DShomshak

I haven't read Book of the Empress, but this passage in CV1 imight be worth remembering:
 
"Istvatha V'han carries herself with a regal grace at most times, but her facade sometimes cracks when her followers let her down, or someone challenges or insults her. She doesn't tolerate frustration well, and if sufficiently angered may lash out in a fit of destructiveness that obliterates entire planets." (CV1, p. 60)
 
I think a reasonable person, even seeing all the benefits that Istvatha V'han's rule brings most of the time, might balk at having the survival of their entire world in the hands of an absolute monarch with no curb on her temper tantrums.
 
Though for some people, that erratic temper may enhance their reverence.
 
Dean Shomshak

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways."  Allowing the Magic to be subtle, like either indirect (Comes from the God's will, through his hands, not mine.), or Invisible/ Inaudible power effect would give it a much different flavor than Sorceror Artillery of most spells.

I'm sure she knows it's useless. It was still worth doing.
 
Dean Shomshak
Just heard on All Things Considered: Ben Franklin's Handy Home Abortion Guide. Because abortion "isn't deeply rooted in American culture."
 
https://www.npr.org/2022/05/16/1099244635/for-ben-franklin-abortion-was-basic-arithmetic
 
Dean Shomshak

I'm sure she knows it's useless. It was still worth doing.
 
Dean Shomshak
Just heard on All Things Considered: Ben Franklin's Handy Home Abortion Guide. Because abortion "isn't deeply rooted in American culture."
 
https://www.npr.org/2022/05/16/1099244635/for-ben-franklin-abortion-was-basic-arithmetic
 
Dean Shomshak

Addendum: Turkish Kurdistan also happens to be the water-tower of the Middle East. It holds the headwaters of the Tigris, the Euphrates, and several other rivers. For both irrigation and hydropower, Turkey's central government is extremely reluctant to lose control of this region.
 
Dean Shomshak

Sniped by LL, but I'll finish anyway.
 
Not really an expert, but IIRC the issues between Turkey and the Kurds go back to the abolition of the Ottoman Empire. On the one hand, Kemal Ataturk's crew wanted to create a nation-state: Turkey, as the country of the Turks. Except... the territory included a wide area inhabited by Kurds, who insist they are not Turks on the factually irrefutable grounds that they aren't. They speak a completely different language (though Kurdish has absorbed many loan words from Turkish); they've lived in more or less their current territory since at least 2000 BCE. So when the Turkish government declared that there was no such thing as Kurds, they were "Mountain Turks" and had to learn Turkish, some Kurds got upset enough they turned to violence.
 
As LL mentions, Kurds exist in various other countries as well, creating a fairly sizeable movement that wants to lop off parts of those countries to create their own country of Kurdistan.
 
Leaving aside the justice of Kurdish rebels' cause or methods, Erdogan has shown he cannot abide any sort of pluralistic compromise on, well, anything. A rational person might think, "Hey, if I can make nice with our Kurdish population and make them feel they have a stake in my government, I can use them to give my country influence in other countries with Kurdish minorities." But the mythological basis of nationalism does not permit such a pragmatic course.
 
Nationalism: It's just not been a good thing.
 
Dean Shomshak

I'm sure she knows it's useless. It was still worth doing.
 
Dean Shomshak
Just heard on All Things Considered: Ben Franklin's Handy Home Abortion Guide. Because abortion "isn't deeply rooted in American culture."
 
https://www.npr.org/2022/05/16/1099244635/for-ben-franklin-abortion-was-basic-arithmetic
 
Dean Shomshak

I'm sure she knows it's useless. It was still worth doing.
 
Dean Shomshak
Just heard on All Things Considered: Ben Franklin's Handy Home Abortion Guide. Because abortion "isn't deeply rooted in American culture."
 
https://www.npr.org/2022/05/16/1099244635/for-ben-franklin-abortion-was-basic-arithmetic
 
Dean Shomshak

The NYTimes podcast "The Daily" offers a brief guide to the "Great Replacement" conspiracy theory used by white supremacist mass shooters... and those who inspire them, such as Tucker Carlson.
 
https://www.nytimes.com/2022/05/16/podcasts/the-daily/buffalo-shooting-replacement-theory.html?action=click&module=audio-series-bar&region=header&pgtype=Article
 
Dean Shomshak

Like new Shimmer, which is both a floor wax AND a dessert topping, Ghostbusters managed to be both wacky comedy AND supernatural horror.  A truly incredible achievement.
 
Bairtd Searles, the movie and TV reviewer for Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction when it came out, compared the initial "play the supernatural for laughs" to the frothy fantasies of Thorne Smith, sliding seamlessly to something worthy of H. P. Lovecraft. He was gobsmacked.
 
Dean Shomshak

Like new Shimmer, which is both a floor wax AND a dessert topping, Ghostbusters managed to be both wacky comedy AND supernatural horror.  A truly incredible achievement.
 
Bairtd Searles, the movie and TV reviewer for Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction when it came out, compared the initial "play the supernatural for laughs" to the frothy fantasies of Thorne Smith, sliding seamlessly to something worthy of H. P. Lovecraft. He was gobsmacked.
 
Dean Shomshak

Like new Shimmer, which is both a floor wax AND a dessert topping, Ghostbusters managed to be both wacky comedy AND supernatural horror.  A truly incredible achievement.
 
Bairtd Searles, the movie and TV reviewer for Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction when it came out, compared the initial "play the supernatural for laughs" to the frothy fantasies of Thorne Smith, sliding seamlessly to something worthy of H. P. Lovecraft. He was gobsmacked.
 
Dean Shomshak

Like new Shimmer, which is both a floor wax AND a dessert topping, Ghostbusters managed to be both wacky comedy AND supernatural horror.  A truly incredible achievement.
 
Bairtd Searles, the movie and TV reviewer for Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction when it came out, compared the initial "play the supernatural for laughs" to the frothy fantasies of Thorne Smith, sliding seamlessly to something worthy of H. P. Lovecraft. He was gobsmacked.
 
Dean Shomshak

“How can you refuse me?” demanded Lissarka of Zyrrhene, by some called the Queen of Pain. “ What can Vanth offer you that I cannot, ten times over? Join me as my consort and you shall have wealth, you shall have power, you shall have me. Am I not beautiful? A thousand men have died seeking my favor, and I offer myself — to you!”
 
Doral shrugged in his chains, setting lean muscle rippling. A pitying smile softened his chiseled face with a dimple. He made rags and steel fetters look good. “I don’t deny you’re pretty, he told the liosalfar Queen of Pain. “In a cheap, needy sort of way. And I’m sure you’re perfectly adequate in bed. But you can’t imagine what I have with Vanth. I loved her the moment I saw her, more than life itself, and I know she feels the same about me. I love the way she sings. I love the way she wears her hat. I love a thousand things about her. I want to raise a family with her, grow old together, see grandchildren. Do you even know what I’m talking about? No, of course not. You can’t. And for that, I pity you.” The smile twisted, turned acid. “But not much.”
 
Lissarka’s golden skin paled in her rage. “So be it. My holy master is right. I might have betrayed him for you — but instead I shall offer Him your life to show Him my love, and make me a vessel for His power!” She took a long, jeweled dagger from the golden plate held by a kneeling slave. “Xarn Tarsus, accept this sacrifice of his heart, and mine! I am yours, Lord, only — Put out that candle!”
 
A hundred guards, nobles, and assorted sycophants turned to goggle at the brownie that scurried along the temple’s baseboards, a small candle in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other. The candle gave a point of warm yellow light among the shadows cast by pillars in the dim, colorless glow of the zikku-crystals set in the fane’s ceiling. Doral grinned. Right on time, he thought.
 
The brownie goggled back, then bowed deeply. “Wot? Sorry, Your Queeniness, so sorry, it’s just so hard to see back here, an’ I remember there was a bit o’ stain on the floor, some blood musta splashed a long way, of course I’ll put it out…”
 
Too late. The little flame burst up and out in a red-gold blaze, the curls of fire at the edges momentarily looking like a ring of roses. Out leaped four figures: a female faun with a wooden staff and a necklace bearing a pendant of two strips of wood bent around each other, a female ghoul in a black robe with a cozier made of bone, a brilliantly hued dragon that swooped between two pillars to coil in the air, and a giant dwarf in plate-and-chain armor, carrying a massive, long-handled axe. “Ow!” the giant dwarf said as he bonked his head on the underside of the balcony running the chamber’s length.
 
“Impossible!” gasped Queen Lissarka. “Only one can walk the Flame Labyrinth! You can’t take people with you! It’s, it’s, it’s against the rules!”
 
The faun priestess grinned. “Love doesn’t follow rules! Some lovers can bring friends.”
 
“And this fortress-fane is not as hidden as you thought,” said the ghoul in a whisper that somehow echoed to the furthest reaches of the chamber. “The workers you slew after they built it were happy to reveal its secrets. The rebels are on their way. And the laser-cats are with them.”
 
“Enough talk!” growled the giant dwarf as he stooped and squeezed between pillars to enter the temple’s nave. He cradled his axe, struck a chord and bellowed, “Death to false metal!”
 
At the same time, Lissarka screamed “Guards! Guards! Kill them!” And battle was joined. The strings of the giant dwarf’s axe hummed and howled as he swung it, while severed arms and heads bounced off the strings in a counterpoint of doom. The satyr priestess moved among the guards like a dream of dance, laughing with joy as her staff whirling about to trip legs and smash into faces. The ghoul dipped her crozier toward the ground as she whispered a prayer to Mania, pulling ghosts from the darkest bowels of Hekk and sending them to claw and gibber at guards. Troops of archers pounded out onto the balconies, only to find the dragon snapping at them with its jaws and slapping with its tail as its pearl darted about them, strobing in ever-changing hues to blind and distract them. Nor was Doral idle: He kicked a foppish courtier in the groin, used his toes to pull a stiletto from his belt as the elf collapsed, flipped it up to catch it in one hand and began picking the lock of his fetters.
 
The moment he was free, Doral hurled the stiletto at Lissarka. His aim was not true: The blade merely drove into her shoulder. The gleaming golden skin split to release a serpentine creature that hissed, “You shall all pay for thisss!” Several elven courtiers reeled back in shock and revulsion. Unnoticed in the melee, a single advisor scurried back into the shadows.
 
The koutpa that had been Queen Lissarka caught up a rapier from a slain noble, spat on the blade, and drew a circle of blood and venom on the marble pavement. “You win nothing!” she hissed. “I shall return, and— urk!” Doral too had collected a rapier, and driven it through her throat from behind. The Queen of Pain sank, dying, to the floor.
 
The remaining guards broke and ran. The remaining nobles and sycophants threw down their weapons, dropped to their knees, and cried for mercy. The unnoticed advisor slipped out a hidden door.
 
The four heroes gathered around the man they had crossed a world (and two moons, and Hekk) to rescue. All now bore several small wounds, which the faun priestess began bandaging.
 
Vanth asked, “Are you hurt, love?”
 
“A scratch here and there,” Doral replied shakily, and chuckled slightly. “Darling, we really have to stop meeting like this.” It was an old, old joke with them. The ghoul smiled back, then pulled a bottle from her belt, swished her mouth and spat. And then she was in his arms.
----------
With apologies to Mania:
 
What lacks the scurvy, lack-brained Demiurge
Who can invent no other doom but must
Repeat, as wretched penny-a-liners do,
This horror staled by time-long usage? Why,
For variation’s sake, if for naught else,
Mark not with immortality one man,
One rose, one star, one duad of blest lovers?…
— Clark Ashton Smith, “Contra Mortem”
 
Mythic Monster or Guardian: The Blessed Lovers.
 
In all the World and its moons, two people have a love story that never ends. They have borne many names. They can grow old, but never die of old age. When one dies before the other, the other finds their new incarnation — and at the moment of that meeting, the partner remembers their former lives and their love. They have been all sapient species, in every combination of geners, whether by reincarnation or by the Flowers of Rebirth — even cats and koutpas; but whatever their form, their souls belong to the Lovers.
 
Or so goes the tale. Some believe the Blessed Lovers are quasi-mortal avatars of their god. Others suggest the Blessed Lovers are a role or a mantle of power the Lovers grant to mortals of exceptional passion and devotion. Only the gods could know for sure, and they do not reveal each other’s core secrets.
 
Time and again, though, pairs of mortals have achieved incredible deeds for love. They have toppled kingdoms, or founded new ones; slain heroes and monsters alike; inspired others with their devotion, or appalled with the taboos they broke. Rarely do they meet raw power with raw power (though they call gods into themselves with uncanny ease); but they have skills acquired through a hundred lifetimes, and seem to succeed no matter how foolhardy the risks. One way or another, people who try to keep the Blessed Lovers apart usually end up regretting it.
 
And people do try to keep them apart. They are magnets for mortals of overweening ambition and power, especially those who would push a single god’s influence out of balance with the rest. Such folk easily become obsessed with the pair, lusting for one and mad with jealousy at the other. Perhaps the Blessed Lovers clash most often with the minions of power-hungry Xarn Tarsus, but they have also brought new order to lands ravaged by brigandage and anarchy — the worst manifestations of Thrum . They have saved lands from famine and plague that would deliver them to Mania, and balked the vengeance of Olandria. But in so doing, they have also many times turned strangers into friends, from individuals to nations.
 
Love may not truly conquer all, but it’s risky to bet against the Blessed Lovers. And perhaps the most dangerous thing about the Blessed Lovers is that you never know who they’ll be this time around.
--------------
And with that, I'm done!
 
Dean Shomshak

Looks like Champions needs a rewrite. 
 

O mortals, to the loving union of souls there can be no impediment. Bodies matter too, though, and some unions are less feasible than others.
 
For those sufficiently determined in their passion, though, We grant requital. The F;lower of Rebirth can grant thee a new form so they union be consummated with they beloved.
 
Do not confuse it with the roses of Chroma or the piety lily of Xarn Tarsus. The Flower of Rebirth is MUCH BIGGER.
 
Flora: Flowers of Rebirth.
 
Wags sometimes also call them Womb Blooms. A Flower of Rebirth resembles a gigantic lotus. They can grow nearly anywhere except the driest desert, desert, the most barren mountain, or an ice floe (though they are nowhere common). Travelers' tales of dubious veracity even say that Flowers of Rebirth grow under the sea.
 
To use a Flower of Rebirth, climb inside. You will find a narrow but elastic tube descending through the plant's stalk. Squirm down it into a damp, scented sac under the ground. (Only the oldest, largest flowers can accommodate giant dwarves or dragons, but they do grow that big.) As you fall asleep, think upon the form your heart demands. After the passing of a moon (any moon, the sun is no help in telling time, calendars will be a bitch for this world...) You will wake up as the sac heaves and squeezes you back out in your new form. All genders and all sapient species are possible, though it is highly unlikely anyone ever entered a womb bloom in order to become a demon in a bottle.
 
(Spoilered for being a little racier than usual for the Forum, though I don't think any naughty bits are visible.)
Many myths are told about the origin of Flowers of Rebirth, but they usually involve doomed lovers. In Bliskeroy, they were two elves from feuding houses, both slain by their own parents for their forbidden love. In Xolten they were a dragon and a ghoul who committed suicide. Every story ends, though, with the Lovers taking pity upon them and merging them into the first Flower of Rebirth. Some people say these flowers grow wherever doomed love ends in mutual death. When asked the priests of Cadel mumble something about 'higher truth,' while priests of the Lovers say they aren't gardeners, ask the priests of Cadel.
 
Dean Shomshak
 

Much of what the Lovers do involves other gods: possibly their active cooperation, or at least crossing into their domains. But what else would you expect, Their devotees say, of the god of connection and partnership?
 
When the Gods shaped the World, the Lovers chose no special location within it. Love exists wherever lovers do. In partnership with Aportum, however, They made a place outside the World for the use of lovers. It's a door that can potentially lead anywhere, from the depths of Hekk to the outermost moon. But only lovers can pass through, to reach one they love more than life itself.
 
That last is no idle poetic figure of speech. Opening the Door of the Lovers requires stepping into a blazing fire. If your passion is not total, well, you just stepped into a blazing fire. But if your devotion is absolute, you vanish from the fire and appear in a network of fiery filaments. Let your heart guide you through the three-dimensional maze, and in time you will leap out from the flame nearest to your beloved -- and, Their devotees say, there always will be a flame somewhere nearby, though it be no larger than a candle.
 
Or so the story goes. Most who vanish into the fire never come back, and word never reaches the folk they left behind. The World is very large, after all, and if your love has gone far away, so have you. But it is possible that some people in fact never make it out of the maze.
 
It is also claimed that a person who yearns for love can step into the fire and be guided to the perfect mate who will love them, wherever that person may be. But this is even more difficult to confirm.
 
Geography: The Flame Labyrinth.

 
 

Dean Shomshak
 

O mortals, the connection between you and the gods is deep and strong. We love you; and when you love us, that connection can be strong enough that we become one. When you forget yourself in ecstasy, your love for gods can draw gods into the world. Mortal and god become one: We know what it is to be mortal, and mortals know what it is to be divine. For a time, our power joins to your will, for what will one not do for one you love?
 
No god may refuse this union.
 
Interference: Trance Possession.
 
At the height of ecstatic revelry, mortals who love a god with all their heart can draw the god into their body. For a few minutes, the god becomes incarnate in the mortal's body. While the full power of the god is not at the mortal's command, some of it is. It helps, though, to have a priest or friend on hand to remind the possessed mortal of what he, she or it wanted from the god. (Though fauns invite the gods to their revels just for enjoy their company, and vice-versa.)
 
Possession can also happen by identifying a lover as the avatar of a god. Okay, so perhaps not many people would choose Xarn Tarsus as a lover, but the Holy Tyrant can be drawn into mortality, and find himself serving mortal will, as much as any other god. (Granted, a person who loves Xarn Tarsus probably intends to use the god's power for some purpose the god would not find displeasing.)
 

 
(At a guess, this man has called Olandris into himself, or his lover has done so. The goddess reaches down to claim him, while the faces of the Lovers are visible to either side.)
 
Dean Shomshak

Gift to Civilization: Fire.
 
O mortals, let your love be as fire, consuming you until the self vanishes in ardor for the one beloved; or let it smelt you as ore in the crucible and smithy of Thrum until you emerge as tempered steel or shining gold. For Love, you will forget yourself; for Love, you will become greater than you imagined possible.
 
Fire is the emblem of passion, and the principle means of making fire represent this. Flint and steel strike sparks from their union. The bow drill generates fire as a rod moves in a hole. (Real bit of anthropology, there: Encyclopedia Britannica tells me that many cltures see the bow drill in sexual terms. The fire plow, in which a stick moves back and forth in a groove, is perhaps even more explicit.) Lenses and mirrors don't work to make fire, though, unless another god says they do.
 
As a token of this connection, mortals having sex are for that time fireproof. The flames without defer to the fire of passion within. In fact, the first time anyone has sex, they and their partner catch fire and may set other things ablaze. Couples of great mutual passion can do this at will.
 
If Permitted, Second Gift to Civilization: Dance.
 
Guided by music or the joy of togetherness, mortals move in unison without being compelled. Dance is sacred to the Lovers, and a vital part of Their rites. Whether dirty dancing, formal ballroom, or communal dances, mortals forget themselves in the joy of moving together.
 

Dean Shomshak

O Lovers, cruelest of gods! Why do you curse us with love for other people? It hurts so much when they leave! Perhaps love is not returned, or cools for one before the other. Perhaps one we love is forced to move far away. Or the greatest and final parting, when a loved one departs for Mania's halls. Better to feel nothing!
 
O mortals, the sweet cannot be known without the bitter, nor joy be known without sorrow. Though you feel the world has ended, know by the pain in your heart that the one you love is not completely gone, and never shall be while you remember. Accept your tears, for they are holy. This offering We make to Mania and G'Brill; and in time perhaps Astrasia grants thee peace.
 
Secondary Domain: Grief.
 
 
 

Fauns know all the methods of arousing passions and using them to form new connections. Music and dancing, feasting, drinking, drugs, and more -- they know it all. The physical dangers are slight... for them... though other people who attend faun revels have in rare cases died from overdose or exhaustion. A greater danger is that they lose themselves in revelry and never fully come back. Visitors to a faun party may emerge knowing things about their desires they never imagined, and some minds break from the revelation; on. They may also become addicted to the passionate release they do not know how to find anywhere else. But others emerge with new loves and a sense of joyous liberation.
 
Though any folk might attend a party and end up sobbing or cheering, "I love you guys!"
 
A self is such a burden at times. Forgetting it for a while can give a chance to find other people who can help you carry it. And do not forget to give thanks to Thrum as well!
 
Secondary Domain: Ecstatic Revelry.
(I wanted to find a scene from the opera, but the excerpts seemed too slow and tame. This is supposed to be a wild rumpus, not a stately ballet. Eh, let the music carry itself. -- Dean Shomshak)
 
 

As briefly alluded to in the fiction bit above...
 
Sentient Race: Fauns.

(The internet holds scads of better pictures of satyrs and fauns than this bit of clip art, but until I re-learn how to use DropBox I'm trying to conserve the memory space allotted by the Forum. Also, mindful not to post anything that might make the Esteemed Moderator remind me of forum rules on decency.)
 
Okay, let's deal first with what you all want to know about: The people of the Lovers can be male or female. Most fauns are promiscuous, and most of them are bisexual. They've heard of monogamy, but most of them think it's as strange to love only one person physically as to love only one person spiritually. Not into jealousy. Notably broad-minded about sentient species, too. All but a few criminal perverts understand that "No means no" and won't press further, but most fauns also think it's strange that other folk feel they have to say no.
 
Moving on: Fauns live in bands that seldom exceed 30 adults. Mothers raise their children with help from the rest of the band. Individuals move easily between bands. While fauns are most common in forested regions, some fauns live in other environments. While they live by hunting and gathering, they practice a subtle horticulture by propagating food plants. Though they kill to defend themselves or when hunting game, deliberate cruelty is anathema: Fauns never invented blood sports, and may become very angry at witnessing them. Slavery is likewise a concept foreign unto perversity. Leadership in a band is necessarily informal, as anyone who tried to assert rulership would simply find the rest of the band ignoring them and going elsewhere.
 
Music and dance are so important in faun culture that they receive a separate entry. For here, suffice to say they honor /thrum almost as much as the Lovers. Chroma is also honored for the colors of the natural world, and revels are often timed to appearances of the Great Meteor.
 
Dean Shomshak
 
 
 
 

Love binds mortals to each other in families; and beyond that to clans, tribes and countries. But love binds all things, not just mortals. Nothing can exist by itself alone, and We tell you, O mortals, that that need for connection and interaction partakes of Love. The roots of the tree love the soil, and its leaves love the Sun’s light; and by those loves does the tree live. What greater love is there but Cadel’s, who gives light to half the world? If not, perhaps, the love of Mania, who accepts all souls into Her house and always has room for more? The moons of Olandria circle the world for love. The world holds you to itself for love of thee. Even the minutest particulars of all things adhere one to another by bonds of love, without which naught would exist but drifting dust.
 
Secondary Domain: Connection.
 
Well… perhaps We should clarify. Perhaps some things can exist by themselves alone. But if they have no connection to anything else, how would anyone know they exist? Listen, O mortals, to a fable:
 
Imagine there was once a person much like you. Perhaps this person was Alfar, perhaps Human, perhaps Twilighter or Faun. It no longer matters. Nor does it matter if this person was male, female, or something else. We shall simply call this person “It.”
 
It was angry with someone else for leaving it. “Fine,” it cried. “Leave! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”
 
The Lovers heard these words, for gods hear blasphemies against their essential natures. They thought, Have We been denied? Xarn Tarsus replied, They authority has been denied. Punishment should follow. Olandria added, For every blessing there is a curse. And the Lovers decreed, Then We give what is desired: No need for anyone. They took out Their shears by which connections are cut, and snipped.
 
The mortal walked alone for a time. It returned to its community and found everyone gone. “Where is everyone,” it asked.
 
Gone, the Lovers said. You said you did not need anyone, so those connections are gone. They live; you live; but you shall never see them again.
 
It ran to its home, but snip, its home was not there, either. “Where is my house?” it demanded.
 
Gone, the Lovers said. You said you did not need anyone. “Anyone” includes Ammonia, keeper of all houses. The house exists, but it is no longer your house. You shall never see it again. Or any other. A few more snips, and the whole village was gone.
 
It ran, seeking anyone, finding no one. It closed its eyes in exhaustion. Snip. When it opened its eyes again, the world was all gone gray. You do not need anyone, whispered the Lovers, So you do not need Chroma. Then snip, the world went dark. You do not need Cadel or Olandria either, so they too are denied thee.
 
For a time, it blundered in darkness, running into rocks and trees, but snip, snip, the rocks and trees were gone. After a long or short time, even the ground underfoot was gone.
 
“Mercy!” it cried. “Give me back the world!”
 
You did not say you needed Thrum.
 
“Then let me die!”
 
You did not say you needed Mania. And you did not say you needed Us, so We too are gone.
 
SNIP.
 
Perhaps the mortal still exists, somewhere, in a state beyond even the knowing of gods. Or perhaps at the last G’Brill took pity, for surely to be cursed by a god is a cause as lost as lost can be. Or perhaps it never happened at all, for even to be remembered as a fable is a connection of sorts.
 
But why take that chance? Deny not the gods, or each other. Remember that you are connected, never truly alone. And by this you are loved, and owe love in return.
 
Dean Shomshak