mortal combat

Far above the mortal realm- beyond stars, time zones, and theological disagreements- floats the God Arena, a gargantuan colosseum suspended in a pocket dimension built by divine ego and celestial taxes. Celestial banners flap in a wind that doesn’t exist. The air hums with the electricity of anticipation, sacrifice, and whatever Thor just spilled.

 

 This is where gods from all pantheons- Greek, Norse, Hindu, Egyptian, Christian, Shinto and even a few obscure cults with 3 followers- gather to watch The Game. It is a contest of champions where the gods gather not to worship, but to bear witness.

 

Some come for sport. Others for the thrill of a bet. And a few just want to see whose champion earns the most dramatic statue.

 

Odin shares ale with Horus. Jesus trades sandal tips with Buddha. Athena critiques Shiva’s spear form while Liko pickpockets Ra’s sunglasses. Chaos and camaraderie dance in the stands like old friends with a betting pool. 

 

Spirits of warriors past swirl through the aisles. Mythical creatures- centaurs, kitsune, sphinxes- slink between seats roaring or whispering their wagers. The crowd is a divine circus, stitched together by curiousity and cosmic boredom. 

 

At the heart of this divine chaos lies a colossal arena floor- circular, enchanted and ever-shifting. With a single command, it morphs into a battlefield of the warrior’s choosing- be it their homeland, a tactical stronghold or a place they simply “home.” The winner of the ceremonial coin flip decides the stage- because even gods respect a little randomness.

 

High above, the Moirai- the Greek Fates- sit within their loom-wreathed throne, better known to the gods as the Judgement Loom. Three forced older than Olympus itself, they oversee the balance of the The Game:

Clotho, the Spinner, eternally knitting the scarf of mortal timelines.

Lachesis, the Measurer, calculating odds with a floating abacus only she understands.

Atropos, the Cutter, her shears always inches from ending the drama early.

They are the undisputed judges and scorekeepers of the sacred sport- hands that do not falter, threads that do not lie. Their rulings are final. Even Zeus doesn’t argue (anymore).

 

From a balcony above, draped in winged sandals and smug authority, Hermes steps forward, gripping the Echo of Olympus- a celestial mic pulsing with divine resonance. His voice booms across dimensions, amplified by heavenly  acoustics and sheer charisma.

 

“Gods. Spirits. Legends.

Welcome to the only battlefield where time holds it’s breath, fate spins her coin, and death leans in to listen.

 

No armies. No politics. No Mercy.

 

By the will of the gods, the turning of the threads, and the gamble of destiny- you now stand witness to a duel beyond time.

 

Two warriors.

Two weapons.

One Truth.

 

By divine decree, by the threads of the Fates, by the chaos of chance itself-

 

Welcome…

to Mortal Combat!”