Greed is God: A Pilgrim’s Account of the Faith of the Brass Men

  As Recorded by Brother Taalmun, Novitiate of the White Mystery, upon Departure from the City of Opesh

  Dearest Brothers,

  Never have I seen such temples of gold and flame as those that rise from the molten streets of Opesh, city of brass and bargaining, where the gods are not prayed to for mercy, but negotiated with for margin. I have known cities where men worship fire and sky, even blood, but nowhere, until Opesh, have I seen a people kneel before value. Not gold. Not wealth. But value itself, sacred as the flesh of a newborn god. This is an account of the Brass Men, who call themselves the Children of the Coin, their gods, and the fundamental question that underpins their society: of what worth is a man?

  From their first breath, Brass Men are weighed, measured, and recorded in the books of the Market Temples. Their names are entries, their souls accounts. I was told by a merchant-scribe that to die without a balanced ledger is to wander forever as a howling clause, neither fulfilled nor forgotten. Brass Men are not, as some claim, without souls. Where they differ from other men is how they commune with the divine, for only through exchange can Brass Men achieve the sublime, only through bartering can their prayers be heard.

  There are ten temples in Opesh, each with a sacred vault to house a god. I have heard these gods referred to as djinn by some, demons by others. The Brass Men make no such distinctions. To them, these spirits are neither angels nor devils, but ancient beings of fire, smoke, and law, bound to their temples by covenant, blood, and greed. Each presides over a pillar of commerce, each has their acolytes, rituals and markets. I shall tell you of them all, for I have passed through the ten gates, walked the silken avenues, and heard the clink of cursed coins in my purse.

  I came to Opesh not as a theologian, nor a scholar, but as a witness, seeking forgotten truths in the desert. I left with scars in the shape of numbers.

  I. Zamhar, the Ledger-Lord, Guardian of Contracts, Patron of the Written Deal

  The Temple of Zamhar rises like the grand parlor of a divine moneychanger, with walls of cold marble veined in gold and filled with the scratching of scribes, the rustle of parchment. Here, every transaction, from a beggar’s debt to a duke’s estate, is recorded, witnessed, and bound in ink mixed with sap from the Nameless Tree.

  Zamhar himself appears in visions as a towering djinn cloaked in pages that flutter with each lie uncovered. His worshippers are lawyers, contract-keepers, and oathbinders. They say he can rewrite fate, if the terms are precise.

  Within Brass Men society, Zamhar's temple is the heart of bureaucracy. No business is sacred until it passes the Seal of Zamhar, and to cheat a contract written in his house is to invite destruction upon your lineage.

  II. Nakariel, the Gilded Judge, Arbiter of Fairness, Breaker of Unjust Pacts

  The Hall of Nakariel is a vault of obsidian and tarnished brass, built in the shape of a great scale. Its doors are carved with the Judge's motif, a ring of clasped hands, some human and some monstrous. His effigy stands in the center of the main hall: a demon-headed figure with a forked tongue upon which rests a coin split clean in twain. The faithful say the halves never fall, held there by divine tension, a judgment not yet rendered.

  Nakariel is the djinn who presides over the fairness of a deal, not for the sake of goodwill, but in service to unflinching balance. When a bargain is made in bad faith, when one party tricks or coerces another, Nakariel’s silent wrath begins to coil. His priests serve as arbiters, contract enforcers, and executioners of market justice.

  Worshippers pray to Nakariel not to make a deal sweet, but to ensure that if one party cheats, they suffer the consequences of their actions. Within Brass Men society, his temple serves as the supreme court of commerce. The Brass Men fear Nakariel more than they revere him. Yet none would trade without invoking his name.

  III. Araj, the Burnt Coin, Warden of Risk, Master of Speculation

  Araj’s temple is a furnace of heat and flame. Built on the edge of the city’s molten river, its floors are of volcanic glass, and its rites involve throwing coins into the fire to divine fortunes. Araj is depicted as a masked figure shrouded in smoke, forever flipping a coin that lands on its edge.

  This djinn teaches that fortune favors the bold, and his priests are gamblers, financiers, and venture lords. In wider society, Araj’s worship promotes speculation. Entire banks are built in his honor, with interest rates said to change with the flick of his fiery coin.

  To serve Araj is to embrace chance as divine order.

  IV. Teth-Amon, the Vault-Handed, Saint of Misers, Lord of Hidden Wealth

  The Temple of Teth-Amon is subterranean and carved deep into the stone beneath Opesh. Its doors are impervious, its vaults legendary. Only the Interest Priests know the true depths of its holdings, and the number of dead it houses. For those faithful who tithe a lifetime of savings can earn the right to be entombed in its sepulchers, embalmed with quicksilver and wrapped in cloth of gold, part of the Miser’s eternal hoard.

  Teth-Amon appears as a coiled serpent of gold, with jeweled eyes and a whispering voice that tempts hoarders and misers alike. He is the patron of accumulation, the divine justification for storing rather than spending. Those who seek his favor bury gold in his name, trusting that in death, he will guard their treasures through reincarnation and beyond.

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  In society, the cult of Teth-Amon fuels the concept of inheritance as legacy, and wealth as immortality.

  V. Orkaaz of the Black Weighing, Suzerain of Specie, Overseer of Value

  No coin is struck in Opesh without first being weighed upon Orkaaz’s scales. His temple is a mint, austere and functional, decorated in silver and lead.

  Orkaaz’s visage is skull-like, his body skeletal save for molten veins that pulse with light. He speaks only in values, never words. His priests are appraisers, coin-testers, and mint-masters. They decide what is real, what is counterfeit, and what is sacred. In wider Brass Men culture, Orkaaz defines truth through value. After all, a thing is only what it is worth.

  Those that speak false figures in his presence will have their tongues turned to lead.

  VI. Belasar the Chain-Singer, Patron of Debt, Bender of Obligation

  To the Brass Men, debt is neither shameful nor cruel. It is necessary for continuity, sacred in its own way. If you would see the blessed weight of this obligation in person, visit the prison Temple of Belasar. Its halls are dim and silent but for the rattling of the Chained Cardinals' in their golden fetters. There is no laughter there, only uncaring ledgers and the prayers of the desperate.

  Belasar appears as a hollow-eyed giant wrapped in chains of platinum and parchment, each link a contract yet fulfilled. His voice is the echo of past mistakes, and his eyes burn red with accrued interest. His priests are moneylenders, debt-holders, and keepers of generational obligations. A child born under Belasar’s eye inherits not only the wealth, but the debt of their forebears.

  They say his temple itself is a record of every debt, a great tome the djinn reads by wandering room to room, waiting for the day of each man's death, when he will weigh a soul against its final balance.

  VII. Yeshmina the Unseen, Mistress of Secrets, Queen of the Black Market

  The Temple of Yeshmina cannot be found by seeking it, only by being summoned. It moves through Opesh, and other Brass Men cities, like a shadow, manifesting where secrets pool thickest. It is said to be made of mirrors and smoke, its entrances changing by the day.

  Yeshmina is a whisper in the dark, cloaked in silks that flow like ink. Her hands are ever moving, her faces always hidden beneath a veil of silver. She governs the black market, espionage and forbidden trade. Her followers are spies, smugglers, and keepers of information too volatile to sell in daylight. Her temple is also a place of confession, where secrets are traded like gemstones.

  To Brass Men, secrecy is not shame, it is strategy. Even silence has value, and Yeshmina teaches that a lie well-kept is more precious than gold.

  VIII. Qir the Many-Handed, Master of Monopolies, One Above All

  In the heart of Opesh, atop the Avenue of Endless Purchase, stands a colossal edifice of brass and ivory: the Temple of Qir. It is shaped like a pyramid, its tiers each owned and rented by a different trade guild, except the top, which belongs only to Qir.

  Qir is portrayed as a merchant-emperor, crowned in coin, seated upon a throne that tilts with every shift in market power. He has one hundred arms. His fingers are levers; his every breath is law.

  Qir governs monopolies, not merely economic, but political and spiritual. His teachings justify domination through superiority of product, service, or will. His priests are oligarchs, guild-masters, and trade-princes who hold entire industries in their grip. The Brass Men look upon Qir in awe and fear. He represents the power of consolidation, when one becomes many, and many are made to serve the one.

  IX. Suthil the Silent Auctioneer, Lord of Desire, Arbiter of Appetites

  You’ll find no temple of Suthil where songs are sung or coins clink loudly. His house is a place of hushed voices and veiled bids. An eternal auction is held within, where objects pass unseen, and fortunes are won or lost with the twitch of a single finger.

  Suthil is a tall, thin djinn with a shrouded face and no mouth, yet his presence fills every room with longing. They say he sees into your heart and offers what you most desire. His price is never fair, only final.

  To the Brass Men, desire is the true engine of commerce. Suthil’s cult teaches that nothing is truly free and everything, love, loyalty, even time, has a price to be paid in full.

  Auction houses across Opesh fly his banner, and it is whispered that some of his acolytes trade in unspeakable services, ensuring that for every desire there is a market.

  X. Imrathu the Gilded Lie, Father of the Logos, Spinner of Illusions

  The Temple of Imrathu dazzles the senses. Its walls shift colors as if alive, and light bends unnaturally in its mirrored halls, casting halos around every object. Its priests speak the silver-tongued logos of commerce: riddles, jingles, promises and lies.

  Imrathu appears as a beautiful figure, impossible to describe consistently. Each viewer sees in Imrathu the form they most admire, be it lover, leader, or god. He governs perception, persuasion, and manipulation. His worshippers are heralds, merchants of luxury, and architects of illusion. To Imrathu, truth is a negotiable fiction. What matters most is belief, not fact.

  Brass Men society is steeped in his doctrine. No good is sold without embellishment; no truth is spoken without adornment. Even in politics and faith, the hand of Imrathu is felt, gilding every speech, wrapping every promise in gold leaf.

  The Covenant and the Cycle

  These ten temples are not isolated, they form a sacred economic wheel known as the Covenant of Coin. It is said that each domain feeds the next in an endless cycle:

  A deal begins with Zamhar's contract.

  Its fairness is judged by Nakariel.

  Risk is borne by Araj.

  The gain is stored with Teth-Amon.

  The value is judged by Orkaaz.

  Debt is accrued through Belasar.

  Secrets shape advantage with Yeshmedra.

  Power is consolidated by Qir.

  Longing fuels demand through Suthil.

  And desire is shaped into truth by Imrathu, returning again to the contract.

  Thus, the Brass Men see no sin in commerce, only sanctity. Greed is wisdom. Profit is praise. Loss is a lesson taught by divine hand. The demon-djinn do not torment; they instruct. And to walk the streets of Opesh is to walk through a living gospel of avarice.

  But beware, dear brothers, should you ever trade within those glowing walls. For the coins of Opesh are stamped with more than faces, they are stamped with fate. And the Brass Men, gods bless them, always collect what is owed.