The godsend entered the village, and the people murmured.
It had been many months since a godsend had passed through the village. Of course, there was always a few straggler, a few scraggly youths, sporting their father’s rifle, the dirtiness of their clothes matched only by the glint of false hope in their eyes. Those were not true godsends. They had not made a kill. They had not yet brought down a god.
This man was different. It was something in how he stood. The villagers could see that he was a veteran, that he had watched an avatar fall, brought down a god, slain the unkillable. He walked with the clink of weaponry. The villagers admired the long hilt of the heavy sword rising over his right shoulder, the pair of machine pistols hanging at his waist. He walked with the deadly grace of a killer.
The godsend stopped at the general store, replenished his supplies of food. The owner, Hanson, later swore that he could see the reflections of the dead gods in the man’s eyes. It was nonsense, of course; Hanson was known to make up stories for attention. But the man was a godsend nonetheless.
The godsend did not tell the villagers where he was heading. He did not tell them who he was hunting, whether he was in pursuit of a new avatar, whether he was tracking his next prey. The villagers would not have known what to make of such information. It would not have helped them. The godsend merely continued on his way, passing through the town and out the other side, borne on the wings of whispers and stares.
The godsend was no longer quite like the others. He was still a mortal; he still bled from his wounds, he still tired from his work, he still required food and sleep. But he had gazed into the face of immortality and survived to pull the trigger. He was tasked by Thoth to keep order in the world, tasked to hunt down those new gods who grew too powerful. He carried out his orders.
He was a godsend. His title was his job, his mission, his core. The godsend exited the village, and the people murmured.