When Gods Fall
In the elder days of myth and legend, the ancient humans of Arandor rose from their beastly kin, and learnt the craft of speech, they mastered fire, and sharpened their wits.
They learnt the ancient ways, that are now a forgotten secret buried deep within their spirit. The humans grew proud swiftly, for they used their craft, their wits, and the ancient ways to dominate all other beasts, and tame the wild world around them. Soon they became masters of their own world.
But they were not content.
The ages that ensued were swallowed by the relentless sea of time. Myths, legends, forgotten ruins and unfathomable secrets linger in the dust and debris of the past. The first historic records speak of humanity's emergence from that era of myth and fable, through a brief, but terrible era of endless conflict.
With slow and wavering steps, the humans developed diplomacy and politics, technology and science. They saw the world they lived in through different eyes. They understood its properties and resources, and how to tap into them drawing all the energy they needed to build new marvels.
They built engines and vehicles of incredible design and quality. They built larger cities that towered insolently towards the stars. They developed a cure for most known diseases.
But they were not content.
The humans set their eyes towards the skies. They begun to dream of their own godhood. With time they developed new ways to siphon and distill energy. Their energy supply seemed to become unlimited. And then that discovery led to another. Immortality. Thousands of humans took the newly discovered elixir increasing both their lifespan, and their vanity. Many more would have taken the elixir, if the first signs that something had gone terribly wrong had not already begun to manifest.
Some of the newly immortalized humans begun to suffer horrid side effects. Some simply withered away rapidly. Others begun to mutate. Even as they pulled more resources in their desperate attempt to salvage their godhood, the world begun to heave, overburdened by the huge amounts of energy already wasted.
Plants withered, beasts died, or mutated. Famine spread. The humans begun to perish in scores, and then war broke up among them, as the struggle for control of the limited resources of the world begun to escalate. In the eve of this war, the last remaining immortals continued their desperate quest for godhood, each rising as a leader of one of the warring factions.
They delved deep, in secrets unlocked by their kind during the mythical eras. They found ancient relics, artefacts of ages bygone, deemed forbidden and sealed away long ago, too long for anyone to remember why. Last of all they uncovered something too dangerous, that should have been left forgotten.
The relentless warfare and exploitation of resources took its inevitable toll upon the world, altering its face forever. In its aftermath, six titanic cities was all that had remained. Therein, millions of souls huddled under the protection of newly risen gods. The leader of these Gods was known as Akronas, and he built a mighty empire on the dust of the cataclysm that had preceded him.
The Akronean Empire emerged with an oppressive, tyrannous shadow that drowned all who would stand in its path. Unhindered, Akronas ascended to the heavens above, leaving his lieutenants as overlords of the Empire's realms.
The overlords, immortal, like their master, founded their domains, splitting the world amongst them. Like their master, the Akronean Lords were veritable gods, each of them far removed from the human norm, in terms of power, but also, of psyche.
They became supreme rulers of the titanic cities, posing as guardians of the millions of souls sheltered therein. With their protection came the promise of civilization, and warding from the feral savagery of the dangerous wilderness, the supply of medication and food, commodities that had now become indispensable, and of course, the offer of immortality to those among the faithful flock who excelled in their servitude to the gods.
Of course there was a price. The Akronean Lords were hungry beings. They needed the sacrifice of human lives to sustain them. They needed fresh supplies of souls to fuel their immense capacity for power. In each city, each day, a hundred chosen souls, would be offered to the city's respective patron god, or matron goddess.
And thus, each day that dawns, millions of souls pray that they may be spared for one more day, thanking the beneficence of the gods that spare them from their banquet. Many amongst them become aspirants, striving to please their superiors' every whim, in their hope to enter the ranks of the gods' Chosen, or just to stall the sacrificial dagger for one more day.
Others, however, know that such attempts are futile. Some submit to their fate regardless, with passive stoicism. Others turn their desperate gaze elsewhere. Voices of dissent have their own whispers in the myriad alleys of the colossal cities. Hundreds of cults that worship long forgotten powers Amidst the millions of petitioners only a few understand the truth of their predicament.
Only a few pray that one day the gods will fall. Only a few recall that men need not fall so low, for they are destined for greater things. Amidst these men and women roam mystics who keep the torch lit. They are a brotherhood of souls devoted to humanity's salvation. They are men and women gifted with the talents of the old ways, prophets, healers, shamans and seers.
Only when the gods will fall, they say. Only when gods will fall and rise as mortals, will hope return into the blighted realm of Arandor.
And then, like a petulant answer to the prayers of the few, as if to ascertain the prophecies of the White Mystics, the gods of old fell in Arandor. The mighty Aethons fell from the heavens, and rose as mortals. The Empyreans were born.
They learnt the ancient ways, that are now a forgotten secret buried deep within their spirit. The humans grew proud swiftly, for they used their craft, their wits, and the ancient ways to dominate all other beasts, and tame the wild world around them. Soon they became masters of their own world.
But they were not content.
The ages that ensued were swallowed by the relentless sea of time. Myths, legends, forgotten ruins and unfathomable secrets linger in the dust and debris of the past. The first historic records speak of humanity's emergence from that era of myth and fable, through a brief, but terrible era of endless conflict.
With slow and wavering steps, the humans developed diplomacy and politics, technology and science. They saw the world they lived in through different eyes. They understood its properties and resources, and how to tap into them drawing all the energy they needed to build new marvels.
They built engines and vehicles of incredible design and quality. They built larger cities that towered insolently towards the stars. They developed a cure for most known diseases.
But they were not content.
The humans set their eyes towards the skies. They begun to dream of their own godhood. With time they developed new ways to siphon and distill energy. Their energy supply seemed to become unlimited. And then that discovery led to another. Immortality. Thousands of humans took the newly discovered elixir increasing both their lifespan, and their vanity. Many more would have taken the elixir, if the first signs that something had gone terribly wrong had not already begun to manifest.
Some of the newly immortalized humans begun to suffer horrid side effects. Some simply withered away rapidly. Others begun to mutate. Even as they pulled more resources in their desperate attempt to salvage their godhood, the world begun to heave, overburdened by the huge amounts of energy already wasted.
Plants withered, beasts died, or mutated. Famine spread. The humans begun to perish in scores, and then war broke up among them, as the struggle for control of the limited resources of the world begun to escalate. In the eve of this war, the last remaining immortals continued their desperate quest for godhood, each rising as a leader of one of the warring factions.
They delved deep, in secrets unlocked by their kind during the mythical eras. They found ancient relics, artefacts of ages bygone, deemed forbidden and sealed away long ago, too long for anyone to remember why. Last of all they uncovered something too dangerous, that should have been left forgotten.
The relentless warfare and exploitation of resources took its inevitable toll upon the world, altering its face forever. In its aftermath, six titanic cities was all that had remained. Therein, millions of souls huddled under the protection of newly risen gods. The leader of these Gods was known as Akronas, and he built a mighty empire on the dust of the cataclysm that had preceded him.
The Akronean Empire emerged with an oppressive, tyrannous shadow that drowned all who would stand in its path. Unhindered, Akronas ascended to the heavens above, leaving his lieutenants as overlords of the Empire's realms.
The overlords, immortal, like their master, founded their domains, splitting the world amongst them. Like their master, the Akronean Lords were veritable gods, each of them far removed from the human norm, in terms of power, but also, of psyche.
They became supreme rulers of the titanic cities, posing as guardians of the millions of souls sheltered therein. With their protection came the promise of civilization, and warding from the feral savagery of the dangerous wilderness, the supply of medication and food, commodities that had now become indispensable, and of course, the offer of immortality to those among the faithful flock who excelled in their servitude to the gods.
Of course there was a price. The Akronean Lords were hungry beings. They needed the sacrifice of human lives to sustain them. They needed fresh supplies of souls to fuel their immense capacity for power. In each city, each day, a hundred chosen souls, would be offered to the city's respective patron god, or matron goddess.
And thus, each day that dawns, millions of souls pray that they may be spared for one more day, thanking the beneficence of the gods that spare them from their banquet. Many amongst them become aspirants, striving to please their superiors' every whim, in their hope to enter the ranks of the gods' Chosen, or just to stall the sacrificial dagger for one more day.
Others, however, know that such attempts are futile. Some submit to their fate regardless, with passive stoicism. Others turn their desperate gaze elsewhere. Voices of dissent have their own whispers in the myriad alleys of the colossal cities. Hundreds of cults that worship long forgotten powers Amidst the millions of petitioners only a few understand the truth of their predicament.
Only a few pray that one day the gods will fall. Only a few recall that men need not fall so low, for they are destined for greater things. Amidst these men and women roam mystics who keep the torch lit. They are a brotherhood of souls devoted to humanity's salvation. They are men and women gifted with the talents of the old ways, prophets, healers, shamans and seers.
Only when the gods will fall, they say. Only when gods will fall and rise as mortals, will hope return into the blighted realm of Arandor.
And then, like a petulant answer to the prayers of the few, as if to ascertain the prophecies of the White Mystics, the gods of old fell in Arandor. The mighty Aethons fell from the heavens, and rose as mortals. The Empyreans were born.
Comments
Post a Comment