I own everything! But…not this. And all the other stuff. Oh shut up.

Another day, one that wasn't as bad as usual. If those abominable cousins of him hadn't kept bothering him, it might have even been decent. But no, they had.

            Nuitari snorted. 'You're wrong cousin,' and 'what's the matter with you? Do you care only for yourself' had haunted him throughout the day. He obviously did. But they wouldn't know that. They had only spent millennia upon millennia with him. How would they know him? And wasn't he the god of dark magic? He cared for his magic and himself, which was all. And to top it all of, he'd lost one of his magical artifacts. No, lost was the wrong word. He didn't 'lose' things. One of the other gods had taken it, as no mortal could approach his tower.

            Nuitari sat down on his glassy black floor. A thick velvet carpet appeared beneath him, stretching across the floor. It was, of course, black. He stretched his legs out, conjured up a book, and had just begun to relax when a distant 'ping!' and a reverberating through the air alerted him to someone's approach. He sent out minor wave of magic to dissuade anyone, but whoever it was kept coming.

 A green plane of energy opened in the corner of his tower. Nuitari glared at it. He did not want to see anyone. He stood up, restoring his usual cold façade. A stench reminiscent of bacteria cultures pervaded the crisp atmosphere of his tower, and a hooded figure stepped out of the portal.

            He was tall as Nuitari, glad in grayish-black robes with a hood over his head. Red slits of eyes peeked out. Nuitari sighed.

            "What, Morgion?"

            Morgion let out a hissing chuckle. "I have mutsh to talk about wifh you." His voice came out in a gurgling hiss with a lisp. He coughed and spat blood on the immaculate floor. Nuitari winced.

               "Yes, yes. I thought as much."

            Morgion waked over and stood before Nuitari. Nuitari's nose wrinkled at the stench of decaying flesh. His tower would have to be scalded before it smelled blank again. He sat down again, a chair appearing beneath him. He waved Morgion to one facing him. "Now…what did you want?"

            Morgion sat. A puddle of green liquid began to seep from his feet. "I wiff to talk about Guarrand di Thhong." He seemed incapable of pronouncing anything correctly.

            Nuitari waited. "Well, talk." He made a conscious effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He also did not correct Morgion on his 'thong' pronunciation

            Morgion settled himself deeper into the chair, and cleared his throat. It was rusty sound. "You pwomithed me your moon would thtop the mortalths from healing."

            "So I did. And, if I remember correctly, it did stop them. Your little deal with the rogue went quite well. As well as my deal went with the young red robe."

            "Yeth! You made a deal wiwth him! With di Tthong!!!! My poithonous, wonderful diseashe was ruined! " Morgion was leaning forward, blood flecked spit flying in Nuitari's direction. He leaned backwards, avoiding the disease ridden liquid.

            Nuitari stifled a small chuckle. "I may have promised you my moon would keep them ill, but I said nothing about not helping myself to what I can gain." He raised an eyebrow. "And perhaps next time you will tell me when dealing with a rogue using my magic for his arts."

            Morgion's red eyes flickered slightly, and he made some awkward noises. "Ahh, yeth. I wath going to tell you, but I thimply hadn't the thime." Greenish yellow liquid was slowly soaking the chair.  Nuitari frowned at it.

            "Are you sick, Morgion? Has the god of disease actually become ill himself?" It was quite easy to clean the chair, or just get rid of it, but still. Evil that he was, he didn't go leaking all over his fellow gods furniture.

            "No, ith jutht…" *mumble mumble mumble*

            Nuitari leaned forward, cupping an ear. "Yes?"

            The blackness in Morgion's hood took on a distinct reddish tone. "I lotht a bet, okay?"

            "A bet."

"Yeth. About thome morthal girl. One of yourth, I beliveth. The bet wath whether sthee would geth away with a prankth. And I learned thee did, and tho I had tho pay up."

 Nuitari leaned back, slightly confused. "Your wager was you would get yourselfth, yourself sick?"

"Yeth! With one of my mosth foul ditheases!" He sat up straighter. " I thpent months ddevloping it. And now, wathted! On me!"

"And this prank? And…this girl…one of mine." Nuitari made a small, strangled noise as realization hit him like the proverbial sledgehammer.

"Yeth," Morgion continued in his annoying lisp, completely oblivious to the implications of what he was saying. "Sthee was thupposed to stheal something of ours. The godths. I wonder who thee stole it from?"

Nuitari sat up, an image of the missing magical device, a rare crystal, flashing into his mind. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I must go." He vanished without a word. Morgion shrugged, and took a little walk around Nuitari's tower, trailing pus and blood, before he vanished to find some chicken soup.