Bartholomew von Igneous IV strode confidently into the ritual room, nodding to a few of the Acolytes. Then he stopped, feeling his chest fill with dread. The tall man coming towards him was familiar—too familiar, with his silver-blond hair, cheerful blue eyes, and alabaster complexion. They could almost have been twins, except the man coming towards him was thirty years older, fifty six to his twenty five.

Since Ethereals rarely passed on any outward traits, this was entirely expected.

"Ah, young Master Barty!" his father jubilated, his hands outstretched. "Are you ready for the ritual, son?"

"It's Master Bartholomew, Father, and yes, I am," Bartholomew bit out, knowing he was turning crimson with temper and hating it. "I'm a lot more ready for it than any of you, in fact."

The fact that he was the only mage capable of this ritual sizzled between them.

His father, Bartholomew von Igneous III, held up a pacifying hand. "Alright, son, have it your way. You're prepared? We can begin any time you'd like."

He nodded. He'd prepared for this ritual in every way possible. He'd cleansed in the ritual baths, meditated for several hours, and fasted for a full day. He was, perhaps, a little light headed and absolutely starving, but he was certain he could maintain focus for the time of the ritual. It was only supposed to take about an hour, after all.

"Take your places," Bartholomew IV commanded. "Let us begin."

He took his own place in the center of the ritual room, focusing inward as the mages around him began to chant and direct their energies into him. He closed his eyes as the ritual reached its peak and touched the part of himself that was Ethereal. The world around him faded into mist and took on a dreamlike quality. In fact, it felt like he was falling asleep.

He opened his eyes and found himself sitting at a table with an enormous bowl of soup in front of him. It smelled like chicken noodle, exactly what he was craving. He reached to pick up the spoon, but before he could, the noodles formed into words. He leaned over the soup to read them more clearly.

DO NOT EAT THE HOLY SOUP OF THE GODS

"Oh, uh, sorry," he mumbled, then spoke more clearly. "I didn't realize you would take the form of soup."

The noodles rearranged themselves.

YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE EATEN BEFORE THE RITUAL

"Th-they told me to fast first?"

THAT WAS NOT REQUIRED

This was not going at all the way he had expected. "Um, I'm supposed to ask if you have any messages for us?"

ONLY A MESSAGE FOR YOU BARTY

"Bartholomew," he sighed under his breath, rubbing his temple.

DO NOT BACKTALK THE HOLY SOUP OF THE GODS BARTY

"Sorry," he muttered, sounding sulky even to himself. He was talking to soup, this was ridiculous... "What's my message?"

THE CHOSEN ONE IS MISSING

He blinked. "You have a Chosen One?"

WHAT ARE THEY TEACHING YOU CHILDREN IN SCHOOLS THESE DAYS

"Uh... Spells...?"

OH NEVER MIND JUST FIND THE CHOSEN ONE

He shook his head. "I'm confused, what is the Chosen One for?"

TO RESTORE THE BALANCE OF MAGIC

Magic was out of balance? He hadn't noticed and none of the other Masters had ever said anything...

OF COURSE YOU HAVENT NOTICED YOURE A HOT HEADED FOOL AND THEYRE MORONS

"Hey! Reading my mind is rude!"

YES WELL UNFORTUNATELY YOURE THE ONLY ONE WILLING TO TALK TO US

He fumed for a moment, then forced himself to calm. "What happens if magic gets further out of balance?"

The noodles hesitated.

"What, am I too foolish to understand this one too?"

OH YOU KNOW KILLER STORMS AND EARTHQUAKES TYPICAL END OF THE WORLD STUFF

"So, I have to find the Chosen One to prevent the end of the world?"

The noodles seemed to confer with each other.

YES THAT IS CORRECT

He felt a headache building. "How long do I have to find them?"

YOU HAVE ONE YEAR BEFORE THE DAMAGE CAN NO LONGER BE REVERSED

He sighed. "Okay, okay, I'll see if I can find your missing Chosen One. Do you have any advice for finding them?"

THE CHOSEN ONE IS DENYING THE NATURE AND PURPOSE FOR WHICH THEY WERE MADE

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down," he pointed out. "How did you lose this Chosen One, anyway?"

SORRY WE HAVE TO GO SIGNAL IS BREAKING UP

"What? That doesn't even—"

BYE

Someone was slapping his cheek gently as concerned voices murmured around him. He swam back up to consciousness as if sleep was a thick soup. He half expected to brush against noodles, then groaned.

"I think he's coming around, Master Bartholomew," he heard an Acolyte say somewhere above him.

"Which one?" he tried to ask, but only succeeded in another groan.

"Give him some air," Master Jonathan creaked from the doorway. "It's a hard thing on the mind, talking to the gods."

There was a feeling of people backing away and Bartholomew sent up a groggy mental prayer of thanks to the gods. Master Jonathan was the previous half-Ethereal in the enclave. Ten years ago, the last time this ritual had been done, it had been Master Jonathan as the focus. He was also the only person in the enclave who called him "young Master Bartholomew" instead of "Master Barty."

He managed to get his eyes open and closed them. It felt... very bright. And loud.

"Easy, lad," Master Jonathan said from closer by. "Don't push returning to us. Get out of here you useless fools. I can get the lad up myself. Master Shrum, perhaps bring some bread and cheese, he'll be hungry."

Oh good, not soup. He really didn't want soup anymore. In fact, he might never want soup ever again... He got one of his arms working enough to cover his eyes. He could hear the Acolytes and other Masters shuffling out of the room.

"Master Jonathan..." he heard his father say, sounding hesitant.

"He'll be fine, elder Master Barty."

"I'll leave him in your capable hands, then." More footsteps, but he could swear he heard his father mutter, "It's Master Bartholomew..." before the door clicked closed.

"Are they all gone?" Bartholomew asked in a whisper.

"Yes, lad."

"Why were they soup?!" he demanded in a burst of frustration and confusion.

Master Jonathan chuckled. "They are always soup. I think they find it amusing. Did they tell you fasting wasn't necessary?"

"Yes."

"Well, they're technically right, but do it anyway in the future. You'll throw up if you don't. I think they find that funny too..." The older Master shook his head. "Did they have any messages this time?"

"Not for the Masters, just for me," Bartholomew groaned. "And it felt suspicious, like they weren't telling me something important."

Master Jonathan nodded sagely. "Ah, yes, your first quest from the gods. They give you those sometimes."

He found the strength to sit up and did so, moving slowly and feeling his head spin. "Do I have to do it?" he asked plaintively. "I just started that crystal net project! It's going to take months to get it right and it's finicky!"

The older Master stroked his long, white beard contemplatively. Like Bartholomew, he had pale blue eyes. Bartholomew's father had blue eyes too, but they were a deep sapphire instead of the color of a pale moon quartz like he and Master Jonathan. It was usually the mark of a half-Ethereal. He'd heard that Master Jonathan had red hair when he was younger, but it had been white since before Bartholomew had been born.

"You can refuse the quest," the older Master answered at last. "However, I must warn you, they will find ways to make you cooperate anyway. You're better off just doing what they asked."

He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

Master Jonathan patted him on the shoulder with understanding in his face. "That's how it often is with the gods, lad. They don't ask, they tell, and their sense of humor is pretty messed up."

"That's blasphemous," Bartholomew muttered, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Yes. But it's still true. Ah, here's young Master Shrum with your bread and cheese," he said as the door opened again. He thrust the plate of food under Bartholomew's nose a moment later and said, in tones that brooked no argument, "Now eat, lad."

He sighed, but took the plate and dutifully nibbled a piece of bread. His stomach roared as it remembered he was starving and the next thing he knew he was licking the last of the goat cheese off his fingers. He looked around, but the ritual room was empty. He got to his feet and scowled down at the plate in his hands.

But I don't want to find the Chosen One! he despaired. I've got work to do here, the other Masters already don't respect me! How much worse will that be if I go haring off on some stupid quest?

The plate was a boring clay dish, glazed in brown, and held no answers for him. He sighed and started to walk towards the door. Then he stopped, thinking of something. He turned the idea over in his head. Master Jonathan had said the gods would find ways to make him do their bidding, but... what if he did what they asked indirectly?

Could he take out a contract with the Adventurer's Guild? He probably could, and then he could stay here and finish his work while the adventuring mooks found this missing Chosen One. He really didn't have time to go on a quest and that's what the Adventurer's Guild was for, after all...

He smiled and left the ritual room, whistling.