Magic Murder Cube Marine

Willow was elbow deep in paperwork when she heard a loud knock on the door, followed by swearing. She looked up from her work, and smiled. As a High Priestess, Willow knew when her god was near.

The Death Cleric wore black robes embroidered with mystic runes and grinning skulls. Her Faun heritage made itself known through her curling black ram horns and sharp white teeth.

She looked to be in her early twenties but was actually much older, having taken a few spins on the wheel of reincarnation. People, sometimes even gods, tended to underestimate Willow because of her youthful appearance. But those who knew their history tended to give her a wide berth.

“Come in!” Willow called out pleasantly.

Carteel stumbled into her office, weaving back and forth unsteadily. A massive bruise was already spreading across his rat-like face. Francis came up behind and set a hand on the smaller god’s shoulder to keep him from falling over.

The Marine grinned. “This fine young god had a complaint about our tariff enforcement and was about to take it out on Janice before I stepped in.”

“Well, that just won't do,” Willow replied, waving her hand to summon a pair of bone white chairs, “Why don't we all have a seat and see if we can come to a mutually beneficial solution?”

The god of smuggling looked down at the chair in front of him. It was made up of human bones and sinew, held together with magic. “Thanks,” Carteel said weakly as he collapsed into the chair, “It wasn't my intention to insult you, or your god.”

“Good to know,” Willow replied before switching from Vahnissian Common to Grunt. She looked up at Francis. “So, what do you want to do with this weasel fucker?”

The Marine’s grin got even wider. He always found it incredibly sexy when Willow spoke to him in his native tongue. There was something sensual about a tall dark haired Death Cleric saying words like “weasel fucker”.

Grunt was the official language of Brexis. Francis had chosen it over Vahnissian Common as a way to preserve their cultural identity. Or rather, the identity he was attempting to create.

He had tried making the switch to Vahnissian Common, but eventually decided that it wasn't for him. They had too many words for “salad” and not enough words for “kill”. Francis may have been forced into godhood by System, but he was still a grunt at heart.

The Marine had managed to get a lot done in a short amount of time. Low taxes and favorable living conditions were bringing people to Brexis in droves. That, and the flow of refugees from the recently destroyed city of Olympia.

Normally, they would have had trouble feeding so many people. But the city was on favorable terms with the Dark Forest and sat on a major trade route. What the forest couldn't provide was easy to purchase. Merchants were more than happy to sell their goods to Brexis instead of making the journey to the capital.

Brexis was an independent city state within the kingdom of Grumble. Zed the Undead had withdrawn from the world two centuries prior, shutting the city’s black gates and killing anyone who tried to enter. Now that Brexis was open for business again, the economic landscape was quickly shifting.

Merchants selling their goods to the people of Brexis had led to increased prices in the capital. Likewise, cheap access to the river trade route was costing the local lords thousands of golds in lost tariffs. In short, Francis was shaking things up and pissing off powerful people.

That was where Carteel came in. Francis had big plans for the god of smuggling. He just needed to soften him up a bit first.

The Marine looked across the desk at his High Priestess. “A rat fuck is a rat fuck. Asking him not to be one is like telling brass to listen, it ain't gonna happen. I say we put him to work.”

The god of smuggling listened, understanding next to nothing of what was being said. “It's really not a problem. Your titan only sank two ships that were under my protection. We have others.”

Francis shook his head, switching back to Vahnissian Common. “I'm afraid we can't let you, or your people, keep doing what you're doing. With taxes and tariffs being so low, anyone who chooses to smuggle instead of paying their fair share is just being an asshole.”

Carteel didn't want to say it, but they had a point. Shipping goods down the Silver River was cheaper and safer than using the roads. He frowned, wincing as the bruise on his forehead reminded him of its existence.

“If I can ask a question, why are you charging so little? The local lords have much higher tariffs, especially for luxury goods. You also tax your residents at a lower rate, and provide a wide range of civil services.”

The Marine nodded. “What about it? I'm a god, Brexis is my city, that means the people here are my responsibility.”

“You know, most gods don't think like that,” Carteel pointed out.

“That's because they're assholes,” Willow said as she pulled out a long thin cigar and lit it, “Most gods are so busy pretending to be all powerful that they forget where they came from. Francis understands that a god has a duty to their followers. That's why I chose to be his High Priestess.”

The god of smuggling rubbed his chin. “Alright, I'll tell my followers to leave the river routes alone. But we will continue to work the roads through Grumble.”

“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Francis said with a shrug, “What happens in Grumble is King Lawrence’s problem.”

“Can I go now?” Carteel asked.

Willow shook her head. “No, not just yet. It is my understanding that you have opened a temple in our city. I believe that your followers have put it out by the docks?”

“That's right,” the god of smuggling said, sweat beginning to pour down his face. Putting an unauthorized temple in a rival god’s territory was a good way to get a divine ass kicking.

“Well, we believe in freedom of religion. There is no issue with having a temple here, as long as you register it with the Immortal Revenant Service and pay your taxes.” Willow handed over a booklet and some forms.

“Taxes,” Carteel said with disgust, “I can't believe you would tax a temple.”

“Hades said the same thing,” Francis pointed out, “It didn't end well for him.”

The god of smuggling forced himself to smile. “You know what, it's fine. I don't mind paying my part if it helps Brexis thrive.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Francis said, “Very glad indeed.”

***

Once the greasy god of smuggling was gone, Francis turned to his High Priestess and let out an exhausted sigh. “I'm not built for this political shit.”

Willow came over and sat in his lap. “It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.”

“Fuck, but why does it have to be me?” the Marine asked, “I mean, I know why. Nobody else has the balls to do it, and do it right. And the people deserve better than they've been getting.”

She rubbed his leg with her hand. “I get it. You never wanted to be a god. But we decided that we were going to do this, and now it's time to follow through. You can't half ass divinity. Not for long, anyway.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Francis admitted, “But I would rather be back in the desert dodging IEDs than dealing with this shit.”

He decided to stop complaining and get back to work. “How are we doing? Am I fucking up royal, or are we on the right track?”

Willow puffed on her cigar while she thought, sending clouds of sweet smoke into the air above her. “Honestly, we're doing better than we have any right to be. Hank and the other kobolds are overhauling city infrastructure. Locke is taking care of record keeping. And Jack has already started organizing the medical facilities you asked for.

“We have enough food for everyone, and housing isn't an issue. I've heard some rumblings that the local lords aren't happy with us for stealing their people and enticing the merchants to set up shop here. But we already knew that was going to happen.”

“Fuck em,” Francis said, “What about all those asshole Paladins I've been seeing?”

The Death Cleric grinned, showing sharp white teeth. “Oh, those poor bastards. It's like seeing lost lambs walking around a slaughter yard.”

She let out a low laugh. “Julia has managed to recruit about twenty of them to our cause. The rest complain about dark forces and the evils of Necromancy, but don't really do much.”

Francis couldn't blame them for being skeptical. The idea of responsible Necromancy was something he was still getting used to. A few places in Vahnis used the undead for dangerous jobs like mining, but it wasn't something they openly talked about.

Brexis had been the closest thing to a utopia the world had ever seen. That was, until Zed had brought it all crashing down. Francis knew that the city’s demise had been due to a mix of politics and greed. But he was hazy on the details.

Either way, it had remained dormant for centuries until Francis came along and killed Zed. Now Brexis was back, and at least this time they had a chance to learn from past mistakes. That was assuming their neighbors and the other gods didn't decide to wipe it off the map.

The Marine groaned as the bells chimed out six long silences, bringing him back to the present. “You know I fucking hate public speaking,” he said.

“Too bad,” Willow replied, “It's part of the job. Besides, too many gods shirk their responsibilities. I had to yell at Swan for hiring an actor to take his place at some charity event.”

“Fuck that,” Francis said, “If I have to do it, they have to do it. What kind of shitbag farms out that kind of thing?”

The Death Cleric laughed and gave him a kiss. “Come on. We have time for a quicky in the shower before service starts.”

“Yes Ma’am!” the Marine said with a grin, his previous train of thought completely derailed. He picked his partner up and started walking towards their bedroom.

Some days Francis wasn't sure if he actually wanted to be a god. It hadn't been his decision. In fact, his ascension had been part of System’s attempts to get rid of him. But as he looked down at the caring, beautiful, and capable High Priestess in his arms, even Francis had to admit that divinity had its perks.