Pantheon 2.0 - Game Thread

[Xar]

An Age of war and chaos, of mayhem and death had passed. The world was no longer what it used to be, cracked by divine power and wracked by divine wars. The old gods were no longer, either dead or gone; it was said they fled to another world to start anew, leaving the old world to its fate. Centuries rolled by, and the land slowly healed; the people of the world turned to the heavens again, imploring the gods to come back. And the gods answered - but those who came were not the same who left. A new generation of gods arose - and the wise trembled, wondering whether a new divine war would start...

PANTHEON STATISTICS

Lord Adomorn the Reluctant Warrior, God of Honor, Protection and Strength
Holy Symbol: A figure in silver plate mail.
Divine Rank: 6 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 44.804 (humans)
Prophet: Jameak, Lirania.
Important Worshipers: Danir, Grathgor.
Dogma: "Do not hurt where holding is enough, do not wound where hurting is enough, do not maim where wounding is enough, do not kill where maiming is enough. The greatest warrior is he that does not need to kill."
Contact Information: scarkeeper(AT)gmail(DOT)com and PM Lord Adomorn

Argothoth, The Ancient One, Master of the Living, God of Blood, Darkness, Time and Undeath
Holy Symbol: A scarlet moon with a vampiric face.
Divine Rank: 9 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 578.746 (undead humans)
Prophet: Valkòren, Rothgarh.
Important Worshipers: Veria, Veria's Herald, Veria's Hands, Skreet
Dogma: Undeath is the very goal of the existance, the best way to rule over eternity.
Through pulsating blood we discover life, Death is only a step. Through it we can reach the choice, return as an undead or continue the journey to the final destination. Time is a friend for us all, and it allows true infinite knowledge. Time is only comprehension, only experience, but not pain. Darkness is our sister. She can hide us from our enemy. Through her we can act undisturbed, striking our enemies unaware. Concealing our moves, we can reach our purpose.
Contact Information: mephiston(DOT)eldorian(AT)gmail(DOT)com and Contact Argothoth

Lord Astavyastataa Kadna, The Omega, Brother Chaos, God of Battle, Conquest and Suffering
Holy Symbol: A swirling vortex of gas with twin jets of power.
Divine Rank: 5 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 16.285 (humans)
Prophet: Kalpa
Important Worshipers: Shivada, Astroth
Dogma: I was before the Alpha and I AM the Omega. Those who are among the FAVORED that follow me will see the end with me ... after all others are dust and after eons have passed. CHAOS is change, evolution, the only constant. Order is stagnation, death. And destruction cleanses!! Come to me ... join my cleansing army. In the purity of DESTRUCTION! Hope to be FAVORED and see the universe end!!
Contact Information ChaosAndDestruction(AT)cox(DOT)net or PM Lord Astavyastataa Kadna

Bhakti, God of Love, Nature and Forests
Holy Symbol: A gleaming golden heart.
Divine Rank: 8 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 338.038 (humans)
Prophet: Allyria, Wiri
Important Worshipers: Thomirr
Dogma: I am the self-fulfilling prophecy. Give love, and you WILL receive love. Let your every answer, your every action and reaction, your every desire, be rooted in love.
Contact Information: PM Bhakti

Hedra Iren, The Great Historian, Chronicler of Eiran, Keeper of the Law, The Eternal One, Goddess of Knowledge and Law, Patron of Autumn
Holy Symbol: A fiery quill.
Divine Rank: 7
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 95.000 (dwarrows)
Prophet: Nalam, Ferax, Attem
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: The world is a place of endless wonder, and knowledge beckons from all sides. Yet the true seeker knows that knowledge is a weapon deadlier than any other, and tempers his desire to know with the discipline of Law. Seek lore for its own sake and for wisdom, but learn all about those who come seeking your knowledge, and judge them according to the words of the Keeper of the Law. The Law does not take sides, and knowledge does the same.
Contact Information: //NPC//.

Jove, Golden Lady, The Voyager, Discovery, Goddess of Wealth and Prosperity, Goddess of Travel, Commerce, Wealth and Weather
Holy Symbol: A book encrusted with diamonds.
Divine Rank: 5 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 34.669 (humans)
Prophet: Dionach, Ismund, Angus, Caroline.
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: Resolve to seek knowledge without end. Explore to the depths of within. Discover the world and the knowledge it contains and the world itself will bring you riches in return. Remember that knowledge is the ultimate power.
Contact Information: bampitt(AT)yahoo(DOT)com and PM Jove

Maeror, The Lord and the Lady; Grief. Lady of Tragedy, Lady of Tears, The Healer; The Hooded One, The Guardian, Lord of Death. God of Death and Justice, and Goddess of Healing and Life.
Holy Symbol: ?
Divine Rank: 9
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 524.797 (humans)
Prophet: Lord-General Admar Tellem Mekros.
Important Worshipers: Glianneth, Illumar, Putus.
Dogma: The Lord of Death weeps for the departed, and ushers their souls to the afterlife. The Healer offers succour to those in pain. The dual aspects of Maeror, together they give aid to those who suffer, on both sides of death. Maeror bids their followers care for the sick and wounded, and give remembrance to the dead.
Contact Information: PM Maeror

Melirelle, The Writhing Womb, The Mother of Chaos, Elder of the Yekiths, The Godslayer, Goddess of Birth, Mutation, Earth and Fiends.
Holy Symbol: A cracked egg with a worm inside.
Divine Rank: 8 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 294.830 (yekiths)
Prophet: First Klasthrishh-Spawn, The King, Thinsilwil.
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: From the writhing cauldron of birth only life can spring forth, shaped in any imaginable form and gifted with any power the Mother of Mutation sees fit to bestow upon them. All that lives is born according to the Writhing Womb's will, and all would do well to thank her for the gifts they have been bestowed. But of all mortals, those who follow the Mother of Birth shall reap the greatest blessings, for she is of the Earth and in the Earth, and the Earth will preserve those who follow her.
Contact Information: //NPC//.

Mithyaat Vam, The Spinner, Queen of Night, Goddess of Dreams, Night and Illusions, Patron of the Month of Mithus
Holy Symbol: Mandala of the sleeping goddess.
Divine Rank: 2 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 2.120 (humans)
Prophet: Murah, Seura.
Important Worshipers: Irvea, Amira.
Dogma: A thousand jeweled spiders spin the song of Mithyaaat Vam, who carries the eggs of dreams and casts webs of silken intrigue, the fog mist lying on the valley floor, the whirlwind sweeping over veldt and dune, heart and mind,she who spins the bridge between sleep and waking, dusk and dawn, dark and light, seen and unseen.
Contact Information: mithyaat.vam(AT)gmail(DOT)com and PM Mithyaat Vam

Moxinomal, Mox, Jester of Madness, Lord of Luck
Holy Symbol: A half-black, half-red jester's mask with four spires twisting up.
Divine Rank: 7
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 153.197 (humans)
Prophet: Little Sanuta.
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: Is not Madness what the lucky ones fear? Is not Luck what the mad ones yearn for? Only one thing could intertwine them both so skillfully. One who has control over both. Those who wish to follow the teachings must first lose themselves to the throughs of madness in order to obtain luck beyond that of comprehension. How does one do so? Will he smile on you? So many questions are asked, those lucky enough to survive through the ordeals of life and be one with the blessings of Mox are only able to find the answers that their madness has brought.
Contact Information: ssj4_shred(AT)hotmail(DOT)com and PM Moxinomal

Norn, The Weaver. Goddess of Magic, Mistress of Fate
Holy Symbol: The woven Earth.
Divine Rank: 7 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 152.993 (fey)
Prophet: Trolin, Rilu, Iris.
Important Worshipers: Endagur, Falliluir.
Dogma: Unbridled energy flows through every strand of the fabric of reality. Each fibre of which our world is woven contains might beyond mortal ken. All that was and is and ever will be, and the power to shape those things anew, is held in the very warp and weft of the universe itself. Access to these forces, and to the glory and strength that accompany them, comes through The Weaver. The Weaver alone knows each and every thread, for it is she who spins it at the moment of its creation, measures the length of its existence, and then cuts it away as it passes. She alone comprehends the way in which the myriad disparate parts are knitted together to form all that we, and much that we do not. Hers therefore is the magic that infuses all that is, to gift as she sees fit.
Contact Information: PM Norn

O-gon-cho, Mistress of Air, Dragons, Light and Music
Holy symbol: A dragon's egg containing a fiery cosmos that also is a draconic embryo.
Divine Rank: 4 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 8.929 (dragons)
Prophet: Raucous.
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: Where Will and Freedom meet, Seek the Heart of the Flame. Focus on the Music of the Spheres and Rejoice!
Contact Information: Contact O-gon-cho

Odal, The Undying One, Master of the Dead Halls, Loremaster of Undeath, God of Necromancy and Secrets.
Holy Symbol: An iron crown with a ruby set in the center, sitting atop a skull.
Divine Rank: 1 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 501 (undead humans)
Prophet: Amarte.
Important Worshipers: -
Dogma: It is only from the dead that true knowledge can be gleaned; by calling their names and invoking their spirits, we discover secrets long buried and memories long forgotten. The path of necromancy and undeath lead to immortality and the power to shake off the bonds of the living world, becoming what we are meant to be. Listen to the secrets spoken by the shades and the shadows, and follow the call of undeath.
Contact Information: //NPC//.

Undine, Sovereign of the Seas, Reeve of the Rivers, Lord of the Lakes. God of Water and the Seas, The Source.
Holy Symbol: A pearl, a dolphin and a waterfall.
Divine Rank: 6 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 48.169 (Humans)
Prophet: Prince Min-q.
Important Worshipers: Jiduth, Mannanan, Elimere, Reth.
Dogma: The waters will provide all that the true heart desires. The waters will destroy all that the faithful heart despises. The waters will conceal all the loyal heart's secrets. The waters will wash away all trace of the perfidious heart's achievements. Be true, be loyal, be faithful, lest ye be engulfed.
Contact Information: PM Undine

Vadhaka Chorah, God of Assassins and Thieves
Holy Symbol: A Black Dagger.
Divine Rank: 7 CRISIS OF THE FAITH!
Total Worshipers and Prevalent Race: 116.336 (fey)
Prophet: Pathikah, Agraga.
Important Worshipers: Chitak, Aimele, Coulgarn, Naimal, The Shadow.
Dogma: Stealth and secrecy. Tread warily. The dagger in the night can be a more potent decider than the greatest army.
Contact Information: vadhaka(AT)gmail(DOT)com and PM Vadhaka


EIRAN'S YEAR
Winter: Month 1, Month 2, Month 3
Spring: Month 4, Month 5, Month 6
Summer: Month 7, Simjenus, Month 9
Autumn (Hedra Iren): Month 10, Mithus, Month 12

[Xar]

The Chronicles of Eiran

An Age of war and chaos, of mayhem and death had passed. The world was no longer what it used to be, cracked by divine power and wracked by divine wars. The old gods were no longer, either dead or gone; it was said they fled to another world to start anew, leaving the old world to its fate. Centuries rolled by, and the land slowly healed; the people of the world turned to the heavens again, imploring the gods to come back. And the gods answered - but those who came were not the same who left. A new generation of gods arose - and the wise trembled, wondering whether a new divine war would start.

But the new gods, come from the farthest reaches of the cosmos, perhaps the children of the old gods, perhaps their conquerors, perhaps something else altogether... the new gods did not come without warning. All across the land, as the divine majesty of the gods approached the world now known as Eiran, the deities spoke to mortals who would herald their coming and spread their word. These exalted mortals, prophets and heralds of the new age, would be their god's earthly voice: thus it was that the coming of the gods was announced amidst fear and rejoicing.

Months had passed since the coming of the gods, but word was still slowly spreading from mouth to mouth. Their chosen Prophets, earthly voices of the gods, walked upon the land, and miracles followed in their wake; and finally, the gods' followers started to make contact with each other. Then the gods would reveal their nature: and many of the wise wondered whether a new War would erupt. The gods had established their footholds into the world... but their followers were already fighting, the first clashes had already produced the first victims, and among the wise, thoughts of the Divine War returned.
The new gods had promised they would not repeat the mistakes of their predecessors; it was left for them to prove they had said the truth.

Thus it was that the fears of many were increased when a great battle ensued between Adomorn's and Simjen's forces, in the darkened mountains of Magoddar. There, much blood was spilled, and the survivors returned to speak a tale of treachery and dishonor, of dwarrows making pacts with demonic forces, and dark assassins. Word spread, and many feared this would mark the beginning of a new Divine War. To the south, in the meantime, Nor Pupae was slowly covered by a pall of darkness, rolling clouds gathering over the Kingdom; and beneath that darkness, a plague swept the land, bringing death and destruction in its wake.

Dark times followed. The sons and daughters of Adomorn, enraged by the treachery of the dwarrows, mounted a crusade to rid the world of Eiran from the dwarrow scourge, and Simjen's followers were persecuted and martyred. Throughout the land, unease spread; many strange signs manifested, and out of fear, a name was whispered by sages and scholars, a name both reviled and dreaded since the sundering of the world. The learned believed they knew who had been released from its imprisonment on the mountains of Magoddar: an entity so evil and chaotic as to be capable of plunging the whole world into darkness once more.
"Nephirthos..."

As the months passed, unease crept into the heart of mortals and gods. Ancient nightmares began to reappear, and buried secrets to emerge. More and more often, the gods would clash, and their followers would suffer: and yet at the same time, the words of the gods drew many to them.

Omens of dread started to appear. The skies over Aikul sizzled with electrical energy, even as famine came to the city; the black Star of Yekith rose over the skies of Nor Pupae, covering the land with a darkness that blinded the eyes of the gods who would attempt to see there. And the gods themselves felt the cries of suffering of the souls of their worshipers, devoured by Maeror when deemed unworthy of afterlife.

Rumors began to flow that the gods of old were returning; that relics and secrets of their time were being rediscovered. Somewhere, it was said, the ancient black sword Ruination, once wielded by Nephirthos's greatest champion, had a wielder again; Justice, the gleaming blade of ancient Amplarx, had long since been found. The teachings of the old gods had resurfaced as well, and most wondrous of all - it was said that somewhere in the mountains, a Great Historian had been found, and a god had visited her for knowledge.

Yet, even in such a time, tragedy struck without warning: death came to Thellarr and eradicated life for miles, slaughtering many and despoiling the land. And elsewhere, armies still marched, Nor Pupae continued to mutate, intrigues and stratagems were being set into motion, and the threat of a new Divine War was not lost.

As the months passed, the past slowly was unearthed; ancient towns were rediscovered, and with them, secrets of the old gods... relics of the First Age were wielded again by heroes and villains alike... and creatures so ancient as to have seen the Sundering of Eiran emerged from their ancient crypts and lairs, making their presence known once more. But even as all these wonders unfolded, a catastrophe visited the continent of Landir, as a meteor shower devastated most of the lands and slaughtered many of its people with fire and stone.

And it was from the past that another ancient god sprung forth, for Argothoth, the Elder God of Undeath, returned to the world after an entombment that lasted millennia. His unliving eyes beheld the changes on Eiran, and he returned to the Pantheon with a goal firmly in mind. But even as he did, two new gods ascended: the Great Historian, daughter of the elder god Avatar, fueled by the power of fire and shadow, and Melirelle, the Mother of Chaos, fueled by the power of malice.

The Divine War loomed ever closer: in Porsulis, Maeror's priests denounced Undine's supposed lies, and in a night of blood, the city was converted to the God of Death. In Landir, Norn's magics washed over Queeaqueg's cities, emptying them of all creatures. In Nor Pupae, the earth shook in tortured screams. And in Olaern, a warlord bearing Adomorn's banner marched against Maeror's lands. The time of the Winnowing was coming.

And in the summer of the third year since the gods had returned on Eiran, the sages' fears were confirmed, for the Divine Wars erupted again. On Olaern, Adomorn's army, led by a fearsome warlord and backed by the power of one of Adomorn's greatest worshipers, marched towards Maeror's lands, where they lay siege to Fort Hope even as Maeror's hand brought death to hundreds of soldiers, and Maeror's Prophet stood on the ramparts of the Fort, holding a relic of the First Age in his hand, the great sword Hope that had once belonged to one of ancient Maeror's greatest followers. Elsewhere, in Landir, Queeaqueg's unholy power raised the dead of the ages from their unquiet graves, and reanimated the soulless bodies of those slain by Norn, marching against her, and slaughtering many of her followers who had not expected such an attack, among them Norn's Prophet. Even as Queeaqueg's attention was focused on Landir, though, in Khenstorn the armies of madness of Nor Pupae emerged from their realm and marched on Queeaqueg's cities, bringing horror, insanity and twisting of the flesh to his worshipers. Monstrosities whose appearances were so alien that mortal minds recoiled from them were employed, and the God of War fed on the power of these battles even as his own followers dwindled.
But this was a time of momentous happenings. The forest of Shakari burned even as a plague swept the land, stemmed only by the power of Maeror in Landir, but free to rampage in Kortral; the goddess Jove claimed the portfolio of wealth; a goddess of the orcs sprung forth in Landir; and in an act that shook the very Pantheon to its foundations, Melirelle, the newly ascended goddess of chaos and birth, did the unthinkable, and slew the mysterious god known as The Fallen, taking over his power and his portfolios.

In this time, the God of War and Undead looked upon his followers, and was dismayed, for it seemed as if all the hosts and powers of the heathen deities had turned against him, and his people had no recourse, and cried to him for help. But he, seeing defeat at last, even as he heard the first rumblings of the earthquake, forsook his people and the world of Eiran, and retreated into the outer darkness whence he had come. And his people, now godless, died by the thousands as an earthquake the likes of which Eiran had not seen in millennia shook and cracked Khenstorn, reaching as far as Olaern and Landir, Thellarr and Kortral with its tremors.

Devastation wandered through Eiran. In Olaern, Maeror had bloodlessly ridden himself Adomorn's army, but his actions inflamed their spirits and they marched once again against him; in the meantime, fog rose from the waters and blanketed the City of Regret and Grief, hiding them from divine eyes. In Khenstorn, something terrible, but unseen, happened somewhere in the aftermath of the terrible earthquake, even as the god Argothoth reclaimed the mantle of God of Undeath and settled into Queeaqueg's abandoned cities. The hearts of many hardened against the god Undine, while his own followers turned their anger towards Maeror, whom they blamed for a plague which spread beyond Thellarr, into Magran and farther north. In the meantime, the goddess Jove was hidden from the sight of all, even as her husband, Bhakti, faced the greatest test of his might; wielding the powerful shield forged by Simjen and named Herzwald, he Manifested on Eiran and confronted the Abomination of Shakari. It was against this creature that he poured his Love, trying to overcome its rage and hatred; but in one fatal moment, the god faltered, and the Abomination grappled him, and all the gods watched in horror as Bhakti was grasped by the monster, his own deific essence slowly drained from his body as the Abomination started to perform the unthinkable - the murder of a full-fledged god.

Then all the Pantheon turned its gaze towards Bhakti, and many gods sent him their Love, that he may triumph over the Abomination. And Bhakti's essence grew in power and strength until it shone as a bonfire beside the candles of the other deities, and so great and holy was his countenance that the Abomination could not endure it, and was vaporized by Bhakti's radiance. Then the God of Love turned his gaze upon Shakari and smiled, and healed the wounds the Forest had suffered in the last year, blessing it with his will.
Even as Bhakti's power grew, Simjen cast his thought into the Mists, presenting the wish of the Pantheon, and it was granted; and with the power the Pantheon received, Bhakti was further strengthened, and Norn wove the fabric of reality, that the rifts might be closed and the fabric strengthened.
But not all was well in Eiran: for in many lands, Prophets died or were slain, and many gods felt the chill touch of a blade ripping their Chosen One from their breast. And adventurers still prowled the land, creating chaos and mischief wherever they would go. And parts of the armies of Adomorn and Undine still threatened Maeror's lands, despite the newly forged, and fragile peace.

But it seemed for a time that Eiran might know peace again. When the Abomination was destroyed, and Reality rewoven, quiet fell upon the world, broken only by the meddling of adventurers; but the greatest wonder of all, the Mists That Encircle The World writhed and parted to the east, revealing newborn, virgin lands and oceans for the people of Eiran to inhabit.

The good was balanced with the bad. In a time of rejoicing, as many gods sought the blessing of love and matrimony, and yet another god manifested herself onto the world of Eiran, catastrophes struck, as the earth itself trembled, magic was altered, and the foul necromancer Veria raised her Hand against the God of Murder.

Chaos and Destruction reared their head as their God and Maker entered Eiran; Veria's armies besieged the God of Murder, and even the God of Justice could not break them, not even with the power of the Goddess of Magic herself. Elsewhere, though, other concerns plagued the deities: Thellarr would slowly sink into the waters, and the lands to the west had opened, for all gods to seize lands. And others tried to strike at the heart of Corruption, but were met only with further doubts.

It was a time of great instability, and the gods themselves knew not what the future had in store. Ancient Argothoth, strengthened by the return of his most powerful servant, wrested control of the undead horde from Veria, and launched it against an army of unbelievers; those who had fought against the undead then fought alongside them, and from the ashes of the battle a creature unlike any other rose triumphant. Elsewhere, Thellarr rocked on its foundations, even as the people of the Sea God prepared to abandon their ancestral homeland, and a disrupted attempt at magic caused a meteor shower that all but razed most of Magoddar to the ground. But amidst all the chaos and destruction, one event stood above all others: the departure of Chisi La'Roo, the goddess of luck, whose disappearance left her thousands of followers in the darkness, confused and frightened about the future.

And then Nor Yekith's malice poured from Nor Pupae into the seas, and Astavyastataa Kadna revealed his true colors in the weyr of sweet O-gon-cho, betraying her trust and that of many others. Even as Simjen's dwarrows attempted to rebuild their shattered homes, comforted by the manifestation of Hedra Iren, the Smith crafted a new people, the Giants, from the souls of the dead. Elsewhere, new cities were colonized, and armies were prepared - for a new Divine War loomed on the horizon.

It was in this time that the prophecies of the dead seemed to come to haunt the living; for Argothoth, the great God of Undeath, called to him the power of many gods, and wove a spell of a magnitude so vast, the whole of Eiran was swallowed by its might, and the dead rose from their dusty graves, skeletons, rotting corpses, and even the fossilized bones of the First Age dead, all rising, slowly, through the ground, many of them mindless, many becoming once more unliving receptacles for their ancient souls, torn from the afterlife and shoved back into the world of the living. Living death had come to Eiran, and no grave was left undisturbed. Yet, even so, great events took shape in Eiran: the waters around Nor Pupae froze, and all around the oceans of Eiran, fragments of mother-of-pearl rose to the surface of the seas. Elsewhere, a volcanic island rose near Magoddar, but at the same time, inexplicable murders shook Maeror's lands, and rumors began to spread that the God of Death had chosen once more to follow his old path, and started slaying his own followers. In Linver, an army amassed under Adomorn's control, and the gods saw and knew that the Divine War was coming.

But then Nor Yekith, the Master of Mutation, disappeared, and chaos broke loose among the Pantheon, as many decisions were revised. In the midst of all this chaos, the erstwhile God of Justice forsook his mantle to be free to pursue his goals, and led an army onto Nor Pupae, to destroy and sweep away any trace of Nor Yekith's mutations, even as the Khenstorn Gods scrambled to turn the hearts of Nor Yekith's followers to them. And even as the genocide began, the oldest dead of Eiran continued to pour forth from their earthly graves, fossilized bones and ancient spirits alike, and heeding their Master's call, the living dead traveled to Limithra, where they clashed with Astavyastataa Kadna's followers. This was a time of war and darkness, a time in which many gods looked into themselves and changed some small parts of their essences, and Melirelle took over her heritage as Mother of Mutation. Elsewhere, a thing shook in its slumber, ever closer to awakening; and an unsettling poem echoed in the mind of a lowly priest.

But then, the unthinkable happened. In the midst of a time of rejoicing, when Destruction and Dreams joined their lives, the goddess O-gon-cho sought to solve the mystery of the being called Chastus, and inadvertently opened the door to a great evil long thought vanquished. The World Breaker returned to the world and brought horror with him: whole cities crumbled to the grounds, and Prophets fell like wheat before the incoming storm; dark clouds gathered and all the gods suddenly knew that the war so narrowly averted was suddenly on their doorstep - a war of survival against he who called himself the Lord of Destruction... NEPHIRTHOS!

In those first months, the World Breaker struck heavily, dealing grievous losses to the defenders of Eiran; Prophets died, harvested like wheat, and entire cities were obliterated. Yet even Nephirthos's heralds were not invulnerable, and victories were won by the strength of character of the Prophets, by magic, or sheer righteous wrath. But for every victory, a worse loss loomed on the horizon. Then, the chaos that raged across Eiran finally awakened a beast in the far planes, and once roused, the creature began making its way towards Eiran, chewing through the worlds to finally reach its goal. And while all this happened, Argothoth, Lord of Time, attempted something no one else had ever attempted - and failed. Time unraveled in western Necrontir, and the unraveling threatened to spread, destroying the world in a way not even the World Breaker could have foreseen. And while war raged and dangers abounded, while old enemies resurfaced and old allies died, in the midst of chaos first blood was spilt, as brave Simjen, God of the Forge, Lord of the Dwarrows, picked up his spear Aeshspar, girded himself in the Cloak of Mists and wore the Ring of Simjen, and empowered by his brethren sought out the World Breaker to best him in combat.
Yet for a time, Simjen disappeared from Eiran, or so it seemed; until the fateful day in which a streaking comet passed through the sky and landed before Magiddo, and the stricken dwarrows came out of their city to witness what it had brought - a charred cloak, a twisted ring, a broken spear.
Simjen, the God of the Dwarrows, was no more.

What followed would be nightmare. Even as many gods, still reeling from Simjen's loss and the slaughter of followers pursued by the World Breaker with unflinching, blasphemous dedication, pooled together their power to allow the Goddess of Song to craft the Song of Eiran, thus hindering the World Breaker or destroying him, Nephirthos corrupted Jove's Prophet into the Harbinger of Destruction. And at the very same moment, Argothoth and Astavyastataa Kadna moved against Maeror: the time disruption on Necrontir appeared over Maeror's lands, engulfing four of the twin deity's cities; the armies of Astavyastataa Kadna and Argothoth swarmed through Maeror's lands, and every fallen soldier added to their swollen ranks. Even though a new and unknown force was apparently nibbling away at Argothoth's undead army, Maeror's troops could not stop the onslaught and withdrew to Fort Hope. In the meantime, the goddess O-gon-cho sang the Song of Eiran - but somehow, the Song became a Screech that brought madness and insanity to many, all over Eiran, and strengthened the World Breaker instead of weakening him! Mortals, caught in the throes of madness, slaughtered each other or killed themselves, severely weakening many deities; and from this chaos Moxinomal, the Jester, grew stronger.
Yet even though not all was lost, and the goddess Norn succeeded in closing the portal that had allowed Nephirthos into the world, two more verses of the End Times prophecy came to pass...

And then the war, which had previously seemed unwinnable for the gods of good, suddenly was joined by the most unlikely of allies – the goddess Melirelle, Mother of Yekiths and Mistress of Mutations. Heir to the god of malice Nor Yekith, Melirelle had danced between light and shadow for years, but in the end, in the moment of greatest need on the part of the gods of good, the goddess chose her side and sent her troops to help the beleaguered deities, and to shatter those whose power seemed unbreakable. Through the earth herself her troops traveled to distant Necrontir, to Kortral, to Olaern, offering help to Adomorn and Maeror, breaking the power of the God of the Undead and the Goddess of Dreams in their own homes. Cities were razed and countless worshipers captured or killed, but even then, the greatest work of the goddess was only revealed when the Devouring Worm – her favorite child – awakened off the shores of Immeril, and with its sheer size and strength, sank the Domain of Destruction which the goddess herself had raised years before. And all the while, the Planar Beast had met its match in a Guardian fashioned by the goddess Melirelle with help from the God of the Dead and the Goddess of Travel.

But that was not the end of it. Faced with annihilation, the gods of good had not waited for Melirelle to strike, and had struck themselves. In the west, the city of Moxville was devastated by a hurricane of malevolence sent out of the maelstrom, and then razed by Hedra Iren’s dwarrow airships. In the north, Adomorn’s armies had joined forces with the mysterious Wampyrs, and the troops of the God of the Undead had been denied their foes in Fort Hope due to an interdiction. Enraged, the God of the Undead, summoned the time disruption, unaware that he had been cursed never to find success – and so though the time disruption tore through Fort Hope and Ai-Lamentum – the latter only spared because of the sacrifice of the great dragon Or, the Last True Dragon – it grew and fed off the destruction, and then escaped control, reappearing near Khenstorn and heading towards the cities of Argothoth himself.
And even as the global war raged, the World Breaker did not remain idle; in Immeril, an army of Astavyastataa’s soldiers, sent to destroy his minions and protect the Living Seal, was single-handedly destroyed by the revenant Nephirthos, save for those who bent knee to him and became new horrors, the voidwalkers. In Thellarr, ribbons of white-hot searing darkness snaked out of the desolation, destroying Mai-e and causing its people to flee in terror, and were only stopped at the Tears of Undine through the sacrifice of Min-q’s soul.

And then Vadhaka Chorah, the God of Murder, entered the Mists and sought out the AllFather himself, asking for Eiran to be spared. And the AllFather granted Vadhaka his wish, but did so by casting an interdiction which would lead all deities away from Eiran, that the world may heal. And Vadhaka asked for a season's reprieve, that the gods may give last boons to their people before leaving forever. This was granted; and in the last season, the Divine War reached the tipping point, and the armies of the undead and the Favored of Astavyastataa were finally driven back, many of the gods themselves brought to the brink of extinction. And Simjen's Gem was found, whether through luck or by virtue of the AllFather's decision, that he may be set free ere the interdiction take effect.

But the World Breaker would not leave the world so easily, and, enraged with what had happened, he called to the skies and to the earth, and gathering all his power to himself, he hurled himself against the world, cracking it once more as he did during the First Age...

Turn 26

The World Breaker cracks the world of Eiran!

The madness is partially healed by the efforts of Maeror and O-gon-cho.

The Screech of the Mad erupts from all who are cured of madness, bestowing insanity upon those who hear it.

The Devouring Worm disappears.

The Guardian fights the Planar Beast.

The Immerilian sietches are destroyed by a fleet of dwarrow airships.

The Olaern War swings in favor of the combined forces of Adomorn, Melirelle and Maeror.

A vast army led by Pourzoleh devastates what is left of Necrontir after Melirelle's army has passed through.

Billions of strange worms emerge from the sea and swarm over Necrontir, devouring all undead they find before dying back into the sea.

A strange poisoning seems to brewing in the seas of Eiran.

Time unravels in eastern Khenstorn, swallowing three of the four Khenstorn cities left to Argothoth.

Beings of ice and evil rise from the ice surrounding Nor Pupae and enter Khenstorn.

A strange unease grips any mortal who sets foot on Khenstorn, unless he worships one of the Khenstorn Gods. This unease seems to grow with each passing hour, making it impossible to stay on Khenstorn for a long period of time.

Magic remains more difficult to access for unaligned mages, as per Norn's edict.

Great storm clouds surround the city and island of Aikul and Shama, hiding what is beneath them.

A strange disturbance remains over Simjen's lands; gods looking on Magoddar see everything blurry and confused, as if some power were preventing them from seeing too clearly.

The Light of Avenberry shrouds Henmil's Forest, so that it is difficult to see what happens inside.

Mother-of-pearl shells rise from the ocean depths and float on the surface of the seas; around Nor Pupae, they also impede divine sight.

[Simjen]

Deep under the mountains of Magoddar, a lone dwarrow cautiously examined the new tunnel. Pockets of steam still occasionally gusted out of crevices, and serpentine veins of ore lined the wall, emitting a slight red glow from the heat held within. It was for these veins that Ferax Snorlson quested, braving the scorching heat and noxious fumes when even the most bold of his brethren cursed him for his wrecklessness. But Ferax knew that for the best forging, iron must not only be struck when hot but mined that way.

Having proceeded as far as he could, the dwarrow set down his pack, removing the canteen first. One spot along the wall, near the entrance, was cool enough to rest his back against. There he took a long draught from his canteen, spitting the last few drops between his teeth, to hiss and crackle on the stone at his feet.

The heat and fumes must have been taking its toll, for soon the room began to swim before his eyes. He rested his elbows on his thighs, his head bent down, and tried taking several deep breaths. But as much as he rubbed the sweat from his eyes and brows, his head would not clear.

Fear not, Ferax

Surprised, Ferax looked back down the corridor from which he had came, looking for he who had called him.

No, my son. I am here. In this room. With you.

With those words, the dwarrow saw a figure take shape, seeming to coalesce from the glow of the heated ore in the cavern walls. Though the room stood only one or two heights above Ferax's own frame, the figure seemed larger still, as if he stood in a room much greater than the one in which the dwarrow did. And this other room seemed to bit lit by a fire that would have burned too bright or too hot to look at, had not the figure stood between it and himself. Because of this, most of the figure's features were obscured by shadow, yet Ferax had an impression of a heavily muscled man, long hair and beard braided like the men of his own people, though longer of limb like the men of the open air.

"I must be having the dreams that come before death. I have no ken of you. And ye are no kin of mine to call me son," Ferax said doubtfully.

Near death? That you are, Ferax. That and your journey so deep have brought you to me, and the heat you have endured has purified the fire you bear within enough to allow me to reach you. And yes, I am your kin. I am Simjen.

"Simjen? The creator of the Dwarrow? Pfah, at least these dreams are amusing ones."

It has been long since I removed myself from the affairs of this realm, and longer still since I crafted your people. It warms my heart that your people have remembered, Ferax. Yet I have returned. Did your people not call to me? I have come in answer to that call. Now you must do more than remember. You must believe.

"Easier said than done," the dwarrow replied flatly. "How do I know ye aren't just a trick of my mind, trying to gently ease me into the great sleep?"

The crux of the matter. Listen well, Ferax. I extend to you the honor of being my chosen representative to the Dwarrow, and in time, the world. You will bear my mark, and spread my word. In exchange, I will bestow upon you more knowledge of fire and the forge than you could even dream about. Do you accept?

Ferax pondered the being's words and took stock of his current situation. With a great sigh, he answered, "If ye are who ye claim, and if, as ye also claim, I am near death, then I suppose I have no choice. Aye, I accept.

Outstanding

And with that, a burning pain engulfed Ferax, searing his brow as if he'd placed a burning rod against it, though hotter than any he'd ever made in his own forge.

When he came to, he felt himself in his own bed. His eyelids burned too much to open them, and he felt a bandage wrapped around his head.

"Rest easy, brother," a voice said from his side. "Yer wounded."

Ferax recognized the voice of that of his younger brother, Cullep. After a moment, he managed to speak. "What has happened?"

"When ye didn't return, me an the others went looking for ye. We found ye unconscious outside of the new caverns, brought ye back here. The women took care of ye, but none of us were really sure ye'd make it. What happened down there, Ferax."

"A moment, brother. Besides, I'm not sure I believe, much less that you would." Knowing he had to try, Ferax reached for the bandage over his eyes.

"Ye shouldn't..." Cullep started.

"Quiet, Cullep. I have to." He slowly unraveled the bandage, and even slower tried to open his eyes. He could feel his brother's anxiousness at his side. The pain was great, seeming to burn with a fire of its own. But slowly, slits of light pierced his sight, the slits growing larger and coming into focus the more he forced them open. Finally, he turned to look at Cullep.

"Gods, Ferax!" he cried, looking at the two iron orbs in his brother's sockets, each imprinted with the symbol of a burning forge.

"Yes, brother. But one above all. Simjen has returned."

[Queeaqueg]

heh, those remeber me from the last game know that I make brief and boring rev exp, and I don't plan to change. But I have Warcraft to save me!


Name: Xun, The Divine

On a large island to the south, a great war raged between the humans and the dragons, causing destruction and chaos throughout. They battled for years, and thousands upon thousands died. The war soon finished with both the humans and dragons losing the battle, their angered and pained souls who had fought remained. In the ashes of the land were the remains of the strongest and great leader of the humans, Xun the Divine, his soul angered from the defeat.

Queeaqueg, lord of the Undead and Battle called out to him and brought him back to the world of the living but in a new form, one that would grant him immortality and power. Xun, with his new power, called upon the fallen humans and dragons to rise again.

I hope that is good enough...

[stonemaybe]

Prince Min-q was bored. Bored and frustrated and couldn’t sleep. What was the point of having the finest education in the land, provided by the best tutors money could buy? There was no purpose. No reason.

He could speak six languages. If required, he could barter with the seaborne traders, could flirt with the girls of the islands (Niai had in fact distracted him somewhat, rising out the waves, glorious, triumphantly clutching a pearl, the fruit of a hard day’s labour). He could negotiate landrights with the fey, ask directions from the marshmen. He could dissuade a dragon or a roving band of undead from pillaging his people. Hell and death! He could dissuade by the sword if his sweet, reasoning words were ignored!

Could. Could. Could.

He sighed.

He felt like a bottle of sparkling wine, bursting with potential! The problem was, his mother the Dowager Queen had sealed that cork. Twisted the strongest mesh over the cork and around the bottle. Sealed it with love. Cocooned it in the finest lambs’ wool and maternal care, and guarded it with the ferocity of a she-badger defending her cub, and with a legion of her finest troops!

Sleep was as far off now as it had been when he’d retired three hours before. He tried one of the mind-relaxing mantras taught him by his new tutor. Sleep did not come, but inspiration did!

He rose and silently made his way to the window. The household guards were patrolling the garden, but he’d helped the captain design their route, and besides, they were guarding against intruders, not escapees! Through the garden, down the path to the sheltered bay at the base of the cliff. Freedom, for a while!

He waded out into the sea, and lay back. Niai had shown him this, how to float. How to get your head back so that your ears were submerged. No noise. Wavelets gently rocking your body. Relax. Bliss. Recite mantra (knowing that the waves will bring you in to shore shortly). Sleep.

Awaken. Get out of bed. No bed! Flounder. Control panic! Tread water. Look around. No shore! Mantra. Calm. Float. Mantra. Relax. Mantra. Sleep. Dream of Niai. How embarrassed he had been when she had presented him, her prince, with the pearl! The pearl could have kept her family in food for weeks. He had treasured it, had it mounted on a ring. He was wearing it now. Soft light suffusing the pearl. Glowing, surrounding his whole body, keeping him safe.

He was awoken by something cold on his arm – a boat-hook. Reassuring voices spoke to him, telling him not to panic, to grab on to the side of the boat. Two fishermen helped him into the boat, gasping then falling silent, their weatherbeaten faces draining of colour as they recognized him.

***********************

Two months had passed! How? When they’d found his chamber empty, no clues to where he’d gone or if he’d been taken, his mother had started a frenzy of search and investigation. When there was still no trace of him after a week, she’s had a breakdown, recovered, then had another breakdown. When he had gone to see her on his return, she acted as if he was a young child, scolding him for running off, and he had seen the madness in her eyes.

To the relief of her advisers and the minor nobility, he had started to take charge. It was obvious that they didn’t believe his story - although of course no-one scoffed at it in his presence. He had returned after two months, fit and strong and well-fed, more mature and somehow more regal than before, how could he possibly have spent that time floating on the ocean, unconscious?

He plunged into the work of running the kingdom. His mother still lived, so he kept the title Prince. There was no coronation ceremony, but all his subjects knew who had absolute power in the kingdom - he was benevolent, but he was also iron-fisted.

*************************

One evening, exhausted after a long day at Court, he realised that he wasn’t wearing the pearl ring. He hadn’t thought of it since his rescue, but knew that he had not been wearing it when he climbed into the fishermen’s boat. Thinking of the pearl, he realised with shame that he had not thought of Niai either. The pearl might have gone, but at least he could do something about the girl!

But at the village, no-one could tell him anything about a girl called Niai, nor one answering her description. He was getting frustrated with them and visibly angry. Concerned about their fate, in desperation one of the villagers mentioned that there was a place called Glen Nia a day’s journey inland. Gratefully clutching at this slender straw, he decided to travel there the following day.

Glen Nia, he discovered, was a deep valley surrounded by his civilised, fertile farmland. The valley’s sides were rugged and steep, but by no means difficult to descend. The local farmers had not been able to give him any information about the valley. Although it was there beside their land, they had no curiosity about it, they had never descended into the valley, and they had no desire to. Odd. It was as if the valley gave off an aura of indifference.

He clambered down. The sun’s glare was softer as he descended. There was no sign anywhere of the hand of man. He came to the small river at the base of the valley, a deer drinking at the water’s edge glanced at him curiously, without fear. He followed the river upwards, crossing occasionally when the side he was on became too rugged for easy passage. The water sparkled and gurgled, joyously rushing among the rocks, pooling languorously on occasions, before hurrying off again. He wondered if there was a more beautiful place in his whole realm.

He stopped in wonder. He had arrived unexpectedly at the head of the valley. Ahead of him the water formed a large shallow pool, bounded on two sides by huge damp mossy rocks about thirty metres high. Where they met, there was the most spectacular waterfall he had ever seen. The fall had carved out a deep circular well, and overflowed from this well into the shallow pool. Above this overflow a diagonal span of stone connected the rocks on either side, in front of the waterfall. It was not a torrent, but sunlight shining through the spray and cascading water brought tears to his eyes. It was mesmerising. After staring for a time, he felt himself being pulled forward, wading into the pool. He clambered onto a slippery rock so that he could see into the deep well, and at the bottom he saw –without surprise – an opalescent glow surrounding his pearl ring. He reached forward into the well, and as his hand closed around the pearl, the waterfall sluiced over his head, and he remembered.

Floating on the sea, dolphins had come to investigate the pearl’s glow. They frolicked around him jumping over and diving beneath him. And then pulling him, downwards. Into the depths. Still surrounded by the glow of the pearl, he found that he did not have to breath. All the denizens of the Deep flashed by them, but within the glow he somehow knew he would come to no harm. Monstrous jellyfish, giant sharks, kraken seemed to salute him as the dolphins propelled him past. Towards a fairytale palace on the bed of the sea. Schools of luminescent fish darted between the spires and buttresses, creating a scintillating light display that awed him. Down they travelled, through the gates and then the titanic doorway, into a vast welcoming hall, and stopped before a gargantuan throne, and the …..thing…… that sat in it.

At least one hundred metres tall (long?), it was an amalgam of every conceivable, and some inconceivable, creature that lived in water. Tentacles and fins and tails, scales and fur, crests and legs and teeth. And it spoke.

“I am UNDINE, Sovereign of the Seas, Reeve of the Rivers, Lord of the Lakes. I have brought you here to give you power! A new order arises. New Gods, young Gods, hungry Gods, have arrived in this world. Chaos and war will follow, until the pantheon order is set. YOU will help me to assume my rightful place as the most powerful of the Gods. And in return, I will grant you power to protect and nurture your people. Those who you teach to worship me will never go hungry – the waters will provide for them! Their boats or warships will travel wherever they want to go! They will be hidden from their enemies by my waters! Go forth, my prophet, and convert the people to worship UNDINE. Not only the fishermen and sailors, pearl-divers and traders. Also the farmers who depend on my streams for irrigation and on my rain for growth, the cityfolk and soldiers who depend on my waters for transport and refreshment. You will convert them all! Now, come, and receive your enlightenment and education.”

[Vadhaka]

Shadows chased each other through the waving branches as Pathikah, the Wanderer, a Fey thief and sometime assassin, crouched silently on the roof of a rich merchants dwelling, waiting for the next shift of branches to mask the sounds of his advance.

He swore quietly to himself as the owners dog snuffled against the corner of the house. This, he thought, is the kind of night I could wish that there were still gods.Somebody, anybody, to whisper a prayer to.

Pathikah knew as well as anybody that the gods were long gone, but sometimes a Fey just needed something more than himself to rely on. Not to mention somebody to blaspheme against. Even as he thought it, another fine opportunity for blasphemy arose as the tile he was resting his weight on shifted sightly but suddenly, and he heard the muffled noises of a man almost, but not quite, startled out of sleep.

Please... he implored the universe, just go back to sleep. Anything. I'll do anything if I can just pull this job off. (It was an important job. This score would keep him for weeks, perhaps months if he avoided women and gambling.)

Anything? the night itself seemed to whisper.

Pathikah shook his head to rid himself of the vapours and focussed on the task ahead. Suddenly, all seemed to be going well. Rising winds rattled the branches soothingly, and drove a cloak of clouds firmly across the moon. His feet moved surely down the incline, the window slid open as if greased, and ten minutes later he was away through the shadows, the merchant's hefty purse safely tucked away and his clothes changed into less inconspicuous attire.

Walking calmly and slowly toward his nights lodgings, he replayed the events of the evening in his mind...the sudden turn of luck that turned his excursion into a success, just as he'd feared failure.

You said "Anything...

He spun on his heel, had moving automatically to the dagger at his waist. Nothing.

Anything.

"Who's there?"

One who heeded your plea.


"What plea?"

Your plea for success. Your plea for a god to pray to. Your plea for something more than the random cruelty or kindness of an empty universe.

"But...but...The gods are dead...gone...lost."

No more. There are gods once again. Reborn from the void by the needs of man. And you pledged anything in return for my aid. I am Vadhaka. Vadhaka Chora. And from this moment on, you are my Prophet.

"But...what...how..."

All will be revealed. Spread word of my coming amongst the bretheren of the secret paths, and give them to know that to worship me is to ensure success in secret endeavours. I shelter my followers from the harsh light, from the searching eye, from the grasping hand. Tithe to me for protection, and pray to me for aid.

Half-awed, half-opportunistic, the fey Wanderer knelt in the ever stronger divine presence, sensing here a chance for more than a mere hand-to-mouth existence. A chance for something greater than he had ever dreamed of before.

As Pathikah bowed, a strange sensation filled him, and glancing down, he saw his favourite dagger had become as dark as the night itself.

This sanctified blade shall be my symbol. Honour it and prosper. Defile it and know my anger. Now go.

Uncertain but excited, Pathikah rose and strode silently through the night, buoyed by some force that kept his footfalls light and his spirits high, to do the bidding of his new god.

And thus was Vadhaka Chora, Patron Deity of Assassins and Thieves revealed.

[jastrau]

Proudly overlooking his wheat field, which he had tended with much care and hard labour over the past two months, Kjoller noticed a patch of yellow that should - considering the time of year – have been green. Angrily, but careful not to break any straws, he set off from the edge of the field toward the yellow patch. As he got closer his trained farmer-eyes noticed that the yellowing of the wheat was not a sign of disease, but could be attributed to the wheat being ripe for harvest. He swore excitedly and broke into a run forgetting his caution.

When he got to the patch he saw that the wheat was indeed ripe. No, not just ripe; every head of wheat was heavy and plentiful, each straining its straw so much that it nearly touched the ground. Aside from the odd early ripening of the patch, Kjoller also noticed that the patch seemed to have a familiar shape: The shape of a sickle. Swearing in disbelief and whipping the sweat from his brow he took a step forward into the ripe patch. When his boot touched the first ripe head, he froze. Everything started to reel, though he strangely enough had no trouble keeping his balance. His vision changed. First everything was just fuzzy, then fuzzy and green. After what seemed like a couple of seconds he saw nothing but green. Unable to move, he stared into the monochrome endless space, desperately trying to find a feature. Slowly a figure materialised; a human figure it seemed; a figure that never came entirely into focus. Suddenly the figure spoke:
-Kjoller. Do you see the wheat at you feet?
Dazed and frightened Kjoller strained to answer, but nothing but a dry rattle came from his throat.
-I trust you do.
After a short interval the blurry figure added:
-It is neither your skills as a farmer nor the seasons turning that has ripened it.

Finally regaining his ability to speak Kjoller muttered hoarsely:
-Who are you?

-It is I who ripened your wheat. It is I who make plants grow and bear fruit. I am the one whom you will never forget!
The voice roared.

Before Kjoller could speak again the voice of the figure worked itself into a thunderous roar saying:
-I am Jastrau: God of agriculture and abundance. I trust that you will spread the knowledge of my being and my all important work. To make certain, I have made it so that you will never walk through crops again without remembering my name and what I stand for.

The hold on Kjollers body and vision was broken as quickly as it came. He sprawled to the ground like a wet rag.

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and very slowly regained his feet. Not being the superstitious type he was convinced that sunstroke had gotten the better of him, and slowly started walking back to his house to get a drink of water. Looking over his shoulder after some ten paces he convinced himself that the sickle shape was indeed gone from the field. Turning his head toward his house he began to pick up the pace a bit until…. Something was not right. Slowly he turned his head again. The sickle shape was gone, but… In every footstep he had made since his “sunstroke” the wheat was ripe. Ripe and plentiful.

And thus Kjoller, Jastraus first faithful worshipper and prophet was made.

[I'm Murrin]

Within the confines of a great canvas tent, a team of servants attends to one man. They strip his body of the ornate armour he wears, and of the padded clothing beneath, their movements practised and sure. They bathe his bare flesh, their cloths coming away stained red, and wash his skin with oils. Their ministrations complete, they leave, and another pair of servants enter. These servants dress the man in silks, and lay him out upon his bed in the centre of the tent, under the light of four tall candles. They leave him there in the dimness of the tent, as plumes of smoke rise from the candles to fill the space with the scent of lavender.
Outside the tent, the camp lies in silence. Soldiers sit with heads bowed around campfires, circles of light dotted across the field in every direction. None will sleep, this night.
In their quiet grief, few notice the figure that moves through the camp, slowly advancing toward the tent in the centre where the general lies. Robed and cowled in white, she yet moves in shadow, stepping softly between the rows of tents. Within her mind she sees all those around her, feels the lives of those she passes by. The ones who grieve she feels strongest; she resists the urge to reach out and touch that flame of life. One, before all, she watches, faint among thse other bright sparks, and as she reaches the centre and steps within, she sees it flicker, and die.
***
Darkness greets the great general, an absence of all sensation that his mind can only comprehend as a feeling of floating in silent blackness. Thought is distant; there is only identity, the sure certainty that he is Lord-General Admar Tellem Mekros, and he is, first and foremost, a warrior. He has led men in battle in every nation of the world. He has walked at the head of great hosts, taking pride in being the first to meet with the foe. He has overlooked the field of combat on occasions beyond number; at the peak of his skill, he could guide the surge and sweep of battle to whatever conclusion he desired.
All this is known to him, in this empty place. This is who he is.
Impossibly, the absence surrounding him deepens, a darker shadow within the blackness. In the silence, words yet form on the edge of his awareness.

So soon, yet many have come. More enter this realm--my realm, now--more enter every moment. Our power is assured. So many...

Yet you are the first. The first that is worthy.

I will not have your soul, Admar Tellem Mekros. We will have only your loyalty.
Return. You are hers, for now.

Maeror has chosen you. Remember it.
***
Sensation returns with the soft touch of lips upon his brow. He feels the silk on his skin, smells the candle-smoke, feels the chill of the night air. Another voice greets his awakening, silken-sweet.

My warrior. Your time is not yet done. He has refused you passage, as I have restored you. You are ours now. Maeror has chosen you. Remember it.

When the eyes of Lord-General Admar Tellem Mekros open, he is alone.

[Bhakti]

There was a Forest named Shakari on Eiran's largest continent. Though not small, Shakari was not the largest Forest on Eiran, nor even on the continent. Geographically, it was isolated. Not near mountains; not near the sea. It was something of an island in the middle of the great plains. There were several villages within a few hours of it, none of significant size.

There came a day when a heart appeared next to Shakari, in the air, at a height well above the tallest trees, on the border facing the sea. It was of simple design - merely the outer border of a heart, and it appeared to be made of thick vines. As though a heart floating in the air was not strange enough in and of itself, it seemed that the heart could be seen from anywhere on the continent, no matter the distance. And, no matter what angle it was seen from, the heart looked like a heart. Never seen on edge.

Oddest of all was the fact that the heart could not be seen by everyone. All across the continent, someone would ask, "What's that heart?" only to be asked, "What heart?" Most were wise enough to drop the matter quickly. After some good-natured teasing, people would begin to question the seer's sanity. Worse, they might question if the seer was connected with some dark magic.

But they could not stop seeing the heart. Sometimes, they would spot someone else staring in the same direction, a puzzled look on their face. After hesitant inquiries, they found that they were not the only person who could see it. Within a few days, groups of people who could see the heart gathered together. Nowhere were there more than a handful. Eventually, they decided to, if you will excuse the expression, follow their heart. There was a mystery to be solved. Also, all had an unexplainable feeling that the heart would lead them to something very, very good. None knew what, but they knew.

Most of those that were able to make the journey had no ties that made leaving difficult. Some had spouses or families that they somehow talked into coming along. Some had families that would not come along, but were somehow talked into letting the seer go. Others, because of their families, could not go, but looked forward to the reports promised by those who would be making the journey.

Soon, scattered groups and individuals were converging on the heart. New arrivals came every day. More in the early days, and less later, as those farther away had greater obstacles to pass. And at sunset each day, all new arrivals are gathered together to hear a man speak.

"Hello. I am Wiri. I was the first to arrive here when the heart appeared. I'm from a small village not too far away, and got here within a couple hours. Although everyone else here is as qualified to have been given the information I'm about to give you, I simply happened to be closest.

"When I arrived, I heard a voice in the forest. It came from all points in the forest at the same time, so I couldn't know which way to go to find the speaker. The moment I stepped into the trees, the voice came from all points around me. It was coming from every tree, every bird, every insect, every blade of grass, every fallen leaf, every spider web. It said these words to me..."

I am Bhakti. I am the god you have been worshipping your entire life, though you knew it not. In fact, I knew it not, for I am newly arrived on Eiran. I am the god of Love. I feel Love wherever it is. I feel where it is strong. I feel where it is weak. I feel where it is absent. You, and those who will be joining you, have seen my heart because you are a follower of Love. Love is how you live. Every time you have been given a choice, you have chosen Love. You are as beacons in the night to my eyes.

I am also the god of Forests. That is why I have called you to Shakari. For all who can and will stay, Shakari will be home. It will be a Forest of great strength. In a world that has often been ruled by evil, it will be a place of Love; a place of safety for those who Love. Many who will be joining you are particularly strong Lovers of Forests. They will see what I have begun doing in Shakari, and continue the work. I will guide them when they need it.

At its present size, with my power, and the attention of the greatest Forestals among you, Shakari can permanently provide for the needs of several thousand followers. And, of course, the borders can be expanded. Any who are not comfortable living in more natural ways can build houses in the many clearings within, or along the border facing the sea.

The only building that must be built should be directly under the heart. It will have two doors. One will face away from Shakari, for any to enter. The other door will open into the Forest, between the two giant ash trees that you just passed between when you entered. None who are not among my followers will be able to enter Shakari except through this temple. Their hearts will be read, and the Forest will know whether they are friend or foe.

Now go meet your brothers and sisters as they arrive. Tell them what we will be doing. And, although I know I do not need to tell you, Love each other.

All who had seen the heart knew, somehow, that Wiri had spoken the truth. And Bhakti's promise was what they longed for.

[Benito Alvarez]

Balarius was exhausted. His daily circuit through his encampment of soldiers had served no purpose for nigh six years. “Past the command tents, step over another drunk, and a left turn at the mess.” He shook his head at the stupidity and returned to his thoughts, “Walk past the privates gambling near their bonfires, and try to ignore the sounds of rutting by the officers. The same route over and over again. So much sin. So many souls turned away from the way of the Gods.”

Balarius was a dying breed, one who still held the strictures of his past faith. After the passing of the Gods and without their holy punishments for those who disobeyed, the numbers of the once devout who wandered their path were plentiful, and those who kept the straight and narrow steadily declined.

“Past the stocks, and try not to look at another falsely held farmer who couldn’t afford to feed his family and the soldiers. When will it end? When will the Gods return to us, and strike down these heretics?” His thought echoed unreplied through the air.

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“What business is it of yours how I run my Soldiers!?” Balarius turned his face away from his commanding officer. Once again his advice for the due punishments of the disobedient soldiers and the releasing of the innocent farmers had been turned down in anger. “I’m getting very tired of your seditious remarks Balarius! This encampment is run by me! Perhaps its time you remembered that.”

Two guards emerged from the shadows and pinned Balarius by his upper arms. He was no match for their strength. The foul stench of their reeking leathers and animal hides almost turned Balarius’ stomach where he stood. A third guard ripped the back of his shirt off revealing his back.

“See what happens to those who disobey my power!” The officer’s whip cracked like the breaking of a mighty oak branch in a storm. A sparse second went by, and an eruption of pain blinded Balarius to the core of his being. Four more times the whip sliced his back, and four times Balarius thought he wouldn’t see the morn.

Balarius heard the Officers’ whip drop to the ground. Frightened whispers passed amongst the guards in the tent. “What’s this deviltry!?” “It’s like shadow!” Then all Balarius’ senses went dead as he succumbed to the pain.

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Dull light filtered through the canvas as dusk fell on the camp. Balarius stood and the world spun, he took a moment to gather his thoughts then opened his eyes. He was standing in his officer’s tent. Sparsely furnished, but rigidly organized much like his own lot in life. His back felt as if were burning up, searing all the nerves in his spine. He went to his desk and turned his small mirror down a bit. He turned around to look at this wound. The whip marks, by fate or sheer luck, had formed the old sign for a warmace. What truly shook him to his core was his blood. Crusted down his back in rivulets and streams, his blood was as black as shadow, as black as night. When he turned back to the mirror, the visage he saw wasn’t his own.

Replaced in the mirror was a gleaming face. Browned by long battles in the sun and covered in scars too numerous to remember how they were come by. He was covered in shining plate armor, as bright as the sun and gleaming like silver. The armor paled in comparison to his eyes. They were lit from behind by anger so precise, Balarius could almost feel it searing his face. They figure spoke:

Hello my son.

A breathed appeal to the old god was muttered under his breathe.

Not quite, but close enough.

The figure gave a half smile and raised his eyebrows knowingly.

Balarius, my son, you are the last believer left in this pit of sacrilege. All others have failed my tests. They succumbed to lying, whoring, gambling and murder. You stood alone amongst the lions and persevered. You are even marked with your trials, are you not?

It was impossible for him to forget the marks in his back and the darkness of his blood.

“What do you want with me? Who are you?” Balarius could barley muster the strength to whisper.

I am your Sovereign. You’re Father. You’re God. Lord Adomorn. I call you to arms Jameak, to follow me and conquer in my name; Righteousness.

Balarius was quiet. Tentatively he ventured “But, Lord, my name is Balarius”

No longer. You follow in my footsteps now, my son. Be not afraid, for to be afraid is to fail. The future will be taken by our hands. We will burn the world clean. Go out and proclaim to all the lands that Evil and Corruption will be cut out for the cancerous growth that it is. Go now, and remember, I am always by your side.

The figure gave a last encouraging smile and faded out of site. The soldier was left alone in his tents.

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Jameak was stricken with a sight. No longer did he stand in his tent, alone and afraid. He stood atop a Cliffside watching a war below him. His armor gleamed and the clouds themselves shone bright behind him. Strength coursed through his veins, he could feel the Evil below him being purged by his might. No longer did he worry of the future.

He knew.

The Armageddon was being forged, and he would lead it.

[Injerian Praetus II]

The king rushed up the grey steps of the Weeping Ziggurat (built as a memorial of those who died in the cleansing war). Beside him his royal guard ran with him - their blades ringing against gleaming armour. The sky rained a black rain that made running up the stairs difficult; some of his men slipped and slid down the long slope. And it stung the eyes. Exhausted, and almost blinded, the king and his men reached the top to find the council of advisors gasping on the slippery stone floor like fish out of water - their eyes oozing tears, blood and black fluid.

Behind them, at the very centre of the Ziggurat-top was a tall, stone statue. The messenger had not lied, but he still found it difficult to accept that it was here - on the royal structure. How did it get here? Who placed it? And did it something to do with the black rain that slowly suffocated his lands?

Suddenly, the rain stopped but the purple-black clouds remained seething as though sickened. The black fluid covering the statue rapidly trickled away, revealing an exquisite figure carved into the stone reclining against rough, grey rock. Though the bearded face of the statue was facing away from the king, he could see the movement of a jaw as a resonant, soft voice issued seemingly as though from the air.

"Your war to cleanse the lands was futile, royal one," said the voice. "You thought to wipe out the other races and species would allow you to breed a better race. But the war cost you too much and accomplished nothing. Instead, you lost most of your men to disease and war wounds, and the barbarians of the broken mountains pour into your lands to plunder, rape and burn. Drought and disease cripple your farms, and every day another town succumbs to famine or madness. Few merchant ships dock at your cities as they are afraid to trade with a despised kingdom, and so your empire slowly becomes gutted by poverty.

"All this will end. The black rain that you cursed; believing that it suffocated your lands and people is my first gift. It has culled the weak - like these corrupt and greedy advisors dead before you - and enriched the soils. Tomorrow, the farm lands will be transformed into verdant green pastures and your cattle will multiply. My second gift will soon follow. The black rain has also seeped into the skin of your men and women and children. I have made them stronger, more resistant to disease and more able to do our bidding."

The king dropped to the slippery stone. "'Our bidding?'" he said in shock and anger. "Who are you to demand from me?"

"I am the God of Mutation, Nor Yekith. I demand only a purer world free of disease and madness. Like you, we both dream of building a better future. Think not of me as your competitor or superior; think of me as an associate - a collaborator in this noble scheme. I merely wish to help you. In so doing we will breed, or make, a greater race.

"How can you refuse this when one offers you the means of fulfilling a dream?"

The king smiled, knowing he could rebuild his kingdom with the help of the statue-god. "What do you wish me to do?"

"First," the soothing voice uttered, "your royal guard will become the Cult of Nor Yekith. You will be the prophet who the people will look to and obey. Through you I will enact the great scheme. Second, you must gather those I have transformed through the black rain and arm them - thus the cult will grow. Only the cult may breed - the sick will be either forced out of the kingdom or become slaves. Do not allow the Fey or Dwarrow to breed in our lands. Third, begin digging pits in the countryside - in time I will reveal their purpose. Finally, the name of this kingdom must be changed. It is time for things to start anew, beginning with the kingdom. It cannot be 'The Greater Kingdom' for it is no longer 'great'. It now becomes 'Nor Pupae'."

The king slowly climbed to his feet - not in wariness, but because his mind was afire with possibilities. Was this god a gift to save his lands and his dreams? Was it possible to fight back against the barbarian hordes? He wanted to, and convinced himself, that it was so. Nor Yekith would save the kingdom. With that in mind he accepted the statue's demands and strode back down the stairs of the ziggurat, confidence growing with every step.

The streets were littered with the corpses of the weak the god had killed. But he was not filled with misery or fear; this was a sign that society was transforming. Nor Yekith would help him change the kingdom, and the world.

That moment, Malice smiled.

[Norn]

Thus shall I be of the Fabric of Reality
My very essence fused with every thread
Protecting the Weave
And protected by it
Abiding against the day
That the world needs gods again

* * *
Norn stood alone in the topmost room of the Tower of Airfen and awaited her doom. She had not always been alone. There were once six souls occupying the Tower - six sorcerers and sorceresses of immense power who had come to this remote corner of Eiran, where the mountains met the sea, to combine both their knowledge power in their unending quest for more of each. And they had achieved just that, in the days of their youth, when energy and inspiration had seemed boundless. It was a good life, a life that Norn had been content with. But that was all before the gods came.

Of course there had been gods in Eiran before, or so the ancient stories told. These gods however, were young and reckless, and Eiran had suffered more in the few years since their ascension than in the fifty generations before they had arrived like a blight on the world. And yet, despite the darkness that foreshadowed their coming, despite the portents that had announced their birth into divinity, her companions had flocked to them each and every one.

Marietta had been the first to go, departing for Ai-Sanguine to join her brother Beggur in service to Torigian, the Lord of Battle, and Delsus, ever the wanderer and the consumate ladies-man, had left not long after. He eventually reached Ai-Amore where he became a follower of Bhakti and a child of Love. Norn suspected he was more interested in the young nubile priestesses than the god himself. Arlin had been the next to go - as the oldest of the group he felt the cold hand of death reaching out and so he made his way to Ai-Mortis, choosing Argothoth and Undeath. Lita and Klayn showed no signs of abandoning the Tower however, and Norn began to hope that they would not leave. It was a false hope, for Lita eventually departed for Ai-Arx to join the church of Amplarx the Protector whilst Klayn became a worshipper of Avatar and went to Sanctuary to study there.

As he was saying his final goodbyes, Klayn had urged Norn to either come with him or choose a another god to worship. She stayed at the Tower, but for weeks she thought of leaving, possibly to the Forest of Eryn Sidh in the north where Elauradaneth the goddess of Magic and Nature held sway. She just couldn't do it - couldn't bring herself to ignore all the signs that had made themselves so apparent when these new gods had descended to Eiran. She had heard in her dreams the earth scream in pain at their hands and she would have no part of it.

And now her friends were dead, their lives lost in the Divine War between Nephirthos the Malefic and whoever the paranoiac thought had offended him this time, and she was powerless to save Eiran from the doom she had foreseen. The earth would cry out in pain just as she dreamed, and there was nothing she could do.

Yet Norn refused to give into despair. After all, she was a High-Mage, more powerful than almost any other in all the known world. And her friends, though they had departed the world, required more of her. Much more.

A silent ripple of power through the night signaled that the time had come.

Straightening, Norn looked around the room with a wistful smile. If she succeeded then the Tower of Airfen, her home these past 25 years, would be left so far behind that nothing could restore it to her. And if she failed..if she failed then she would be dead, and there were worse things than that. She would miss this place though - the memories it held were too precious to turn away from without a little sadness.

Another ripple of power told her that the time for nostalgia was over. Moving to the center of the room she focused her mind on the task at hand. Time may have been short, but this wasn't something to be rushed. Once she knew she was as ready as she could possibly be, she lifted her head and began to speak the words that would pull her soul from her body and tear it to pieces. If she was lucky.

As her power mounted the Tower began to shake, but she knew it wasn't her. Nephirthos' "revenge" was being enacted on an innocent world. In a matter of minutes the earth itself would shatter into hundreds of pieces, drowning villages, towns, cities and thousands of people. Norn alone in all Eiran had caught wind of what was about to happen. Last night, while she slept, fate had finally revealed the cause of the worlds impending pain - the lord of Malice was about to tear Eiran apart.

The Tower was too isolated for her to reach anyone with a warning, though she had cried out in vain to any god or goddess that had the ears to hear her. None had responded. In all likelihood they were each occupied in planning their next strike against Nephirthos, not knowing that he was about to make the first fatal move. And only the divine had the power to save Eiran. Norn could not save her world's present, but perhaps she could save it's future.

This was her only choice.

The Tower started to shake violently now. Pictures fell of the wall, intricate glass objects clattered on the table, a bookshelf toppled over. Norn saw none of it - the power that she had called to her purpose held her now and there was room for nothing else as she sealed her fate by reciting the final incantation.

Thus shall I be of the Fabric of Reality
My very essence fused with every thread
Protecting the Weave
And protected by it
Abiding against the day
That the world needs gods again

Time seemed to stand still for Norn, although in reality the world continued to crumble around her. Pain like she had never known raced through her body. Pain comparable to the pain Eiran must have been feeling right at that moment. She started screaming.

The light in her eyes died, yet her scream remained, and even as her mortal body fell to dust the Tower of Airfen fell into the trench that opened beneath it as the world was torn apart.

* * *
...That the world needs gods again...

Norn returned to consciousness slowly, as if awaking from a deep deep sleep. Piece by piece, all that she had been returned to her. Soon she would be whole again - able to go forth and use her power to protect her world from those who lacked both mortality and responsibility.

Yet something was different. As the composite parts of her being flowed along the strands of the Weave and fused together, she knew that they had changed. Her time in the Weave had changed them, changed her. She was no longer simply a woman, not even merely a sorceress. She was now something else. Something more.

How long had she remained in the Weave, bound to the fabric of reality? The answer arrived in her mind almost before she had considered the question, and it astonished her. So long? Civilizations had fallen in less time, although admittedly not the greatest of them. No wonder she had changed so remarkably. She had spent so long in the Weave. Much longer than she had planned. Too long?

Yet there was no time for such questions, for all of a sudden she felt compelled to a place that she had known a long time ago. A place full of memories - the forest where she and her companions had chosen each other, or been chosen for each other, and sealed their purpose with a binding together of power. A binding that had lead to the Tower of Airfen, and to all the great achievements of her old life.

Though she was not even yet a shade of the woman she had been, Norn turned her face in the direction of Henmil's Forest.

* * *
...That the world needs gods again...

Trolin stopped to catch his breath and looked up at the canopy, wishing that the trees would let in even a little bit of sunlight. It wasn't that he didn't like the shade, he was Fey after all, but this forest had a strange feeling about it. A feeling that just a little bit of sun would have alleviated.

Of course, saying that he was Fey wasn't correct, or not completely correct. Yes, his parents and their kin were Fey, but Trolin, with his friend Rilu and many others, had distanced themselves from their people. They were tired of hiding in the shadows of Eiran. Tired of being distrusted by the other races. Tired of using their considerable intelligence and magical skills to do little more than cheat their neighbours or cheat on their partners or find out the juiciest pieces of gossip. Surely their lives were worth more than that?

So Trolin had left the high-walled city of his birth and had gone to live in once of the settlements near the forests, settlements already overflowing with those who felt as he did. It hadn't been a particularly difficult move - it was the way of his people that if you didn't like the way something was done then you did it differently. Another reason to be thankful that he was born Fey.

Up ahead, Rilu was moving carefully through the scant undergrowth, warily testing their way ahead. Trolin cursed himself for not being more careful, he was supposed to be watching the rare after all. Coming this far into Henmil's Forest had been Rilu's idea - he said he just felt drawn, but that he couldn't say why. Trolin had reluctantly agreed to accompany him, loath to admit that he also felt a similar pull. Such dishonesty between best friends would have seemed alien to the other races, but it was natural among the Fey. Trolin may have been trying to distance himself from many of the traditions of his people, but old habits died hard.

The light, such as it was under the ceiling of leaves, was failing fast, so when Rilu suggested they make camp on a grassy mound Trolin readily agreed. Henmil's Forest was an odd place and although he didn't really want to spent the night out here the idea of walking out in the darkness was even worse. Lying on his bedroll looking up at a solitary star glinting through a rare gap in the thick foliage, Trolin drifted off to sleep wondering what it was that had drawn him and his friend to this place.

* * *
...That the world needs gods again...

Rilu stopped suddenly as he heard a rustling of leaves in a nearby bush. Moments later a fox darted out from under the cover and sped off through the darkening forest. Rilu relaxed slightly although he remained cautious as he moved on. Henmil's Forest wasn't dangerous in the traditional sense, but it wasn't safe either. It had known too much power to be safe.

He knew that Trolin was 20 or so paces behind, not paying attention as he should have been in a place like this. That was Trolin - too busy worrying about things he thought no one else knew. Rilu was well aware that his friend had been drawn to the forest just as he had, yet he allowed him his little deception. It was a Fey thing, one of the few that he retained. Oddly it was Trolin, who had been and still was far more philosophically in tune with the separatists, or "Sylvans" as the other Fey had named them, who was having the harder time leaving it all behind. It was as if he wanted to just stop being Fey but didn't quite know how. Rilu found it much easier, probably because he thought about things a lot less. Not that that was always a good thing - he had lost count of the number of times his forward-thinking friend had saved his skin after he had rushed head-first into a situation without thinking.

Noticing that Trolin was too distracted to go much further in such poor light, Rilu suggested that they make camp earlier than usual on a nearby hillock - it had been a long day after all. Trolin agreed and took to his bed almost immediately, but Rilu paced for a while before retiring. He needed sleep he knew, but while he was dreaming he could hardly discover what it was that had called him here. Pacing wasn't going to get him any closer either though, so he lay down a watched the embers of the small campfire die, falling asleep as he did so.

* * *
...That the world needs gods again...

Trolin and Rilu awoke with a start. There was a faint noise filling the forest, like a whispering. They leaped to their feet, grabbing their hunting knives, and stared out into the darkness. It was an noise - it seemed to come from nowhere in particular and yet it filled the air as if it originated from everywhere at once. Trolin stilled his restless friend with a touch and tried to focus, but it did little good.

Ah, I remember this place well.

The two friends whirled to face each other, questions in their eyes.

It was here that we bound our powers together - each of us enhancing the others. That is why this forest is different. We were the most powerful sorcerers and sorceresses Eiran had known - the High-Mages of our age - and the forest remembers. It remembers even though it was so long ago.

Rilu and Trolin stepped back as the hidden speaker took shape before them - a beautiful woman with pale skin and dark hair. She was young, and yet not so - her eyes betrayed her there - and robed in purple. Taller than most Fey women, her lips curled in a curious smile, as if she was slightly amused by the two men in front of her. And power flowed from her like a beacon in the night, as if all the magic in the world had been held within her being and was suddenly being released.

Now that you are here, what do you seek?

"What do we...?", began Rilu. "We seek nothing. We were compelled here. Surely it is we who were sought."

"We seek an answer!"

Rilu gave his friend a questioning look, but did not contradict.

An answer. And what is the question?

"I, uh, I don't really know. All I know is that we could be so much more than we are. I'm not sure if there is an actual answer to that, or if it's even a question, but I think that's what we seek."

You think.

Rilu placed his hand on Trolin's shoulder in support. "It is what we seek." Trolin smiled gratefully at him.

You are fortunate then, to have found what you seek this night. I am Norn, the Weaver.

Rilu frowned. "I'm not sure I understand." The woman laughed good-naturedly in response, filling the hearts of the two friends with joy.

Perhaps not, but this is as it should be. Any answer so easily attained would be worth little. Come, we have much work ahead.

"We do?"

We do. A goddess with only two servants would be a very poor goddess indeed.

Smiling, Norn turned and lead her prophets deeper into Henmil's Forest.

[Injerian Praetus II]

The King announces that the capital city will be renamed to Nor Khorrupt.

[stonemaybe]

UNDINE is embarking on some research into the medicinal properties of seaweeds and secretions of various sea-creatures, for the good of 'man'kind.

If any other gods would like to contribute to this research, using DRP or not, you will share the benefits for your worshippers.

[Simjen]

I am sorry, Undine, but I don't see what I can offer at this time.

Let it be known that the forge of Simjen is available for commissions. I work in steel, gold, silver, and other exotic metals. Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you what I need to make it. Materials, including DRPs, will be required up front, as will half the fee.

[Injerian Praetus II]

Fellow deities, Nor Pupae belongs to the King and therefore it belongs to me. All the cities and towns are part of his kingdom. Given that the Cult of Nor Yekith is becoming the official religion of the kingdom worship of me will spread across the realm. In that regard, any attempt to sway the people west of the mountains - that is, to influence the people of Nor Pupae - will be going against the state religion. The King has forbidden anything other than the Cult of Nor Yekith. I request that other gods cease influencing my lands.

[I'm Murrin]

Should the people of your realm wish to follow another deity of their own free will, you can be sure some will do so, whatever is done to suppress it. Should any follower of another god choose to preach in your lands, they may also do so of their own free will. Other religions will reach your lands even if we gods do not actively seek it. You cannot rule the minds and hearts of all of your people, and deny them choice.

[Bhakti]

Why not? Would such an attitude be too Malicious?

I see Nor Yekith knows not just how to Mutate a species, but also how to combine different species. Nicely done!

[Injerian Praetus II]

I see Nor Yekith knows not just how to Mutate a species, but also how to combine different species. Nicely done!

They endure where the weak cannot. They deserve every right to thrive. I respect all life that attains mastery of the world. The Houka are an experiment in this, and I will not be criticised for their creation. However, I thank you for your compliment. Perhaps I can assist you in improving nature further?

Should the people of your realm wish to follow another deity of their own free will, you can be sure some will do so, whatever is done to suppress it. Should any follower of another god choose to preach in your lands, they may also do so of their own free will. Other religions will reach your lands even if we gods do not actively seek it. You cannot rule the minds and hearts of all of your people, and deny them choice.

You forget, Nor Pupae is ruled by the King. He has the birthright, as well as the divine right, to dictate what can and cannot be in his kingdom.

[Bhakti]

They endure where the weak cannot. They deserve every right to thrive. I respect all life that attains mastery of the world. The Houka are an experiment in this, and I will not be criticised for their creation. However, I thank you for your compliment.

I was not criticizing. I was noticing that you have added a domain - Hybridization - to your original Malice and Mutation. I would have been impressed if you had created a new species - and such a prolific one, at that! - so soon using your known domains. I am doubly impressed that you have acquired a new domain so quickly in order to do so.

But I could be wrong. Perhaps the Houka are more accurately described as humans with feline-like characteristics?

Perhaps I can assist you in improving nature further?

I think we disagree on the definitions of Nature and improvement. Those of us who are more attuned to Nature could warn you against Balances and Patterns, and the good of Nature in the long run. Alas, I do not suspect you are concerned with these things.

However, I will make a request. Although I am, of course, concerned with all Nature, I am specialized. Please keep your Malice out of the Forests. The sap in all trees is my blood, and any damage to any Forest is damage to me.