Follow the wanderings and musings of Tibi, renowned philosopher and knight.
In the beginning there were the gods, the Primordial Ones…
Tibi scrabbled fumblingly down the treacherous slope, dislodging jagged stones that clinked and crashed their way down to the ground below. The words of his dear friend echoed bitterly in his head as he descended.
And immediately they turned and fought each other for power, a desperate scramble to see who would be at the top,
Once or twice his foot lost purchase, the metal tip of his armored boot slipping easily from the slick black ledge of volcanic glass. But he held on tight each time, muttering words of steadfastness and stoicism until his foot found another perch and he could carry on.
The fight raged on for untold millennia of violence and strife until finally the most terrible, Lord Lenoius, emerged the victorious of the gods.
Finally his feet brushed the soft grass at the bottom and he fell heavily to solid ground, breathing deeply the smells of a foreign land. It was not a comforting smell.
Ever the patriarch, Lenoius placed his conquered gods in a hierarchy below him, establishing the first and only order of deities to rule the universe.
Still tingling with the relief that accompanies near death experiences, Tibi reached for his pack that he had thrown down earlier that day and painstakingly donned his heavy iron armor.
The weakest and most wretched of the gods were at the bottom of this order, and out of frustration they strived to create beings lower than themselves, from whom they could dominate and demand worship from.
The dull, black iron was dense and strong, and the armor weighed more than any normal man should carry; its visor was beaten up and perforated with barely enough holes to see through; the chainmail and leather padding was cracked from age and pinched him as he walked. But down here Tibi clung to his armor, his protection in a land of dangers.
First they created the animals and plants of our world, but they grew unsatisfied with the simple nobility of nature and desired creatures that would sacrifice these things to them and worship. They created us humans.
Tibi turned to face the next trial before him. It was a dense woods, dark and uninviting and greener than anyplace he’d ever seen. The rasping and rustling of leaves against leaves met him as he stepped forward, shooing him away. But Tibi cared not for the speak of trees; arboreal communication was a traditional practice lost to him, the trees soon realized.
Don’t you get it, Tibi? We’re the wretched of the wretched, the playthings and slaves of a selfish and sadistic pantheon. A lot of people think the gods care but I know the truth, and now you do too.
Tibi entered the woods.