Religion:

  Religion is an undeniable force in Everwealth and the greater world of Gaiatia, shaping cultures, defining morality, and anchoring civilization itself to forces far beyond mortal comprehension. The gods, eldritch embodiments of elements, concepts, and actions, exist not as singular deities watching over their followers with benevolent or cruel intent, but as extensions of reality itself, their existence woven into the fabric of all things. They are not simply creators but manifestations of the physical and metaphysical forces that shape existence. The roaring tide, the silent decay of a forgotten ruin, the first act of mercy, the last breath of a dying warrior, each has a soul, a consciousness, a divine patron who sustains it and is, in turn, sustained by it. The gods did not shape the world; the world shaped them. With the first breath of life, the soul of existence itself took form, a presence so vast and unknowable that even the mightiest faiths fail to name it. When the first fire was lit, so too was born the Burning One, the essence of warmth, destruction, and rebirth. When men coveted what they did not own, the Lord of Want stirred into being, his power waxing and waning with every greedy hand that reached beyond its means. When the last Centaur died, so too did the spirit that bound their people, dissolving into the void as though it had never been. The gods are not omnipotent, nor are they immune to loss, for they are bound as much to the material world as the mortals who live upon it. For millennia, their existence remained a mystery, concealed by the fragile balance that kept them tethered to the world without overwhelming it. They did not reveal themselves, for to do so would be to undo the very laws that made them manifest. They did not answer prayers, did not intervene in mortal struggles, and did not seek worship, at least, not directly. The people of Gaiatia toiled, suffered, prayed to shadows and false idols, whispering to long-dead fragments of gods they did not understand, offering their devotion to unknowable forces in the vain hope that their pleas would be heard.   And for ages, the gods remained silent.   Then came The Fall.   The cataclysm shattered not only civilization but the very balance that held the gods to their domains. The Great Schism that followed put their connection to the world keeping them alive at risk in ways none could have foreseen, and for the first time in existence, the gods were vulnerable. Their power, once passively sustained by the natural order, now required active preservation. They needed worship, devotion, action in their name, not to grow stronger, but simply to endure. The world’s people had once prayed to empty skies, seeking divine aid in their darkest hours; now, the gods prayed to mortals, for without them, their very existence would fade into nothingness. Thus, the nature of divine favor changed. Where once faith was an offering, it became a contract, power granted in exchange for devotion, miracles performed only in the name of those who upheld their god’s will. But the gods are bound by their nature. A god of war cannot grant peace, just as a god of mercy cannot bestow vengeance. The blessings they offer are limited to the domains they embody: the warrior who lives for battle may find his strikes guided by the hand of the Blooded One, while the wanderer who follows the path of fate may receive visions from the Weaver of Roads. A priest who betrays his own sacred vows will find his powers stripped, for his actions no longer reflect the ideal that sustains his patron.   Yet faith is not universal. There are those who doubt, who curse the gods for their silence in ages past, who see them as parasites clinging to mortal devotion to survive. Why should they be worshiped when they did nothing to halt the disasters that shaped history? Why should they be revered when their power is so dangerous that even the briefest interaction with the physical world can bring calamity?   It is a fair question, but one with an answer far more terrifying than most would wish to consider. The gods, though reliant on the mortal world, are not weak. They are not benevolent shepherds guiding their flock through suffering, nor powerless spirits barely clinging to existence. Their dependence on faith is not one of necessity but restraint. Their power, if left unchecked, could unmake the world in an instant, bending reality to their whims with no more effort than a man blinking away dust. The only thing preventing such an end is the delicate balance between their needs and the needs of those who worship them. But balance is fleeting, and power breeds conflict. As the Schism fractured the world, so too did it fracture faith, and where once gods stood united against a common foe, they now turned on one another, their faithful caught in the throes of holy wars waged over doctrine, greed, or ambition. Some leaders wielded faith as a tool of conquest, others as a means of control, and others still as a desperate attempt to solidify their own god’s survival amid the turmoil. The gods may be bound by their natures, but their followers are not, and history has shown time and again that the most devout are often the most dangerous.   The gods may not rule the world, but they are a part of it. And for those who walk their path, they offer more than mere blessings, they offer purpose, a fate beyond death, and a final place within the great tapestry of existence. Yet, for all the might of the divine and the devotion of their worshippers, no god holds dominion over fate itself. Power shifts. Empires fall. Faiths wane. And though a god may grow mighty beyond reckoning, their continued survival is always at the mercy of those below, whether they realize it or not. In the end, what is control, but the illusion of security before the next great upheaval?