Some say the world ended when the gods died. When the ocean ceased movement from sunrise to sunset, as if coming to terms with its newfound freedom, and then ripped boats apart relentlessly when realization hit. When the wind cried with grief, and screamed for a total of 30 moons before quieting. When the sky shed tears of rage, and lightning struck on everything it could see. Others say it was when the animals stopped breeding, when the crops started dying, when the flood of famine and illnesses rained over every civilization without mercy.
But I think the world ended when the people thought it did. When gatherings became riots, kings became beggars, heroes became murderers. It ended when we all came to the conclusion that we were honestly, truly, completely alone. No one to give us blessings, no one to save us. Only an abysmal existence on a cursed land.
Many preached that this was the end, that this was our eternal damnation for sinning. And maybe that was true, in a way. But I think it was just the beginning. Gone was the era of merciful gods and prosperity, and welcome was a time of hate and fear. Kill or be killed. Forever lost was Eiríni , the time of peace; and into the light came Timoría, the age of the punished.
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Overmorrow
FantasyThe gods have been punishing the different factions for centuries now, the reason as to why is lost in old books no one knows how to read. Languages and symbols washed away in the story of time. Along with that being the answer to save it all. Five...
