6A: The Godmoot VI

“Do we agree, then?” the Sun of the East asks - a mediator between the plaintiff and the hosts. This trial was driving a wedge between the gods that risked dividing the very fabric of the world. Were it not for the perpetual quietude of the Skyfather of The Dreaming, existence as it is known could be getting torn apart as she spoke. With relief, she continues. “The Augeus Stables have been cleaned, and this task was completed without interference.”

“The stables may be cleaned,” Horus acknowledges. “But I deny that the task is complete.”

Her heart skips. So close was peace that she felt she could have reached out and grabbed it. But still this young Falcon continued to defy order. A part of her respected that, but there was an underlying fear to it all. The loss of the Egyptian Sun had harmed her as much as the loss of any other would have. He had been her kin in a way that some of the other Skyfathers and Skymothers (though oft forgotten in history, she always made sure to recognise the latter) had not been. They shared domains in totality, unlike her relationship with the Olympian, Asgardian, or even noble Baiame next to her, for all his ancient learnings. With Ra’s death, a part of her died too. And that… that was the fate she feared lay before them all, should a resolution not be reached.

“What now?” bemoans Zeus from on his throne. “Are you to accuse Achelous, though we clearly saw he was absent? Perhaps you seek to blame Dionysus again, since the king was fond of his wine?”

“None of the same,” proclaims the Moon, with his stiff beak. “I acknowledge the mortal acted independently.”

“So you say that he acted on his own, and you said that the stables were clean...” the Highfather points out. “Cure us of your doublespeak, and tell us what you mean!”

“The river cleaned the stables, not the mortal,” he says. “Clever? Yes. But complete? I question it.”

“A technicality…” adds Baldr. “I think we hath all had quite enough of them.”

“Agreed, brave warrior,” Horus saus with a nod. “Further still, the mortal demanded and extracted payment for this act. Never in my millenia have I seen the accused receive compensation for participation in the trial, unless the trial itself was corrupt.”

“A fair claim.” The recent support of Asgard’s Joy continues to surprise the Pharaoh of the Moon. Though perhaps he is overly suspicious, he cannot help but suspect something else at play.

“Father of Olympus,” Amaterasu petitions, “I would also agree on that.”

“As would I.” Zeus’s words are curt, but if Horus’s beak could smile, it would. “Dear wife…”

Though the Father of Lightning and Thunder turns to where Hera sits upon cowskin-layered ivory, the determined Falcon interrupts.

“There is another claim that I would like heard,” he announces.

From her position as an observer, the Rising Sun wonders if it is the obvious fault of payment in the most recent task, or merely fatigue in the face of the Nile’s insurmountable will, that causes Zeus to raise his eye’s arced arch at his ‘equal’.

“Speak,” he says, with not a crack of thunder.

“The second trial… the hydra…” he begins, matching his tone to his ‘superior’. “Our companion from the East identified that the young woman who aided the mortal was not of our kind. I would like this meeting to reconsider the merits of the mortal’s completion of that task.”

“A just request,” Baldr agrees once more.

Eyes fall to the Father, then to the Mother. Then, the Sun herself rejoins the fray.

“Lord of Olympus, I agree.” Horus brims with pride. “The merits of that task’s completion are in question.”

“Thank you, friend,” the Falcon of the Moon says to the Mother of the Sun. Ever-so-slightly, she bows her fire-crowned head to him.

“However…” she turns back to Zeus. Horus’s heart thuds. “The tasks were completed, and as such, I would ask that the moot not consider them as failed, but rather, as spoiled.”

“I understand,” says Hera, finally adding her peace. Still the feathers on the Falcon’s head twitch at the mere sound of her voice. “The tasks were not failed, thus the mortal is not yet found guilty. Two more tasks shall he complete. Twelve labours in total.”

Feeling the weight of his people’s expectations upon him, Horus pauses. Then...

“I agree.”


~~~~~

“Catch the sun by yourself. Or the moon with others.
Make your choice.”

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6B: The Symphalian Birds





By himself.

He should probably be used to that by now.

That was the directive he had been given, however, and so he would oblige. Questions had been asked. He had to show that he had the answers.

This task… everything about it felt eerily familiar. Man versus beast; man defeats beast. It was the way it always went for him. And make no mistake about it, this is a beast he is up against.

No matter. He had spent an age in the Peloponnese by now. A long and arduous journey, far from over. In this time, his hair had greyed, and weariness had begun to take his body, but still he refused to give up. Why would he? Every morning he awoke to fresh green pasture ripe with flowers to pick, birds to sing with, and beautiful maidens to chase across blooming fields. He was one of the fortunate.


It was a hard pill to swallow, being forced to leave that life. But there was a world that needed saving. He took it upon himself to venture to the swamps of Stymphalia. Here, he had heard tales of birds with deathly beaks, and feathers as sharp as razors that they could project at would-be-hunters with deadly precision and force. They had torn the land asunder and turned it into anarchy Furthermore, the land was poisoned and rendered untillable underneath their noxious dung.


Upon reaching the swamp, he saw the destruction for himself. Corpses of valiant centurions cast aside in piles of shattered, worthless rubies. No solace for any.

He had tried to wade through the swamp, but the moment he set foot in the treacherous murk, his foot had been swallowed by the land. He could not travel more this way. He could not confront the beasts head on. He had to think of another option.

~~~~~

The sun had barely risen when he caught his first glimpse of one of the birds swooping from the sky. Its wingspan was about the size of an above average man - comparable to a crane. Its bronzed beak was longer though, and as straight as Poseidon’s trident. From his position among the thickets at the base of a hill, he watched as one of the birds plunged from the sky with a laser-like precision towards a nearby soldier. The warrior’s armour posed no threat to the piercing beak, and soon his innards were spilled upon the land. Blood upon grass next to water in a twisted, rainbow, death sequence.

This was a revelation to the man. He typically wore nought but the same clothes he would wear in the cities, but it was clear from the evisceration that he witnessed that even the sturdiest of armours would be vulnerable against that beak, and his lion’s cloak wouldn’t cover enough of his body. A wiser approach was needed.

~~~~~

He didn’t have to travel far. The Quercus suber tree did not belong here. Typically cork was sourced from the expanding empire to the west rather than grown in Hellas itself. In the end, he didn’t really belong here either. Yet here he was. And here was the tree.

Taking a small dagger, he stabbed it into the trunk of the tree and began to slice until he had made a sizable crack in the bark. In this fissure he wedged his fingers and began to tear the bark back, ripping it from the tree and exposing its soft underbelly. The entire trunk fell to this dismantling, and soon he had a pile of cork planks from which he could work from.

Were it an option, he would have boiled them to make them easier to work with, but alone in the wilds, he had neither the time nor the resources. He would have to make do. He used his blade to shape it, and used vines from a nearby vineyard to fasten it together. The result was an awkward, if not effective, suit of armour that he slipped on over his tunic. Though his head remained free, his chest, arms, and legs were each largely covered with the porous substance.

~~~~~

A porous defence is usually considered undesirable. A porous offence, now that is a thought.

~~~~~

On his journey back to the swamp, he stumbles across the body of another poor soul who had paid his life to the birds of terror. He quietly pays his respects, but continues on his way, undeterred. He was confident he was shielded from the weapons that they wielded, but another problem still remained in the form of the swamp itself. The cork battlesuit he wore may have been able to float under other circumstances, but he was still too heavy to be held up by the marshlands.

A true puzzle.

It was the sight of an owl that night, as he tucked himself under a rocky crevice out of reach of sniping fiends, that provided the inspiration he needed. While he rolled the enchanting pearl he found between his fingers, it sat above him on a thin branch with a strange blue marking upon its forehead, silently watching the ground below for its prey.

He would be the predator.

As the sun rose the next morning, he ses out again, protected by his makeshift coat of armour. A small mountain overlooks the swamp, and he trudges his way to the top, constant vigilance for any sign of impending doom. He safely arrived at the summit, and from there, gained a view of the entire wasteland below. The birds had near-destroyed everything, taking a once fertile and prosperous land into one in which no person could thrive.

This needed to change.

But there were no birds to be seen. Perhaps they were still stuffed to the brim on the prior day’s offerings, that they were yet to take flight. They weren’t coming for him. But he was a patient man. He could wait.

~~~~~

It wasn’t long.

After the day was done, the man would remember that the first of the birds were the most beautiful. The ones that followed were progressively more and more hideous, with their bronze beaks scratched and dented, and their razor-feathers beginning to rust.

With his eyes locked in, he lines the first birds up with his bow and lets loose. A poison-tipped arrows flies through the air and lodges in its neck.

The bird falls.

One down, but how many more to go?

He couldn’t tell. He needed them all out in the open. He didn’t have much time to think, however, as the other bird that remained in the sky changed its course. Its circling flight turned into a straight line. Like an arrow itself, he flew down towards the man.

He didn’t have time to react. The bird was on him.

And its beak got caught in the cork.

~~~~~

Let them in, and they can’t get you.

A tremendous thought, indeed.

~~~~~

He pulls out the bird and snaps its neck.

Two down.

The sound of its metallic feathers rattling against each other as its brittle bones broke gave him another idea.

He held the bird up high atop the mountain, and shook it. Not a gentle shake, as if it were needing to be woken up. No, he shook the fucking shit out of it, as if he were trying to bring the thing back to life.

The other birds heard.

A deadly flock took flight.

He readied his bow once more and fired.

Another bird fell to the poison of the hydra.

He repeated, and that was all it took.

The birds realised what they were dealing with, and they fucked off.

Defeated.

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6C: Join?

#LEAVEBOB

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6D: The Sixth Labour

“Thank you,” says the Falcon, giving a small nod of contrition as the eyes of the gathering fall to him once more upon the completion of the task. “I am satisfied that the task was completed.”

“I am glad to hear,” says Zeus. “May I then ask you a question?”

“Yes?” he warily replies.

“What was your Sun doing?”

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6E: Rapid FIre

“We’ll always have that one attempt, right Atty?

Shit, I’ve used that one too!

How long can I beat a dead horse until it… umm… I don’t know the end to that. What happens after death?

I happen.

I guess if I want to know how long I can keep trying to tap the same well, I could always give ol’ Chris Page a call. Come out, come out, wherever you are, bud! Heard your little speech on Warfare. Pretty sure nobody was really asking about when you’re going to use your rematch. At least not in earshot of me. Because they know it doesn’t matter. This is probably just another example of the classic Brotherhood of Baddies whore factory at work. For the record, that’s not actually a hidden shot at Atty. Instead, it’s more of a reflection on how you guys operate. You’re selling something that I ain’t buying.

Now, I’ve kind of stayed out of the whole ‘#FUCKBOB’ deal. I don’t have strong opinions on most of you, so generally I’ve just been happy to sit back and watch you clowns put on your comedy show, but now… now the battle lines have been drawn. Congrats Miss Fury, you’ve put together a woefully underwhelming team. And you left poor Atty out. There’s always that hierarchy in BOB isn’t there? ‘Elite’ vs. not, as Chris would tell ya. Not sure whether the rest of you think the same - I’m sure you’re all totally capable of independent thought!”


“But it’s always about the Bastards. It’s always about Fury. It’s always about Page. It’s never about Atty. You’re the one they dress up as Ruby to pretend to beat up, Atty, because the way they speak when you’re not around makes it really easy for the rest of us to forget you’re even a part of the group.

Chris, if you don’t want some, just say so. Forget all that other nonsense. Take a lesson from the spanking I’m putting on Atty, and toss that over-the-top facade of yours in the fucking trash where it belongs. Quit trying to make yourself out to be something you’re not. There’s a saying about names in mouths though. You might want to follow it. Put it in or take it out. There, some more innuendo for us, Atty.

We’re one step closer to round three, too! The teams have been made, and it’s a bit of shame how the cards have fallen for us. I was kind of hoping to get back into your good graces then, so I could maybe take a swing at Osira’s digits. I know I’ve got my Cor’ Bear with me at War Games, but I’m pretty keen on having my cake and eating it too. You know how hungry I get. All of this is kind of assuming I’m falling out of your good graces right now though. Pretty sure I was in them once before.

In you.

LOL.

That’s why you play these games with me. A blend of our presentations. There’s another way to do that.

Innuendo.

I’ll justify things however I want.

Alas, the fates doth conspire against us. But fuck the fates. It’s what I do. I can put this all behind me when things are said and done. I’m hoping you can too, because this isn’t personal. If we go through round three, then I get round three of my own with Lycana. That is personal. Unfortunately, it’d be round three with Reggie Estrada too. Yawn. But also, a wee bit on the personal side. Even Betsy would be, in a different sense. But you… no. Not right now. We each get to make decisions along the way here though. We get to choose how far we take it. It’s probably a good thing that we’re not besties coming into this, because I’m not sure you’d know when to stop in that situation. You’re bound to cross it. Shawn. How’d that work out for you that night?

Shit, am I the one making it personal now? I figured it was so long ago, that it wouldn’t be as raw as it was back then. But it’s a prime example of how you can’t manage your shit. Chase the shiny trinkets, fuck everyone else, right? Bold call of Betsy to choose you. Hope she knows what she’s doing. You sure as fuck didn’t when you chose me.

Round three, sure? Or B.O.B. (sans Atty). Or Thad. Or Charlie. Or Dick. Line ‘em up, I’ll knock ‘em down. I’m not looking past you here, Atty. Today, I’m simply looking through you. There ain’t enough meat on those bones to block the view. That’s not a jab at your looks. Just your substance.

You’re in front of me though. I still see you. I just had to learn the hard way about being aware of all potential hazards. X-Treme Championship and all that. Freestyle too. Speaking of - how great is that strap, right? It’s so prestigious nobody’s even come for it in like the last two weeks. Jesus, even the T.H.U.G.s seem to think it’s beneath them. Congrats, dear! At this rate you might actually break my record by doing all of nothing!

I get a pretty good view of the terrain below from up here on my high horse. You should try it some time. I can see the burned fucking husks that try to pass as people all itching for their chance to destroy me. All seeing you fucking waste it.

Some legacy.

Pretty sweet front row seats I’ve got here though. So much promise; so much talent; so much drive; so much… dissatisfaction. I’m utterly ravenous over here.

Can you blame me if I need to look elsewhere for my meal?

#LEAVEBOB.

Unless you’re happy being a meal rather than a snack.

Innuendo.”