Godville

THE LIVES & TIMES OF ETHELRED THE UNREDDE:
Hero of Godville, Defender of Peoples and Keeper of Tardigrades

My Creation Myth

I live. I feel my first breath. I smell my first smell. I hear my first words.

“Git up, if ye ain’t-ent deed, ye gleekin’, whallop-wantin’ hedge-pig!”

I taste my own sick.

I raise my head from what I hope is a pool my own drool to find a dwarf poking me with the business end of a mop, and speak my first words.

“Grmphoff! Whassupen? Oupshush! Schtoppish! Wharishmee?” I slur to the best of my ability.

“Ach! Hamish! Ye owe me a gold, ye ougly, grease-griddled war-hog!!” declares the dwarf, waggling the mop at me with savage delight.

I am confused. I peer blearily around myself at a small, dark cube of a tavern rank with the pit-sweat of Heroes and Heroines clutching large mugs of oily ale. I can’t feel my hands, but I can sure feel my head. It feels like a Hangoverlord is trying to beat it’s way out from inside my skull.

“Ye wit? It lives, does it?” An enormous man with a belly so big it probably arrives at parties before he does leans over me with a deep glare. His beard is grungy and huge and makes his face look like it’s trying to hide itself in a hedge. He pokes me with a frankfurter-sized finger. I try to focus on it but my eyes cross.

I blink. The giant man’s face turns in on itself in a deeply annoyed frowning sort of way that allows his eyebrows to briefly escape his hair-hedge. “Aggghhh,” he growls, and flips a gold coin to the dwarf. “’Twas even up odds, any road, Alejaw. Doan git above yer raisin’ wi’t.” He reaches out a meaty hand and clangs the clapper of a brass bell that unhappily hangs directly over my head. “Right, all ye scurvy mongrels! One round tae ye all. One round, mind ye, or I’ll thraw ev’ry scurvy-ridden, tripe-luvin’ one of ye oot!”

The dwarf prods me again, rendering me smelly and damp, but also cleaning some of the sick off my shirt. “An yew! Git the sel o ye gone, ye woolen piece o’ a manky kitten!”

And before I can move, hands of all sorts grab me bodily anywhere and throw me aching-head first out the door.

I think I may be dying. All around me the world is a black, wet dark that swims sickeningly. Oh, wait—that’s me swimming sickeningly. I’m face down trying not to drown in a puddle and losing the battle. I choke on water that smells of sour feet, slime-slick mud and probably a Ballistic Slug or two. (“Erlack!”). Nope. Make that three.

My face is lifted from the puddle by my hair just before I black out. Rolling to one side, I wipe the mud from my eyes on my sleeves and gaze up into the burning blue eyes of my rescuer, and am awestruck. (Awe has a sharp right hook, by the way). Before me is a ginger-haired woman whose skin shimmers with all colors all at once, the shifting patterns alive and illuminated from within. Light flows from her hands into me and I feel suddenly at peace. My head clears. My aches subside. My mood improves. And my hair looks awesome.

I hear the vision before me utter a sigh so beautiful it makes angels themselves write snarky messages on social networks. I fall to my knees in terror and joy, laughter and tears, and wishing I had a beer in my hand.

Then she speaks for the first time.

In her voice I hear the music of the infinite, silver spinning of the spheres, churning backwards and forwards through all eternity on glorious, gossamer streams of starlight.

“Oh, hell-hounds!” the vision before me mutters. She scowls at me exquisitely, her arms crossed in divine exasperation. “You didn’t turn out at all like I’d planned.”

HERE BEGIN THE CHRONICLES OF THE GODDESS MEFELUSIA
Goddess of Ethelred the Unredde, The Tender of Elbows & The Patron Saint of the Color “Crayon”

I, the Goddess Mefelusia, being of sound Godpower and Ephemeral Body, do thus begin my chronicles with the blessing of the Great Random (May It Suffer No Explosive Sneezes!) on this Godville-Calendared day of the Twelfth Night (or what you will) of March, in the all-too-human year Two-Thousand and Eighteen.
__________________
Entry the First

I am busy gluing the wings back onto flies while also mindfully causing instructive pain to the small human with a black heart who separated them from the poor, wriggling things. I let him run off for a bit, then I magick his arms off, then magick them back on, then make them disappear again. Once for each fly I have to fix.

For I am the Tender of Elbows, and those who transgress against the joints of others shall suffer and lose the ability to defend themselves or execute a successful backhand whilst playing tennis!

Okay, so I’m only the Tender of Elbows because I was late to graduation and that’s all that was left. Well, that and Bestower of the Great Prom-Night-Nose-Pimple, but that went to a group of Grad Gods and Goddesses who were researching the effects of inflicting social anxiety on adolescent humans.

Finishing with the last of the flies, I release them and their torturer back to their daily lives. The puny human runs back to it’s God whining about me. This doesn’t concern me. His God owes me big time and he’s giving me a lot of personal space these days.

I watch the flies I repaired buzz happily around the carcass of a Dork Knight who thought he could win a battle against a hero with a sword by swearing at him in Klingon. Guess it didn’t work out like he’d planned.

“Hard at work?” Our Goon Sqad Guildmaster, the charming and widely respected Ilias Tete de Dragon, sits down next to me in the field (both of us upwind from the Dork Knight and his flies). I brush off my hands and squint sideways at him. He nods toward the puny, fly-torturing human’s God, who is busy trying to get his Hero to hold still so he can heal him from my careful attentions. “You two talking yet?” I shrug and look away. I don’t want to talk about my Ex. “Come on,” Ilias groans, rolling his Godly eyes to the sky, “it’s been like – several Eons, now.”

“Arse-holery doesn’t have an end date.” I frown at my Ex from across the field and a small but very dark cloud bursts open above him and rains worms on his head. “Hey!” we hear him shout angrily from the distance before he throws up his arms in disgust and walks off, shaking night-crawlers out his ears. Like I said, that guy needs to give me wide personal space.

“You have to stop doing that,” Ilias says firmly. “Even his Hero is starting to feel sorry for him."

“So? We’re the Goon Squad Guild. And I’m a goon. So I … ‘gooned’ him.”

Ilias ignores my last remark. “And you also have to stop drinking and creating.” He continues as gently as possible. “The Ideabox Guardians are pulling out their collective hair with all your weird submissions.”

“What “weird” submissions?!”

“Well, that one, for example.” He points at a creature with the back end of an elephant and the front end of an octopus. Or maybe a squid. Or perhaps a star-nosed mole on steroids. Something tentacle-y, anyway. “I mean, how can they define it? What could they even name it?”

“Her’ name,” I answer far too defensively, “is Elephiknow.” Ilias blinks at me. “It’s a pun.”

“It – “ (I glare at him. He rolls his eyes again) "_She_ is a pun that eats garbage.”

“Yes. She’s very into composting.”

“I agree. She’s always composting all over the place. The other Gods and Goddesses are complaining.”

“Well, the plants love it.”

Ilias shakes his head at me. “That’s not the point. She’s just not a feasible monster.” I say nothing. “Is she?” he asks, raising a charming single eyebrow.

“She does just fine." I realize I am defending the indefensible, here. And it is true – I created her after one too many drinks at a Goon Squad Recruitment Rally. "She just …wobbles a bit once in a great while.”

“You’re the Tender of Elbows, and you didn’t give her any elbows. You didn’t even give her front legs,” he points out.

“She doesn’t need them,” I retort, at the exact moment Elephiknow tips over with a loud “Splat!” She makes frustrated noises somewhere between a gurgle and the anguished sound of hopelessness. Ilias gives me a look.

“Anyway,” I continue, ignoring the fact that Elephiknow is struggling to get her head out of the mud in the distance, “I think the Ideabox Guardians are way too picky sometimes.”

“It’s their job to be picky! It prevents things like that – “her” – from happening, Mefelusia.”

Elephiknow smooshes her sort-of-face tentacles into the ground and tries get back up on her hind legs. In the process she spray-composts a good hectare of Elysian Fields behind her with loud, gastro-intestinal relief. Ilias clears his throat and covers his nose.

“Oh, fine.” I form the banishment spell as gently as possible. Elephiknow is surrounded by a softly glowing cloud of finely spun magic and begins to shrink. We hear her mutter “It’s about time!” just before she pops out of existence. I sulk loudly in Ilias’ direction.

“Elysium, and all with noses who live in her, thank you,” Ilias says as he pats me on the shoulder and stands up. “Now the hard part. Here.” He fishes into his bag and pulls out a small scroll made entirely of light and raw matter, bearing the crest of the Goon Squad. “You’ve got mail from The Guild Council. You have 48 hours to create a new hero or you’re out of the guild.”

“What?! But I’ve been a faithful Goon for forever!”

“For a just a very little while, actually” he smiles not unkindly at me, and holds out the scroll. I don’t take it. Even Goddesses get the odd Process Server showing up now and then. Never take a scroll a stranger — or your Guild Master — hands to you. It never ends well.

Ilias sets the scroll on the ground next to me. “It’s time to stop pouting over the breakup, stop “gooning” your ex and get back to Godding a Hero or face going guildless.”

“You’ve got way too many “G’s” in that remark," I pout, crossing my arms and looking away from him.

“We mean it,” Ilias calls back in a friendly voice as he walks away.

“I’ll make the worst hero in pre, current and post history,” I warn him petulantly.

“Your choice,” he calls back without turning around.

“I’ll make him an American and name him ‘Ilias’!” I threaten further.

“48 hours,” Ilias replies from a distance with a backwards wave, and then walks into a portal and disappears.

I’m left alone in Elysian fields with buzzing flies, a dead Dork and the lingering stench of Elephiknow dung. I manifest a silver hip flask and take a deep, beautifully burning swig of well-aged single-malt.

“Well… crap.”

MEFELUSIA’S 48 HOURS TO CREATE A HERO CHALLENGE

Hour 1
Woke up late. Power-guzzled water and aspirin. Making Hero out of pipe-cleaners, old chicken bones and bottles of single-malt.

Hour 2
Pipe-cleaner-chicken-bone Hero won’t miss a bit of single-malt. Took a sip from nearly completed Hero’s left arm.

Hour 2.2
Observing single-malt Hero from all angles, looking for flaws. There appears to be only one – his arms don’t have the same amount of booze, now. Took sip from right arm.

Hour Three.5
Needed to drink half of both arms just to get it right. Now his arms look too short for his (hic!) legs.

Hour Q.k
Legs n arms look good. But hiz eyes don’t work… they’re toooo blurry.

Hr sumthing
Hah! Hero he can haz a belly button made of jelly bean found on (hic) flor

Hor
Hero now emptee and can see thru hIM. Wont wworRk. Try elseses things…

Now
Make nuther new hERero frm choclat an butter frrm penutz an a littttle bitz of prtzles

Latr nw
heroe iz delisish

Last Day
Woke up late. Power-guzzled water and aspirin. Why do I have chocolate and peanut butter in my hair?

Noon
Playing Flame Lounge games online with other Gods. Need a rhyme for “Booze.”

Noon o’5 minutes later
Rhyming game gives me a good idea.

siX Pmmm
I take nap. Still hz ltos time 2 mke her*&%$0(hic!)o.

nOw AGaiN
I hz ten momunts to mke an hero. Allz I haz be goldfsh, an kat hairball & pice of strng. An’ … TADA! Iz hro! Caztng spel. IZ ALIVES!!

Im a nice goddesses so I snds hro 2 mine flavorite tavrn in Godzvillages where iz funy dwrf n lotz of uther hros 4 to him mke frends. I iz sush a good goddesses…yay me!

Later Now Again That Same Night
I’m standing outside the Tavern with a throbbing headache having to already heal this thing. Funny. I don’t remember making him a ginger. And I apparently spent a LOT of time on his elbows. They’re all bony and knobbly. Like his knees. And oh, crap – are those his feet? They’re like snowshoes. And he’s not bright enough to lift his head out of this mud puddle?

I look around to see if Ilias is somewhere watching this debacle. Well, regardless, ready or not, here he is. My…. Hero. Guess I’ll name him Unready. But I’ll spell it “Unredde” because it’s probably too stupid to get the pun. And Ethelred because of his hair. Yah. Ethelred the Unredde.

I heal thee, you odd little duckling of a puny human. It blinks at me with a goofy grin on its face.

“Oh, hell hounds,” I say as I help my Hero to his enormous feet. “You didn’t turn out at all like I planned.”

ETHELRED THE UNREDDE GEARS UP FOR BATTLE… sort of…

I’m wandering around Godville trying to find a particular Armory that I’m supposed to be at for a fitting. Apparently I have to get geared up before I venture out … not sure what to expect. All my goddess sent me was a note from a passing Hero who handed me a square, cardboard coaster from The Sulking Seal who said, “Here. Take this. Now go. I’ve got drinking to do.”

Scrawled on the back of the coaster in very curly letters were the words, “Seek ye the Quixotic Armory. Be there on time!” What time? Who’s time? Her time or my time? What is time?…. and how do I know what a coaster is?

Several hours later
There’s just too much to see, here – food stalls, potion sellers, traders, pets (Pets? I can have a pet?) and temples of gold in various degrees of done-ness and huge ark-like thingys under construction – and every other building seems to be a tavern. They must all be magnetized, because I keep being drawn into them and the money in my pouch keeps disappearing in the exact increments that I order ales –and hey! This next tavern has a dancing monkey in the window! SO have to drink there…

Three hours later
Funny poka monkey do dance so goods I have not never lahged s’hard neverss. Whoaa whoops! Why is street so bumpy? Musht find place to by armoires…

Five seconds later
Hey! A chair what has bar things arounds its! I has to try that one’s beers…

Four hours later
Yeh!… shair things werk goodly when dranking ales. Off to finds the places withs amrore… Ooo! an tervern with a gril outisdes on streets what has its cutes rocky rancoons pet thing on chains by tarverns dors… must’est she if she needs an heeero…

Five seconds later
Nopers… her didn’st needs no Herrro. She’s can slap people on hers own no helps…I think mine eye exploded… s’okay. Shiner makes me looks toughers …

And oh looksy loo! An nother tarvren!

An hour or some later
S’was good traverns! Methunks is time find places I am sposed to be ats. I goes in now gets gearded ups!

Ten seconds later
Do all Goddesses have “Now You Are Sober and Ten Hours Late” spells? I think I messed up… and I have this weird, watery memory of acting like a dancing monkey in a tavern window with more experienced heroes and heroines laughing and throwing peanuts at me…

Just Now
This weird sort of annoyed thing made entirely of light and sarcasm just wafted into Armore Shoppe (my Goddess, is that you?) Now the armor-monger is giving me a look and says, “But there’s only so much I can do…”

I have been forced to strip down to my undies in front of three mirrors. My Goddess, does my butt look big in 3D?

I stare around the shop. On display are gloriously shining suits of armor, shields emblazoned with the names of Gods and Goddesses (My Goddess, yours is somehow not here?) Flails and rapiers and fine leather sling-shots and swords line the walls. And –Ooooo! - look at that shiny….

“Don’t touch that!” Suddenly the Armor-Monger slaps my hand down savagely. I stick my fingers in my mouth and taste blood.

“Now stand still. Turn around.”

“Uhm….I’m not sure I can do all that at the same time,” I say, rubbing my sore hand.

“Just turn, then. Schmuck, write this down.”

“Yahs, sir,” says Schmuck with a smirk.

I spin around slowly, while the strange Light of Sarcasm turns in the opposite direction around me. I feel a bit nauseous.

“Schmuck!” the Armor-Monger calls out sharply. “Bring your note pad! And a potato.” I sheepishly put my hands in front of myself.

A rumbling sound comes from somewhere in back of the shop, and then a huge Golem parts some red velvet curtains and lumbers onto the shop floor with a look on its face like like he’s staring down a Hero without a tie trying to get into a posh restaurant. He has a large, black flip-pad and pencil in one hand and a small potato held delicately between his thumb and fore-finger in the other. He places the potato on the counter with disdain.

“Yahs, sir?”

“Write this down. Shoulders –“ the armor-monger pulls a tape-measure out of a pocket and whips it around me – “Mmm… 45.”

“Twenty,” says the golem Schmuck, licking the tip of his pencil and writing in his book.

“Chest,” the Armor-Monger says next, throwing two arms around me while avoiding touching me as best he can – he squints at the tape, his eyes watering politely. Do I smell, Exalted One? “Yes. 35.”

“Twenty,” says Schmuck again, scribbling a bit.

“Hips – twenty.”

“Just four,” says Schmuck, his voice going up at the end while scribbling.

“Inseam…”

“Get off!” I holler.

“Uhm…” says the Armor-Monger, squinting as his tape and my inside leg.

“Roughly two,” Schmuck says as snidely as a whiplash. “But about four with those knees.”

“What’s the potato for?” I ask in a nervous voice.

“Dinner. Now just wait there.” The Armor-Monger and the Schmuck disappear behind the velvet curtain and into a backroom, where a lot of giggling commences.

Some small part inside of me dies a little. Why do I think that’s going to be my life from here on out?

ETHELRED IS OUTFITTED FOR BATTLE… (OR… YOU KNOW… NOT)

If there’s one thing Traders dislike it’s dealing with Supreme Ones and their respective new recruits. To put no fine point upon it, it was also the very tail end of the day, and the tavern next door was already calling the midst of Happy Four for One hours.

“Right,” the Armor trader asserted firmly, his thirst upon him. “E’s done.” And Trader Joe lodged a foot against Ethelred’s backside and shoved him firmly out of the changing room curtains.

While waiting impatiently during the predictable silence, Trader Joe allowed just enough time to force his scowl into an ingratiating grin before stepping out himself to sweep imaginary dust mites off the hero’s newly outfitted shoulders. “Right ‘andsome if ye ask me. Perfectly suited. Very well suited. Bespoke even, Righteous One. Best in the land, this kit.”

The predictable silence persisted. It wasn’t so much a surprise as much as an insult to the good trader’s drinking time. Trader Joe fought back a cussing term and waited, forcefully keeping his right foot from tapping angrily. Next door, the chorus of joyous shouts announced the beginning of the Can-Can floor-show. He smile-scowled in impatient response to the noise adjacent his shop, having supplied the bloomers for the performing wenches himself (out of a show of community spirit, of course).

For his part, Ethelred turned happily back and forth amidst four hopelessly warped mirrors, admiring himself in his new role as Slayer of All Things (Not Himself).

“Fit’s like a dream,” said Trader Joe finally, needlessly arranging things on the counter with barely concealed annoyance.

An obstinate lack of Godvoice filled the small shop.

“E’s well-fitted out for a turn at the worst of ‘em,” Trader Joe offered finally, irritably snapping a feather duster across a long-beyond useful cat-o-two tails.

Silence persisted.

“’E sure looks the part!” Trader Joe finally hollered in an attempt to prompt the sale.

“I quite like the color,” Ethelred said helpfully, smoothing the imitation tunic over his lanky frame. “Brown does bring out the color of my eyes.”

“It does, it does, young Hero. Very good for your eyes, it is. Not so bad on the eyes for the ladies, neither,” Trader Joe simpered pointedly as the wenches next door pealed out a “Heeeyyy!” and a none-too-small part of his soul died. He winked knowingly at Ethelred enough to hide his ire, knowing full well how “the ladies” took to gingers to begin with.

A slight, annoyingly superior cough emanated from the air somewhere to the left of the lamplight. “It’s a bag.” The disembodied voice would have been mellifluous had it not been not mellifluous.

“Cover’s them knobbly things in the midst of ‘is arms quite well,” said Trader Joe helpfully, and manually waggled Ethelred’s aforementioned appendages obligingly.

“It’s a paper bag.” Replied the voice in clipped tones. “And a used one at that.”

“Well, there it is and it’s a bag,” Trader Joe admitted in a voice full of injured pride. “But a waxed paper bag, sure an’ all. Best in the—“

“—Land. Yes. I’ve got that bit. Paper so hard to come by in Bumchester that you need to wax it, is that it?”

“Well, it is fightin’ approved,” Trader Joe said defensively, holding up a clipboard to the absent air, and moving it about a bit in case he’d missed the exact spot this Supreme One was inhabiting. “Naught wrong with this kit as far as fightin’ and fleein’ go…” he gave Ethelred another once over as the hero in question struck himself an heroic pose. “…fer sure he’s well-suited for fleein’…”

“It’s tatty,” the Godvoice wrangled back crisply. “And a bit ill-fitting.”

“Ill-fitting ain’t my end o’ things,” Trader Joe shot back defensively, double-checking the chit he’d been handed. “I didn’t take the measure, I just filled the bill.”

A disconcertingly corporeal hand appeared out of nowhere and pointed deliberately mid-range downwards. Trader Joe’s gaze followed the pointing finger, and he cleared his throat.

“It doesn’t quite fill that bill, now does it?” said the invisible Goddess Mefelusia, Tender of Elbows and Keeper of Tardigrades.

Ethelred bent at the waist and curiously surveyed the area that he found was currently under Divine discussion.

“Aye – well – granted, it comes up a bit short fer them nethers,” Trader Joe acknowledged, “but then so does he, Your Grace. No offense intended, of course. Nonetheless, I’ll take a bit off for them … bits that might be taken off on account of.”

“How much off?”

“Weeeeell, then …” Trader Joe hemmed as he sought the right words, “’E’s about a ha’penny off ‘im own-self, so ow’s about a farthing?”

“I think I look quite dashing!” Ethelred declared suddenly, and gave a few over-large and under-practiced swooshes with an imaginary weapon. “Have at you!” he hollered, jabbing at his own reflection with vigor. “Take that, you vile being! Away! Away!”

“’alf a quarter farthing,” Trader Joe re-declared confidently.

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is with ‘im,” Trader Joe murmured pointedly.

The air around Trader Joe sighed resignedly. “Yes. Fine. Just get it written up and done.”

“Ha-ha! Ho-ho! And that and that!” Ethelred declared, happily flailing about in the background as Mefelusia settled accounts with Trader Joe.

“Sendin’ ‘im off immediately then, are ye, O Most Exalted and Wise One?” Trader Joe sang out finally, happily pocketing gold and rapidly covering his counters with oilcloths.

“….Erm… yes.”

“Well… praises and best wishes be to ye both, then, Wisest One!” Trader Joe warbled, hurriedly ushering both under-ripe Hero and his over-impatient Goddess back into the streets of Bumchester. “…and good luck to ye,” he cackled as they left, and gleefully clicked the lock on his shop.