Death follows everyone and Everyone.
Including Gods.
(The scripting here is, quite simply, magnificent. Ornate and flowing, embellishments added to the page makes viewing this feel more like seeing a masterwork painting the first time instead of reading a journal.)
I was wrong. We were wrong.
The first words ever penned by a God on this plane, and they fly in the face of every theology known: past, present, future.
However, those words are the truth.
Our Divine Crusade has marched for only three seasons now, yet already I do not doubt the validity of my words here. Thirty gods and Our faithful followers marching upon the mortals. The selfsame mortals whom had intruded into Our personal domains. The mortals whom had blasphemed and corrupted Our own lands. The cause and reason is just. Even the most pacifist of Us teach Our followers self-defense.
The reason is just. This action is not.
We used to celebrate the unique ingenuity of the mortal races. It is why We ascended that Age ago. We were not content to sit in fear of Divine Reprisal. We were not content to be stripped of that unique sense of being, the self, the soul… to be mere entertainment for beings beyond our power.
And here We are, instead of correcting a mistake made by those in Our charge, We are attempting to remove a hangnail with a halberd.
And We are locked upon this path. There is no retreat, no armistice, no parlay, and no compromise available to Us now.
Because of the mortal corruption onto our own Domains, the only recourse we had was to remove them completely, and form ourselves here. No Avatars nor projections, just a score and a half of Divine walking again on the Plane that birthed Us an Age ago.
We are ending Our own Age while singing songs of Glory. Of course, My Brother is leading the song.
(The ornate scripting continues with the next entry)
Ten seasons into the war have now passed. Our planned surgical strikes at the magical centers that were the root cause of Us losing our homes have finally been completed. Unfortunately, they were anything but surgical.
The fallout from the destruction of those magical engines has removed entire cities from the map. Populations reduced to zero within days. Whatever energies those machines tapped into, they were not of this plane or any known elemental plane. Speculation is that it is those latent energies themselves that caused the rapid corruption of our once native Domains.
But I am not a scholar. I am the reprisal when someone is found lacking. I am Vengeance. I am Death. I am Velius.
And the mortals are praying to Me to strike down my fellow Divine.
They do not know it was My own hand which destroyed the first machine.
The merchants scales emblazoned on My vambraces mock Me… swinging heavily in one direction – I have been found lacking.
(The script is, again, very ornate, but the embellishments are lightly faded compared to earlier pages)
Seventeen seasons gone. Gone, also, is my Brother. Somehow, some way, Priel was struck down in combat today. He, along with His followers, was at the front lines, charging into the Nations’ army.
With such devastation these past seasons, of course the Nations would muster a defense. It was to be expected.
Priel was never one to pass up the chance to lead a charge. Personifying Glory, We used to laugh that it is a requirement.
Once again, We underestimated the mortal races.
I would not have believed it had I not been there to witness the act itself: a man, a human, armed mainly with breastplate and sword, met my brother head on in the charge. Their blades locked and neither gave way to the other.
That alone, is unique enough. The true paradox of that moment was not that act but the man himself, or more specifically, what was not in the man.
The man had no soul.
Yet he stood, he breathed, he had a pulse. An aspect of undeath would have been pulverized by the mere presence of my Brother. The mortal races learned that one early on.
This man just simply… was empty. No soul. Yet, he had a family, a past, a history, a personality. As the bearer of the Scales, I can discern these things with but a moment.
This man also had a stiletto in his off hand. One quick strike and my brother’s neck erupted in a fountain of crimson. The result itself was not disturbing, for occasionally the mortals get lucky or one of Us, quite simply, has a moment of Stupid. We are not invulnerable. We may be nigh close to, but not completely invulnerable. However, even if the weakest of Us gets overrun and takes what would be a “fatal wound”, we simply fade from existence for a time… until our essence can sustain a physical form again. So I made a mental note to myself to chide my Brother about not wearing a gorget, while anticipating his essence to dissipate.
Priel did not fade. He screamed, or at least was trying to until he fell to his knees and bled out.
The battle was a rout from that strike on. Who dares stand against one who can strike down a God? Glory, in truth and deed, was taken by the Mortals.
Our Immortality now an apparent falsehood, I sit here and write and try to bring myself back to balance while I hear the rest of the Divines arguing nearby.
Shock and disbelief from all of Us is understandable.
However, right now, I grieve.
(The script is still very ornate, but the embellishments are faint and faded now.)
Twenty Five seasons since the start of Our Divine Crusade. The mortal races continue to surprise the Divine Host, for those we now call The Soulless continue to hound us. Actually, that is a very poor choice of words right there, for the mortals have expanded their ability to strike at us through creature and beast.
War hounds and magical beasts have now been perverted to stand alongside the Soulless, each one missing that small karmic divine spark living things should contain.
This is turning into a fight for survival: Our survival.
It was with some relief, however, when it was discovered that the Soulless could die just as easily as any other Mortal. They are, however, amazingly resilient and difficult to dispatch. Abominations to all of creation, is a better term for what they actually are. Men and women, who willingly have undergone some… change… to make themselves into a living, breathing, weapon.
Part of me wants to applaud the mortal races’ tenacity.
I wrote briefly earlier about collateral damage. I have to add to the list: Morality and Compassion. Othin and Liel both still live and breathe, and fight alongside the Host, but the War has changed them. Each now behaves like bloodthirsty savages, mere specters of their former selves. Desperation and Madness have become their true names now. Othin is an uncaring berserker, wanting nothing but to destroy the mortal races at all cost – now that we have taken casualties. Liel avoids the front lines, but actively seeks out noncombatants to slake his bloodlust.
Talhn, who but a few seasons ago put Himself and His Shield between a squad of Soulless and Liel… is mysteriously absent at conflicts where Othin and Liel are loosed upon the mortals.
As this war passes, I fear I may need to approach Talhn about that.
(The script lacks its original ornateness, and any embellishments are non-existant.)
Fourty seasons. A decade of death and war and loss. The Host has splintered into factions and the Divine Crusade has become the Divine Tragedy.
Countryside’s devastated. Entire populations of refugees with nowhere to go and no hope to be offered. The Divine Host may very well fight to the last God, but We may very well take the world with Us as We die.
Speaking of Death, it has been some time since I fulfilled My true role. Yesterday, however, I brought the Scales to bear.
As I had written before, Talhn has become more and more absent during our battles – His battalions of Devout slowly thinning and dispersing from the Divine Host’s armies. I had attempted to speak to Him about this, but sometimes getting the Protector to speak is about as easy as getting his Shield to speak for Him. Yet, I found the need pressing, so during yesterday’s skirmish with the Nations’ forces I followed a handful of His Devout removing themselves from the field.
As the mortals have said: “Death follows everyone”. They just never knew how literal the phrase could be. However, as surprised as they would be at the realization of the truth, it still did not match my surprise when I found Talhn and his Devout manning and aiding one of the Nations’ field hospitals some distance from the front lines. Talhn Himself was walking amongst the most grievously wounded, healing those who, quite literally, were knocking at My door – ready to pass onto the next realm.
My amazement was abruptly changed to disbelief as I saw Talhn recoil in shock from the next soldier, wrapped almost completely in bloody rags.
“I know you, Liel. No disguise can hide who you are.”
A hysterical laughter followed as the ‘injured’ soldier rose to his feet, clawing at the bandages to rip them away. The Protector’s call was accurate, for Madness Himself stood and willed His whip into His hand.
The laughter faded for a moment. “Turncoat. Betrayer. I will see you die like these unworthy beasts.” With a mere flick of his wrist, Liel’s whip took the life of the soldier whom Talhn had just brought back from My door.
Talhn raised his Shield only a moment before Liel’s lash swung again. A bard or few have sung about the epic fights of Gods amongst themselves – however, this was a mockery of those ballads. Liel was swinging often enough to keep Talhn at a distance, but every other swing brought another mortal’s death.
Ten years of being dragged through Death and Destruction. A decade of the Scales being off balance. Not only were the mortals successfully killing Gods, we were now trying to help them do it quicker.
I snapped.
Death follows everyone and Everyone.
Including Gods.
It took Liel a moment to realize that I was behind Him. It took Him another moment to realize that My blade had already cut His throat.
“It is not His time yet, Liel… but it is Yours.”
There is a reason why the bard’s songs of Gods fighting each other are so epic. The fights are very, very, mortal.
Neither Talhn nor I took Liel’s mantle as the God died at our feet. I let it pass alongside his body into the next realm. It wasn’t the first passing of a God and His mantle in this war.
I could not lie to myself to think it would be the last, either.
(The journal ends here. Whether or not the Divine’s journal is continued elsewhere is unknown. The only remaining marking is an amazingly detailed drawing of some Merchant Scales inside the back cover, followed by a quickly scribbled signature: “Velius”)
