Twenty-First Day

Twenty-First Day - The Final Torpor
Deific silence.

''The tenebrous strands of the gods, those grand creators that hovered and flickered in the consciousnesses of all Beings and Things and Unthings, finally detached with a quiet whisper. Those who were closely connected, such as Reannag and Slèibhtean, or the Myrth with Gairacht, wailed in a sense of loss, of ultimate mourning, as their gods fall comatose.''

''Those who are less attached still feel it, an odd isolation, as they are suddenly and utterly detached from all communication and filament to the cosmos around them, becoming Individual for the first time. Some celebrate this strange feeling, but most despair.''

''The gods tumble slowly from Space, their place in the heavens dictated purely in the dimension of Time. As such, they become invisible to all those who lack the other sight, though beings such as the Myrth can see them as ethereal ghosts passing through the aether.''

''Their forms drift through the Universe like giant, flickering afterimages, visible only in certain locations, and only for the most split of seconds. These sights are called Omens, and they flash dolefully- distant, faded icons against the backdrop of the Stars.''

Though many generations are born into the sleeping time, no generation is allowed to forget the pantheon, and great temples and artifacts are crafted in honor of them, and many hold certain symbols or figures of gods close to their hearts, and whisper prayers to them in their sleep.

The gods can speak, still, in their Echoes, and can speak too to their followers, but only in vague, soft tones, snippets, and memories; a ghostly wraithlike language that predates the Universe itself.

''Suddenly alone as Creator, Zothagorlo opens one eye to gaze upon the drifting Gods, and gives a great, raucous laugh, crow-like in its timbre. Long fingers flex and open as it readies its next Act upon First Creation.''