The world buckles in pain. Far north, beyond hope, a black eye the size of a continent stares at the skies, weeping demons, never blinking, daring mortals to stare at the abyss and see the four that are one.
Far south, the Ancestor takes the first step on that road. Iron, steel, gromril and bone. Helmet, armor, hammer and crown. Proud. Patrician. Unyielding. Demons shadow him. They mock his purpose.
The road truly started centuries ago, the day he led out of the mountains those brave enough to follow the fire in their souls. To the volcanic wastes. To the places that despise them. To own. To remake. To fulfill ambition. Nothing is beyond them. Beyond him. He has no equals here present. Not anymore. He has long forgotten his fellows, their supposed kinship, their once common hopes. He is alone. Only he left the hearth behind. Only he sees no limits to creation and destruction. His brothers would not follow. Only his sons.
They have done so much. Against the land. Against the green vermin. Against the void. Against themselves. So much they didn’t know they had in them. Some say the war is changing them. They say the world is tainted. They say they are sundered. They say nothing will be as it once was and mourn. Others know better. His heralds. His prophets. They know they do not change. They endure. Supremacy is the constant. All else is meaningless.
Pitiless. Unfettered. They think they know the cost of supremacy. They do not. Not yet. But they will. Their father walks into darkness to show them. He always knew. Matter bends to their will. Matter is theirs by right of conquest. Matter is a slave. It always has. Why would non-matter be any different?
Nothing is beyond them. Beyond him. They will never stand on the brink again. The world hates them, so they will hate back tenfold. They will collar the beast, the betrayer, reality. Order will reign. Discipline. Obedience. Death is failure. To fail is to betray. All else is meaningless.
The Ancestor takes the first step on the road. Baleful. Ravenous. Tyrant. Demons shadow him. They see food. He sees fodder.
The world buckles in pain and two gods march north. Heading to the Void. Alike. Utterly unlike. The first wears no armor except for runic tattoos that speak of a duty he will uphold to the bitter end. No helmet but for the orange crest that bristle as if on fire, as if his body struggled to contain the spirit raging inside. He marches north to kill hell.
The other… the other… they crossed into darkness… the land remembers… the road of skulls… the trails of hash… hash… Sharran! Hashut Sharran! Ishiak Hashut Grund!
-Parchment found in the home of Johannes Schiltberger amongst the relics he collected on his travels to the east. He has been committed to the asylum of Holy Shallya, where his hands have taken a strange and grey rigidity. After collecting his notes and artefacts I noticed the only thing missing was, if I remember correctly, some sort of dwarfish idol with unusual characteristics.
