Chapter 5:
Chapter 5: Idea Discordiae
For All The Time Presents: The Celestial Witch Sera
“A long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away”
Utopia was not Heaven. Heaven had rules, order, and polite choirs who harmonized on cue. Utopia had none of that. It was chaos on a marble floor — louder, stranger, drunker.
The air smelled of ambrosia, singed thunderbolts, and regret. Floating palaces spun lazily in a night sky that kept changing its mind — sometimes constellations, sometimes abstract art, once a very large picture of Zeus flexing. Nobody claimed responsibility.
Tables stretched into infinity, groaning with roast phoenix, hydra stew, baskets of apples that were probably safe, and a suspicious casserole that even the bravest gods refused to poke.
Music blared choirs, Viking war drums, throat singing, a kazoo (don’t ask), and a lute-player who had wandered in three centuries ago and still hadn’t escaped.
It was a banquet. And every god who still mattered had come. Which meant, naturally, disaster was on the menu.
Zeus sat at the head, toga undone too far, beard marinated in wine. His hand crept toward a nymph, who was considering spontaneous combustion just to escape.
Odin slouched nearby, one eye glinting, muttering about prophecy while his ravens stole olives. Vishnu reclined, serene as only someone balancing twelve goblets on six hands could be. Thor had already broken three chairs arm-wrestling Hercules. Ares and Mars bickered over who was the real god of war (they had a chart).
Dionysus and Bacchus, meanwhile, were locked in their eternal argument.
“I invented wine.”“No, I invented wine.”“You just rebranded my vintage!”“Fake news!”
Apollo sulked while Orpheus tuned his lyre. Hermes sold fake lightning bolts out of his sleeves. Loki slipped spiders into Athena’s goblet “for science.”
The minor gods — ignored as usual — had formed a support group in the corner. Huitzilopochtli sharpened his obsidian blade while muttering, “No one invites me to conquests anymore.” Anansi dangled from the chandelier, weaving glowing web-letters that spelled: LIVE DRAMA THREAD.
And then came Sera.
Her cloak swirled like curtains rising on a tragedy. Her mismatched eyes — red and violet — glittered with something between disdain and wicked humor. She smiled like she had read the script and decided to improvise.
“Good evening, illustrious beings of questionable impulse control,” she said, bowing low. “Tell me, Zeus, how do you all sit without stabbing each other with pride?”
Minor gods cackled. Hermes spat out his drink laughing. Athena muttered about “unworthy interlopers.”
Zeus slammed his goblet down, spraying Poseidon, who began swearing about “sea rights violations.”
“Careful, witch,” Zeus growled. “You are a guest, not a jester.”
“Oh, but you desperately need a jester.” Sera plucked a grape off Dionysus’s plate, tossing it into her mouth. “Without one, this feast is nothing but self-congratulation. And gods already do that better than mortals do selfies.”
“HA!” Dionysus pointed. “She’s right!”
“Silence, drunkard!” Zeus barked.
“Exhibit A,” Dionysus said, burping.
Odin rapped his spear on the floor, glaring. “If you have a jest, speak it, witch. Or stop buzzing like a fly.”
Sera tilted her head, smirking. “Run? No. I saunter. And I play games.”
With a flick of her hand, the air shimmered. An apple appeared — golden, radiant, humming with “I’m about to cause problems” energy.
“Behold,” Sera purred. “A simple apple. But imagine it is divine — and belongs only to the most worthy among you.”
Every head turned.
Zeus puffed his chest. “Mine. Obviously.”
Hera spat out her drink. “Yours? You can’t even keep your lovers straight.”
Athena raised her hand like she was in a classroom. “If it’s for wisdom, it is mine. I literally invented strategy.”
Aphrodite flicked her hair. “Wisdom? Please. Beauty wins wars. The apple is mine.”
Hermes chimed in. “I’ll just deliver it faster than anyone else.”
Apollo strummed his lyre. “It is mine. For I am music, poetry, medicine—”
Loki coughed. “—and unbearable smugness.”
The hall detonated.
Zeus hurled lightning at Hera. Hera caught it, bent it, and stabbed Poseidon’s beard. Poseidon rose, spilling seawater all over the phoenix roast. Thor and Hercules smashed the table in round four of arm-wrestling. Vishnu split into twelve avatars, all politely arguing with each other. The casserole growled.
And Sera? She sipped her wine, leaning back like a conductor watching an orchestra lose its sheet music.
The moment the golden apple gleamed, Utopia’s fragile balance snapped like a lyre string under Apollo’s ego.
Zeus bellowed, “It is MINE!” and hurled a thunderbolt so large it knocked the chandelier sideways. Anansi clung to it, muttering, “Worth it for the views.”
Hera caught the thunderbolt mid-air, bent it like tinfoil, and jabbed it into Poseidon’s beard.
Poseidon roared, slamming his trident onto the table. “First saltwater rights, now beard violations?!” He summoned a tidal wave that drenched the buffet. The casserole hissed. No one knew if it was from the water or because it had been alive this whole time.
Thor, wiping roast phoenix grease from his chin, stood up and declared, “I will settle this with strength!”
Hercules rose beside him, flexing. “You’ve lost four rounds already.”
“Best of seven!” Thor roared, slamming his fist into the table so hard it cracked.
“Best of eight!” Hercules shouted back, because neither of them were particularly good with numbers.
Meanwhile, Athena and Aphrodite were nose-to-nose.
“Wisdom endures,” Athena snapped. “Civilizations fall without me.”
“Yes,” Aphrodite purred, tossing her hair, “but at least they look good while falling.”
Hermes, sensing opportunity, had set up a betting booth with scrolls and ink.“Place your wagers!” he called. “Apple goes to Zeus, 2-to-1 odds. Hera, 5-to-1. Athena, 3-to-1. Aphrodite, infinity-to-1, because she’ll bribe the judges anyway. Special odds if the apple ends up eaten by accident!”
A minor god piped up from the corner — Janus, god of doors.“Why not me? Without doors, where would anyone even walk in?”
Nobody listened.
Across the hall, Dionysus and Bacchus had escalated.
“I invented wine!” Dionysus roared, holding up a goblet.
Bacchus scoffed. “You just fermented grapes. I perfected it. Watch!”
He poured wine into his goblet, swirled it… then chugged it in one go.
Dionysus laughed, tipped his head back, and conjured an entire barrel over his face. The barrel shattered, drenching him in red, which he wore like war paint. “Beat THAT!”
Both promptly fell over. Their worshippers would later interpret this as “ritualistic trance.”
Loki, meanwhile, was running a side hustle.
He whispered to Hades: “Put three drachmae on Hermes winning the apple. Double if he cheats.”
He whispered to Vishnu’s third avatar: “Bet on Aphrodite. Triple payout if she seduces the apple first.”
He whispered to Artemis: “Side bet who stabs a sibling first.”
By the time anyone noticed, Loki had so many IOUs tucked in his coat he could wallpaper Asgard with them.
It began, as most cosmic food fights do, with a single grape. Hermes flicked one at Apollo. Apollo yelped, strummed a dramatic chord, and retaliated with a pie. The pie missed and splattered Athena’s helmet. Athena calmly lobbed it back with military precision, knocking Dionysus unconscious (again).
Soon roast phoenixes were airborne. Ambrosia rivers turned into wine balloons. A bowl of hydra stew hit Ares, who screamed, “AN INSULT TO WAR!” and started throwing flaming meatballs.
The casserole leapt off the table and bit Hermes’s ankle. He shrieked. Loki laughed until it bit him, too.
“Is it… evolving?” asked Artemis.
“Kill it!” shouted half the room.
“Study it!” shouted the other half.
The casserole hissed again.
The ignored minor gods finally snapped.
Huitzilopochtli climbed onto a chair and shouted, “At least let ME fight for the apple! I was literally born in combat!”
“Sit down!” Athena snapped.
“Don’t tell me to sit down, Owl-Girl!” he yelled, swinging his obsidian club.
Beside him, Janus muttered, “I could solve this with a door, but nooo, nobody cares about doors—”
“Shut BOTH your faces!” Hermes yelled.
Anansi swung down from the chandelier, glowing web-letters trailing behind him:BREAKING NEWS: GODS HUMILIATED BY APPLE. WITCH TO BLAME.
And in the center of it all, Sera stood on the table, sipping her stolen wine, her cloak swirling like she was conducting a symphony of stupidity.
She raised her hand. Instantly, voices rose louder, egos swelled hotter, insults sharpened like knives. Pride turned into fire. Jealousy turned into waves. Drunkenness turned into divine karaoke (Zeus tried to sing — everyone begged him to stop).
Sera laughed, eyes glowing with red-violet light. “You see? Mortals need not war for you. You war fine enough for yourselves.”
She tapped her goblet, and the chaos redoubled. Ares started wrestling Mars while Thor tried to arm-wrestle Poseidon’s tidal wave. Aphrodite demanded a mirror to prove her point. Athena demanded a chalkboard. Hermes demanded payment. Loki demanded more popcorn.
Nyarlathotep, lounging in shadow, clapped slowly. “It’s almost art,” he purred.
The brawl reached heights only divine egos could scale. Every table leg had become a weapon, every chandelier a battlefield, every leftover pastry an improvised grenade. The Ambrosial Banquet Hall of Utopia, once pristine marble, now resembled a tavern brawl directed by Homer after too much mead.
Then something broke in through the kitchen door, Cerberus.
The three-headed hound had followed the scent of casserole rebellion and now prowled the hall. Each head had different priorities:
The Left Head said “SCRAPS.”Middle Head retorted “WAR.”The Right Head asked “Walkies?”
All three promptly began snapping at flying meats, accidentally swallowing one of Thor’s goats. Thor yelled, “Not again!” and dove after them. Loki placed new bets instantly: “Two drachmae say Thor loses to the dog.”
Hades didn’t notice, too busy shouting, “Who left the gates unlocked?!”
In the corner, Hephaestus wheeled out what he insisted was the perfect invention the Apple Holder 9000, a golden cage on wheels designed to keep the apple safe.
“Behold!” he shouted.
Immediately, Ares smashed it with a mace.
“Sabotage!” Hephaestus cried, sputtering sparks.
“No,” Ares growled, “it looked at me funny.”
The apple bounced free, rolled across the floor, and—horrifyingly—landed inside Cerberus’s mouth.
Apollo, furious at losing dignity earlier, seized a lyre and strummed. “If I cannot win the apple, then I shall win with SONG!”
Unfortunately, Bacchus had revived, and joined in with a slurred duet. Their voices were so loud, glass shattered. Athena covered her ears and declared: “This is why civilization collapses.”
Hermes immediately scrawled a sign: NEW BET: Which god faints first from Apollo’s high notes?
Half the pantheon keeled over in seconds.
When Cerberus chewed the apple, all three heads began arguing with each other.
The left head roared “It’s mine!”The middle head growled “Glory!”The right head said “Tastes like chicken.”
The gods lunged, tackling the dog. Chaos became chaos-within-chaos.
Hera pulled Zeus’s beard, Zeus shocked Hera, Aphrodite slapped Athena with a salmon, Artemis shot arrows into the ceiling just to prove a point.
Nyarlathotep sat on the buffet, sipping soup and applauding. “Ten out of ten. Would watch again.”
A mortal bard, somehow swept into the banquet by accident, began narrating the whole event while sketching. “And lo, the casserole rose as a fourth head upon the beast, and gods forgot dignity entirely.”
“Stop writing that down!” Zeus roared, blasting the parchment with lightning.
But it was too late — the tale would spread, inspiring centuries of parodies, plays, and questionable fanfiction.
The apple was flung skyward in slow motion. Every god, demigod, minor deity, and opportunistic trickster leapt for it. The chandelier broke. Lightning struck. Oceans rose. A phoenix exploded. Dionysus vomited glitter.
Sera, standing on the banquet table, lifted her goblet high and whispered a word. Her power swelled — not to calm, but to conduct. Every brawl, every boast, every broken oath played like a movement in her symphony of absurdity.
She laughed, clear and sharp, above the din. “And so, behold! Pride is its own war. The apple is mine, for it never belonged to you at all — only to the chaos it spawned.”
The apple vanished from the air, plucked by her unseen hand, leaving gods crashing into each other like drunk meteors.
When the dust cleared, Zeus’s beard was singed, Poseidon sulked in a puddle, Hera threatened divorce, Athena wrote a furious essay no one read, and Aphrodite demanded a mirror to confirm she still looked perfect (she did).
Cerberus burped.
Hermes counted his IOUs. Loki disappeared with half the silverware.
And Sera, cloaked and smug, raised the apple like a trophy. “This banquet shall be remembered forever — not as your triumph, but as your folly.”
Nyarlathotep bowed, mocking. “Encore?”
Sera only smiled. “Wait until dessert.”
Morning came to Utopia like an embarrassed apology. The banquet hall was wrecked columns cracked, ambrosia puddles sticky on the marble, and half the pantheon asleep in corners like college freshmen after their first kegger.
Zeus awoke with a thunderbolt headache. “Never speak of this again,” he groaned, clutching his temples.
Hera folded her arms. “Oh, I’ll speak of it. Every. Single. Day.”
Athena, already drafting a fifty-page treatise, muttered, “This was a critical failure of rational discourse.”
Aphrodite was brushing ambrosia out of her hair. “Please, darlings, we looked fabulous. That’s all mortals will remember.”
The gods immediately began the blame cycle:
Zeus roared “It was Loki’s fault!”
Loki replied “Technically true, but also hilarious.”
Poseidon said, putting the blame on the casserole “No, it was the casserole.”
The casserole is still alive, quietly migrating toward the Underworld.
Dionysus is still talking about wine,“I blame wine. Which is to say… you’re welcome.”
The minor gods, for once, united in solidarity. Janus declared, “We want more respect, or next time we’re locking the banquet doors.”
Everyone ignored him again.
Down among mortals, the tale leaked instantly. Bards sang of the “Epic of the Apple,” though depending on who paid them, the story shifted
In Athens, Athena was declared the rightful winner.
In Corinth, Aphrodite had “clearly triumphed in beauty.”
In Sparta, Ares won (because who would argue with Spartans?).
In taverns everywhere, the casserole was the real hero.
Generations later, scholars would debate: Did the gods really battle over a fruit, or was it allegory? Priests answered: It was allegory until the casserole bit Hermes.
Meanwhile, Sera walked quietly along mortal roads, the golden apple hidden beneath her cloak. She ate from it leisurely, bite by bite, as if it were an ordinary snack. Every crunch echoed with the laughter of last night’s divine chaos.
“Pride makes fine entertainment,” she mused, gazing at villages below. “Mortals will fight over bread and crowns. But gods? Give them a fruit, and they burn heaven to the ground.”
She smiled — not cruelly, but knowingly.
Behind her, whispers already rose.
“The Witch Who Outsmarted Olympus.”“The Cloaked Woman Who Conducted the Banquet.”“The Patron of Petty Chaos.”
Titles grew like weeds, half-insult, half-reverence.
Back in the banquet ruins, Hermes discovered his scroll of debts missing.
“Who—WHO STOLE MY BETS?!” he wailed.
The chandelier creaked, and from it dangled a tiny web spun overnight. Words glowed in silk letters:
HEADLINE: GODS LOSE EVERYTHING TO WITCH & CASSEROLE.
Signed: Anansi, Chief Correspondent.
The gods groaned in unison.
And so, the banquet passed into legend — not as a triumph of immortals, but as the night divinity itself was reduced to slapstick.
Sera, far away, laughed one last time and whispered,“Encore will be dessert.”
Chapter 5: Idea Discordiae End
Utopia was not Heaven. Heaven had rules, order, and polite choirs who harmonized on cue. Utopia had none of that. It was chaos on a marble floor — louder, stranger, drunker.
The air smelled of ambrosia, singed thunderbolts, and regret. Floating palaces spun lazily in a night sky that kept changing its mind — sometimes constellations, sometimes abstract art, once a very large picture of Zeus flexing. Nobody claimed responsibility.
Tables stretched into infinity, groaning with roast phoenix, hydra stew, baskets of apples that were probably safe, and a suspicious casserole that even the bravest gods refused to poke.
Music blared choirs, Viking war drums, throat singing, a kazoo (don’t ask), and a lute-player who had wandered in three centuries ago and still hadn’t escaped.
It was a banquet. And every god who still mattered had come. Which meant, naturally, disaster was on the menu.
Zeus sat at the head, toga undone too far, beard marinated in wine. His hand crept toward a nymph, who was considering spontaneous combustion just to escape.
Odin slouched nearby, one eye glinting, muttering about prophecy while his ravens stole olives. Vishnu reclined, serene as only someone balancing twelve goblets on six hands could be. Thor had already broken three chairs arm-wrestling Hercules. Ares and Mars bickered over who was the real god of war (they had a chart).
Dionysus and Bacchus, meanwhile, were locked in their eternal argument.
“I invented wine.”“No, I invented wine.”“You just rebranded my vintage!”“Fake news!”
Apollo sulked while Orpheus tuned his lyre. Hermes sold fake lightning bolts out of his sleeves. Loki slipped spiders into Athena’s goblet “for science.”
The minor gods — ignored as usual — had formed a support group in the corner. Huitzilopochtli sharpened his obsidian blade while muttering, “No one invites me to conquests anymore.” Anansi dangled from the chandelier, weaving glowing web-letters that spelled: LIVE DRAMA THREAD.
And then came Sera.
Her cloak swirled like curtains rising on a tragedy. Her mismatched eyes — red and violet — glittered with something between disdain and wicked humor. She smiled like she had read the script and decided to improvise.
“Good evening, illustrious beings of questionable impulse control,” she said, bowing low. “Tell me, Zeus, how do you all sit without stabbing each other with pride?”
Minor gods cackled. Hermes spat out his drink laughing. Athena muttered about “unworthy interlopers.”
Zeus slammed his goblet down, spraying Poseidon, who began swearing about “sea rights violations.”
“Careful, witch,” Zeus growled. “You are a guest, not a jester.”
“Oh, but you desperately need a jester.” Sera plucked a grape off Dionysus’s plate, tossing it into her mouth. “Without one, this feast is nothing but self-congratulation. And gods already do that better than mortals do selfies.”
“HA!” Dionysus pointed. “She’s right!”
“Silence, drunkard!” Zeus barked.
“Exhibit A,” Dionysus said, burping.
Odin rapped his spear on the floor, glaring. “If you have a jest, speak it, witch. Or stop buzzing like a fly.”
Sera tilted her head, smirking. “Run? No. I saunter. And I play games.”
With a flick of her hand, the air shimmered. An apple appeared — golden, radiant, humming with “I’m about to cause problems” energy.
“Behold,” Sera purred. “A simple apple. But imagine it is divine — and belongs only to the most worthy among you.”
Every head turned.
Zeus puffed his chest. “Mine. Obviously.”
Hera spat out her drink. “Yours? You can’t even keep your lovers straight.”
Athena raised her hand like she was in a classroom. “If it’s for wisdom, it is mine. I literally invented strategy.”
Aphrodite flicked her hair. “Wisdom? Please. Beauty wins wars. The apple is mine.”
Hermes chimed in. “I’ll just deliver it faster than anyone else.”
Apollo strummed his lyre. “It is mine. For I am music, poetry, medicine—”
Loki coughed. “—and unbearable smugness.”
The hall detonated.
Zeus hurled lightning at Hera. Hera caught it, bent it, and stabbed Poseidon’s beard. Poseidon rose, spilling seawater all over the phoenix roast. Thor and Hercules smashed the table in round four of arm-wrestling. Vishnu split into twelve avatars, all politely arguing with each other. The casserole growled.
And Sera? She sipped her wine, leaning back like a conductor watching an orchestra lose its sheet music.
The moment the golden apple gleamed, Utopia’s fragile balance snapped like a lyre string under Apollo’s ego.
Zeus bellowed, “It is MINE!” and hurled a thunderbolt so large it knocked the chandelier sideways. Anansi clung to it, muttering, “Worth it for the views.”
Hera caught the thunderbolt mid-air, bent it like tinfoil, and jabbed it into Poseidon’s beard.
Poseidon roared, slamming his trident onto the table. “First saltwater rights, now beard violations?!” He summoned a tidal wave that drenched the buffet. The casserole hissed. No one knew if it was from the water or because it had been alive this whole time.
Thor, wiping roast phoenix grease from his chin, stood up and declared, “I will settle this with strength!”
Hercules rose beside him, flexing. “You’ve lost four rounds already.”
“Best of seven!” Thor roared, slamming his fist into the table so hard it cracked.
“Best of eight!” Hercules shouted back, because neither of them were particularly good with numbers.
Meanwhile, Athena and Aphrodite were nose-to-nose.
“Wisdom endures,” Athena snapped. “Civilizations fall without me.”
“Yes,” Aphrodite purred, tossing her hair, “but at least they look good while falling.”
Hermes, sensing opportunity, had set up a betting booth with scrolls and ink.“Place your wagers!” he called. “Apple goes to Zeus, 2-to-1 odds. Hera, 5-to-1. Athena, 3-to-1. Aphrodite, infinity-to-1, because she’ll bribe the judges anyway. Special odds if the apple ends up eaten by accident!”
A minor god piped up from the corner — Janus, god of doors.“Why not me? Without doors, where would anyone even walk in?”
Nobody listened.
Across the hall, Dionysus and Bacchus had escalated.
“I invented wine!” Dionysus roared, holding up a goblet.
Bacchus scoffed. “You just fermented grapes. I perfected it. Watch!”
He poured wine into his goblet, swirled it… then chugged it in one go.
Dionysus laughed, tipped his head back, and conjured an entire barrel over his face. The barrel shattered, drenching him in red, which he wore like war paint. “Beat THAT!”
Both promptly fell over. Their worshippers would later interpret this as “ritualistic trance.”
Loki, meanwhile, was running a side hustle.
He whispered to Hades: “Put three drachmae on Hermes winning the apple. Double if he cheats.”
He whispered to Vishnu’s third avatar: “Bet on Aphrodite. Triple payout if she seduces the apple first.”
He whispered to Artemis: “Side bet who stabs a sibling first.”
By the time anyone noticed, Loki had so many IOUs tucked in his coat he could wallpaper Asgard with them.
It began, as most cosmic food fights do, with a single grape. Hermes flicked one at Apollo. Apollo yelped, strummed a dramatic chord, and retaliated with a pie. The pie missed and splattered Athena’s helmet. Athena calmly lobbed it back with military precision, knocking Dionysus unconscious (again).
Soon roast phoenixes were airborne. Ambrosia rivers turned into wine balloons. A bowl of hydra stew hit Ares, who screamed, “AN INSULT TO WAR!” and started throwing flaming meatballs.
The casserole leapt off the table and bit Hermes’s ankle. He shrieked. Loki laughed until it bit him, too.
“Is it… evolving?” asked Artemis.
“Kill it!” shouted half the room.
“Study it!” shouted the other half.
The casserole hissed again.
The ignored minor gods finally snapped.
Huitzilopochtli climbed onto a chair and shouted, “At least let ME fight for the apple! I was literally born in combat!”
“Sit down!” Athena snapped.
“Don’t tell me to sit down, Owl-Girl!” he yelled, swinging his obsidian club.
Beside him, Janus muttered, “I could solve this with a door, but nooo, nobody cares about doors—”
“Shut BOTH your faces!” Hermes yelled.
Anansi swung down from the chandelier, glowing web-letters trailing behind him:BREAKING NEWS: GODS HUMILIATED BY APPLE. WITCH TO BLAME.
And in the center of it all, Sera stood on the table, sipping her stolen wine, her cloak swirling like she was conducting a symphony of stupidity.
She raised her hand. Instantly, voices rose louder, egos swelled hotter, insults sharpened like knives. Pride turned into fire. Jealousy turned into waves. Drunkenness turned into divine karaoke (Zeus tried to sing — everyone begged him to stop).
Sera laughed, eyes glowing with red-violet light. “You see? Mortals need not war for you. You war fine enough for yourselves.”
She tapped her goblet, and the chaos redoubled. Ares started wrestling Mars while Thor tried to arm-wrestle Poseidon’s tidal wave. Aphrodite demanded a mirror to prove her point. Athena demanded a chalkboard. Hermes demanded payment. Loki demanded more popcorn.
Nyarlathotep, lounging in shadow, clapped slowly. “It’s almost art,” he purred.
The brawl reached heights only divine egos could scale. Every table leg had become a weapon, every chandelier a battlefield, every leftover pastry an improvised grenade. The Ambrosial Banquet Hall of Utopia, once pristine marble, now resembled a tavern brawl directed by Homer after too much mead.
Then something broke in through the kitchen door, Cerberus.
The three-headed hound had followed the scent of casserole rebellion and now prowled the hall. Each head had different priorities:
The Left Head said “SCRAPS.”Middle Head retorted “WAR.”The Right Head asked “Walkies?”
All three promptly began snapping at flying meats, accidentally swallowing one of Thor’s goats. Thor yelled, “Not again!” and dove after them. Loki placed new bets instantly: “Two drachmae say Thor loses to the dog.”
Hades didn’t notice, too busy shouting, “Who left the gates unlocked?!”
In the corner, Hephaestus wheeled out what he insisted was the perfect invention the Apple Holder 9000, a golden cage on wheels designed to keep the apple safe.
“Behold!” he shouted.
Immediately, Ares smashed it with a mace.
“Sabotage!” Hephaestus cried, sputtering sparks.
“No,” Ares growled, “it looked at me funny.”
The apple bounced free, rolled across the floor, and—horrifyingly—landed inside Cerberus’s mouth.
Apollo, furious at losing dignity earlier, seized a lyre and strummed. “If I cannot win the apple, then I shall win with SONG!”
Unfortunately, Bacchus had revived, and joined in with a slurred duet. Their voices were so loud, glass shattered. Athena covered her ears and declared: “This is why civilization collapses.”
Hermes immediately scrawled a sign: NEW BET: Which god faints first from Apollo’s high notes?
Half the pantheon keeled over in seconds.
When Cerberus chewed the apple, all three heads began arguing with each other.
The left head roared “It’s mine!”The middle head growled “Glory!”The right head said “Tastes like chicken.”
The gods lunged, tackling the dog. Chaos became chaos-within-chaos.
Hera pulled Zeus’s beard, Zeus shocked Hera, Aphrodite slapped Athena with a salmon, Artemis shot arrows into the ceiling just to prove a point.
Nyarlathotep sat on the buffet, sipping soup and applauding. “Ten out of ten. Would watch again.”
A mortal bard, somehow swept into the banquet by accident, began narrating the whole event while sketching. “And lo, the casserole rose as a fourth head upon the beast, and gods forgot dignity entirely.”
“Stop writing that down!” Zeus roared, blasting the parchment with lightning.
But it was too late — the tale would spread, inspiring centuries of parodies, plays, and questionable fanfiction.
The apple was flung skyward in slow motion. Every god, demigod, minor deity, and opportunistic trickster leapt for it. The chandelier broke. Lightning struck. Oceans rose. A phoenix exploded. Dionysus vomited glitter.
Sera, standing on the banquet table, lifted her goblet high and whispered a word. Her power swelled — not to calm, but to conduct. Every brawl, every boast, every broken oath played like a movement in her symphony of absurdity.
She laughed, clear and sharp, above the din. “And so, behold! Pride is its own war. The apple is mine, for it never belonged to you at all — only to the chaos it spawned.”
The apple vanished from the air, plucked by her unseen hand, leaving gods crashing into each other like drunk meteors.
When the dust cleared, Zeus’s beard was singed, Poseidon sulked in a puddle, Hera threatened divorce, Athena wrote a furious essay no one read, and Aphrodite demanded a mirror to confirm she still looked perfect (she did).
Cerberus burped.
Hermes counted his IOUs. Loki disappeared with half the silverware.
And Sera, cloaked and smug, raised the apple like a trophy. “This banquet shall be remembered forever — not as your triumph, but as your folly.”
Nyarlathotep bowed, mocking. “Encore?”
Sera only smiled. “Wait until dessert.”
Morning came to Utopia like an embarrassed apology. The banquet hall was wrecked columns cracked, ambrosia puddles sticky on the marble, and half the pantheon asleep in corners like college freshmen after their first kegger.
Zeus awoke with a thunderbolt headache. “Never speak of this again,” he groaned, clutching his temples.
Hera folded her arms. “Oh, I’ll speak of it. Every. Single. Day.”
Athena, already drafting a fifty-page treatise, muttered, “This was a critical failure of rational discourse.”
Aphrodite was brushing ambrosia out of her hair. “Please, darlings, we looked fabulous. That’s all mortals will remember.”
The gods immediately began the blame cycle:
Zeus roared “It was Loki’s fault!”
Loki replied “Technically true, but also hilarious.”
Poseidon said, putting the blame on the casserole “No, it was the casserole.”
The casserole is still alive, quietly migrating toward the Underworld.
Dionysus is still talking about wine,“I blame wine. Which is to say… you’re welcome.”
The minor gods, for once, united in solidarity. Janus declared, “We want more respect, or next time we’re locking the banquet doors.”
Everyone ignored him again.
Down among mortals, the tale leaked instantly. Bards sang of the “Epic of the Apple,” though depending on who paid them, the story shifted
In Athens, Athena was declared the rightful winner.
In Corinth, Aphrodite had “clearly triumphed in beauty.”
In Sparta, Ares won (because who would argue with Spartans?).
In taverns everywhere, the casserole was the real hero.
Generations later, scholars would debate: Did the gods really battle over a fruit, or was it allegory? Priests answered: It was allegory until the casserole bit Hermes.
Meanwhile, Sera walked quietly along mortal roads, the golden apple hidden beneath her cloak. She ate from it leisurely, bite by bite, as if it were an ordinary snack. Every crunch echoed with the laughter of last night’s divine chaos.
“Pride makes fine entertainment,” she mused, gazing at villages below. “Mortals will fight over bread and crowns. But gods? Give them a fruit, and they burn heaven to the ground.”
She smiled — not cruelly, but knowingly.
Behind her, whispers already rose.
“The Witch Who Outsmarted Olympus.”“The Cloaked Woman Who Conducted the Banquet.”“The Patron of Petty Chaos.”
Titles grew like weeds, half-insult, half-reverence.
Back in the banquet ruins, Hermes discovered his scroll of debts missing.
“Who—WHO STOLE MY BETS?!” he wailed.
The chandelier creaked, and from it dangled a tiny web spun overnight. Words glowed in silk letters:
HEADLINE: GODS LOSE EVERYTHING TO WITCH & CASSEROLE.
Signed: Anansi, Chief Correspondent.
The gods groaned in unison.
And so, the banquet passed into legend — not as a triumph of immortals, but as the night divinity itself was reduced to slapstick.
Sera, far away, laughed one last time and whispered,“Encore will be dessert.”
Chapter 5: Idea Discordiae End
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