AN: Been a while. Having done a little research on the deities in Goblin Slayer, it looks like I was way off the mark. Or maybe I started writing this story before the original author figured out how everything worked. I still have no idea if the 'Great Gods' are actually gods or the last eight FATAL RPG fans unintentionally deciding the fate of a crapsack, meme filled world.

At any rate, I wasn't happy with how this story was turning out and it felt like I wrote myself into a corner with the gods themselves. It seems to happen a lot with the stories I keep starting. Let's see if I can do better.

I

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: The difference between gods and daemons largely depends upon where one is standing at the time.

Of this reality, a mortal commits to an action. Of this universe, they are not immune to the whims of gods and neither are they truly dictated by predetermined paths. And of this existence, scholars debate on the existence of and degree to which worldly souls are bound to unavoidable outcomes. Would it humor or depress them to learn that plastic cubes and prisms decide all outcomes? That their world truly is a game with all the shackles and freedoms it implies? To one stepping through to this cosmic campaign, for comedic contemplations beyond corporeal consideration, there is merely a bored huff.

Dice settles fate. There is no more to it than that. Somehow, such an obvious concept has flown right over the pantheon's heads. The same gods that stare down their iridescent noses at adventurers blind to their puppet strings never once bothered to wonder if they too were marionettes to greater forces. Did it not perplex them when their powers failed to reach from the heavens to their mortal charges? More than likely they mistook these disruptions to fate as the meddling of equals or even the universe's rules coming into play. Even an Ork Weirdboy had briefly crossed to a plane lording over the entirety of the Warp and despaired at the fake scenery and a body colored by overpriced paints.

The little chuckling trickster never even glanced at the Earth Mother set upon an ivy clad ivory throne, nor the Smithy God lording over a volcanic anvil, and rolled his jingling eyes at the so-called Dark Lord's soul rubber-banding between life and death. This pantheon deserved their ignorance over his presence for being so... cliche? Humorless? Sardonic at best. He flutters a gloved hand at (ha!) God of Knowledge, just to see the incorporeal face twist in bewilderment and fear at one of the Keeper's candles flicker out. Farther up the unseen jester reaches, briefly dancing around Valkyrie and dismissively flicking his hands as though she had ignored him, before finally reaching a room much like the ones that secretly rule the Warp, and... purses his porcelain lips at yet another dorm. Perhaps it is far too much to ask that one of these dwellings realizes that there is no chaos when it comes to haphazardly tossed clothing and jumbled computer wires, only laziness.

Much like a certain Goblin King walking forward a full ninety degrees in a particular Labyrinth, the miniscule clown rises through the square plots making up a dungeon. From the twisting corridors of the Warp and the discovery of Gretchen like hellraisers, he could not help snickering at his movements. The laughter dies while peering across the short legged table covered in checkered grids and paper stained with age, eraser marks and fingerprints of cheese and preservatives. Plastic and metal figurines interlace fake stone walls and crudely etched cardboard representing hovels. A tin container sits at the corner, condensation dripping into one god's fingerprint and cursing a graphite drawn desert with a noxious orange mudslide and rotting an entire Arabian-Nights city into cheddar scented mummies. Wandering past the obstacles both dusty and greasy, with golden bells jingling on curly boots, the little intruder pauses before the stacked monument to this world's rules.

Whatever distracted Truth, Illusion and the other six players had so little meaning that even a certain Mollusk might simply groan. They had all left, giving no care to the unorganized books threatening to teeter right off the table's edge. Pretending to adjust non-existent spectacles, the inch high jester leans closer to better inspect the laws dictating every souls' fate. Ubiquitous passages given the ambiguous name of dungeons? Draconic entities found on the covers yet rarely brought up in the pages? Rules pertaining to household servants that destroy the usually solid line between sex work and maids? A printed out PDF detailing some winged humanoid in a mine, fighting off small blue men as one tugs on the leash of a naked woman?

...oh.

Usually, one expects a jester's mask to be jovial or despondent, praising Thalia or Melpomene, and not one with pursed lips and eyes rolled back as though trying to see one's forehead. The comedic deity breathes deep, holds it, and sighs hard enough to tilt the books farther over the edge. A gentle nudge from his gloved hand helps in that endeavor, where a single hard cover spine from one cosmic tome loudly thuds on a dirty brown carpet. Well! His hands gleefully clap together while he spins back around and knocks over a buskin wearing adventurer with his jingling sock. A bit of improve in this tragic theater is in order!

Down below, a gladiator about to finally know riches in a coliseum is magically flung over the arena walls... into the lap of an Emperor's wife.

Seemingly oblivious to forcing an action without the aid of those sticky dice, much to the shock of the pantheon still ignorant to the Greater God's dorm room, the jester skips over to a sticky note tacked over a hastily sketched cave. Several captured women? Details on their assets? Oh, ho-ho! This will not do. And again, a certain galactic snail might once more be annoyed should he ever learn the reason behind the clown's actions. Simply put, boredom. Without even bothering to consult with a lord of change who may or may not alert a certain Prince of Pleasure, nor the golden entity anathema to the thirsting gods, the harlequin twirls a finger about and points at the yellow note.

The first Great God to step back into the room did not notice the inch high clown hopping back through a dungeon floor tile. The second shrugged off an over-ladened pack into a random corner. The third noticed the toppled books and papers by the table. The fourth headed to the kitchen for more carbonated drinks and salty provisions. The fifth spotted the bare chested gladiator figure leaning into the lap of a scantly clad and seated Empress. The sixth pointed to the sticky note, asking about the new miniature set upon it. The seventh peered closely, uncertain what to make of the monkish loincloth and what seemed to be metallic ports doting the body. The eighth flipped through a new rulebook left behind, head tilted at the mention of the new figure's class.

And all who think of themselves as opposites and counterparts in their actions now, in unison, examine the crossed out numbers and exceedingly clean handwriting telling a new tale. Several surviving adventurers. Over fifty dead Goblins. And one Adeptus Astartes in a feral state.

Below this reality, what may have been human at birth crouches before the survivors whimpering in a corner. The goblin shaman's shattered head is easily held between calloused fingers. Ignoring the sickened stares and retching from the surviving adventurers, he scoops the shaman's half-intact brains out with a thumb and easily swallows it whole.

It would take a good while for the first bits of primitive thought to carry basic words from that devoured mind. Protein strands from an organ that was not meant for modern humans pulls apart the fatty tissue, and when those have done their duty and kill the connection from spine to goblin mind, the human-shaped warrior stands and coughs out the blood and brain.

Without sacred armor to guard his hand, the defender of humanity wipes his mouth with bare knuckles and speaks a command easily understood in three different languages, all with the same meaning. High Gothic, Low Gothic, and lastly a word found from the goblin's mind that is felt to be one these survivors would know.

"Go."

The young adventurers crawl and stumble away from the discarded Astartes as he turns towards the Goblin Shaman's throne. 'Protect the spawn,' remnants of the shaman's mind hurriedly whispered to him. 'Purge the xenos,' his indoctrination replied.

And as the Greater Gods scratch their heads in confusion and chat amongst themselves, none notice the diminutive jester casually pushing the unarmored Astartes' model along with a single gloved finger. 'Let's use our minds.' He peers up at Illusion. 'I think even this character can be redeemed. Shall I tell you his tale?' With a light skip, he hurries away the moment Truth looks down. 'No, that's not needed. It's all a cliche. Another hero dishonored by following the laws of the land, and not the laws of the hidden heart. A good thing he has two hearts, hm? A second heart is a second chance'.

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AN: September 18th, 2019: Still deciding on which Space Marine to use.

AN: July 19th, 2020: Updating old chapters after the year long hiatus, tying everything together.

AN: September 13th, 2024: Rewriting