoner and the promised monies.” Two men sat in a private room at a non-descript tavern on the outskirts of Quartz. The boisterous hum of travelling patrons seeped through the walls, but the scene was otherwise peaceful as they sat on opposite sides of a table covered by papers with scribbled notes and a large, annotated map of the region. The one who had spoke, a bald man in his seventies with jaundiced skin and a trailing grey beard, leaned back in his chair, smoking a pipe. The second, a career civil servant twenty years his junior whose hair and closely trimmed beard were dyed a youthful shade of brown, downed the last of his drink. “You got yourself a deal, Jom, but somehow I can’t shake the feeling that you’ve gotten the better of me. Again. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to throw in a freebie from your Truthers for my troubles…” The older man smiled toothlessly. His right hand slowly reached into his breast pocket and came out with a small deck of cue cards, each meticulously marked with a few lines of perfect handwriting. “I have recorded some interesting premonitions since last we spoke. Which one would interest you, I wonder. I have thoughts on cold fires, coming storms, shared dreams, a mysterious death, a magic-” Alar clanked his tankard onto the table, his knuckles taut around its handle. “Give me the dream one.” “Curious,” Jom crooned, delicately picking through the stack in his hand. “The prophecy is yours, if you tell me, why the sudden interest in that particular subject?” The younger bureaucrat narrowed his eyes, then broke into a laugh. “I am much too drunk to be talking to you. Why do we always do this in this pub? I swear the ale here is twice as strong as it should be.” “It is a meeting place equidistant between our two respect counties. Now tell me, why this Truth?” Alar stared at the bottom of his empty glass, suddenly solemn. “Now this stuff, I’m not drunk enough for. Not yet... But here goes. My Master’s been complaining recently. About a reoccurring dream. I know it means nothing, right, but he seems worked up about it.” Jom sat quietly, stroking his beard. “Mm.” “It had something to do with rocks. He’s walking through a this endless sea of stones, sharp little things that poke at his feet. For some reason he feels the need to stack ‘em. So he starts arranging them, making little piles and patterns. But there’s so many, right? Too many. So eventually he gives up. And when he does, within the dream he wakes up, and is back in the manor. Then there, standing at the end of his bed-” “Is a figure,” Jom murmured, as if reciting from a script. “Dressed in robes of black, cloaked in folds of shadow. He is tall and leering, with obsidian eyes that peer into the soul. He reaches out to grab at me, so I cover my face, and when I finally look back, he is gone.” “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly it.” Alar’s brow furrowed. “How in the world did you know?” “It seems your Master’s thoughts are not as private as you think. Perhaps it is that great minds think alike.” Jom slowly sucked on his pipe, then opened his mouth to blow out a wispy ring on smoke. “Independently, my Lord too has had nightmares, for the past six days. Always the same scene. The exact same scene as you have just described.” They sat in silence for a minute, listening to the distant chords of a drinking song. “I would like to see the premonition you brought.” Wordlessly, Jom drew the top card from the stack and slid it across the table. Alar looked down at it, his lips moving slightly as he read it to himself, then read it again. “Dear gods.” ********* Meanwhile, near a different road. Tobias the Tipsy examined the bottle he had just won from Tion. He uncorked it and took a whiff. “Smells plenty strong to me. Got any others of these? I could go one more round.” He cocked his head back and downed it contents in a single gulp. Tion shrugged and produced two identical bottles from his trench coat. “Sure. Ready when you are!” The gamemaster happily complied, spinning the cups on the table once more. But this time, his movements were slower, more jerky. Eventually, his hands came to a complete stop, locked in place in mid-turn. “Finally,” Tion muttered, jumping up and flipping all of the cups on the table over one by one. Tobias sat unmoving as he checked each one, then double checked. “Don’t worry, the paralysis will wear off in an hour. It was strong stuff, just not the kind you were thinking of.” The god flipped the table over, just to be sure. “No coin here either. I guess that means you were cheating. Glad I was right about that. Would’ve been awkward if I had genuinely lost sixty-two games in a row. I was rather exciting though!” “Also, I’m taking my stuff back. You didn’t earn it. Okay, let’s go!” He looked up at the other gods as he stuffed his belonging back into his pockets. “I said I’m ready to go, come on. Wasn’t that enough of a rest for you guys?” Tion was flush with energy now, but inwardly something was bothering him. If he was using illusion magic, why didn’t I sense he had the Sensation instinct? Like most things he didn't understand, he chose to ignore it and move on.

Archer, who had already heavily bet on the outcome of the food contest, was forced to decline Nameless' kind offer. For ethical reasons.

Meanwhile, Tion proceeded to lose his life savings to Tobias the Tantalizing. And also his horse. As well as three of his honorary titles, Arch-thane of the Thomes, First Fire Chieftain of Ixalar, and Reserve Stone Arranger of the Monastery of the Pebble (Second Class), respectively. “I think you may be cheating,” the god supposed, unbuckling his sword from his belt. Tobias the Tenacious shook his head, rearranging the cups on the table in front of him. “Just put that rapier on the ground there, that’s a good lad. And no! No, no, no, no, no! Everything here is on the level- say, what is your, well, my horse doing?” Tion looked at Jessic. They looked up from their grazing to glare back at him. “Right, round and round atop my board, who will win your shiny sword?” The magician's hands blurred once more, spinning the cups hypnotically. Tion clapped his hands together. “Who indeed! This is very exciting.”

Archer meandered into the room, nibbling on a gluten-free peanut butter chocolate chip no-whip latte cookie, and promptly took an orange fruit to the face. "Ow. That was an annoying orange... peach? Pumpkin? Overripe pomegranate?" He crouched behind the line of food trucks pulling into formation on the battlefield. They would protect him from the barrage of ambiguous orange fruit that was to come.

On the Road. Evening. Tion accidentally nodded. “It’s a very simple game,” Tobias the Trickster began, placing his hands on two of the cups. “Under one of these is a coin.” He tipped it up to reveal a small, silver piece. “I mix the cups up, just scramble around, then you tell me, where the coin can be found!” His hands spun about swiftly, pushing the cups around the table, twisting them around each other in a frankly beautiful display of dexterity. When he was finished, he nodded at Tion, who pointed to the center one. Tobias lifted it in the air, revealing the coin. “My, my, got it on the first try! And to the victor goes the spoils.” Before the god could protest, Tobias slid the coin off the table into his palm, then flicked it over to Tion. “Finders-keepers! Them’s the rules. Just as if you’d failed to find it, you’d have owed me a coin.” He re-set the stack, this time with a gold coin under the center cup. “Now that we’ve warmed up, it’s your turn, yous. Ready? Here we go!” His fingers blurred this time, twisting the cups around and around each other, occasionally spinning them like tops for added flourish. After a minute, they came to a rest, and he looked up at his audience expectantly.

Tion examined his mount. It looked like a horse. "I'm not sure how to you're supposed to tell when they're tiring. This one keeps snorting, but its being doing that since we left. How about we push them another hour, then call it a day if we don't get anywhere." He pushed his heels into Jessic's flank, spurring them forward, albeit at a slower pace than before. They traveled at a trot for the next few minutes, their shadows growing steadily longer behind them as they rode. Just as Tion was about to pipe up again to suggest they halt for the night, a flickering firelight up the road caught his eye. Intrigued, he steered his horse on another hundred meters, and over to the left side of the road. There, a vibrant purple tent had been pitched. In front of it, tending to a modest cooking fire crouched a sharply dressed man, wearing a formal overcoat and a flamboyant top-hat that was two sizes too large for his head. He leapt to his feet when he saw the gods approaching, and fed another log into the fire, which better illuminated his sparse camp and smiling round face. "Yoo hoo!" he called out, his voice high pitched, but amiable. Whenever he spoke, his hat slipped down over his eyes, so he had to use one hand to push it back up. "My friends, come share a seat at my fire! Rest your weary mounts a spell." Amused, Tion stepped off the trail to join him. "Stay here, girl," he said, slipping out of his saddle. He stumbled as his legs readjusted, but he was able to make his way closer to the man. "Wonderful! Today is my lucky day again. Join us, you two, don't be afraid!" cheered the man, shaking Tion's hand enthusiastically. "Tobias the Traveller, at your service." "Sensei Tion. We thank you for your hospitality." "Think nothing of it! It's rare I get the chance to entertain friends this late at night. In fact, I had just closed up for the day. But I still have my toys close at hand." He reached into his tent and retrieved a small, collapsible side table. He propped it up, then also grabbed three cups: smooth, semi-spheres of polished white opal. He set them up in a line on the table. "Who wants to play a game?"

Conversely however, I received an alternative other option, Adjective. It personally knows me intimately so well.

The Monastery of the Pebble. Ten years ago. Summer; early afternoon. “I think she is hiding beneath this rock!” Tion declared, grabbing a small boulder with both hands and hefting it upwards. But beneath it lay just a fine layer of gravel, like the rest of the meticulously curated rock garden in the courtyard. He carefully lowered it back in place, conscious of the watchful eyes of Oldolf, a middle aged, but well-built monk, who was preforming some acrobatic stretches in the shade of the nearby pergola. A cool breeze blew through the valley, mostly blocked by the walls of the ring of wooden cabins that made up the commune. The wind carried a soft peel of laughter on it, but the God of Sensation pretended not to notice. “Oh dear,” he said cheerfully. “Perhaps she’s over here!” With exaggerated stealth, Tion tip-toed towards the garden’s center-point: an old tree with thin, spindly limbs. He tipped his head back to look up at them, intentionally oblivious to the giggles coming from the opposite side of the trunk. “She’s not up here!” He peered down at the plant’s roots. “Nor down here. Hmmm!” The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “FOOOOOUND YOUUUU!” screamed a child’s voice, screeching as she leapt through the air, catching Tion in an airborne tackle from behind, right as he was about to turn around. The god was knocked flat on his back. His twelve-year-old assailant, dressed in a scaled-down, slightly muddied monk’s uniform, promptly pinned him by the shoulders. Her two blonde pigtails whacked him in the nose. “You cheated,” he accused with a grin. He wrestled an arm free and moved his hand up to brush her hair behind her ears. The locks moved back, revealing her- “Tee? What’s wrong?” Her voice was clear, but the girl’s face was blurred, like a picture water had been spilled on. As he tried to focus on individual parts, her nose, her lips, her rosy cheeks: they all swam distortedly, refusing to give him a clear image. It was like looking through a clouded window. Even her dark eyes, which he knew the best, as they were carbon copies of her mother’s, a rich chocolatey brown, were impossible to make out. “Stop it, Tee. Stop doing… that. It’s scary. Stop-” Tion’s horse bucked, knocking him out of his daydream. He instinctively reached for his rapier, ready for a fight, but a second take showed him nothing was amiss. They were still riding, as they had been for days. They sun was low in the sky, but he guessed they could ride for a few more hours before it got too dark to see. “We’re getting close, right?” he called forward, suddenly craving company. “I think I recognize this area.”

As part of my ongoing efforts to prove that, in the modern-day, Poseidon would be more powerful than Zeus, I wear shoes with rubber soles. Science has shown that the coefficient of friction for rubber on sidewalks is higher than that of rubber on tile. Therefore, sidewalks are marginally safer, if every other variable is completely ignored. So I prefer to line my floors with rough concrete than that ever-so-dangerous menace (yuck) tile. However, I did learn how to grout in Grade Nine tech class, so I could probably tile a room better than I could lay a concrete foundation. Just don't expect either of them to come out very level. I like packing snow. If it compresses right under your feet, and holds together enough, it doesn't collapse into the hole your foot makes, so your socks don't get wet. Plus, it doesn't try to hide, unlike some substances. >.> (looking at you, black ice) You get an upvote because that is an excellent question. It's an interesting premise, because, as you've worded the conditions, part of Tion would want me to win. However, it would be suppressed by his Rule: that he cannot kill. It's designed to apply first and foremost to himself, to prevent suicide, or allowing people to beat him. The secondary application is to others, so he can't kill me either. The loophole is that while he can't intentionally walk into deadly danger, if he is ambushed/surprised and can rationalize it, he doesn't have to back down from a fight or retreat immediately. So let's assume I get the drop on Tion Prime/Light Tion. He'll try to incapacitate me, while I need to checkmate him like they did that pre-cog in the Reckoners books. Otherwise he'll be forced to dodge every attack, and likely could, given his physical fitness and experience. But if I'm quick enough, as Tion Prime is currently (practically speaking) instinctless, I might be able to kill him in hand to hand combat before he realizes he's in genuinely mortal danger. Once he does that, he'd likely manage to recall Dark Tion, who would have no qualms about killing me by overloading my senses. So in this weird situation, based on his current state, I'd say that I'd win if he was unprepared and I struck fast and hard, but in a prolonged fight, I'd be dead.

With his left hand, Tion snatched the donut out of the air. It lightly burned his fingertips, which surprised him more than it should have. He acknowledged the gift with a nod. "Thank you," he said, stuffing it into his mouth and scarfing it down. Then his paranoia kicked in. I didn't manipulate her into doing that. Why would she help me? Does she owe me? Do I owe her now? Is it poisoned? Hands shaking, he reached into his trench coat, trying to find a universal antidote. But if she means business, surely she'd have picked an obscure enough drug to beat that. Curses. "Good donut. Nice and warm. And is that honey filling on the inside? Really adds to the flavour..." And conveniently masks the taste of any added substances.

"Hehe," He laughed, confusingly.

After more than a millennium of roaming the continent, the God of Sensation knew his soul better than anyone. He was rarely confused by the signals that his body sent him, which is why three days into their journey, he was growing concerned by the intense pain coming from his stomach region. He attributed his general weariness to the repetitive jostling of the highhorse beneath him. Its saddle was new, and, he winced, the leather needs to be broken in more. Should’ve thought of that when I stole it. It had taken him a few hours to catch up with the other gods. He had barely spoken a sentence to them since he arrived, hanging back about a hundred meters, lost in thought. Abruptly, his mount stopped and stepped over to the side of the road they were travelling along. “Haw! Haw, c’mon, Jessic. Get a move on.” He scowled as the animal instead dipped its head and munched on a nearby tuft of grass. Oh. Watching the highhorse eat reminded him of something. I forgot to eat. Since… it’s been a few days. His ride nibbled for a minute more before reluctantly heeding his kicks to its side. Tion pushed it faster, quickly drawing close enough to the others to speak with them. “Ho! Did either of you think to bring food? I just realized that I’m hungry.” The sun beat down on his face, highlighting its paleness. It also gleamed off of the new addition to his belt: a battle tested, but well-cleaned and sharpened, recently stolen rapier.

Although some believed he had achieved it through plastic surgery.

The moment time stopped around him, Tion's face became very pale. Then he puked. Green-tinted vomit spewed from his mouth, coating the shoes of the guards and large portions of the floor. "Guess that drink was more off than I thought," he joked uneasily when it was done. He let out a long burp. "Nope, not quite finished. I'm sorry, I'll meet you at the girl." With surprising speed, he ran out the door. His footsteps could be heard moving down the corridor, then stopping. In the distance, a door creaked open. Retching noises followed.

Tion pinched his nose to dull the pain, which raised his voice by an octave. "The humans?" he squeaked. "Shouldn't think we'd need them. Besides, they'd just try to kill us along the way. That's what those people do." He rummaged around in his coat until he found a small, green glass bottle. The god ripped off the stopper with his teeth and downed its contents in a single swig. His nostrils flared as the drink went down. "Huh. This stuff used to taste better." In retribution for the book bopping, he chucked the bottle in the general direction of the illiterate guard. The man knocked it aside with the flat of their sword.