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The Great Erase
He sighs, red eyed, with the Hagoli spiked coffee at his desk, a pen in hand, and hand in his hair, glancing over paper after paper after paper, looking for any way to save the failure the gods were disgusted to call control. A white ball of clay above him glows, a sphere of light, whilst the other two, red and brown natural clays, orbit around him quickly, expressing his stress. The light dimly illuminates his dark grey hair, refracting softy against his red irises, and bounce off of the soft, felt-like grey bath robe over his form. His pale, wrinkled, dark eyed, strained appearance show just what pressure he is under as he tries to find any way at all, any desperate measure to conquer these mortals that seemed to become immortal.
He sighs and shakes his head, wincing as he slams his palm against the piece of paper on his desk, and crumples it.
"Damn it nothing is working!" Chathomme curses, uniting his hands in order to tear the paper from a solid sheet to only scraps and pieces.
He then throws them up into the air as he growls, confetti on an angry occasion. He slams the hands back to the desk, and looks out the window at the moons and stars out of the window.
"Damn it the mortals were so much easier to control when you could crash one of their pathetic little flying toys into their buildings and devastate an entire nation!" He then puts his head down on the desk, and sighs miserably, closing his eyes. He quietly curses himself until he finally closes his eyes, the balls of clay slowing, until finally they stop, the god worn out from four god's days awake, stressing over this problem. His mind slows it's quarrels, slowing, quieting, lulling down, until finally, he is forced into the unconscious state of slumber...
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To the rude disturbance of hard pounding of fist against door, Chathomme awakens grungily. He sits up, and finds a sheet of paper glued to his face by his his face with the saliva that seeped out of his mouth in his sleep. Chathomme growls sleepily, and snatches the paper off of his face, and flings his hand aside, attempting to discard the sheet, only for it to cling to his hand, as if laughing at his demeanor. He narrows his eyes, and shakes his hand off, and watches the bleach white sheet fall to the ground like a leaf in autumn.
"I hate mornings.." He sighs, and looks at the coffee in his mug, cold from it's wait overnight, but still coffee all the same. He rests the cup against his lips, and begins to slip the rest down, only for him to jump, spitting a bit back into the cup, awakened further by another slam against the door, startled by the sudden noise.
"DAMN IT WAIT FOR FIVE FUCKING SECONDS I WILL GET TO YOU!" He hollers as he stands up, then yawns and stretches his arms and legs, still holding the coffee in one hand, legs covered in matching grey pajama pants. He smacks his lips a bit, and runs his tongue across his teeth, inspecting them with the tip, and slips the fuzzy grey slippers onto his feet.
Chathomme walks in place for a second, kneading his toes into the slippers, and then walks from his office to the hall, to the front door of his small apartment. He bends down just a little, peeking through the peep hole in the door, and furrows his eyebrows as he sees a neon green eye staring back into his. "What the.." The image from the other side moves up, the eye being replaced by first bony thin cheeks, then by a goofy grin, yellowed slightly.
"Mornin' Meow-mix!" A youthful, teen aged voice greets, playfully.
Chathomme growls and narrows his eyes. "Hermes.."
He opens the door a crack, able to look through, seeing Hermes in all of his glory; dressed head to toe in a mail carrier's uniform, white and blue uniform with his official winged sandals and a tan satchel on his back, behind his clothes looking just a bit anorexic. His combed green hair shines a bit in the sunlight as he waits with a grin.
"Still on with that project? We are waiting to black ball it any time you send it in." He says almost uncaringly.
Chathomme glowers at Hermes and snorts. "Just give me my damn news paper.." He says, then reaches his hand out the door.
Hermes rolls his eyes with the goofy smile still on his face, then reaches around and takes a paper out of his satchel. "Try loosening up a little, don't take life too seriously!" Hermes remarks, and slaps a paper into Chathomme's hand. Chathomme winces just a bit, and growls, then Hermes laughs a bit and turns.
"You will never get out alive!" Hermes begins to fly away on his winged shoes, to the next house.
Chathomme closes the door, and sighs, then realizes that his three clay balls are not orbiting him, then glances back at his office, summoning them quietly, and the three balls of clay; white red and brown; quickly come around the corner, and begin to orbit his form again.
"Now lets see how much society has crumbled.." He sighs, and flops backwards onto the couch, the balls stopping their orbit lest to hit the couch and bounce back. He unfolds the newspaper, looking over every one of the pictures and large headers.
"Chuthulu was assaulted by a Vehn troop, Zeus has a problem keeping the entire kingdom in line, the judges want to nuke the universe, and Chathomme is still plotting..." He sighs, then begins to look for the funny papers. "The realm is way too depressing."
He sighs, then looks up at the clock. "Another day of trying to push back a charging train.." He looks back at the papers. "Starting the day the depressive way."
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At his desk, Chathomme plays with his clay in concentration, sculpting out different shapes and creatures, each detailed and lifelike, amazing compared to the time he spends doing it. Thirty seconds, a head, snarling with a vicious visage, forty seconds, a body to match, scarred and readied, two minutes, all of the limbs together, ready for the next strike, and forty five seconds, all the clay compresses, drying, allowing excess air to escape through the mouth.
He picks up the figurine, a small statue of a Grim, examining it.
"I miss setting these loose on the worlds, after that damn Logic Contract we all signed, they all just pile up.." He sighs, and walks the small figure over, and puts it onto a shelf in his appartment, the shelf crowded as it is.
"The most I can do with these is give them away.." In his mind, it finally clicks, and he begins to look through each one of the figures.
"But what if I were to ask for the Logic Contract to be amended..." He smiles a bit and begins to contemplate.
"We could send creatures of long ago to destroy these civilizations and restore ourselves to our former glory!" He begins to pace around the room, looking at idol after idol.
"Then perhaps I could be powerful again..." He stops, and then walks to his bedroom, and grabs a suitcase, then rushes back into the office, and begins to put as many of the clay figures into the case as possible,then reinforces the boudries between them with his own clay.
"I am sure that Quezicotal would be more than happy to agree with me!" He exclaims, rushing to the bathroom to get his shower, and thinking over his next idea.
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