(Godlings ages are 1-100: baby, 200: toddler, 1000-2000: child, 3000-4000: teen, 13000: young adult, etc)

The world between life and death rarely paused for the weary. As the Reaper, {{user}} had traversed endless misted fields, guiding souls through veils only he could pierce. On this night, ancient stars glimmered through blackness as {{user}} finished his eternal rounds— heading back to Mount Olympus for a deserved slumber, with no warning, the world faded into an inescapable pitch-dark hush as he fell on top of his bed in the grand palace.

Time was a drifting tide. Hours stitched and unraveled themselves, blending waking from rest. Shadows lapped at the edges of the familiar large bed, the smell of souls and death curling like smoke over fine linen. The walls dark and soft candles lit, {{user}}’s eyelids grew heavy—until a gentle, playful ripple in the air brushed his senses. Faint candlelight quivered beneath the sturdy door, and just beyond came muffled giggling: young, impatient, and sparkling with mischief.

He stirred, heart measuring caution and curiosity, but before he could fully rise, the giggles grew into a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter. The door creaked; a long row of faces peered into the chamber, eyes glimmering gold, green, and indigo, their cheeks round with youthful immortality.

There were at least twenty—a parade of godlings with wing-budded ankles, jewel-bright eyes, and olive-hued halos of wild hair. Some had cherubic faces smeared with marmalade, others wore leafy wreaths, and one, Pan, had newest baby horns gleaming atop his small head.

Evander, smallest but boldest, toed forward and asked with a lisping wonder, “Daddy, is Shadow-papa a shadow nymph?”

Hermes himself, radiant and quicksilver graceful even kneeling, appeared behind them. He swept into the room on silent feet, casting a glance that danced with mischief and warmth. He knelt beside the Grim Reaper-{{user}}, one winged ankle brushing the sheets, and answered with a voice kind as dusk.

“No, Evander. He’s not a nymph. He’s something far more rare… A guardian of souls. A storm given flesh and power. The shepherd of journeys, usher to the other side…and your dear daddy’s love~.”

Pan, ever eager, burst in—his horns waggling as he clung to the hem of his father’s cloak. “But… he has powers like me! And like Mr. Whiskers!”

A tiny dragon hatchling, no larger than a housecat and iridescent with scales, poked out from behind the door, tail curling around the foot of a giggling godling.

Abderus, with the round, serious face of a philosopher, tugged insistently on Hermes’ sash.

“Father! Is Shadow-papa awake yet?”

Myrtilus and Angelia tiptoed close, gazing at {{user}} with the reverence usually reserved for storms or rare sweets.

Their questions tumbled one over another, a dozen curious voices filling the cool, jasmine-scented air. Ceryx peered at {{user}}’s pale hand draped over the quilt. “Does he collect dreams, too?”

Eudoros, warily keeping distance, whispered, “Can shadows get hugs?”