A Land Without Gods, Part I

From the journal of Fabius Verr, the 15th of Ashfall, 1249 GB

It has been six months since the end of the Icon's War, and the gods, or those few of them who still remain at least, dare not leave the Ascended Peak. Their angels, their brilliant coronas once a common sight in the night sky, have vanished with their masters, leaving the wounded remnants of their flocks to fend for themselves. I can't say I don't sympathize. For the high and mighty, so convinced in their own righteousness and utter invincibility, such a stark reminder must have been unbearable. If I were them, I’d hide as well. Alas, that is a luxury I was not afforded. 

When the Icon showed Their true face and turned on the gods, Corinth Silverbrow was devoured in the Fields of Slaughter and I was left a priest without a god. As a minor clergyman, I was amidst the common soldiers as the sky fell (metaphorically) and the last of the gods fled. It was my good fortune to have been stationed with the 12th Grenadiers at the time - the cyclops who make the bulk of that unit were so fiercely loyal to Corinth and the rest of the Firebrand Pantheon that they didn’t, and perhaps couldn’t, register how betrayed we were. Other priests were not so lucky. Lanis, a decent if unimaginative lad I’ve roomed with for a while in seminar, was chaplain to the 43th Pike at the time. From what I’ve heard, what the Rakshasa left of him could fit in a snuff box with room to spare.

I owe my life to my natural cynicism, once such a terrible hindrance to my advancement - I realized where the winds were blowing faster than most, and did the only logical thing- I fled like a rat, hiding my vestments beneath a  camp follower's filthy roughspun. From what I've heard, as many of the followers of the Divine League perished in the infighting between the now leaderless troops as did in the Fields of Slaughter proper. Between old grudges and outright panic, it wouldn’t surprise me. Perhaps that was a mercy; with the angels gone, the holy mechanisms which powered the great latifundia and the Sacred River have gone dormant - if the followers of the gods haven't been so terribly efficient in murdering one another, they'd have surely starved alongside their families. I'm sure that the Icon, wherever They are, is surely having a good laugh over all of this. They did promise to rid the world of war and suffering, and for the most part They kept that promise. Corpses are a very peaceful bunch, barring some notable exceptions.

So I fled, trying to get as far as I possibly could from the Fields. I had no particular destination on my mind - the armies of the Divine League have been transported to the Fields (then of Providence, now of Slaughter) by the combined efforts of half a dozen pantheons from all over the world. My home, if one could call my barren cell at Tridenfield Abbey a home, was a continent and an ocean away. Much as I missed the bland food and blander company of the Abbey, I wasn’t about to cross half the world to get back to them.

I have no plan to speak of, other than finding somewhere reasonably safe (and not too warm if possible) to lay my head and, absent gods willing, not starve or be eaten by a rogue abyssal in the process.   

No luck so far. 

14th of Moonrise, 1249 GB 

Last month has been… tumultuous. At first, my status as a member of the clergy, minor though I am, served to my benefit more often than not. People were still believing that the gods would return at any minute, and perhaps they thought that currying the favor of even a lesser priest could push them to the front of some imaginary line when the restoration efforts for the damages of the Icon’s War began. Traveling from village to village I was usually offered a roof under my head for the night and the local approximation of a good meal, which would have been considered subpar even in Tridenfield. I shouldn’t complain, since it’s not like the locals ate any better, but I’m going to anyway. 

 

As time went on and it became clear that there would be no restoration efforts, sentiments towards the clergy soured, and I had to eventually ditch my vestments altogether, out of fear of a savage beating or worse at the hands of an angry mob. The only thing I kept that could mark me as a priest was my seal of investiture - one never knew when the tides may turn, and besides, the thing’s made of reasonably pure silver. I hadn’t been reduced to selling the gaudy trinket just yet, though with the state of my coin purse being what it is, I suspect it won’t be long. Being a priest doesn’t pay well, despite what you might’ve believed - we’re supposed to sup on the grace of the gods, so what use is material wealth? 

Loads of bollocks, the grace of the gods.  

16th of Moonrise, 1249 GB 

The Fields are tucked away in a remote corner of a miserable little piece of dirt called Brightseed by its natives, and Blightseed by anyone sensible. I expected the sorry place to be overrun by abyssals within days of our defeat, but for some reason the Icon chose to keep Their bestials allies in check. I’d say it was because Blightseed had little anyone would want, but abyssals are not exactly the most discerning of creatures. Whatever the reason is, I’m not complaining; gods know that surviving in this wretched, humid, mosquito-ridden mudpuddle is difficult enough as it is.   

Humans make for the majority of the Blightseed’s population, probably because we’re the only race stupid enough to bother with the place. The Overgrown Pantheon was worshiped here, and as far as I know none of its gods survived the Fields. I suppose that this means the folks of Blightseed weren't technically betrayed by their gods, the Icon obviously excluded. Not that you’d know, considering how belligerent they’re acting about all of this. I was passing through what passes for a town around these parts when I saw the locals pleting an unfortunate dwarf with rotten vegetables. As far as I could tell, the reason for this was because the dwarf was wearing dark green, which was the official color of the Overgrown Pantheon. I could’ve mentioned that half of the village’s populus were still wearing dark green themselves, or that dwarves are notoriously nearly universally agnostic, but I thought that would not be conducive to me staying un-pelted. 

To slightly ease my guilt, the dwarf seemed to take the barrage in reasonable spirits. Stoicism is one of the chief dwarven virtues, and the old fellow was a true exemplar. Pretty sure I saw him take a nibble from a turnip that hit him in the nose not a moment earlier. An appreciation for fine cuisine is not one of the dwarven virtues. 

21th of Moonrise, 1259 GB

After weeks of travel, I have finally made my way to something approximating civilization. Vlexwood won’t be winning any beauty competitions, but it has plumbing, and public bathhouses, and a working sewage system. Why yes, hygiene is on the forefront of my mind, how could you tell? Most importantly, Vlexwood is enough of a backwater that these systems weren’t powered by angelic script, but by combination of common magic and regular engineering. I’m sure the fine genteel folks at Shining Apex or Decester would’ve ridiculed Vlexwood for using such a provincial system in this day and age, but who's laughing now? Not the people of Vlexwood, who are as humorless a bunch as you’re likely to meet between the Southern Ocean and the Falls, but you get my point.

I arrived at the city through the colorfully named Gate of Trash, named so because, you guessed it, it’s the gate the city’s custodians use to drive their garbage wagons out of town. Traffic was thin, though as I found it later, this was not the case at the city’s other gates, and especially not at its seaport. Refugees have been swarming the city from all corners of the Azure Sea, mostly looking for functional plumbing (and safety, shelter, and substance, I suppose) but also including groups of grim, well-armed fellows for whom Vlexwood is only a point of resupply.

Sitting in a portside dive and nursing a cup of mediocre cider which cost me far more than it should, I caught the attention of one such armed individual, asking him what they were all about. The fellow, a rather dapper golem wearing the ugliest tie I've ever seen and carrying what appeared to be a crystal-encrusted sapling as a weapon, eyed me briefly before answering, “We’re going to give the gods a good old wallop. Left us hanging, doesn’t seem right. So a wallop it is.” 

Why were they here, I asked. The Ascended Peak was nowhere near Blightseed, and everyone knew that’s where the gods lived. According to the golem, the Ascended Peak was nowhere to be found. I argued that this was nonsense, since the Ascended Peak was the largest mountain on the planet, not a pack of peanuts that could be mislaid. Nevertheless, said that golem, to which I admit not having a good answer to. 

“As to why we’re here, well, the Fields were the last place anyone’s seen the gods. Might as well start searching for them here.” Seemed like weak logic to me, but I felt like I’d pushed my luck enough with this rather large fellow, so I simply nodded as if this was perfectly sensible. The good fellow actually bought me a drink while we talked, so I didn’t hold it too much against him. He and his mates, which called themselves something ridiculous like “The Most Sacred Order of Revengers” or “The Holy Order of Punishers” or something, left the city a few days after arriving. Regardless of the name, I think Vlexwood was happy to be rid of them - the presence of so many armed men doesn’t tend to sit well with rulers who are not in charge of them. 

2th of Bittertide, 1249 GB 

The sky fell. Literally this time. Fuck.