1. Prologue

It all began on a day that seemed as normal as any other, but then most doomsdays do start out normal it's said. The sky was blue, the sun was its usual fiery yellow-orange, the birds sang, and in the midst of all that, the gods began to die.

Since the departure of the Gods from the world, the tides had begun to turn. People's faith had begun to wane, and their prayers came less often, and were usually shorter and filled with less energy. A new energy was beginning to build, one that would soon fly across the world and rend it asunder, leaving a world that was barely spiritually recognizable as the same place, a world where the cycle of the Gods would finally complete its second full revolution.

2. The Beginning: Mouseglove

Mouseglove was sitting in his library, his owl Sebastian dozing on the chair behind him as was his daily routine. Sebastian slept, Mouseglove read. He'd been getting weaker lately, but he had reasoned that it was due to the lack of visibility of the gods who, following his edict, had removed themselves from the mortal world. He had issued this edict in good faith, hoping to protect those who lived upon Aurealis from the games and petty machinations of the younger gods, and it had worked well thus far. The unforeseen side-effect of this absence, however, had been the gradual falling off of worship and prayers, the things that fuel a gods power, and thus they had been getting weaker. Everyone but the nature goddess Kayleigh had shown visible signs of weakening, but in Mouseglove's estimation, that was alright, for if there was one deity to be left stronger than all the rest, better the Earthmother than say... Cauchemar.

On this particular day, Mouseglove sat at his desk, reading the history of the gods of the Realms. Written originally in the old world, and transcribed and appended by Mouseglove and the other members of his organization, it detailed the rise and fall of the gods of the realms. Reading the stories made Mouseglove feel a warm glow of memory as he recalled vividly old friends... Athos... Grimslayde... Numair... and old not-so-old, not-so-good friends... Indi, Azurel, his one-time wife, Lorbache... all had passed, and in their passing, for good or ill, the realms had been diminished just a little.

Sighing, Mouseglove turned the next page, wiping at his eyes, eyes that never used to become tired while reading, but lately had begun to ache and water occasionally, much to his annoyance. He continued to read the histories, unaware that he was being watched. From the doorway to his study, a gaunt, almost sickly-looking halfling stood watching him silently. His head was completely bald and he was dressed in black leathers that made no sound as he began to move slowly forward. In his weakened state, Mouseglove seemed not to notice, and Sebastian slept soundly, no noise from the creeping intruder to awaken him.

As he approached Mouseglove's chair, the halfling paused, as if thinking, then began forward again, each footstep taking him a few inches into the air, until he stood, shoulder-to-shoulder level, with the Shadowlord who remained unaware of his presence. The halfling noiselessly drew two longdaggers, one in each hand an as long as his arm, and with one swift move, struck both Sebastian and Mouseglove simultaneously, moving with a speed and accuracy that belied his diminutive size. The left dagger flashed out dully to strike Sebastian in the back of the head, its blade piercing the owl's skull, killing him instantly.

Turning slightly in shock, Mouseglove made it easier for the halfling's right hand to reach around and expertly slit the zhaun God's throat, covering the front of Mouseglove's robe with dark red blood. Lurching to his feet, Mouseglove looked around and spotted the halfling, who stood watching the death of the Realm's overlord impassively. A strange look crossed Mouseglove's face, as if he had just seen something that had answered a nagging question. With a strange look of relief, then of peace, Mouseglove sank to his knees, his arm stretching out to touch Sebastian's body as he fell forward. Within a few moments, the blood ceased to flow from the wound, and his body stopped moving.

All this time, the halfling said nothing, merely watching with cold, almost disinterested eyes. After making sure that the Shadowlord was, in fact, dead, he walked up, cleaned his daggers on Mouseglove's robe, and sheathed them silently. Surveying the room momentarily, he turned without a word and walked out of the doorway, secure in his success. Far below, in a small room, Mystique, adopted daughter of Mouseglove, cried out and sat up. She had seen the study, the halfling, the murder, and felt a strange hollowness in her chest, as if a part of her had vanished. She knew it was only a dream and yet... it hadn't been only a dream. She felt as if something terrible had happened. Suddenly, a note was matter transferred at her feet, bearing the sigil of her brother, Nym. On it she read that he too had had an identical dream, and was trying to find out what he could. He informed her that, so far, the only thing he could discover through arcane means was one word: Zorihar.

3. Cauchemar

Far away, in a dark cavern filled with glowing green energy, Cauchemar sat brooding. The edict that had kept the Gods from the mortal realms had made his life a living hell. No longer was he free to travel and sow discord as he had, now he was forced to send his frightening missives solely as night-terrors, and with the weakening of the Gods that had been occurring, his night-terrors now had little more strength than those the mortals could create on their own.

"How pathetic," a voice behind him said contemptuously. Spinning around, Cauchemar could not see who had spoken at first, but after squinting into the green glow, noticed an area of the glow that was not quite as bright, an area that had a vaguely humanoid shape, with deep black holes where the eyes and mouth would normally be. "I don't know who you are," Cauchemar whispered angrily, "but if you don't leave now, you'll never live to set foot anywhere ever again!"

Moving forward, the shape waved its arm, and the glow around the chamber vanished, abruptly plunging the cavern into a darkness in which she, for Cauchemar could now see a distinctly feminine shape to the shape, was the only illumination. "What are you going to do, you old fool?" the shape asked, "Make me dream of my puppy running away? Your time is done, old one. Younger, more... worthy gods are coming, and well... you're in my spot." Recoiling in fear, Cauchemar reached for what little power remained to him and sent a wave of green energy speeding at the shape. The energy lanced into the female mist, and her glow began to intensify. "Thank you, old fool. That's just what I needed." she replied, waving an arm almost casually at Cauchemar. "Goodbye."

As Cauchemar watched, Mouseglove appeared, as dark and vengeful as ever he had been, and began to work a spell. "No!" cried the Nightmare Lord, "Don't put me back in the world core, please... I.... I beg you..." Ignoring his cries, the Shadowlord finished his incantation and whispered, "Alright. The world core is too kind a prison for the likes of you. I'm going to put you someplace where you can't even sense the world, let alone affect it. Goodbye." Cauchemar felt his body begin to compact painfully, and saw that he was being compressed, crushed, smaller and smaller, and as he shrank, he felt himself forgetting, losing his memories, his sense of self... all that made him who he was... until at the end, he heard the female say "Welcome to your nightmare, old fool. The time of Cauchemar is over. Now begins the time of Halke."

Cauchemar's last memory was of mocking female laughter before his essence was snuffed out, reduced to mere power, sitting in a glowing green emerald on the floor. Halke drifted over and picked the emerald up. "This will taste so good..." she said as she inserted it into her mouth. Her being seemed to burst with a renewed glow, and the cavern returned to its former luminescence. "Now it begins to feel like home." And with that, and a sinister chuckle, Halke faded from view to become one with the glow of the cavern.

4. Atlas

In another place, humming to himself, as he always did, Atlas continued to work on his latest creation, a golem of such beauty and perfection as to make the hardiest forge-worker shed a tear in respect and envy. This golem would be his finest work yet... a magically-animated creature that would be able to understand the complexities of mortal emotion and interact with them on that level. "Hrm... I don't know what I should call you," he rumbled as his hands put the finishing touches on his creation, "but it's got to be something fitting your level of workmanship. Perhaps something like Mok... hrm..."

From behind him, a wheezing cough alerted him to a visitor. Turning around, his eyes landed upon a beggar, covered with open, oozing sores and lesions, looking at him through red, sick eyes. "Don't worry about naming him," the beggar rasped, "I'll take care of that, after I make him beautiful... poor thing... you've almost ruined him." Jaw clenching in anger, Atlas said in a calm tone, "And who are you to criticize my work? You don't look well enough to even be wandering around my home, let alone... come to think of it, how did you get into my home? I left implicit instructions... with my... guards... not to let... anyone..." Atlas tried to finish, but couldn't catch his breath, and found to his horror that his limbs had grown pale and his hands twitched with a palsy they had never succumbed to before. Falling to his knees, he tried to find the strength to stand, the strength to call out, to activate his creation, but could not find the strength.

Falling to the ground, Atlas saw the sickly old beggar limp up to his creation and lay one leprous hand upon its arm. To Atlas' horror, his creation began to turn gray, developing odd skin patterns... scales in places, scratches in others, sores along its arms and legs, and its eyes clouding over to become the milky-white of the blind. "There," the beggar said, "Yberek said he would make you beautiful, just like Yberek, and now he has." Turning to Atlas, the beggar wheezed a chuckle. "Your time is over, godling. You're old, and you're too weak to move," he said, gesturing to Atlas, "and now you're going to die. But don't worry, I'll take care of Skretch." Pointing towards the now hideous golem, he waved a palsied hand at Atlas before turning back to admire his work.

Laying on the floor of his workshop, Atlas felt his limbs grow cold, could see his blood seeping out through a multitude of sores on his body. "This is not... the way I... thought it... would... end..." he gasped, shuddering. With one final heave, he rolled to his side, eyes tearing with the effort, looking away from the mockery of perfection that his golem had become. Gasping, Atlas choked out, "Why...", then stilled, becoming like his golem... inanimate and unmoving. "Because your time is over, that's why." rasped the beggar. "My friends and I are taking over because you and your old ways have run this world into ruin. And while I like ruin sometimes," he chuckled, "we need a world to ruin. So goodbye, old ugly god." Turning to the golem, he began to chuckle hoarsely, running his hands over it, working on getting it just right...

5. Cyruss

Cyruss, the Lord of Artifice, struggled with a pesky gear that refused to find its place. "GIT in there, you worthless hunk of metal. I know I made you the right size, no why won't you go in... OW!" Looking down at his finger, he saw a pinpoint of bright red blood. "Well THAT'S never happened before," he growled, trying to remember what one did with a bleeding finger. "Now what the heck am I supposed to with this?" Ignoring his finger, he turned back to the gear, scrutinizing it with weary eyes. "I know this will fit, it has to fit..." with a surprised grunt, the gear snapped into place, a bit of Cyruss's blood coating its slick metal surface. "Well alright then. Ok, gonna try to start this thing up."

Reaching over, Cyruss pulled the tarp from the huge shape, revealing what appeared to be a mechanical dragon of some sort... or perhaps just a large spiky lizard, since no wings were evident. "We'll have some fun putting you through your paces in the Ossat training area, won't we, eh?" Peering into its mouth, Cyruss seemed to find what he was looking for, reached into its mouth and flipped something, resulting in a loud metallic *CLICK*. The machine whirred to life and Cyruss smiled his usual satisfied smirk. As he was withdrawing his hand, the jaws of the creature suddenly snapped down with such force that his wrist was severed. Stunned, Cyruss pulled his arm back, looking in shock and amazement at the stump of his right arm, blood flowing from it, and stumbled backwards.

"It's a shame when our children turn on is, isn't it?" purred a silken female voice. Turning around, Cyruss saw that an elven woman of surpassing beauty, with long black hair, pale skin and bright red lips had entered his shoppe. "How did you..." he stammered, his eyes looking to hers, and finding them black, with no irises at all. "Oh, I've been watching you. That blood of yours in the machine made it much easier to take control of it," the woman whispered silkily, "not that I want such a monstrosity, but it serves its purpose." With an almost negligent wave, the woman gestured to the mechanical lizard, and it leapt forward, catching Cyruss in its front claws, ripping huge chunks of flesh from his arms.

Quite against his will, Cyruss found himself screaming as the pain he felt bore through his shock like a bull breaking through a pasture fence. He swiveled his head around, trying to find the elven woman, trying to concentrate enough to regain control of his creature. "Ah ah ah..." the woman said, "none of that. I see you're going to be difficult. It's a shame we won't be able to play longer, but I can see you're not going to be any fun anyway, so I think I'll just end it here." Gesturing again, the woman made a sharp lifting motion with arms, and the creature flung Cyruss upwards, slamming him into the ceiling of his shoppe. "Oooo... now that was enjoyable." the woman purred, watching Cyruss's body plummet towards the spikes jutting from the lizard's back.

Cyruss saw his descent as well, and tried to slow himself, but could not concentrate through the blinding pain, a pain that some part of his mind realized shouldn't be causing as much agony as it was. As he slammed onto the spikes on the back of the lizard, his last thought before the veil of darkness descended over him was that the woman, whoever or whatever she was, was enjoying this... the bitch...

Looking at the bloody body impaled on the spikes, the woman purred with delight. "Of course you hurt more than you would have. I helped you enjoy the suffering you were feeling. And the lovely betrayal you felt when your creation turned on you. And when you realized that you'd lost, both the battle and your life, your pain was... exquisite. Thank you for a most satisfying experience." With a final glance, the elven woman turned and walked out of the room, negligently throwing her hair over her shoulders. "Be happy. You've had an epiphany, albeit a fatal one, courtesy of Driiza." she said, closing the door to Cyruss' workshop with a dreadfully final *CLICK*.

6. Valdar

In a place of jutting edges and rock, Valdar, the God of Battle and Honor, swung his axe at his latest target, a rocky golem he had animated for just this purpose. All morning, he had sensed that trouble was in the offing, violent trouble, and he wanted to be prepared. His strength had been waning in the past few months, as fewer and fewer of the faithful called his name in battle, or came to visit his likeness in the Kerofkian Temple and try their skills upon his animated statue. But, he thought silently, that was no reason not to keep training, keep preparing for the honorable combat that was always to come.

As Valdar was training, his foot slipped on a piece of the golem that he had shorn off, causing him to stumble right into his opponent's fist. Flying back across the battleground, Valdar grinned. Perhaps this wouldn't be as dull as he thought. It was only when he looked back and saw the spiky rocks he was flying towards that he began to worry. Although not fatal, it would prove hurtful and delay the rest of his training. Twisting in mid-air, Valdar turned his feet towards the rocks, and at just the moment of impact, kicked out, sending his body flying to the side, to crash into the flat face of the cliffs that made up the boundaries of his private arena. Dusting himself off, he let out a bellow and went charging back at the golem.

To his dismay, however, he saw that his golem was not as he had left it. Somehow, it had managed to form itself into an axe, and was slowly shrinking, changing, altering itself... until it stood before him, grinning back at him with his own face. "Well, if this isn't a true trial-at-arms, I don't know what is." the golem said in Valdar's own voice. "Defeat me, if you can." Valdar stopped several paces from the golem, considering this new development. He hadn't altered the golem, nor was this area suffused with wild magic, so another of the gods must be the cause. "Hah hah, very funny Cyng...," he called out, looking around hopefully. But instead of the Pixie Lord's calm tones, a very different voice answered him, a silky, chilly voice, like one hears in their worst, blackest dreams, "I'm sorry, that deity is unavailable... and soon will be so permanently. Would you like me to give him a message for you?"

Coalescing behind the golem that wore his face, a green mist-like smear appeared, with two black eye-holes and a gaping black mouth, and a dimly glowing green gemstone in its forehead. "Who... Cauchemar? Is that you?" asked Valdar, his face blanching. "Cauchemar? That old stick?" the mist exclaimed in a somewhat feminine voice, "He's been dead for hours. He was delicious though. My name is Halke. After I ate your former employer, I asked permission to see to your end as well, and everyone thought it was a splendid idea, so here I am. Battle on!" With a wave of her insubstantial hand, Halke sent the golem charging at Valdar, axe held high. Valdar stumbled backwards, almost falling, and got his axe up just in time to block the downward stroke the golem sent at his head.

The battle was fierce, and it seemed that misfortune was thick for Valdar in the battle, for every time he began to get his feet back under him, a rock would trip him, or sand would get in his eyes, or his hands would slip on the handle of his axe. But, even with these factors, the golem was slowly beaten back, and Valdar could sense victory approaching. "Hmm... most impressive. Most impressive. Perhaps I won't be able to kill you after all." Halke said, watching from high overhead. Sensing his opportunity, Valdar closed, spun, ducked under the golem's swing and delivered the killing blow, putting his axe into the center of the thing's chest, burying the blade deep into its stony body.

The axe went in smoothly, but almost too smoothly for stone, as if... but no... it couldn't be. Halke's mocking laughter accompanied Valdar's realization, too late, that he was truly fighting himself, as he looked down to see his own axe imbedded into his chest, his life-blood quickly departing his body. "Or, maybe I will." said Halke, already beginning to fade from the arena. "Ta-ta, flunky. It was fun. Your fear was delicious." As she vanished, Valdar tried to call out for help, but blood welled up out of his throat instead of air, and his last words were drowned in the crimson liquid that signaled the end of the God of Battles. Falling to the ground, alone, there were none to mourn his passing, save the rocks that had watched him for so long, and they were silent as always.

7. Rastor

Rastor, the Lord of the Air, paused in front of his mirror, checking to see if everything was as it should be on his handsome visage. Even though Mouseglove, the Overlord of the Realms, had decreed that the Gods were not to visit the mortal plane, Rastor had a temple to check up on, and no one was going to stop him from doing just that. Besides, as long as he remained unseen by mortal eyes, what would be the harm in a quick visit? After all, no other gods had such a temple, proving that he, over all others, was most loved by the mortals of the realms. Looking once more into the mirror, he saw only his perfect features, his finely combed hair and his sparkling eyes that no mortal woman could resist. "If only they could still see them," he sighed, "but at least I can still see them. That's something at least." Grinning, he concentrated on his temple, and willed himself there.

Appearing in the inner sanctum of the temple, Rastor looked up at his visage, as tall as three ogres standing atop one another's shoulders, bathed in the light of a thousand candles. Satisfied with its perfection, Rastor began to wander around, inspecting that all was as it should be, but his eyes kept going back to his statue. Something, he mused, was not quite right... something was amiss. If only he could find out what it was. Looking up, he saw a scar, a tiny scar, running beneath the left eye of the statue. Horrified, he levitated himself into the air and saw to its restoration. Just as he finished, he saw another scar, this time on the right side of the nose of the statue, this one more a carving of an open sore. With a frown, Rastor moved over to begin the removal, at the same time seeing a cut open on the forehead of the statue, then other sores appeared as well.

Moving with a rapidity that only a God could muster, Rastor removed all the blemishes, until no more appeared. Satisfied with his work, he dropped back to the floor, somewhat exhausted. He had been feeling weaker lately, but he attributed that merely to all the energy he had invested in his temple, and thought nothing more of it. Passing a mirror on the west wall, he once again paused to survey his image and was horrified at what he saw: every scar, every cut, every blemish that had appeared on his statue now appeared on his own face! Feverishly, he began to use his magics to cure them, but they resisted his attempts, actually growing deeper, more infected and more bloody with each attempt.

So involved in his own struggle, Rastor didn't notice the slim, non-descript man appear behind him, smiling ever-so-softly as he watched the vain god's efforts. He was of moderate build, human, with brown hair and brown eyes... wholly unremarkable in every way, except for his smile, a smile filled with venom and hate, a smile that seemed to dim the candles like a cloud dims the sunlight. Even as he watched, Rastor began to howl in pain and torment, and began clawing at his face, trying to remove the sores and blemishes from his once-perfect features. His struggles became more and more bloody as parts of his face came off in his hands, but he did not stop, for in the mirror, which had always shown him truth, he was seeing his attempts to remove the blemishes as unsuccessful.

After a time, the chapel was quiet once more. The man walked over to the now still body of the once great God, and looked down. Much of Rastor's face was gone, pieces of flesh dangling from beneath the fingernails of the now-still hands, and his eyes had been clawed out. Nudging the body with his toe, the man muttered, "Vanity kills." Turning to walk out of the chapel, the man said nonchalantly, "Zorihar's got nothing on me. I can kill without ever using a weapon. One day he'll learn to respect the power of Xyphus. One day, it may be his face that gets clawed out... but not today. We still have work to do." Closing the door, Xyphus departed the Temple of Rastor, pausing to glance at his own reflection in the mirror as he went down the hall.

That evening, as services were to commence, the priests found the body of a man, whose face had been ravaged by his own hands, lying in a pool of blood in their innermost temple. Not knowing what else to do, they gave the man basic rites and buried him in the graveyard south of the nearby town of Mesraht, in an unmarked grave. They gave him what courtesies they could, but didn't spend too much time on his service... after all, what would a God like Rastor think of a deformed and hideous creature such as this?

8. Dzauron

Sitting in his garden, Dzauron, the Moonlord, looked up at the light of the moon, that which gave him his powers, and smiled. His protege, Valeska, was off somewhere, overseeing a massive hunt being sponsored by Duke Perkins of Nirenoft, and he had been left to his own devices for the evening. Standing up, he stretched tired muscles, wondering if Gods could age physically to the point of infirmity, as his arms and legs had been getting increasingly sore and stiff as the years went on.

Walking to the center of the garden, Dzauron stared into the pool of water at his feet, wondering and musing of many things. Suddenly, the image of the moon in the water was blotted out, quickly, as if a giant hand had wiped it from the sky. Looking up, Dzauron saw clouds covering the sky, flying out of nowhere quickly and aggressively, separating him from his power, and casting darkness and gloom over his garden. Frowning in concentration, Dzauron reached out with his mind to clear away the clouds, which were never supposed to darken this particular part of the heavens, and found, to his shock, a wall of unbreachable energy separating him from the clouds.

Suddenly, a lightning bolt struck the Moonlord, hurling him into the pool of water at his feet, charring his hair and causing electricity to race through his body. His bones seemed to melt, slightly, or at least that's what it felt like, as the ache in his extremities became more pronounced. Pulling himself up from the pool, he noticed a bone-white drakyn, of such height and girth that even his own race would proclaim him a giant, standing before him.

"I am Gliekoth," the drakyn proclaimed in a voice like thunder, "and you are to be destroyed!" With a wave of his hand, Gliekoth sent a wave of rain, ice and wind at Dzauron, driving him back into the pool, forcing his legs to strain to keep him upright. "Destroyed?" Dzauron cried, "You have not the power to destroy me! I am a God!" Laughing, sending lightning into the pool of water, causing electricity to sizzle over Dzauron's body. Gliekoth laughed. "A God? You are a memory." the Drakyn taunted. "How many remember you? How many worship you? You are obsolete, and must be destroyed that myself and my brethren can take up your mantles."

Gasping, his limbs feeling almost solid now, Dzauron growled, "You wish to be Gods? I think Mouseglove and Cyng will have something to say about that!" Snarling, Gliekoth sent yet more lightning into the pool, freezing Dzauron's legs and arms, and making it difficult to swallow, or suck in the air needed to speak. "Mouseglove is dead!" roared Gliekoth, "This Cyng you speak of will die too, it is only a matter of time" Hearing this decree, Dzauron pushed out with his mind, seeking to contact the other Gods, to warn them, or to ask their aid. Where he had always sensed them before, he found only emptiness... Mouseglove, Atlas, Valdar, Cyruss, Rastor... all gone... and no trace of Cyng, Kayleigh or Faywhen... they were either already dead or in hiding.

Laughing, Gliekoth hurled yet more lightning into the pool, fusing Dzauron's muscles and immobilizing him completely. "Nothing more to say, dead one? Then here, let me finish this so I can report back that I've done what was asked of me and take my rightful place among the new Gods!" Hurling cold and lightning simultaneously, Gliekoth concentrated on Dzauron's body, and watched as it be began to crystallize from the heat and ice bombarding it. Minutes passed, and finally Gliekoth relented, ceasing the flow of destructive energies at the Moonlord's body. Dzauron could only watch, through crystalline eyes, as the mighty drakyn approached him, taking a huge maul from his back. As Gliekoth pulled his maul back, Dzauron thought, bitterly, that this was the end of the old world, and hoped that, with these new gods, some compassion would also appear, for if the new gods were like this creature, surely the world was...

Dzauron's musing were ended quite abruptly, when Gliekoth's might maul Apocalypse struck in the chest. Shattering like a glass statue hurled from a parapet, the body of the Moonlord flew apart, each crystalline piece containing a tiny bit of the former God's body, and covered the courtyard. When all the pieces came to rest, Gliekoth picked up one piece, which looked like part of Dzauron's heart, and placed it on the edge of the pool. With one final laugh, the Drakyn swung Apocalypse down, and smashed the heartstone to dust with one mighty blow. "Good," he grunted. "Done. Now I go find my new home. " With contemptuous flap of his wings, he rose into the air, leaving nothing but a shadowy garden, filled with strange stones, and the resonance of the death of a God.

9. The Middle: Oubliette

Far away, the three remaining gods sat, grimly, in Mouseglove's oubliette. Thanks to the special enchantments upon it, anything within it was forgotten by the rest of the realms for as long as it remained. The bones of several individuals that had been left there for various reasons littered the floor. Cyng, God of Magic, Faywhen, Goddess of Emotion and Kayleigh, the Earthmother, sat in silence, the only movement the twitching of Faywhen's tail, which never stopped moving regardless of what she was doing.

All three felt the death of Dzauron, and Kayleigh began to weep softly. "So another one dies and we just sit here?!" Faywhen growled out, her tail twitching violently. "Who's left now? Just us? And what are we going to do, huh? Hide? Hope they never find us? They killed Mouseglove!" Leaping up, Faywhen began to pace, in huge prowling steps, back and forth across the Oubliette. "I will have that little bald halfing's heart on a spike, I'll eat it as he watches, I'll..."

"Die." Cyng said impassively. Looking up with tear-filled eyes, Kayleigh said "You think there's no hope? Nothing we can do?" Shaking his head, Cyng looked solemnly at the other two remaining old Gods, sighing. "Faywhen is right, although not in the way she meant it." he said. "They killed Mouseglove and Cauchemar, who were both more powerful than I am. They killed Dzauron and Valdar, whose power rivaled yours, Kay. They killed Cyruss and Rastor, both of whom were as powerful as you, Faywhen."

"But we can't just allow these... monsters," Kayleigh said quietly, "to become the only Gods this world knows... we just can't! Think of what the world would be like!" "I can think of what the world would be like with one less bald halfling." Faywhen growled, then turned and leapt through the wall of the Oubliette, shouting "ZORIHAR!". Rising to their feet, Kayleigh and Cyng tried to catch her before she went, but were too surprised by her sudden movement. "The little fool," Cyng said in a resigned tone of voice, "She's only going to get herself killed." "I think that's what she wants, now," Kayleigh said, eyes spilling more tears. "She loved Mouseglove, in her own way, and without him, she's been out of control. She injured several of the heroes of the realms trying to find out what happened. She broke Melyda's shoulder, and seems to have driven Mystique quite into madness after taking her to view Mouseglove's corpse in his workshop."

"We have to decide what we're going to do, Kayleigh." Cyng said, eyes hard. "You are the only representation of goodness left in the realms, and I the only persona of neutrality. Surely we can do something..." Sitting quietly, both Gods turned their thoughts inward, searching through their experiences, their knowledge, the history of two worlds, seeking a solution, seeking a way to preserve the world that they both loved, in their own way. Sitting in silence, thinking, they waited for the end to come.

10. Faywhen

"ZORIHAR!" Faywhen appeared in the fields west of Mesraht, claws out, fur still matted in Mouseglove's blood. "WHERE ARE YOU?" she bellowed, roaring, claws out, eyes flashing. "COME ON, YOU LITTLE BALD COWARD, SHOW YOURSELF!" Growling, she began to pace about the fields, tail twitching violently this way and that, looking for the one who took her love from her, looking for revenge, for retribution, and perhaps for an end to the pain, a pain she no longer enjoyed.

Making as much noise as she was, Faywhen wasn't surprised to see a crowd of mortal gather, mostly commoners, but a few of the heroes of the realms appeared too, and some even tried to calm her, but she would have none of their efforts. Pacing back and forth, she continued to hurl vile insults skyward, seeking to draw out Mouseglove's assassin with her words, clockwork claws creaking and clinking on the ends of her hands, their sharp points dripping with green ooze.

"Be careful what you wish for, kitty," a low voice whispered, "because you will get it, but not what you expected." Whirling around, Faywhen spied a bald halfling standing several feet away, dressed in rather ordinary, albeit shabby-looking, leather cloths, and carrying two sharp longblade daggers, one in each hand. "YOU!" she shouted, leaping at Zorihar, and the battle was begun. Creaking claws met daggers and sparks flew everywhere, driving the assembled crowd of mortals back. The fight dragged on, Faywhen calling down magics that flashed around Zorihar but didn't seem to touch him, Zorihar simply parrying and jabbing with his daggers.

After a while, it became clear that this would be somewhat of a stalemate, barring any unforeseen happenings. Sensing this, Zorihar whispered, "Ah, that pesky divinity of yours... it makes it difficult to kill you properly. Thus..." he waved his hands in an odd, pulling motion, "I'll remove it and you need never worry about it again." Staggering, Faywhen seemed to deflate slightly, as if smaller somehow, and suddenly, while the fight continued at its frenzied pace, Faywhen began to sprout cuts and wounds all over her body, while at the same time, a glowing sphere of protective magic began to surround Zorihar, who looked as surprised as the rest of the crowd watching.

From that moment on, the fight began to go very badly for Faywhen. Try as she might, she could not hurt the halfling assassin, while his blows were causing more and more wounds, and draining her of more and more of her strength, until finally she stood, exhausted, unable to do more than attempt to weave out of the way of Zorihar's longblades as he cut fur from her body and severed tendons and muscles. Finally, she could stand no longer, and Zorihar swept in for the kill, using his longblades like scissors, and severing Faywhen's head from her body, which flopped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. Standing there impassively, Zorihar looked around the field and spied the mortal whose magics had helped protect him during the battle. Nodding, and smiling a secretive little smile, he threw his head back and shouted "YBEREK, IT IS DONE! GO NOW, WE EACH HAVE BUT ONE LEFT!" and vanished without another word, leaving only a stunned crowd of onlookers, each reacting in their own unique way.

11. Cyng

Zorihar appeared in a clearing, high in a mountain pass, with trees taller than the peaks of the mountains all around. On the opposite side of the clearing, Cyng hovered in the air, looking tired but prepared to deal with what was to come. "You're not hiding, little pixie snack," Zorihar quipped, blades out, still covered with Faywhen's blood. "I thought you'd be casting spells at me or something." Cyng said nothing, continuing to hover on the opposite side of the clearing Zorihar shrugged. "Ok, suit yourself." With a practiced arm, he threw one of his long daggers like a spear, straight into Cyng's tiny torso... only it didn't connect. Although Zorihar hadn't seen Cyng more, the dagger went sailing off the mountain into the mists below, missing the pixie completely. Growling, Zorihar moved to the center of the clearing, closer to the still pixie. "I don't know how you did that, but I never miss a second time." Hurling his second dagger end-over-end, the blade sliced down through Cyng's head, cleaving him in two with such power that the second dagger continued through his tiny body and followed the first off the mountain.

Zorihar threw his head back, laughing in triumph, then seemed to stop, as if something was not as it should be. Looking up, eyes suddenly wary, he moved in towards the location of the kill, but saw no body. "Damned sneaky little things, that wasn't really him. I got no energy from that one." A soft voice filled with wisdom and fatigue, spoke from across the clearing, "So, you've been taking our energies have you? How droll. Nothing but little vampires, after all this. Zorihar whirled to see Cyng sitting on a boulder across the clearing, near where he had originally appears. "I'm not a vampire, snack, I'm a thief, and an assassin. I'm just keeping what you all have from going on." Cyng's tiny face took on a look of consideration as he said "Going on? You mean, like... going to heaven and stuff like that? There is no heaven for gods when they die, as you'll soon find out." Snarling, Zorihar leapt across the clearing at Cyng, hands holding... nothing. Stopping halfway to the pixielord, he snarled, "I see... clever. Separate me from my weapons. That's fine, I know enough of your spells to rip you apart with your own magics."

Waving his hands, Zorihar growled out the incantation for a hold person spell, and suddenly found himself growing gills on his neck. "What the..." he gasped, hands going to his neck in shock. "Oh, did I forget to mention," Cyng smiled, "this is a natural wild magic zone." "A wild magic what?" Zorihar asked, his usual casual mien dropping from his face to leave only uncertainty visible. "Oh, just a little something I prepared especially for you, you ugly little wart." Cyng smirked, and began reciting the words to a powerful shaman ritual. Frowning, and clearly not understanding what was going on, Zorihar tried for a simpler spell, casting a fireflash at the pixie across the clearing, only to find his skin turning the color of a tree trunk. Growling, he moved forward towards Cyng, only to see him complete the complex ritual. The image of a wolf, large and snarling, became super-imposed over his features. "What's that, some sort of pet?" Zorihar asked, moving quickly towards Cyng. "Oh, you'll find out" Cyng said, grinning impishly as he began to rise up off the ground. Seeing this, Zorihar grabbed a rock and flung it at Cyng. It impacted, sending him tumbling through the air, but at the instant of impact, the image of the wolf reached out and slashed Zorihar's chest, causing a thin trickle of blood to form.

"Ahhh... so the mighty assassin can bleed," Cyng taunted from above, his hand glowing a bright blue, "Let's see if he can also FRY!" Stabbing downward with his hand, he threw a bolt of pure blue lightning straight at the halfling, the ground exploding beneath him from the impact. Picking himself up, Zorihar snarled. "Nice light show. Moved me over a bit, but that's all." Frowning, Cyng threw yet more lightning at the halfling, who simply accepted it, accepted being tossed about the clearing by the explosions the lighting caused beneath his feet. "I don't understand," Cyng said, gathering up more raw magical energy, "How can you withstand all of this?" Laughing, Zorihar began to run around the clearing at a dizzying speed, dodging the next round of lightning thrown at him. "We don't use the same power you use, snack." he spat, "Why would be want it? It's so... old." "Then why are you so intent on killing us?" Cyng asked, beginning to pace Zorihar above the clearing, following the same path the halfling was running on the ground. "So you don't create what was created when that big bony fellow died." the halfling grinned. "Oh, it took a while, yes, because he was dead and all, but his energies, released into the world, mutated and brought me and my brethren into being. We kill you, we keep that from happening again." Grinning, Zorihar attempted a spell once again, using gestures Cyng had never seen before, and floated up into the air to chase the flying pixie.

"How did you do that?" Cyng asked, eyes widening. "That's not a spell..." Resuming his usual casually hostile visage, Zorihar flew at Cyng. "No, it's not. At least, not the kind you and your petty immortals cast. That's one of our spells." Pausing, Zorihar moved his hands in a blinding series of gestures, and sailing up out of the mists, both of his daggers flew back towards his waiting hands. Watching the movement of the daggers, Cyng sensed that this fight was quickly drawing to a close, and that he was not going to win. Summoning up his last bits of energy, he created a spell on the spot, a risky and dangerous thing to do, and surrounded himself with a shimmering aura of the same blue energy he'd been using to throw lightning at the halfling. "Goodbye, my children," he whispered, watching the newly re-armed halfling flying his way. "Someone else will watch over you from now on."

Zorihar was a bit surprised that Cyng didn't attempt to evade his blades, and offered no resistance whatsoever, no signs that he knew what was to come next, save for a single tear, as Zorihar used his blades to sever Cyng's tiny head from his body. Throwing his shoulders back to receive Cyng's energy, Zorihar was instead thrown from the mountain by a blast of blue energy that exploded from the pixie lord's body. When he recovered, he was floating over the city of New Kerofk, and suddenly felt his powers wane. Tumbling towards the surface, he screwed his face up in concentration and managed to stop his plummet before he careened into the temple in the center of the city. Reaching out with his mind, he sensed more gods... new gods... all tapping into the same energy that had been his and his partners for so long. Cursing, and hoping that Yberek was having better luck, he called upon his powers and vanished, departing for home to consider this new development and what to do about it.

12. The End: Kayleigh

Far away, in the Sylvandellian forests she loved so much, Kayleigh felt Faywhen die, and heard Zorihar's roar to Yberek, and knew that her time was short. Sending out a summons to her faithful, her beloved Sylvanus Ki, she allowed herself the time to weep for Faywhen's death, for all the deaths that had occurred around her. So deep was her grief and sadness that she didn't hear the first of her summoned to arrive, and they came upon her while she wept.

Expressing sadness and disbelief, they comforted her as they could, and she felt their love and affection pouring into her, strengthening her for what was to come. But only moments after she had begun to prepare them, she saw and felt Cyng's death, and knew what he had done, and that his death had shown her the way, not to saving her own life, but to saving the lives of those she loved, her Ki, her forests and nature as a whole. Silently, she rose out of her body, keeping her spirit attached to it by a slim thread, ready to sever it at a moment's notice.

From out of the shadows, a leprous man appeared, one that could only be Yberek. Her faithful formed up around her protectively, protesting that they would not allow any harm to come to her, but Yberek simply grinned his mad grin, and said "Yberek doesn't need to get close to anyone to make them pretty, no sirree, Yberek doesn't need to touch ugly to fix it!" With a look of intense concentration, his eyes began to glow green, and Kayleigh saw her body begin to pale and wither, beginning to succumb to Yberek's rot.

Several of those assembled tried to attack Yberek. One was killed almost immediately, and with a negligence that spoke volumes, he paralyzed several others, promising them attention after he finished with Kayleigh. But something was wrong, and Yberek felt it. He was having to call on his power consciously, fighting to claim the energy that had once flowed through him easily, as if someone else was using the same power source he was. In an instant, Kayleigh knew that Cyng had been wise and had wrought a necessary change to the new structure that was emerging.

"No, my friends, my children," Kayleigh said, watching sores erupt from her once pristine skin and feeling her bones begin to give way, "do not worry. My time is ended, but others will come..." she coughed, her legs giving way, falling to the ground. Her protectors helped her to her feet, and she watched as Yberek closed his eyes, drawing in his power for the final assault that would rend her of her life. "Yberek, you've failed. " she shouted, snatching a weapon from one of her protectors, a pixie. The sword was barely the size of a dart, but it would serve as needed. With a look of triumph, she plunged the sword, blade, crosspiece and hilt, into her breast, severing the last thread holding her spirit to her body.

Her protectors cried in protest, Yberek looked confused and then triumphant, then confused again, and departed. All this Kayleigh felt, but did not see. Her vision was growing dim, and the last image she saw was a sapling, growing from the spot where her blood had fallen, a fitting marker for the site of her death. As her vision dimmed, she felt herself growing thinner, spreading out, as if encompassing the world, and her consciousness began to fade as well. As she slowly drifted towards oblivion, she heard a chorus of voices, all singing in unison. "We thank you, Mother, for allowing us to come into being and know life. Know that we will watch over this world, your world, that is now ours through your gift. We will remember you always in our hearts and will see that all know of the sacrifice that you have made that the balance might be restored. We, Alilyan, Brylonna, Chal, Elrithral, Galendel, Liryan, Ranandar, Sadrien and Vadriedith, will continue your work in seeing that evil never holds sway over this beautiful world. Take with you our thanks... and our love... mother..."

13. Epilogue

The chorus of voices continued to sing, but their tune changed slightly, and its song went down to console those who had tried to protect the Earthmother from the Lord of Decay. Although they heard, they were unreceptive to the song, but the singers understood that grief would take time. They would remain, watching, keeping their promise to their mother, and guarding this world that she loved so very much. In time, they would understand their mother's sacrifice, and would come to understand that the children of the Earthmother, for they were her children, loved them well. Slowly fading, the chorus turned, acknowledged each other, and departed to make their homes, and to begin their vigil against the evil that had, in its own way, failed already in allowing their birth, an evil that would never succeed, so long as they existed.