The Age Of Gods

Gathering / Conference

The humes ever skew hist'ry's weave. With haste they move through too short lives. Driven to err by base desires, t'ward waste and wasting on they run.   Undying, we light the path for the wayward sons of Man. Oft did we pass judg'ment on them so that [the world] might endure. Eternal, we are hist'ry's stewards, to set the course and keep it true.   The chosen is our hand, our fist, to let live some and crush the rest.   – Gerun, FFXII part 37

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In the time before the war, there was a colourful forest that stretched into infinity known as Arden. It was a soul of Lе́szi. In the time before the war, there was a beautiful mountain called Nysa. That was a soul of Alígra. In the time before the war, there was a vast lake called Zerzura. It was a soul of Yaukaran. In the time before the war, there was a golden city called Paititi. It was a soul of Xullat. And in the time before the war, there was a terrible wind that protected them all, called Amana. That was a soul of Levank.

— At the centre of the world

  The War destroyed them all.   The Ishvara survived, as they always do, but their paradise was in flames. All they’d created, lost. It was an opportunity to re-build, to re-shape, and to make a new world that might be amenable for all remaining life. From heaven, each Ishvara sent themselves as Avatars to the earth – to curate something, and to learn once again from one another. They found a sort of peace within that unity. It calmed them.   Gods as they may be called, are those curators. Aspects of the larger self, given a duty to maintain and protect the land or sky. They nurtured us, raised us up, in their own ways. Then from heaven the Ishvara could watch and feel and direct. It was not perfect though. Not like it was before. How could it be?   The aftermath of the the war brought many things, including the emergence of the Imramma: Wastes of the past reality left as cut cloth to rot in the unholy wind. That became a spawning ground for the Fêa and the Efreet. It was clear that the mantle of heaven needed protection. The Ishvara rose to hang themselves as new facets in heaven's weave. Their bodies formed pocket-realities, seen as constellations of stars, collectively known as The Holy Bulwarks to face the new threats. And so their attention became divided.   In highest heaven, Loke's conscience lay in rest. And she dreamt all the dreams of paradises lost. Her dragons buried in the earth, slowly regenerating too. All life on earth, then, was a mere biproduct of the Ishvara's great consciousnesses, and most of it was either ignored or treated as pets, or amusements, game, or slaves by the gods. This was the dawn of creation as we may know it. A dream-like time when mannish were still little more than beasts, and could not yet begin to contemplate civilisation. The gods walked among the races as both benevolent protectors or as incomprehensible tyrants. So survival was all that man or beast could know.   There came to be a huge hierarchy that emerged, where the Ishvara entertained themselves by having their gods play politics and vie for power with each other in heaven, or go to enjoy the vistas that had reemerged on earth, or perhaps some would even adventure into the Imramma. Creatures of chaos would, from time to time, pierce through the veils and invade the Bulwarks. But at least the demonic forces of the Rasamala were sealed away for good; or so it seemed.   And so it was the age of the gods.