Rosso

The plane between the mortal realm and the unknown stretched endlessly, a soft horizon of drifting clouds and pearlescent light. It was a place suspended outside of time, where existence did not press or decay, only was. Rosso liked it that way. Eternal peace might have been an exaggeration—especially when the voices of higher gods trickled down from their perch upon the greater realms, their voices carrying sharp tones and wounded pride—but Rosso kept well away from all of that. For beings who claimed omniscience and infinite power, they argued with remarkable pettiness. He had long since learned to tune it out. Instead, Rosso focused on the sensations that grounded him. The clouds beneath his padded feet compressed gently with every step, springy and warm. A mild breeze passed through his fur, ruffling it and tugging lightly at his long hair, carrying with it the ever-present scent of love. It was sweet, complex, and utterly intoxicating. This was the Department of Love, the domain he called home. Work, technically, but home all the same. Rosso lounged near the edge of one of the floating platforms, four arms occupied in various states of uselessness—one idly sorting glowing soul-threads, two absentmindedly braiding a strand of his own hair, and the last lazily flicking through fate records. He had perfected the art of looking busy while accomplishing very little. Today, at least, he had an excuse. It was slow. Souls were created every 0.03 seconds. Each one took roughly half a second to be processed through the system. By the time a soul reached Rosso, only about two seconds of his attention were required to examine its connections, confirm compatibility, and approve the pairing. He let out a soft, contented sigh. His ears flicked as another soul drifted closer, tethered by glowing strands of possibility. Love hummed faintly through it, unformed but promising. Rosso glanced at it, smiled, and then—predictably—set it aside for later.