Friday, 8 February 2008

An... Idea? cont'd

The previous malformed waffle mostly concerned small, human-ish things and the gods that play with them. Here's my current thinking in the world outside, and the mechanism through which mortals sense their puppet masters:


The world comprises elements and forces that endlessly interact, a chaotic dance that will have repurcussions for the brief lives squirming above and through it. These entities also have lives and even minds, of a sort, although far removed from what mortals might understand. Vast, ancient and inscrutible, they're not susceptible to manipulation or suggestion even by the agents of the gods. They will deal with them, although what they stand to gain from such agreements is anyone's guess.

And so the gods that do not deign to meddle in the politics and wars of the little people continue their slow, enigmatic plans. Occasionally they will ally themselves with other gods, and cities are consumed by earthquakes, fleets sunk in sudden storms, or armies struck down by fire from the sky as some ancient token of debt is called in. Thankfully such things are rare, and alliances between the different powers never lasting. It seems the uncaring gods have great difficulty focusing on events so brief and insignificant as mortal wars, even at the behest of their brethren. And why should they concern themselves, when there's another ice age just around the corner that will wipe the tally regardless?


Very occasionally whilst casting a spell, an unlucky mage will draw some magic through the barrier that has been corrupted by the mind of a god. The effect upon the unfortunate's already corroding mind is devestating. The concept of the god, the inevitability of it, the all-consuming presence of it, bores into his or her mind like a voracious worm. Memories, knowledge and identity are burned away and replaced with the thudding, insistent reality of deity. The afflicted will generally start babbling, words pouring forth in a desperate attempt to encompass the intrusion. Any skills remaining to them will be turned to this utimately futile purpose, and divine magic pours from them in frothing, turbulent waves like smoke from a white-hot censer. Books, images, scar patterns on their fevered flesh, even in one case baked goods after a cook's pubescent son experimented with his first spells, depict images of the god and tiny scraps of its plans.

The followers of the god in question flock to the prophet, bathing in the blessed magic streaming from him, claiming artifacts bearing the marks of holy insanity, and desperately trying to find ineffible meaning in her ravings.

The life expectancy of a prophet, even with the best care possible provided by the appropriate church, is roughly two weeks.


Despite their apparent inability to directly affect the world, the gods seem to derive... something from interacting with it. The world seems to reflect and perhaps influence the struggles in the divine realm, whether through the clash of armies or slow waltz of mountains and glaciers. This needs clarification, or the reasoning falls down elsewhere.

Right, that's enough burbling for now. More seeds for background stuff.

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