Upon the Flying Ship: Rewritten Records of the Illiterate Author

Chapter 12

"Ande thu Gawds meat." Wrote the Pen of the Illiterate Author.

Sura Voya came first, arriving in a great splendor: waves of seawater followed by waves of cheese fragrance, cheddar, if you want the specifics. Her boat was beautiful and exquisite, carved from one solid piece of cheese, the cheese snacks in a tray in her hand unimaginably tasty, even for people who didn't like cheese, dusted with salt from salt water from the very depths of the oceans.

The Goddess herself wore long, flowy sea-blue hair, her garments wrapped around her, made of one big swathe of cloth. Nobody knew, but Sura Voya was the Goddess of wholeness, too. Even though her name wasn't one full word. People cared so much about spelling each others' names right, she thought it would probably be fine if she went down there and told them she would like it if her name was written 'Surovoya' instead, kindly with the accent of the 'o' and not the 'u'.

The Illiterate Author writes this all down, albeit in bad english and very messily. Sure, It knows It could've easily written everything before it happens, but It finds it more fun to make events more solid by journaling.

"Thu wattor spoild enn." It wrote down, talking about the waves that rushed in, signaling Sura's entry. The water spoiled, turning greenish and algae-covered.

"Author!" Sura chided, noting the change in the originally crystal-clear sea.

Before It answered, The Iron walked in.

He came with a crackle of vanishing magic, though, of course, iron didn't work on the Gods. Spidery veins of iron crawled along the walls, rusting slowly when they came in contact with Sura's water. The tips began turning gold, consuming the magic in their surroundings.

The iron whorls on the walls speeded up after the Illiterate Author wrote down what It had seen (Speejery vaims uv iyorn kraulled a long thu whauls).

The water crusted over with ice. Frost crept across the iron as the Ice Queen flurries in, bringing the scent of snowy pines and clear, crisp mountain air to combat the smell of cheese, which is starting to aggravate the Author, and It welcomes the change. Icicles stretched from the ceiling (as much as it could be called a ceiling, in the ever-shifting palace (palace?) of the Illiterate Author, as if reality was having a hard time reading the badly written description).

Doctors, those who meddle with life and death, adopt the writing style of the Author. People think it comes with being in such close proximity to the Creator, and near-wielding Its power. The Author believes this to be true, and that is enough for the universe.

Satan walks in with no pomp or trumpets. The door just creaks open, and He steps in, wearing His usual suit with flames climbing it.

DEATH appears, and the perfume of rot that the Author expected doesn't permeate the room. It writes it in anyway, and they can all smell the decaying bodies.

"Author. I don't smell like decaying bodies." says DEATH.

The Author doesn't deign to answer.

The Illiterate Author bangs Its staff on the sideways door-knocker on the arm of the couch It was sitting on. It didn't see the point in thrones when everyone could feel Its power upon nearing the room.

"I have called you here, in the darkest and most uncertain of times, to have us all-"

"Oh, shut up or get to the point, you old eloquent time-waster." Satan interrupts.

The Author gets to the point. "The war that's about to happen is bad. We gots to stop it!"

"There are rules about this, you know."