I do 5-page monologues at the beginning of each volume of my comic. Who ends up talking is usually a surprise, and for the upcoming Book 5, I was not expecting it to be the Trickster character at all until I sat down to write. I fell into a trance state when I originally wrote this, which doesn’t normally happen due to the logistics of writing typical dialogue. I thought I’d share it here, sans script cues, even though it’s still a few months away from being put to picture. It will need tweaking to fit the panels and make the cadence just right, but all the thoughts are here already; they came rushing out all at once!
Here he’s talking about how he got involved in the primary thrust of events, and why he helped to instigate a civil war.
I have many names – we all do – but I think I have the most.
I was Eniudoma, Unbreakable, when I defended Suraa from the invading forces from the East…
…and I was Gotougata, Merciless, when I tore the city down myself.
They call me Andocecta, Silver-Tongued. Cansoamba, Thrice-Limbed.
I was also Endemena once: New Fire.
Folks mistake me for Gaurin a lot these days – that’s because they don’t know us anymore. We’re all just Oa’Nonuconaioe to them: Houseless Gods.
Our people, the esani, are suspicious of houseless things.
Things that wander.
Because if you are not of a place, then there’s no telling what your Olandan is. What you’ve done and what you might do.
Which is why, when Aluomoc asked me to find somebody to help carry out this task being set before us, I knew I was looking for a wanderer.
And what better choice than a creature whose name means “Goes in circles”?
Aganzet’s people are not our people. They have their own gods and spirits and ancestors, but there’s no rule saying they can’t ask us for help if they need it.
He came to me, looking to make a deal: his life in exchange for no less than the safety of his nation.
I wonder if he knew what, exactly, that would entail?
Sacrifice is sacred, but it takes more than the blood of one man to accomplish such a feat. More than one hazy afternoon and a mine full of scrapers.
Sometimes it takes war.
This is why mortals don’t like us Houseless Gods, and us Tricksters especially.
Because where they build, we raze.
Where they clear, we fill.
Where they plan, we foil.
Where they think they know, we actually do.
Because what would the world look like if they had their way?
If their calculations were always correct?
If their best laid plans never went awry?
It would be chaos.
They’d empty the seas, congratulate each other on a job well done, then crown themselves god-kings over their barren domain.
Demiurges, more like.
Not all of them want that, though.
Some of them remember that sacrifice and reciprocity, not greed and arrogance, are sacred.
So I’ve decided to lend them a wanderer’s hand.