So. Alright. Quick lesson in theololology. Or, whatever. You know what I mean.
There's at least seven heavens. I think. Possibly more if you count the minor annexes and bureaucratic overflow clouds. But the third one—that's the one with the winged glowboys. The halo-and-hymn crowd. All robes and radiance and those tragic little "I've never touched a thigh" faces.
That's where Caelion probably dropped from. Third Heaven. Not too high up the ladder, but enough to get you smug about it.
Now, the underworlds. There are at least nine. Maybe eleven. Maybe more depending on who's drawing the maps or translating the scrolls. Some of them get very upset if you call them "hells." Apparently that's offensive to their branding.
Gregory? The Succubus? No clue which one they're from. I asked Gregory once and he just said "whatever pit smells like cardamom and broken dreams." So, unhelpful. Probably mid-tier. Something with velvet and teeth.
Anyway—important tip—doctrines vary. Wildly. Kingdom by kingdom. City-state by city-state. Some say there are stairs between the planes. Others say they're onions. One temple in Toemacha claims the heavens are stacked like teacups and only the truly pious get to the handle.
Point is, don't go mouthing off about "what's above" and "what's below" unless you know your local cosmology. Last time I cracked a joke about thigh angels in Delvida, I nearly got branded a heretic and dunked in vinegar.
So yeah. Smile, nod, and pretend you think their god smells the nicest. It's safer that way.
Some even say—get this—that there's only one deity.
Just one.
The deity.
Theirs, of course. Whichever one they happen to be licking the boots of at that particular political moment. Temple of the Bleeding Heart said it. So did that naked prophet in the olive grove with the llama. So did that creepy old high priest who tried to "purify" me with lavender oil and unsolicited touching. Spoiler: I bit him.
And honestly? That's just plain crazy. Like, how conceited do you have to be to look at this mess of a world—flying serpents, talking frogs, sentient weather patterns, and magical crotch boils—and say, "Yep, all this came from just one guy."
Please.
Also? It's selfish. Like, all those other gods and godlings and divine mascots just... what? On unpaid vacation? Milling around, waiting for the one real deity to delegate miracles?
And even worse—saying there's only one is the surest way to piss off every other deity in earshot. Which, by the way, is all of them. They listen. They're petty. They hold grudges longer than dragons hoard coins. I know for a fact there's a minor river goddess who's still cursing a town's barley harvest because someone used her name to sell bath salts.
So go on. Test your luck.
Walk into a multi-deity temple, smack the altar, and declare there's only one true divine power in the universe.
See how fast your sandals catch fire and your eyebrows migrate south.
Me? I stay polite. I light the candle. I nod to the statue. I blow kisses in all directions just in case. And I never, ever say anyone's the only anything. Not lovers. Not gods. Not even bakers.
That's just survival. And basic cosmic etiquette.
Thing is—it's confusing as fuck.
Some deities? They demand you be naked in their temples. Like, drop everything at the door, hang up your sandals, and strut in full birthday and glory. "Divine vulnerability," they call it. "Shedding the ego." Or just a convenient excuse for watching worshippers jiggle while chanting, I dunno.
But others? Oh no. To them, that's an unforgivable sin. Flash a nipple near their altar and it's blasphemy. Wrath. Plagues. Boils on your bits.
And then there's the whole kneeling issue. Some gods want you fully flattened—knees down, forehead to the ground, arms outstretched like a sacrifice platter. Show your humility. Show your surrender. But then other gods see that exact posture and go: "Did this little mortal just show me their ass?"
So. Go figure.
And don't even get me started on chastity.
Some pantheons think purity is the ultimate gift. Keep your thighs sealed, heart guarded, soul wrapped in seven layers of metaphor and linen. No touching, no moaning, no looking at pears too suggestively.
But then you've got places like the Temple of the Bleeding Heart.
Oof.
That lot? All about carnal communion. They didn't just worship through sex. It was sex with structure. Rotations. Roles. "Sacred indulgence" they called it. Blessings given and taken in every imaginable position, with incense, oil, bells, and enthusiastic chanting.
I once saw a priestess bless a whole merchant caravan just by eye contact and a pelvic roll. And yes, it worked. The camels gave birth early and the trade deal went through.
So what's the lesson?
There isn't one. Except maybe: wear layers you can remove quickly, always carry a backup scarf, and read the local rules before you start praying with your clothes off.