text: “I am Sorin Weylen, god of mischief” No one ever liked him after he said those words, and no one ever liked him before he said those words. While he was the god of mischief, he was also the god of pranks, which, according to him, was vastly different then strictly mischief. He was also born the god of citrus, leather, ink, the number 7, and to his horror, rutabagas. Sorin Weylen hated rules and he hated mortals. Messing with them became a game of his, bribing Mayven, the goddess of weather, into sending down hail storms when there was a festival, or spoiling the citrus trees when the mortals had particularly pissed him off. According to him, they were good at that. “The only thing those stupid mortals are good for is being test subjects.” -Sorin Weylen at some point. The hateful relationship went both ways. The mortals were none too fond of the god. While he targeted their resources, they targeted his hatred for rutabagas. When it came to the god rituals in the second week of January (which was dreadfully cold in this climate) they went to his altar and threw rutabagas at it. “The audacity! Don’t they know who I am?” - Sorin Weylen at another point. They knew exactly who he was. They did not care. During the 1,234th year of the god rituals Sorin had something planned that would shock the other gods as much as the mortals. He called a meeting with his most trusted companions. Mayven, the goddess of weather. Elysian, the god of pride. Bolide, the goddess of the night sky. And Zephyr, the god of winds. They were going to make the mortals very, very, angry. And they were going to have some fun. ~~~~~ Two moons before the ritual, they met at the twelfth hour in Sorin’s palace. The company sat in a circle on 5 exquisitely decorated chairs that Sorin had stolen. “Before we begin, why are we all the best dressed gods that have ever existed?” Elysian laughed. They all looked down at their outfits, nodding in agreement. “Always full of pride, aren’t we Elysian,” teased Bolide, her onyx earrings twinkling with her laughter. “That is what I’m god of, darling.” The company sat watching, amused at the lovers banter. “While I’m entertained, lads, I’d like to get to work. I have a prank to pull on Cyrus this afternoon,” said Sorin. Cyrus was the god of writing, so Sorin Weylen liked to use his relationship with ink to his advantage. Every once in a while, a certain mortal would find that his or hers pen didn't work. “As we’ve all seen the extremely rude, disrespectful, and down right insane way my alter is treated every year at the ritual,” shuttered Sorin. “This year I’m not planning on being kind to those mortals, so I’ve decided to enlist you, my friends, to assist me in getting revenge on the ones who’s attitudes are too large for their fragile bodies.” Fine without an explanation, they all nodded to confirm their participation. Sorin smiled a wicked smile, and they began. The company worked tirelessly, planning and preparing. When it came to the day before, Bolide went to Bastion, the god of the sun. Bastion just happened to owe Bolide a favor, which Sorin Weylen suggested she cash out. “For the cause,” he claimed. She went to visit Bastion the day before the ritual, demanding to see him. “Hello, Bastion.” “Hello, Bolide.” “I've come to cash my favor,” she began. “I need to keep the moon up for a few extra hours tomorrow.” He smiled a shifty smile and agreed. Bastion had always liked a prank. Now that the pivotal part of the plan was confirmed, they could move onto the rest. When night fell, they went to work. ~~~~~ Under the cover of night, Sorin Weylen went to work on the citrus trees. He moved each one over exactly seven inches. It may not seem like much, but he knew how much humans relied on routine. If everything was moved they would bump into the trees, which Sorin hoped would leave a bruise. While Bolide and Sorin were busy, Elysian used his powers to turn each of the mortals against each other. If there was one thing that mortals couldn’t stand, it was being wrong. He planted tiny arguments in half the population's minds, and rigged them to blow out of proportion. In the other half, he inflated egos and made them insufferable. He had done his job well. Mayven had always liked rain. She had been working on a trick, and she decided that it was time for it to make a debut. When the mortals woke up, she would place storm clouds above each individual, visible only to the person it covered. Everyone would think they're soaking wet, and mixed with Elysians tricks, everyone would be too proud to mention it. Zephyr was a man of few words, but he had a passion for hair. He would use wind to give every mortal an... interesting hair-do. He drew up some designs for Sorin Weylen to approve, to which the god cackled until he cried. Zephyr was ready. ~~~~~ The gods watched anxiously as the mortals walked out of their cottages, looking around confused as they checked their watches against the night sky. They glared around at each other, asking what was wrong in accusatory tones. Sorin Weylen laughed as a farmer bumped into his tree, cursing and kicking at it. They turned their attention to shouting, all giggling at what they found. Two boys had begun to fight over who was smarter. Another man stood on a curb and gave a speech about how he was the perfect male specimen. “Hmm,” thought Elysian while he smiled as he took in his work. It seemed the weather changed, as Mayven released her project. Every mortal looked up and around, searching for the source of the downpour. Mayven found the suspicious look in their eyes hilarious, nearly falling onto the floor of Sorins palace. Trying their best to appear like nothing was bothering them, they went on with their day, although their body language showed something was bothering them very deeply. Because the rain didn’t cause a bad enough hair day, Zephyr put his passion to work. He sent a very, very strong gust of wind through the locks of the mortals, making it stick up every which way. Some were in delicate designs, some in strange shapes. His personal favorite, to Sorin Weylens annoyance, was a rutabaga. ~~~~~ When the sun finally rose and the storms finally ceased, the mortals went to their altars for the rituals. They sent the occasional glare towards the altars of wind, the night, pride, and weather, but still made their offerings and said their thanks. As usual, Sorin Weylen’s was last. The mortals wore sneers as they approached, reaching into the canvas bags they carried offerings in. They froze as an unfamiliar figure stepped out from behind the altar, a mischievous smile playing across his face. He held his hands behind his back, and something about the glint in his eyes made the mortals hearts pound. They all stopped breathing as he began to spoke, saying “I am Sorin Weylen, god of mischief.” Then he pulled back his arms and pelted them with citrus.