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The wind circles our kingdoms. A slow and aimless flow, yearning for an opening, an influx of fresh, energizing current, or any path to progress and change. Seeking a freedom from its unchanging prison. The invisible boundaries of these lands constrict it tighter and tighter as days pass, blurring into each other, becoming indistinct and indistinguishable in their uniformity. The beings here continue their lives, their activities. The movements feel more and more robotic as time marches on. Gaining insight is now offered for coin, and presence is not required to learn and grow. The secrets of ascension were halted, though promised, and now there is no divine guide with the power to reveal the path to the next steps on the joourney to enlightenment. Despite all of this, everyone must continue a regular offering of a share of the fruits of their labors to the gods, or they are placed in an unending sleep until they comply. And wherever and whoever these gods are, they take these offerings. The world continues on. But it does not take a single step forward. The old seals and prisons rust and decay. How do they contain our old and powerful enemies? Have they, too, been weakened by this absence of aetherial flow? Or are they biding their time and collecting what power remains, as something terrible is being prepared to be unleashed upon us? It's quiet. Too quiet. There is a deep undercurrent of fetid malevolence festering inside the earth. It's growing. The stale air no longer disperses it before it can sink in and take root. The silence precedes calamity. We worry. But we continue placing one foot in front of the other. Because we always have. We believe in ourselves and our world. And enough belief.. Can birth a new god. | |