[The Court of Gods - A Mortal Lament] Before the stars had names, they wept, and from their tears the gods were kept. Born not of love, but law and flame, they etched their truth in mortal shame. Tiss was first, with lips of gold, whose kiss made empires burn and fold. She whispered freedom, fever, fire, then left her lovers draped in wire. Morcia came on thunder's back, his war-cry cracked the heavens' black. He forged his wrath in soldier's bone, and crowned each grave with sharpened stone. Theidan, tide and tempest's hymn, walked barefoot through the ocean's rim. Her gaze could calm the roaring deep, or drag a fleet into her sleep. Uhrua, flame's forgotten kin, with forge-heart pulsing ash within. She sang to blades, to molten cries, and fed her heat to wingless skies. Sylvaea, rootless, wild, and free, not man, not woman, not the tree. They wove the world in thorns and moss, where blood is gift, and death no loss. Min, the queen of jade and light, whose laughter masks the hunger's bite. She walks in silk and speaks in stars, and dreams of chains that look like scars. And Vervass, shadow dressed in grace, whose breath is plague, whose smile is lace. They do not shout. They barely move. They only touch, and then remove. Seven gods, and one high throne. Seven wounds we call our own. We pray to them with salted breath, but know: each gift is edged in death. They are not kind. They are not just. They mold our bones, then grind to dust. Yet still we kneel, beneath their flame, for gods may break, but so does name. We, Who Were Called Gods A Divine Lament Spoken in the voice of the Court of Gods, from their side of the veil We did not ask for crowns of flame. The stars were ours, but not your name. You forged us idols out of fear, and gave us flesh we could not steer. We bled you rivers, shaped you laws, but never claimed to be your cause. It was you who built the shrine, who pressed our breath in blood and wine. I, Tiss, am hunger dressed in bloom. You call me sin. I call it womb. Each lust you loathe, I dared to free, and still you blamed your want on me. I, Morcia, wrath in molten form, am not your war, I am your storm. I held the void outside your gate, you turned my sword to paths of hate. I, Theidan, gave you tides to sail. You drowned your kin and called me veil. My waves were meant for rites, for dreams, not tombs you filled with sailor screams. I, Uhrua, the forge of dawn, once sang to dragons newly spawned. But you took fire and made it chain, and now my song is sung in pain. I, Sylvaea, thorn and bloom, have watched you prune your children's womb. You feared the wild that does not yield, but still, I grew what could not shield. I, Min, who walks through prism breath, have mourned the mortals lost to death. You worshiped me for power's sake, then cursed me when your empires break. I, Vervass, silence dressed in skin, have never asked for what has been. I do not seek, nor crave your end, but rot obeys what you won't mend. We are not gods. We are your choice. A mirror shaped by mortal voice. You feared the dark, so gave it face, then begged us make it leave no trace. We break, we burn, we bleed, we bind, but not from hate. We were designed. To hold the balance, thread the seam, the death between what is and dream. Yet now we flicker, fade, and fray, our altars cracked, your prayers decay. Still we linger, not as kings, but watchers bound to broken things. Here lies the world, once whole, now veined, Its bones splayed wide where gods were chained. Each land a scar, each sea a name, Each storm a whisperer cloaked in flame.
