Ru

The gods have left us. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say we left them? The continent of Ru has hovered over the old world nearly two-hundred years now*, suspended in the branches of some impossibly large tree ever since Valymir Tristane slew Ghaul, god of Life, and became Godking. At least, that’s how he tells the tale. None of us can remember. Our memories have been stolen away by the abyss, a whispering pit of endless dark that Tristane says opened up shortly after the ascension. Two hundred years, and not a sign of those we once worshipped. Without Kharte, god of death, we cannot pass from this world. The halls of Kharte take in those who cannot die as their aged bodies begin to fail them. The twin gods of fate have ceased offering prophecy to their followers. Even as we watch the Godking begin to fail, his body unable to contain the constantly growing power of Ghaul, we have no one to guide us.

The Abyss grows wider with every year, the whispering louder with every death. Through misfortune, starvation, and the inevitable discord of an ever-expanding population, we lose our lives. With every death we rise again, made less by the abyss as it siphons away our memories in exchange for a cruel sort of immortality. Those who fall often eventually lose themselves, become mindless, violent things more akin to beasts.

Perhaps it is fair to say we were abandoned. For all their might, a tree should be no barrier to a god no matter how high it climbs. It stands to reason that they choose to keep their distance--even as we grow past the boundaries of our empire, as our bodies wither, as our memories fade into the abyss with every death.