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A desperate plea brought the Demigods up through The Steadfast. They could see Navarene in the distance; likewise, its citizens had spotted their approach. People were clearing the streets fast. To be fair, the party looked like trouble even up close, each of them a callback to their parent god from the first world.

Denga was the son of Deng. He was a midnight thunder-storm made flesh; at the height of his atmosphere was wet, black tentacular hair that crawled down his wiry body, contrasting the shimmer of epidermal moonlight. Eyes that broke this stormy sky like two red distress beacons. This dark cloud brought downpour wherever it traveled; Denga’s hair gave off trace amounts of water, which saturated him, slickened him down to his toes. He dresses in black leather.

Of the three, Herphaes was the most mundane in appearance. Only his countenance made him seem more than human, his massive height and form was blasted, charred to darker skin tones from unlimited hours working the furnace. Elaborate tools dangled from his belt, glimmering with the twinkle of pets excited to please; the craftsman’s work, much like his progenitor Hephaestus, was never finished. Herphaes’ thick apron was suited for labor as well as it was for battle. Betraying his demigodliness was a hobbled, braced leg – a curse or byproduct of his lineage. It did nothing to slow the great work.

Uneven tusks (thanks to battle) jutting out on both sides of an impressive, winding gray trunk between a set of large, leathery ears that caught the wind with the same grandeur as war banners. Ghuma was unmistakable from the legend of his parent, Ganesha. Charging across the Ninth World collecting Numenera and leaving destruction wherever he is crossed, dragging behind him a coffin chained to his massive torso. No one wants to be around when the humanoid elephant chooses to reveal what is inside.

They could feel eyes on them. Peering down from the concrete and glass ruins on either side of the streets of Navarene. The last true city of humans. It was the maximum range the master races allowed for man to populate, to produce slaves. Outsiders only ever arrived to ravage. Gods’ answered prayers only if given their due in offerings and it took a wealth to purchase just an audience with these ragtag demigods. They committed to more dealing, nothing else was promised. First World deities were worshiped for their genocidal benevolence; the city was already taking a huge risk when humans couldn’t afford to trust anything.

A glass-front tavern with no name was filled with patrons who kept their eyes down as the demigods entered, traveled to the bar to order drink and announce their coming. Ghuma blasted an introduction that undid the general tension. Satisfied the immortals were there to help them, the bartender served their drinks and serenaded them with stories of the human struggle.

Navarene was a catch already bleeding in the mouth of a beast. Forming the lower jaw were the vampyrs who infested the Wyr River to the south, the fangs tearing down from above was the Tithe River to the north – weremen territory. Two master races of demihumans closing down, meaning to gobble up the last of humanity in their eternal conflict. A thousand years ago was an era when humans were more than cattle. Queen Armalu made that possible for the whole of The Steadfast from her throne in Charmonde using powerful Numenera. Her blessing shielded the land from demihumans and abhumans. Then, one day, without reason, the barrier was gone; humans were once again vulnerable.

Noise from the streets interrupted the story. A metal carriage pulled by four mechanical, hoofed beasts was visible once the dust cleared the air. Drinkers left the tavern to crowd the new arrival. As the masked driver dismounted and gifted his cargo away, the demigods noticed four humans chained to the back of the carriage. These people appealed to the immortals for help. Their charade was convincing; voices in the crowd spoke of amnesty and when an argument swelled, Ghuma smashed the bindings. The prisoners turned on the demigods the instant they were free. The line between demigod, demihuman, abhuman, mutant, and human blurred sometimes. Automatons could be built (or, not infrequently enough, build themselves) to resemble humans. Mastigophores were made plain, pink, and hairy, and were difficult to identify until they attacked. Their arms became jointless, fluid-moving tentacles that elongated over three times in length. Tiny quills emerged from beneath the skin tore into the immortals as eight flesh whips harangued them from all sides.

In all, the battle lasted less than a minute. Herphaes overwhelmed them with his shield and hammer while Denga zapped them with arcs of lightning from his hands and Ghuma beat them down with his club. Snipers hidden up high in nearby buildings incinerated the mastigophore corpses using Numenera. There was much rejoicing; the spectators took to their knees in veneration of their demigods.

The rider who dragged the automatons into Navarene identified himself as the mayor and he propositioned the demigods: he begged them to travel to Charmonde to convince Queen Armalu to help the humans again. Denga, Ghuma, and Herphaes accepted.