Morgen pushed the thought away. It wasn’t true. People reacted to the flesh. They listened in awe to the stupidity of a man where they ignored the wisdom of a boy.
Morgen returned his thoughts to the basements. How deep did they go? Curiosity drove him to venture there when he could, which was rarely. Running a theocracy left little time for exploration. Were these human gods, or the gods of creatures now dead and gone? Had they been sane or mad? Certainly the building it had been before his Ascendancy seemed insane, with its perverse layout. Seeing how much it changed in the last decade, however, left him wondering if perhaps humans hadn’t built it after all.
Like the world we live in, it reacts to our desires, changes to match our beliefs. What would it be when Morgen finally completed his task and united the world under a single god, a single religion of sense and sanity and rules and cleanliness?
It will be beautiful, a testament to our achievements, a symbol of what a united humanity can achieve.
The world bent to the desire and beliefs of humanity and Morgen would bend humanity into something better. Something perfect.
Morgen entered the church, making his way up the spiralling stairs leading to Konig’s chambers. Was Nacht correct, had his plans truly gone to shite already? Again he grimaced in anger. Even his friends’ coarse language infected him. How long would it take to scrub such contamination from flesh and soul?
Too many questions plagued him and unanswered questions were doubts. Why did Bedeckt bring a Mirrorist when he returned to life? What did the woman believe, and how did her delusions manifest? Perhaps she thought her mirrors were portals to other mirrors, and Bedeckt sought to use her to jump quickly from city-state to city-state. It would only prolong the inevitable. With Stehlen on his trail, nothing could save the old man.
What if the Mirrorist had stranger, more exotic delusions? What if she believed mirrors were portals to other worlds? Could another Mirrorist reach a world of her creation? For that matter, were the worlds to be found through such mirrors the creation of the Mirrorist, or were they as real as this world? A troubling thought. If they were real, Morgen had enemies beyond counting, entire realities he’d have to bring to heel.
These were problems for another day, he decided. No need to invent enemies when he had plenty right here.
Morgen entered Konig’s chambers unannounced and smashed the Theocrat to the floor with a thought. He would never forgive the man for his failures and lies.
Failure watched from his place within the hand mirror. Where the new Konig looked worn and tired, the Reflection looked like the Konig Morgen remembered, shoulders straight, eyes sharp.
Walking to the massive window on the south wall he threw open the shutters, letting the autumn sun fill the room. Morgen had broken the new Konig’s will over the last decade and the man no longer took care of himself as he once did. The room stank of musty sweat and stale air. The young godling looked south, toward the Flussrand River, the geographical border separating Gottlos and Selbsthass. King Dieb Schmutzig of Gottlos refused Morgen’s attempts to initiate talks, and killed his diplomats–sending their still-raving heads back to the Geborene.
A nice trick, that. Morgen wondered how he achieved it. Some Wahnist Geisteskranken in his court, no doubt. King Schmutzig, a tyrant and Gefahrgeist, made it clear: There would be no Geborene presence tolerated within Gottlos’ borders. And for that he must die.
It didn’t hurt that Gottlos was small, rife with poverty and dissension, and unable to muster a real military force. If anything, the city-state was the perfect first opponent in Morgen’s Holy War. An easy kill. Something to blood the troops, swell their chests with pride. Remind them they were invincible, backed by a god.
He’d played long enough. He’d moved his troops here and there across the board, getting a feel for command. He’d studied his cadres of the mad, insane men and women with the will to twist reality to their delusions. Geisteskranken like Gehirn, his favoured Hassebrand, were rare. Where she burned armies to ash, most achieved meagre effects at best, altering reality in an extremely localized area and effecting no more than a handful of people. Those few who could manipulate reality on a large scale were invariably too unstable to be reliable. He wished Gehirn were here. The Hassebrand would make short work of his enemies. Unfortunately, he sent her to Geldangelegenheiten with her lover, Eleve, himself a minor Hassebrand, to oversee the completion and consecration of Morgen’s new temple there.
Morgen spent many nights imagining battles, dreaming his glorious Holy War. Now he was ready. Again he thought back to moving his wooden soldiers across the tabletop, playing at war.
It was time to stop playing.
“Konig,” said Morgen.
The Theocrat whimpered from where he lay crushed beneath his god’s will, supine upon the floor.
“Have you begun moving the troops out of the city?”