You won't find me complaining about growing turnips out in the sun so long as a poor spirit-soul like Chit'chit's is around.

For as long as mortalfolk had gained decent control of their lips and lower mandible, there has been talk, hearsay, rumors, and lies. Chit'chit is the god of idle chatter and gossip with a particular penchant for canards, or the false-founded whispers that are made to be believed to some greater purpose of the speaker.

The manifestation of this, a grotesque of a small talk and baseless claims, is surrounded by smaller demons born of each motivation. There's one for lying to save oneself, there's another for gossip against status and reputation, there's one for pillowtalk, and another still for stalling conversations. All of them channel into Chit'chit, who has long been driven insane by the amount of pointless banter in the world.

It's believed Chit'chit's original form as a demi-god was given so that gods, who grew impatient with listening in to the whims of rather dull mortals could have a mutually depended upon medium to hear all of what was said and report back when stirrings of something more important on the mortal coil were afoot. They may have underestimated the extent, however, to which mortals speak of nothing, and with an ever-increasing population and only one lone Chit'chit, the little tyke demons began to appear as "helpers" though each with their own bias from a more major deity who sent them.

Now widely regarded as a failed past tinkering of the gods when they new less, Chit'chit still has no control to abandon his post and continues to hear all idel conversation from the surface of the sphere. Occasionally, when gods get wind something more troubling had been undulating in secret to them, they may call upon Chit'chit to see if it may be privy to the string of news that led to the new information. It has become increasingly difficult to get a coherent answer from Chit'chit, however, because he is truly bonkers from listening to an eon of pointless tittle-tattle.

As long as mortalfolk on the sphere pay homage to Chit'chit by telling boasts or sewing seeds of false dissent, Chit'chit will collect the aether of the gods and continue to be at the mercy of everyone's flapping jaws and crooked teeth.