On a distant Plane created exclusively for the 'Tri-Millennial Gathering of Gods' the Tri-Millennial Gathering of Gods was taking place. The plane was a tapestry of divine grandeur, its skies woven with threads of molten gold and sapphire, where stars pulsed like living embers. Floating islands drifted through the ether, each crowned with spires that hummed with celestial energy, their harmonics a melody only deities could fathom. Crystal rivers defied mortal logic, flowing upward to weave through pavilions of starlight that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Not every God was in attendance, among the Gods the timespan of three millennia was considered a short period. To their eternal minds, three thousand years was but a fleeting moment, a pause in schemes that spanned the multiverse's vast expanse.
The Gods came and went, servants and displays from many of them kept the attentions of others primarily to display their own power, presence or prowress. To anyone watching, they would see very self-affirming Gods doing what they can to prove to others what they themselves were capable of. One deity unleashed a storm of living flames, its dragon-shaped tongues roaring across the plane, a testament to their mastery over creation's raw force. Another summoned a choir of bound souls, their voices bending light into prisms that danced with divine will, a spectacle of spiritual dominance. Servants—beings of light, shadow, or molten stone—glided between pavilions, bearing artifacts that thrummed with power: orbs that held captive worlds, blades that could sever fate's threads. The air crackled with divine ego, each god's laughter a challenge, their displays a clash of celestial might that sent tremors through the plane.
Others, avoidant of such displays chose to isolate. Keeping themselves a bit distant from the others, a group of four had their own interests and respects but each came to best the other. Elipsnar, the God of Crafting, sat with the intensity of a master smith, his scarred hands resting on an obsidian table, his eyes like molten iron weighing his companions. Rigfiels, the God of Righteousness, bore a mantle of radiant light, its edges sharp as judgment, his gaze cutting through pretense like a blade. Ooran, God of Skill, lounged with restless energy, his frozen wings glinting like shards of winter, their chill clinging to the air. Zao, God of the Night, exuded a predatory calm, his shadow clinging to his form like a living cloak, writhing with faint hisses. All four sat in a circle, their table etched with runes that pulsed faintly, set on a mist-shrouded island apart from the gathering's clamor.
"I haven't had any fun since the last Great War." Ooran, the God of Skill, kicked his feet at the table. His frozen wings were not suited for chairs, a strange branch grew from no where. It emanated a chilling aura but repulsed him with anti-gravity waves that lifted his body, he seemed to simply hover delicately but it was much more than that. The branch, a fragment of an ancient world tree, shimmered with frost, its waves a testament to Ooran's mastery, bending reality to his whims. His voice carried a petulant edge, boredom clinging to his words like frost, his eyes darting to his companions for a spark to ignite their eternal game.
"Heroes. Bah.." Zao shook his head and made sheep noises. "Every time I see one of these halfwits trying to be a so called Hero it makes my blood boil, none of them have the stock. Mortals, anyways." Throwing his hand away, he folded his cards. It was clear that Zao had little faith in the abilities of anyone but Immortals. Formerly a Vampire, there was little he could do but to view the mortals as unfit stock, even for snacks. His shadow clung tighter, a living thing that hissed faintly, reflecting his disdain. The cards, etched with runes that shifted like stars, lay discarded, their game a trivial distraction from his contempt for mortal frailty.
There was a genuine display for boredom and finally someone had had it. The God of Crafting, Elipsnar had an idea. Slamming his hand on the table, he caught everyone's attention and a barrier unlike any other surrounded the four. Others could look in but they would only see 'Dancing Bears.' The barrier shimmered into existence, a dome of woven light and shadow that warped reality. To outsiders, it showed four bears cavorting in a clumsy, hypnotic dance, their forms a mockery plucked from an extinct mortal race's folklore. Within, the gods saw a faint echo of the illusion, the bears' silhouettes flickering at the barrier's edge, a jest that grated on their divine pride.
Anyone looking at or attempting to look at the group within would only be able to see the images of four dancing bears, an image Elipsnar had stolen from an extinct race of Mortals. It seemed to Irritate God Zao a bit as it materialized and even from within the barrier itself the image of the 'Dancing Bears' was somewhat visible to the group. Zao's shadow twitched, a low growl escaping his lips, his eyes narrowing at Elipsnar's provocation. The bears were a deliberate barb, their absurdity a slight against Zao's dignity, yet they served a deeper purpose.
What seemed like an obvious error or oversight was just 'a little bit more' than an attempt to keep things as simple as possible. It was sure to annoy Zao as intended but hiding additional layers of illusions into a formation could have weakened it slightly. With so many other Gods nearby Elipsnar knew with a certainty that the added security was necessary. Beneath the dancing bears lay a lattice of divine runes, each thread a shield against prying senses.
Other gods, their pavilions aglow in the distance, might glance at the barrier, but their gazes would slide away, deflected by Elipsnar's craft. The barrier was a masterpiece, its simplicity a deception that cloaked its strength, ensuring their words remained secret.
Tired of watching idly, Rigfiels' fingers moved quickly and another formation appeared in front of them all. His senses grabbed at everyone in the group, it was a Divine Formation that dispelled any deception. Any deception would immediately be detected. The formation glowed with a soft, unyielding light, its runes weaving a net that pulsed with truth. Rigfiels' mantle flared, his eyes meeting each god's, a silent challenge to speak plainly. "I suppose you have something interesting in mind…" he said, his voice calm but edged with anticipation, his smile a blade that cut through the boredom.
Elipsnar leaned forward, his scarred hands sketching patterns in the air, each stroke shimmering like molten steel. "Mortals are clay, waiting to be shaped," he said, his voice like hammer on anvil. "Their wars, their heroes—they're fleeting, but they can be forged into something greater. I propose a game: we craft a crucible, a soul or a world, to test our domains." His eyes gleamed, a spark of creation flickering within, the barrier's dancing bears fading as his words took hold.
Ooran's wings twitched, the branch's anti-grav waves rippling. "A crucible?" he mused, conjuring a spectral blade that spun above his palm, its edge sharp enough to cut fate. "My skill could forge a soul to outshine your trinkets, Elipsnar." His grin was a challenge, boredom replaced by competitive fire.
Zao's shadow clung tighter, his laughter low and predatory. "Mortals as clay? I'd rather break them," he said, fangs glinting. "But a game… perhaps one worthy of my night. No heroes, though—only those with true blood." He leaned back, cards forgotten, his scowl softening into curiosity.
Rigfiels' formation pulsed, its light steady. "A game needs rules," he said, his voice a beacon of order. "No deception, no shortcuts. We shape this crucible, but its outcome must be just." His eyes lingered on Elipsnar, weighing the God of Crafting's intent, sensing layers beneath the proposal.
The obsidian table hummed, its runes reacting to the formations, the plane's air thick with potential. The gods' circle was a universe apart, their words shaping a scheme that would ripple through the planes, though its form remained unspoken.