Autumnal bursts of cold washed over the land. The fallow fields remained empty, all hands gone, all humanity fled in terror. The end was coming, it was felt, it was here, it was all around. On a Plane removed, and yet one with the Prime a battle raged. To the sky the fearful peasants stared. Mages and warriors of great renown cowered at the sight unfolding.
The incarnations of their Gods, locked in a great battle with the very Specters of Humanity”s suffering. The world shook with the awesome power unleashed in the conflict. Divine entities raged in plain sight, burning the sight out of those weak-willed who observed the battle. The minions of the Gods lay like cut barely, the Scythe of Death slicing through their beings.
The sky darkened, flashing with angry, seething fire. Gods of Power and Strength clashing with the horrible image of the War, Famine, Plague, and Death. The atramentous steeds screamed in hatred at the shapes facing them. Long burning arcs of pure quintessence sizzled the space between them.
Already one God, nameless in the fray that continued, had fallen to the power of the Four Horsemen. At it’s fall the great land rent with blood and fire. Bursting from sky the blood fell like rain. The pure essence of the Gods downfall destroying all that it touched, searing it from existence. The dying deity sprawled out, it’s howls draining out the cries of humanity for salvation.
The cruel hooves of a dark horse rode over the dying shape, crushing it into the fabric of reality, and in one horrible instant a loud, hollow boom sprayed forth from the very nature of reality. A rending of all that was true, and an influx of paradox, sucking out and replacing the air with pure death. The body of the God shattered, as a mirrored reflection of it’s power, and the chill wind increased.
In the center of the great melee two Gods stood, side by side. All around them was laid waste. In front another God was smitten to the ground, the Mace of War penetrating it’s head. Spraying divine brain-matter, infinite wisdom lost. The fountain of blood and gore sprayed out across the land, weeping for the loss, Mother Earth’s screams joined that of the dying God’s soul.
A howl rose through the air, as two great shapes rose in the middle of the ferocious battle. Two shapes wreathed in bubbling lightning, angry slashes of pure quintessence searing reality. The twisting form of a Horsemen, his emancipating form fell. The two shapes set upon it, with a horrible finality the being disappeared, all who heard it”s death would forever remember it.
As if on cue, a tenth part of the world was vanquished. Men, women, children and the elderly, all were consumed. One of every ten fell to the ground, their bodies devoured by the power of the Horseman’s fall. Famine consumed them, their corpses turning to dust, skin flowering into dust, eyes liquidating into small motes of fluid.
As the horrified eyes of humanity stared at their fallen compatriots the death had just begun. The two shapes rose through the battle, standing back and gathering their power. The plants and wildlife of the world withered, their life force drawn through the powerful dweomers that were being cast.
The flowing robes of magic wove convoluted circles in the air. Another God rising up into the battle. As it rose, the magic it unleashed was terrible, stripping the dark horses of their flesh, ripping them into pieces that showered down atop the world and it”s inhabitants. Those from the fallen Famine burned in the sky like meteors. The one”s from the virulent Plague fell amongst the peasants, falling as if incorporeal through inanimate covering. Across flesh they fell, those touched crying in horror as their flesh atrophied and died.
Those from the violence of war fell against the structures of the world, rupturing stone as if the flesh of those long dead on the battlefield. Blood gushed from the stones and woods of the world as they were destroyed, any flesh it touched set afire, a howling, painful end. But those from Death were the true horror. Those they touched smiled madly, their mind”s dying from the flesh of the Horsemen’s steed. Screaming in glee they rose up against their neighbors, and war raged across the lands.
Amidst the death of his followers, the valiant God who’s dweomer had destroyed their horses was powerless. The Scythe of Death, Mace of War, and Flail of Plague fell upon it, ripping apart the flesh on it’s huge body. The God who had tried with it’s power to vanquish their foes had crippled them, but his death was gruesome. The rents that were carved in the land split wider, and from them spilled forth dark shapes of the Underworld, flowing through the armies of the warring mankind, destroying indiscriminately.
The weakened, but far from defeated Horsemen turned their attention to the only remaining Gods. The two shapes who had drawn the very life from the Earth to create their spells faced them. The Horsemen lined up, and the greatest contest that the world would ever witness ensued. The two shapes were alternates of each other. One was dressed all in white, his flowing hair blonde. In his hands he clutched a huge war hammer and a shield adorned his other arm. The other, darker, all in black. Her serrated blade weaving in the air, dagger poisoned with pure entropy in her off hand.
From the two was issued a loud call to arms. All the warring factions of the Earth gathered together. In these final moves of the great divine battle were great deeds of heroism done. Turning back the tides of the Underworld humanity had not ime to rest. Looking into the sky, they saw the battle still raging.
The two shapes froze in mid stride, and rose their weapons into the air. Great bellows filled the world. From the dead landscape issued the final answer to the most powerful God”s call. The quintessence of the fallen deities flowed into them. Their eyes raged with power, and with the power came violence. The passion of each Deities death poured into them. Their ordered mind’s were destroyed.
As if ten suns had fallen upon the Earth, pure lithe began to kill. Sucking in the life-power of the people”s who had once worshipped them, the deities stared in wicked glee at the Horsemen. Their order gone, their mind”s were unhinged by the influx of power. Chaos ruled their thoughts and actions.
Yet in this, it did not matter. For as they came forward, their powerful weapons cleaved into and through the weapons of their foes. Powerful Plague fell first, his body devoured by the Entropy of the Dark Goddess. As the faint echoing screams died off, another tenth of the ravaged remnants of humanity cried out, and their bodies bubbled and ruptures. Lacerations appeared on their arms and legs, purple spots of pestilence fell upon them.
War came forward, engaged with the White God. His war hammer arched down. A blinding flesh, and the head of War”s mace fell upon the world. The land split around it, rushing poisonous water destroying most of the once fertile forests of Jacmus. The God’s return stroke was deadly, and his blows fell quicker than his maimed foes. The downfall of War cursed the fate of Mankind. His insidious power seeped out into those who saw the battle. One tenth of the survives of the plagues were suddenly burst into pure flames of hate, their very souls devoured, beggars and kings, simply gone.
In the end the two Deities Powerful God and Goddess faced the final obstacle. Death stood, hissing out in his terrible laugh. Their weapons, Radiance and Entropy fell against the Scythe of Death and were foiled. The most powerful Horsemen flowing in between them, around them, his flicking scythe threatening death even to the powerful beings.
The God and Goddess, their mind raging with Chaos screeched in glee. Their weapons fell against him again, and again they were foiled. Slowly realization dawned upon the two beings. They could not destroy Death by trying to kill it. Their had to be a way for them to destroy this being. The brief respite in Chaos allowed them to think far more clearly.
Turning towards each other, they grabbed each other’s hands. Brother and Sister, deity of Good and Evil joined hands. In the skies above Jacmus the Prime Material exploded with pure and complete love. Those who died were forgiven, those who could be saved were saved. But Death was not yet defeated. He faced the two and laughed again.
Even love dies.
The two deities turned and faced him. Their power increased tenfold, they reached out, and in a seemingly slow movement they touched the pure essence of Death. Time and space froze, in an Endless Waltz reality snapped into beginning. The final moment of Death came upon Mankind. His being, the power of all the Horsemen in one, was gone. Great weaves of Magick flowed out into the land. Becoming one with the land. Blankets of preternatural mist settled on the world. Magi, those who remained, shrieked and slew themselves at the loss of their art.
The quintessence of the Gods was now gone, contained only in the incestuous Gods of Good and Evil who had turned to Chaos. The Horsemen, mankind’s purest resemblance were gone. Their power scattered like leaves on the wind. The strength of human magic, the ability to touch quintessence was gone.
In the end, when they sky slowly returned, life was never the same. In the place of a great Realm of Beauty and Peace there was now this blasted landscape of death and loss. People screamed, pulling their hair at the loss of their loved ones. One in ten stood, the rest all were dead. Years had passed during the battle, yet not that many. Looking at children who were newborn at the beginning of the battle, the people were amazed. Yet looking at themselves they saw themselves aged as if thirty years had gone by.
The power of humanity waned in these times. Creatures born of the dark and terrible struggle procreated. Forces of Humanity were driven back, and it had seemed the Gods had left them. Into this, a new generation, fully grown before their time, yet with the experiences of an entire life were coming of age. Their eyes shone with their dedication, the chaos of their deities apparent in them.
So began the new life of Jacmus Prime. The once tumultuous masses were no more. Villages of a thousand were as far spread as gold. A dozen fighting men could overcome entire cities. The husks of ancient homes were all that remained.
Yet into this void was born a great realm. The capital a fully inhabited city. The surrounding area grew with farms and freemen. The only realm remaining in Jacmus was a strained thing. No ruler could hold the throne for long, and yet all continued to try. The only semblance of order was yet a breeding ground of chaos. So begins the chronicle of the fallen people.