#rita as planeswaker

[fireandfigures]

Vesperian Gods

[Continued from here.]

“So that explains abortion,” Rita admitted, “but not deficit spending.”

Ba’al waved a hand. “After the Romans burned Carthage, there were few Carthaginians left. I starved, nearly to death.”

He leaned forward on his elbows and laced his fingers together in front of his face.

“The only offerings I got were scraps, not even intended for me. The Romans would occasionally leave infants out in the elements, when they couldn’t feed them, but that didn’t have the same nutrition as intended sacrifices.”

Rita clenched a fist under the table as Ba’al talked. At no point did he suggested that he had asked for such offerings, but the fact that he profited from it was still intensely disturbing. Rita fought the urge to burn him where he sat.

Not that it would do any good. Ba’al lived on the energy of his worshipers, so he’d re-incorporealize eventually.

“And the writing was on the wall. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin,” he quoted darkly. “Civilized peoples weren’t going to return to sacrificing their children, and the primitives in the Americas weren’t going to share.”

He smiled at a thought. “Cortez did the world a favor getting rid of them.”

Ba’al leaned back, and brushed the tops of his pants.

[fireandfigures]

Vesperian Gods

“Oh, Mister Simon, I loved you on Stargate,” she gushed. “I mean, you were amazing!”

Ba’al smiled. “That’s always wonderful to hear.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Can a get a quick picture to show my friends I met you?”

“Certainly.” Before she could get into selfie pose, Ba’al plucked the phone out of her hands and handed it to Rita. “But we should do this properly.”

Rita handled the phone deftly. They certainly understood design on this plane, which made it easy. Get the picture the way you wanted on the screen, and then tap the virtual button.

Rita took two pictures to make sure she got a good one, and then handed the phone back to the fangirl -- who looked from Rita to Ba’al, and back again, realized she was intruding, and beat a hasty retreat.

“Does that happen to you often?” Rita asked as they returned to their table.

“Quite,” Ba’al replied. He was about to move to get Rita’s chair, but she wasn’t used to polite courtesy, and ignored the effort.

“Even though you’re not ...”

“Cliff Simon,” Ba’al finished helpfully, as he sat. “But I try to be as gracious as I can. 

“A god’s appearance is influenced by how his worshipers see him, and Mister Simon’s turn as my namesake has gifted me this handsome form.” His hands framed his torso briefly.

“It’s a great improvement over how the Carthaginians saw me. Goat horns,” he rolled his eyes, “and not just two, but a host on top of my head.” He held his hand over his head, fingertips up, mimicking the effect.

“A fashion disaster,” Rita deadpanned.

“Indeed.”