While Death was often bound to her chambers, she did sometimes wander out. Like some time ago, when she’d looked for advice from Life… Today, she was on a more formal visit: to see one of her spawn, the ever industrious Diseases.

  ‘twas not a long trip: out of her ziggurat and through the nd of eternal shadow that surrounded it, past the mountain of Pride and onto the rotting pins… Alright, a lot of ground to cover for someone who had to walk, maybe, but thankfully Death could always employ the said of Shadows and slide through the dark passageways of this world.

  The rotting pins lived to their name, bogs of festering pus paired with natural rock formations of crystallized miasma that had become so thick it could no longer exist as a gas; and here was the current atelier of Diseases, the ever-industrous worker. Her canvas of pox and suffering often changed pces across the pins, sometimes even outside of it.

  Death takes it all in. Her spawn is up at the top of her spire- about three stories tall- working on a bubbling cauldron. Around her are the results of her work; small portals depicting views of the mortal world. One shows a city under lockdown for some pgue she’s made, another depicting a river full of fish with strange growths all around their bodies, the third an ailing king of some distant nd, his death sure to bring forth a massive crisis.

  Opulent and overblown.

  She climbs the spire’s stairway while keeping her eye on her surroundings; the rotting pins had a tendency to roil and bubble like an actual slime-stained skin would, and she’d rather not take the plunge right into whatever foul concoctions lied underneath the soft ground she’d fall through.

  Once at the top of the spire she patiently waits for her spawn to take note of her. This takes about twenty minutes until she finally turns and lets out a harrowing yelp. Diseases is always lost in her own world, thick gsses hiding much of her face, form hugged in rge furs and oily leather reminiscent of a pgue doctor’s outfit among the mortals.

  “Ah! Death, sire, sire-! I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice you! I was busy with my new work!” And just like that she sinks her whole hand into the cauldron and pulls out a pestilent glob of- something or other, holding it right to Death’s face. “This’ll kill so many mortals!”

  Death’s pure white eyes stare at the glob in a manner most unimpressed, arm reaching out to instead pat Diseases on the head a few times. She felt little affection for her spawn, but she always felt herself crumbling a *little* when around Diseases. Her sheer enthusiasm was infectious, even if Death never showed it.

  “Wonderful to hear. I’m here to see you and not your work, as sorry as I am to say. Shall we head down the spire before one of us falls into the murk below?”

  The enthusiasm on Diseases’ face falls, and she can tell that her spawn thinks she’s in trouble of some kind- but she acquiesces and they head down the spire at a much faster pace. Once below, it only takes a scant few minutes for Diseases to shape the very roil and mud of pestilence into a pavilion for their sure- after some time convincing her sire that merely seating on the fancy pox chair won’t give her any symptoms down the line.

  “If I promise really hard that it’s just a normal cup of nostalgia, will you drink it?”

  “I’d like to see you prepare it very thoroughly first.”

  That gave her time to think on the reasons for this little visit, pure white eyes tracing every moment of Diseases and her brewing. Nostalgia was easy to prepare after it was extracted, since the hard part came from Death removing it from the flow of the dead going through her- once that was done, the liquid itself just had to be heated through some means. She often sent some to her spawn and her brother.

  “You’ve been working hard these past few decades. But this st year alone has had your pace pick up considerably. Why?”

  Death’s finger traced across the edge of her cup of nostalgia, with Diseases sat at the opposite end of the table. She’s doing anything but looking at her sire, feet kicking under the table.

  “Well, this and that… Life is always working around the clock, so why shouldn’t I? Someone has to keep things banced.”

  “And that someone is me, as you know. Now for your real reasons.”

  There’s more fidgeting, but eventually Diseases digs through her many pockets to pull out a portrait. Ah, this must’ve been made by the god of Arts: it was so lifelike it might as well have been a snapshot of actual reality. Within the portrait stands a stocky, serious looking woman, a massive pot with scrolls, shovels and other tools sticking out of it stuck to her back, one hand holding a scroll and the other a pnk.

  “The god of Cities.”

  “That’s right, sire.”

  “The picture isn’t going to really expin to me the why.”

  “Well, I feel as though she’s been getting away with too much, so I want to mess with her creations…”

  “In that case you’d be destroying the actual buildings and not the people.”

  The god of Cities did not care much for *who* lived in her projects. When humans first built their towns, it is said that she came, disguised as a mortal… Offering them advice, building walls, inventing new methods of construction- and then she wandered off to do it again and again. Ostensibly she was a spawn of Life, although not even Life seemed to be able to recall where she had come from. She’d just appeared one day and gotten to work.

  All she truly held care for was the art of building. Humans and other equivalent species were needed for such on the mortal realm, for no other creatures built like they did. Birds made nests, of course, but there was a difference.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about creating a form of boils that take effect on wood, although stone is a little-”

  Death raises her hand to silence Diseases before she goes on another tangent. She’s clearly not pleased with her spawn not being so forthcoming with her true reasons for her increased pace.

  “... I want her attention.”

  The actual revetion strikes like a bolt from the blue. Death is not the type to flinch or gag on her cup of nostalgia like some buffoon, but she does have to put the cup down and dab at the corner of her mouth to clean the very, very light line of pale spilge. The drink spins within her cup as she leans forwards, moonlit eyes boring down on her.

  “The attention of Cities.”

  “Yes, I… Well, I thought that being a general nuisance to her projects would make her come by…”

  Death tilts her head.

  “... Because she’s pretty, alright, and I’d like to see her-” Diseases chitters, gulping down most of her Nostalgia in one knock of her cup.

  Ah. This sort of puppy crush between gods was nothing new. There were the occasional flings; Love had trysts with other gods all the time, and Life had a few of his lovers among the cadre of gods. But Death was not used to her own spawn having moments of weakness such as this. Shadows and Burials were both such quiet, solitary people. As was she.

  Until now, that is. Now she feels something akin to sympathy tugging away at her heart.

  “I understand, I suppose, yet…”

  She’s barely even started and she can tell that Diseases is actually befuddled. Like, eyes wide open, mouth a bit open befuddled. It annoys her, and she gives her spawn the sort of gre that instantly makes her meek again.

  “... There ought to be better ways of getting her attention. You might empty her works, yet I doubt that’ll affect her. She’ll merely go elsewhere and start over again, as she has done since time immemorial.”

  Cities was one of the most aloof gods, which might be seen as odd when her work required the existence of humans. While she could build cities herself, the process would be slow- the very existence of sentient races was what birthed her. Animals do not build towns, which eventually become cities… Yet she cares little and less. She has no mortals raised to demigodhood, she has no spawn of her own, and she barely pays mind to her worshippers. Her boons are often minor and subtle.

  “Have you considered just talking to her?”

  gods that makes her bristle. Death is not immune to seeing the hypocrisy of her own words- why doesn’t *she* just talk to Maia more often- but she still ought to try and guide her spawn.

  “We’ve barely anything in common… Our sires are opposite forces, and while she deals with stone and wood, I deal with flesh and puss.”

  And her and Maia were god and mortal, the greatest of opposites possible… And yet she still-

  “Would that not give you more to talk about? You’ve both experiences to share that the other would never even think of going through by themselves. And what *if* poisoning the people of her works caught her attention? Do you think she’d come to you happy and pleased?”

  “Well, no, but she’d still be coming to me… Any sort of attention is good when you just want to see someone, right?”

  “You may think so, but if you anger her she might tell you that she never wishes to see you again. You must think upon not only your own feelings, but hers as well. Otherwise you will only bring both of you misery…”

  She’d like to think she’s been considerate of Maia. ‘Tis not like she intentionally pced blessings upon her- her attention had merely slipped.

  She’s not a fan of how this is making her examine her thoughts on Maia, hiding her displeasure with another sip of Nostalgia. But her cup runs dry now, and there are no refills to be had- her mask and retreat point has been lost.

  “... Shying away from confronting her will just make you feel worse as well. You must gather your bravery and talk to her.”

  “But what if she doesn’t want to talk to me?! I’ve- I’ve got little and less to give besides what I have here, sire, and I do not know what else to do!”

  “Then if it is her choice to not spend time with you, you must respect such. Not all things are meant to be…”

  Is she meant to cheer for her follower as she has done? Is she meant to support her? Is any of this meant to be?

  “... But you cannot let the mere fear of the worst hold you back. Your duties are yours- far be it from me to stop you from churning out that which kills, after all, you were brought to this world to do so- but you must know moderation.”

  Was there a ‘correct’ reason to brew disease? No. But some in the world worshipped the thought of the pestilent boil and the rotting sore. Maybe because they wanted escape, so they thought a god of Diseases would help them in their ails. Or they pray to her for a cure that never comes. Their desires still manifested her.

  “If you must lean on someone for support, lean on me- but do consider your steps carefully.”

  And who did Death have to lean on? Her brother? The oaf who would make fun of her? Her spawn, the ones she must shepherd like she’s shepherding Diseases right now? She must stand alone,

  “I-”Diseases sputters, stares deep down into her cup, and then eventually looks up with slightly wet eyes.“... I understand, sire. I- I’ll try to follow your advice. Thank you. I- just… Thank you. I was afraid I would be chided-”

  Death reaches a cold, cold hand over to her spawn’s cheek and strokes there with her thumb, expression melting from hardened neutrality to the subtlest of smiles.

  “No-one ought to ever be chided for the mere act of loving another.”

  Is she assuring Diseases or herself?Both, definitely.