The Marble and the Sculptor
"I'm not the only one,"
Belfegar says as he
refills their wine cups.
"Not what?" Shaeth asks
as he picks up his cup.
The wine is rather good.
"I'm not the only one of ...
the old guard ... who still
thinks of you," Belfegar says.
"There are others who do."
"I know, I know," Shaeth says,
putting his head in his hands.
"Agleca wants me to help
support the baby, and also
she and Zargon are fighting
over control of the temples.
I don't care who wins, as long
as they leave me out of it."
"Desdemona's cute though,"
Trobby says. "For a demon baby."
"Not helping," Shaeth says,
pointing at him with a sharp finger.
"Volac has learned that you
are no longer the God of Evil,
but now the God of Drunks,"
says Belfegar. "So he's trying
to make the order less evil,
without leaving like I did."
"Do I even want to know how?"
Shaeth asks. Volac had always had
a mind as twisty as a catapult spring.
"He's throwing a lot of drunken orgies,"
Belfegar says with a lewd gesture.
"Zargon is becoming fond of them."
"Why is this even happening?"
Shaeth moans, and drains his cup.
"Volac loves you, my lord,"
says Belfegar. "We all do."
One thing Shaeth has learned
as the God of Drunks is that there
is an alarming amount of truth at
the bottom of a bottle -- sometimes,
more than he can handle.
Trobby raises his hand.
"If they're getting drunk,
then technically, they're in
your new wheelhouse,"
he points out to Shaeth.
"The whole point of this was
to leave everything behind and
start fresh," the god grumbles.
"Yeah, let me know if you ever
figure out how to make that work,"
Trobby says. "There's a lot of drunks
who'd love to learn that trick."
Shaeth is reminded of something
that he was told at the beginning of
his new path, which is that you can't
remake yourself without suffering, when
you are both the marble and the sculptor.
"Fine," he concedes. "I'll keep an eye on Volac."