There are more things in heaven and earth…
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
-Hamlet, Scene V,
William Shakespeare

*

Which came first? Gods or the faithful?
Even in our day and age it lies unanswered.
Let us consider the particulars.

So, the faithful worship and pay tribute. To what end?
Affirmation of their faith. Pleasure of worship. These are self-fulfilling aspects.
What of direct gifts, or boons, from their god? Skills, power, wealth. Wealth comes in many forms… Spiritual rewards differ to the physical, thus worship takes on new dimensions of importance.

Gods… Does a god need followers?
If enough believe, in the right place, at the correct time, then a god will be born from out the aether. The god grows in power and strength, able to fulfill the following: to grant boons, and to gather more faithful.
Why? We are not gods, and their motives lie beyond our ken.

The question stands: which came first? Gods, or the faithful?

A thorny problem indeed, and one still not laid to rest…

-from Commentaries on Divinity,
by the Prince Netherr,
Royal University,
Port Kerrigan

Professor Ravar’s pen slid smooth over the paper, nib riding a black ink cushion. His hand was stiff, cramped. He continued, mindful of the reward for these carefully written pages.
Nib sideways to facilitate ink flow, he drew flowing lines in precise patterns. Calligraphy, it had been said, was a dead art. Not for Ravar. He wrote on, tongue tip poking from dry lips.
A thin man of average height, he sat behind an oak desk with feet planted firmly upon stone squares. The office was cool around him, shafts of bluish-yellow light slanting in through half drawn Venetian blinds, behind and to either side of him.
Soft voices of no discernible nature, content blurred, drifted up from students passing by below, on their way to other places in the Royal University. The desert world of Port Kerrigan had only one university, established by the Royal house Liane. There was only the one inhabited area on planet, Kerrigan City. It served primarily as a trade nexus; desert worlds are oft inhospitable places, Port Kerrigan being no different, far out near the Milky Way rim.
Such concerns were distant for Ravar.
His face turned back to the pages, perspiration beading down into a sweat-stained red bandanna. Who’d commission sweaty calligraphy, anyway?
He wore typical desert clothes; dark grey trousers, simple thong sandals, a long collarless shirt of embroidered brown and black, hem just below the belt, sleeves rolled up to the biceps, buttons open to mid chest, small tangles of black hair poking through.
Something twitched below his belt. He continued writing. His tongue flicked out over dry lips in his struggle to maintain.

There.

He turned the nib, letting ink pool, capped the pen, laid it aside. His face lifted; features to match the athletic form, maintained by a routine of regular exercise, were caught in profile by bluish sunlight. He winced at the unexpectedness of it. Skin the colour of strongly brewed tea, with a dash of milk, dropped back into shadow.
Hazel eyes blinked above a nose large for the face. A clean shaven defined jaw worked thin lips, silently reading the swirls. He combed back short black hair with his fingers, adjusted the bandanna.
Ravar poured dust from a jar over the pages, blew gently, scattering a fine silver fan over the desk edge. Prismatic rainbow patterns sparkled as they went over, then fell into obscurity. There came another twitch, multiplied, tripping over itself in persistence. He frowned, brow beetling, and reached down.
A swell, a bulge, lay under his palm. The sudden shock of it made him rise, bang his knee on the desk. He cursed silently, stumbled, eyebrows jiggling, wondering what he’d missed. Was it time already? Surely not. There must be days lef-
His prick gave a throb, swelling under his hand, tenting the trousers. His mouth parted in silent incomprehension and arousal. It settled and his head tilted back, lips sighing relief.
Throb.
It swelled yet further, stretching the belt, a diagonal stick distorting his trousers from groin to inches out.
Panic stirred nibbling tentacles at his control.
Sweating and cursing, pages forgotten, half bent at the waist over his unexpected guest, he sought frantically inside for the reason.
KNOCK KNOCK
Ravar swallowed hard.
He knew he should have locked the door.