Palanti-Aarbo: Plummet
It wasn’t until he was plummeting to his death that Palanti-Aarbo gave much thought to religion.
As his tattered clothes flapped in the wind, and as onrushing air tore his magnificent mustache into thin, rippling strands, he stopped considering how it may have been a bit too bold to sneak back onto the Outcast freighter he’d stowed away on to steal their provisions, petty cash, and socks. They’d been nice enough to let him off on Xydak after a quick beating. They could have dropped him off the ship from two miles up the first time.
Now, as he watched the flat green expanse of a Xydak forest acquire more detail with each passing second, he wondered which god might actually help him—were they so inclined. The short, wiry Vijari doubted Nihil would be much interested, as it presided over death and would just as soon see a new soul pass into the next realm.
Wresumyr was the god of air, true enough, but did that really involve stopping stowaways from getting impaled on huge tree limbs or splattering against a forest floor? Probably not.
Phyrz could just burn the whole thing away, but that wouldn’t really help.
Neither was this theological train of thought. He could pick out individual trunks at this point.
What did he have at hand?
Palanti-Aarbo began tearing at his shirt, flipping backward as he tried to force the garment off his head. Tribal tattoos crisscrossed his chest, dipping every now and then as they passed over the opening for one of the many internal storage compartments Vijari are born with. As the abandoned shirt gently floated away, its former owner continued his death plunge to the forest below, trailing a steady line of stolen goods in his wake.
A throwing knife, a pair of running shoes, an old grenade, a rifle cleaning kit, a first aid bag, three protein bars, a bar of soap, and a pair of leopard print boxers blossomed into the air as Palanti-Aarbo hoped he had packed a parachute somewhere in his person. He couldn’t remember grabbing one of those before leaving Pormos, but he had drunk a lot before his first, and last, assignment.
The mostly empty bottle of Pormos Schnapps (So Tough It’ll Kill Your Enemies For You!) spiraled off into the sky as the Vijari continued to fall.
He could smell pine now.
Then he found it: a single steel gauntlet with a sonic plate set into the palm. Palanti-Aarbo kissed it like a long-lost lover, or at least someone you’re settling for when it’s closing time at the pub.
The kisses were so amorous, in fact, he lost his grip on the gauntlet. He clawed at it, juggling it in midair for a moment, before clasping it in one hand and shoving it on the other.
His shoulder crashed into a thin tree branch, spinning him around and sending bolts of pain through his back.
Grasping his gauntleted hand at the wrist, Palanti-Aarbo fired the sonic plate. Pine needles filled the air. Branches snapped, creating a whirlwind of slivers as the Vijari fired the gauntlet as fast as he could. Splinters sliced at his skin, drawing tiny droplets of blood that first spiraled behind him, but then began to flow downward, finally falling to the newly barren forest floor as Palanti-Aarbo landed in a one-armed handstand.
Tendrils of smoke rolled off the gauntlet as it pressed into the ground. Falling onto his back, Palanti-Aarbo yanked the gauntlet off and flippantly tossed it into a bush.
The bush blew up a moment later as the gauntlet’s sonic plate went critical.
As the bush’s leafy remains settled on the stunned Vijari, many leagues away the leopard print underwear landed in the Outcast village of Panmut Ford. The villagers had never seen such a pattern before, and for more than a year leopard print was de rigueur for all new clothing. The trend eventually made it to the Outcast capital, Xydasia, where the royal court adopted it instantly.
A thought struck Palanti-Aarbo, cutting through the lingering vertigo: this is the stuff miracles are made of.
Yet, he realized, there was no deity to thank for this miracle. There certainly wasn’t a god of sonic gauntlets; even the Draeg weren’t that pious.
“I should make a new god,” Palanti-Aarbo told the nearby trees and spots of sky he could see through the branches. “A god for thieves. A god for those of us who take what belongs to others because, well, they aren’t using it. Or at least don’t really need it. Just because we steal, lie, cheat, or lightly maim doesn’t mean we don’t have religion, right?”
The trees did not express much of an opinion one way or another.
“Palanti. That’s a good name for a god.”
A twig snapped off to his right, and Palanti-Aarbo took that as agreement.
“Yes,” he said, stroking his mustache into a neater shape. “Palanti, god—no—goddess of mischief. I can sell that. This will be her first miracle.”
A branch overhead broke and it fell to the earth like a spear. The jagged end was aimed directly at Palanti-Aarbo’s chest, ready to nail him to the ground for all eternity—or at least until something hungry made off his corpse. He could only stare at the plummeting branch in mild wonder, debating if it was actually worth getting out of the way if the universe truly felt like killing him.
At that moment a gorlam stormed out of the underbrush, clenching its fists and baring blunt, yellow fangs to the late orblight. As the muscled beast raised its hands to beat Palanti-Aarbo into a thin paste, the branch drove into the gorlam’s neck. Hot blood spattered across the Vijari’s face as he watched the gorlam thrash and bellow against an inevitable death. Shortly, it fell still and a final breath shuddered out of its body. Palanti-Aarbo stared at the stout creature, estimating how much edible flesh was on its bones. He could already hear the sizzle of gorlam steaks over an open campfire.
“And that’s her second miracle.”