Torchbearer's Sky

12th of the 8th month, Esekah, 1273 AR

Some tell of the peace that has stretched for years, reaching not only to all corners of the continent but to all its people as well.

Some tell of the growing number of deaths on borders.

Some tell of a dying god left alone to suffer.

Some tel of a world in which all things are perfect, save for minor disputes regarding contested territory or exchange of goods.

Most will not dare voice their qualms with the Savior- the rulers of the world, the injustice painted blue with blood, the problems that are never quite answered by whatever government is threatening to close in. And because people refuse to speak, their voices are lost.

When the inhabitants of this world look up, none of them mention the dimming of the sun. Those who notice push it away, and those who spread the word of death are called heretics. There is supposed to be peace. There is supposed to be perfection. No one says that someone needs to save them.

And yet it ticks in the back of a collective mind. No one would dare say that the world is about to die again, but the sore festers and grows as a blister of rebellion on the heel of naysayers. Rumors swell in civilization's underbelly, fighting towards the surface. Belief and faith may cling to the ground, but proof clings to the stars.

Where do you direct your gaze?