Short Little Stories

The world became a better place. Aubrick ruled as a wise and benevolent king, and never raised his sword again. His line continued on, rulers all, and they worked towards restoring the world. Three generations later, the lands began to blossom and bloom once more, and humanity spread from its scattered outposts into a vast world of many peoples, with promise for the future.

Tailos grew old and withered, but did not die. His line would end with him, for he refused to pass on the curse in his blood to any others. He spent the many long years of his life preparing for a war that was thousands of lifetimes away. He left a legacy of lore and weapons and prophecies, and hoped it would be enough.

The deities of the world, restored, set aside their differences and their squabbling – at least for a time. They brought faith and healing, and as one generation passed into the next, the near-destruction of the world was… forgotten. Spoken of, but with disbelief, for who could imagine such a terrible ending to it all? It seemed unreal, unthinkable – and for them, it was.

The world healed, and recovered, and moved on.

In another realm, far from there, gods died. Elder beasts, alien monstrosities, creatures of raw chaos and gleaming madness… froze, covered in crystalline shells. They were undone by logic and thought, by numbers that shattered and made a lie of their reality.

Stanley Miller was no longer human, or mortal, or anything remotely resembling either. A being of thought and will and cold hard light, he was making the far lands his own. He was order to their chaos, but no less alien for all of that. Majestic, but no less inhuman.

In his passage, madness died, and order reigned supreme.

It was the end of one thing.

It was the start of another.