The streets of Sousa are bustling in the way considered normal for the time. A baker renowned on his block for sweet breads hustles through the crowds with loads of baskets. Another cluster is carried by his son, a gangly, olive-skinned boy near the age of fourteen. He bumps into a young woman and quickly apologizes. His mediocre vision of course prevented her from being seen immediately.
Their sandals skirt puddles in the ground, which are remaining signs of one of their great gods' content. He'd blessed them all with rain and of course that means thank you offerings will be in order alongside the regular. Naturally, the best of every batch will be carried by the baker and his son as offerings to the local gods. The four of them all were very much involved in the lives of citizens for the most part and their hard work needed to be supplemented by excellent baking. James happily fulfills the task.
Little does James know, every night John prays to a god of his own, one that could get him out of the stuffy romantics and disillusioned old men obsessed with work. He's about as likely to exist as their local gods, so why not make up his own game? It centers around his own character, the God of Wind and Tricks, a prankster who flies and brings laughter to the faces of the common men. He's pretty much got the best sense of humor around and some sweet pranks to boot. A mortal like you, even as the best prankster around, could possibly be defeated by the man. At least, only until round two!
He sounds like a much better god than any of the four Striders... Having a guy for love and fertility is so cliche. Then another for lust and forge. Artists take the baby as their patron, he's the representative of all things part of a finer nature. There's no course of action that couldn't end in their king being the guy who's got it down with the weather. There has to be some way to defer responsibility when there's a crop failure or a combination of sour events causes loss of a home. All of those are lame. Lame, lame, lame.
In the streets, the father and son wave to passersby before entering the cool air of the temple. It's neither too dry nor too most and remains fresh in spite of lack of ventilation. The baskets of sweet breads immediately perfume the air and priests attend to the offerings, helping the men carry them to the altar in the center and places them between the four brother gods.
A single ray of sunlight falls onto the round table made of marble that's nearly as pale as their gods' skin. A bust of each is placed in their associated cardinal direction and adorned with representative colors. None of them really have names. They're not people, so who even knows they need to eat? John asks himself. One of them, the God of Love and Fertility is smirking from behind pointy shades. Bastard looks like he heard me.