Tuesday, April 7, 2015

thrice damned

This thrice damned world was born without reason unto the perfect void. Within that screaming place of naked hunger, vitriolic light, and vicious shining gods, the world grew like a stinking abscess. The gods hated its petty physicality when it was simply a wet rock floating in otherwise perfect emptiness.

When life crawled forth from the seas and saw hateful starlight, the gods outside raged. When that life grew and diverged and saw itself, the gods fell into madness.  When Wizard brought forth the yellow light and white mirror, the sun and moon, the gods outside broke into violent despair. Some so much that they did the unthinkable; they stepped into our world to destroy it.

They could not, for the gods were now of this world. They too were wrapped in hateful flesh. To destroy the world was to destroy themselves.

Trapped here, beyond rage, the gods broke mountains and drank seas. The dogmen fled to black spaces and hid beneath the earth, forsaking their birthright of the sun. The tuskmen fought the gods and godmonsters from the shadows; they fell back to deep canyons and old grey forests.

And, we the softmen, as they called us, we stayed in the daylight and confronted the horrid gods. We cajoled and outwitted and placated those beastly new-born gods. We hid them in temples and trapped them in rituals. We hunted the godmonsters, or else we at least drove them to the hard places of the tuskmen.

Around each temple grew a town. Around each town grew a tribe. Eventually the towns became Cities and the tribes became kingdoms. So did the Peace of the Cities last until the world was drowned. The silver pillars have damned us again, past hope.

Now we only seek for the memory of mountains. Some few may wait for us as islands yet. More likely, we will drown.

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