The question, a whisper of supreme absurdity in the hallowed halls of the Gray Keep, was not aimed at any god Ephram knew. It was a shot in the dark, a desperate casting of a baited hook into the cosmic sea, hoping the one being who might care would feel the tug. It was a method derived from a blasphemous theory posited by the mages of the Third Age: that a god's awareness is not just tied to their name, but to the very concept of their being. To invoke a god's essential nature, even through mockery, was to risk their attention.
In his temporary divine realm, a pocket dimension fashioned to resemble a grand, celestial library, Leo felt the summons. It wasn't a prayer or a call, but a sudden, intrusive thought that slammed into his consciousness with the force of a physical blow.
*That… that Excellency… does he wear underpants?*
Leo froze, the flow of divine energy around him sputtering for a fraction of a second. Of all the ways to be contacted, this was by far the most undignified. He felt a phantom flicker of a human emotion he hadn't experienced in some time: sheer, unadulterated embarrassment. His mind instantly supplied an image of his divine form, the regal Ame-no-Minakanushi, and considered the question. The answer was, of course, no. Gods didn't *need* underpants.
But the summons worked. The faint, fraying connection he maintained with Ephram flared to life, and through it, he could perceive the cleric's overwhelming panic. His Malice Perception, granted by the Eye of Horus, simultaneously activated. The "malice" wasn't directed at him, but at the situation itself—a maelstrom of fear and desperation that he could now observe.
Through Ephram's eyes, Leo saw the unfolding chaos. Folgreis, the Battle-Master, locked in a desperate struggle against the corrupted Archbishop Barnaby. The holy light of the Church of Dawn clashed with a writhing, tentacled darkness that was once the God of Knowledge. The Gray Keep itself had become a prison, its magical defenses turned inward, sealing everyone inside a deathtrap.
"So, the trap has been sprung," Leo murmured, his initial irritation giving way to cold, strategic analysis. This was both a crisis and an opportunity. He couldn't intervene directly, but he could manipulate the threads of fate. He took out the Loom of the Fates, its ancient wood humming with potential.
He began to weave. "As the battle rages, a guard patrol, loyal to the old ways of the Knowledge God, stumbles upon the conflict. They are horrified to see their Archbishop transformed into a monstrous entity. Misunderstanding the situation, they attack Folgreis, the champion of the Dawn, believing him to be the aggressor."
He added another thread. "Ephram Krell, seeing the chaos, finds his path to the lower levels blocked by the fighting. He remembers an old, forgotten emergency exit—a secret passage leading to the city's sewer system, a route known only to the highest echelons of the church."
Finally, he wove in a thread of pure misfortune, not for his allies, but for his enemies. "The Lord of Dawn, Amon-Et, feels the desperate prayer of his champion, Folgreis. Eager to smite the fallen god, he prepares to descend upon the Gray Keep in all his divine fury."
With the threads set in motion, Leo watched through Ephram's senses as the new reality unfolded. The patrol of guards arrived, their faces contorting in horror as they saw their corrupted Archbishop locked in battle. As Leo had willed, they charged Folgreis, their cries of "For the God of Knowledge!" adding to the cacophony.
Ephram, seeing his escape route to the main staircase cut off, suddenly recalled a half-forgotten lecture from his seminary days. A hidden door behind a tapestry in the third-floor scriptorium. He didn't hesitate. He ran.
And in the highest heavens, a blazing sun of righteous fury began its descent. The stage was set. Now, all Leo had to do was watch the two gods tear each other apart.