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"There is an ancient story of a God, broken and scattered abroad. What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?

Beside a road there is a stone face and an inscription that says, “The True Portrait of the Holy Face” If we truly knew what it was like, the key to the parables would be ours and we would know the truth!

We lost those features, as one may lose a magic number made up of the usual ciphers, as one loses an image in a kaleidoscope, forever. We may see them and know them not. Perhaps a feature of that face lurks in every mirror; perhaps the face died, was erased, so that God may be all of us.

Who knows but that tonight we may see it in the labyrinth of dreams, and tomorrow not know we saw it."
~Chant of the Cult of the EverGod  (Adapted from Jorge Luis Borges)



In ages past, before the world was born, when all was dust in the wind, a being existed. It was the embodiment of chaos and order, good and evil. Things that shouldn’t be together but were. It was everything and nothing, and yet, it was lonely.

It sought to invoke things, ideas, and concepts, to fill the void, but even the best of its success were only fleeting at best; It simply wasn’t very good at creating things. The more it tried, the more it aged. Thinking was harder, and moving was slower.

Eventually, as it once more strove to create, part of It crumbled away. Curious and yet mildly alarmed, It tried again with similar results - another piece of its being fissured, more crumbling away.

It was apparent that its time was done. In the final throes of its efforts, the fracturing of its power begat new beings into existence -- strange fractured creatures, nearly as powerful, but not nearly as conflicted. They were more focused, less part of everything. It knew then that these godlings would succeed where it had failed.

What remained of the being collapsed unto itself, a roiling ball of unfettered chaos.
As the fractured legacy of the being became aware of their own existence, one final question sloughed through the being's vast, ancient mind: Could they control the chaos within...?

In the dust of the First's body, a small spark flickered, jumping from mote of creation to mote of creation, hungry for a sustained fuel sorce.  Suddenly, a wave of divine energy flooded into the fire, and it roared into a massive inferno, pulling dust towards it and forming a shell of hard obsidian, which slowly shifted into a massive, grinning mask with eyes of fire.

Its mouth opened wide, magma dripping down and disappearing into the formless chaos below, and the God spoke, adressing the other which had formed alongside it.

I Am Agni, Flamelord.  You call yourself Zebus, the Deathlord.  Greetings.  Why do you appear in the manner that you do?  So small and flammable?

Zebus saw Agni's eyes glow a little brighter with the last word.

Agni's mask creaked and rippled.

What is Cold?  And What is Tea?  Why would I desire Tea?  Is it Flammable? 

Agni breathed in the evaporated tea, and stone cracked as the God grinned wider.

That smelled... pleasant, Zebus.  I declare that I enjoy this... Tea.  But I remain uncertain of this Cold.  You say it is not me.  But you are not me.  Are you cold?  Do you wish to be warm?

 Agni floated closer to Zebus, and sweat broke out on the other God's brow.

Wind that was not wind, ash that was not ash. From the form of the first a flake fell. Small, tiny, a mote among nothing, itself so small as to be nearly nothing. It twisted and turned, betwixt the two titans, till at their feet it rested. Tiny, torn. But not timid. Never timid.

"Prepare yourselves!" a faint voice called up, its words traveling a hundred leagues if it traveled a foot.

A sharp point, reddish brown, as tiny as its owner, was thrust at the toes of the mighty ones. A prick, a poke, a pierce so small. But again, and again. And, from each wound, a single object grew. Green and long, by the standards of the attacker at least, sharp of edge yet flimsy of body. Against the heat of one, the green blades endured. Against the death of the other, the green blades endured.

"Haha!"

More pricks, and the two gods found themselves standing in a small patch of dense green blades.

"Yield," the tiny one cried out, "and I may tolerate your presence!"