Despite my apprehension at reading about the deaths of so many of Golarion’s gods and my continuing belief that these Godsrain Prophecies cannot be taken at their word, I still feel a bit wistful about reaching the end of my analysis. While it is certainly possible that there are other prophecies in this vein, this is the last that I will read before delivering the collection to my Lady.

I am not sure why I feel so hesitant to put this work aside. Of course, there is something satisfying about feeling like you are a part of important research, even if the experience of it is less than pleasant. (I think here of those who have documented the beliefs of faiths that are somewhat more difficult to understand, as in To Scream Is Divine: My Year at a Nidalese Temple and its somewhat more uneven follow-up, Kuthite Lullabies.) Beyond that, though, I believe I will miss the gods themselves—or at least the insights into them that these texts have given me, even when I don’t believe a word that I am reading.

After reviewing the entirety of the Godsrain Prophecies, I am confident in one thing and one thing only: that the author has been made privy, whether through prophecy or otherwise, to the fact that one of Golarion’s gods will die. The preoccupation with the subject of a dead god, accuracy of some of the smaller details, and feeling of anticipation throughout are compelling evidence in favor of my theory. With all the contradictions and confusions in the text, though, I do not believe that the author knows which god, how they die, or why.

Unfortunately, this is where my certainty ends, as there are several different reasons why the author may have taken this information and used it to create the prophecies. It is possible that they feared what might happen and wrote these prophecies as a warning, attempting to prevent the dangers they dreamed up. It is also possible that they hope the death will be a destabilizing event, and that they intended for these prophecies to weaken faith and trust in the gods, making them easier to abandon in the aftermath of a catastrophe. There is no way to know, as I will admit to my Lady; I hope that in her wisdom, she can discern the truth.

If nothing else, as with all futures, only time will tell.

–Yivali

---

The “Death” of Rovagug

The chant starts as a whisper—an idle piece of pillow talk on nights Sarenrae cannot sleep, her fingertips gone marching on the canvas that is Shelyn’s back, her hands casting surging shadows onto Desna’s resting arm. She weaves a tale of how to win the battle that she hungers for, imagining alliances that span across the Great Beyond and speaking life to victory until the passion of her dream becomes a shared ambition. All three lovers make mention of it, idly, to those who share their interests, pitched in a tone and timbre meant to echo in the listener’s chest. The message drums with nostalgia tinged with rage and thirst for justice long delayed, and it is passed along from ear to ear until it finally circles back, a call to action with the deadly urgency of war.

Imprisonment is not enough. Rovagug must die.

There are more gods now than there were when Rovagug was sealed away, and many sign up for the quest to kill the Great Destroyer, to stand alongside Abadar and Gozreh and Calistria. Some do so to show their mettle, some to gather bragging rights, and some to reassure themselves that if there is something to gain, they won’t leave empty-handed. Sarenrae worries, privately, that many do not understand the danger they’ve signed up for, but she takes the names and notes the skills and hands the roles out all the same—rear guard to those who fear but fight, support for those who dwell in hope, melee for those who want to feel the blood beneath their fingers.

At first, it seems too easy. Asmodeus unlocks the seal that leads into the Dead Vault and gods pour through in something like a line. Wrackworms turn from feasting on the Rough Beast’s flesh to face them, but fall to sword and spell and scythe as if they were an afterthought, slicking the ground around themselves with remnants of their dying. After the cheers and murmurs fade, a gnawing silence fills the air, thick and dank and hungry, and for a moment, no one moves, a huddled mass of godhood waiting for something to happen.

Then Rovagug is everywhere—suddenly, impossibly. Rending, clawing, tearing open, shoveling exalted flesh into his waiting mouths. Apsu’s wing is torn asunder. Hei Feng’s feathers fall like rain. Grandmother Spider holds her own, her arms a whirling blur of blades, but watches as Thamir falls still, body crushed beneath a claw, and Hanspur drowns a second time, awash in his own blood. But Rovagug, despite his power, cannot overcome them all, and soon the tide of battle changes, rattling the prison’s walls as gods press their advantages, slamming his body side to side—an endless, rhythmic dying.

With each impact on the Dead Vault’s walls, Golarion is shaken. Buildings tumble into streets. Rivers shift to find new banks. Old trees flatten forests. Volcanoes long thought dormant, from Taldor to the Five Kings Mountains, spit dense ash into the sky, blanketing the life around them and blocking out the sun. The Eye of Abendego expands twofold, turning the Mwangi Expanse into newly Sodden Lands. When Rovagug is finally still, Sarenrae standing by his head with her arms held high in victory, the gods emerge from the Dead Vault to find a world that thinks the end has come.

After all the dead are mourned, no one agrees on what comes next. The aftermath grows tense and bitter, victory turned vicious. With Rovagug no threat to them, godly alliances feel heavier, a burden to be shrugged off or set down and ignored. How to rebuild a ruined land becomes the stuff of smaller wars—Abadar feuds with Erastil, Irori shuns Iomedae, Sarenrae feels the weight of blame hurled at her from every corner, and Norgorber sides with anyone who might advance his cause. But while they bicker here and now, the gods may yet unite again, as deep in Avistani soil, disturbed by distant tremors, the worst of Rovagug’s spawn have felt their prison falter and ready for destruction that would make their sire proud.

While imprisoned, Rovagug maintains the peace between the gods, but in his absence, what prevents war between the immortals?

---

That is certainly one way to end things. If I am being honest, the idea of Rovagug trapped within the bowels of Golarion has always made me a bit nervous, but it seems it may be better than the alternative! Which gives me one final idea as to why these prophecies exist—perhaps they argue against change and tell those who read them that, even for those gods whom you might fear or hate, the status quo is better than anything new that you might long for—a desperate version of a wish that, no matter what they have seen coming, it would be best for things to continue as they are. Sadly for the author, change, I believe, is inevitable. I hope only that we are ready and that we meet it, heads held high and wings outstretched, however and whenever it comes.

Don’t miss our exciting livestream on Tuesday, April 16 at 4:00 PM Pacific at twitch.tv/officialpaizo, where members of the Pathfinder team will announce who among the remaining deities is the unfortunate victim presaged in these prophecies. In addition to revealing which major deity is going to die in the War of Immortals event, we’ll also lay out the entire slate of War of Immortals tie-in products coming in the second half of 2024. Make your final predictions and join us in just under a week.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

Hail and well met! With April kicking off, we’ve got a handful of Paizo streams to announce! Be sure to follow us on twitch.tv/officialpaizo to be notified when we go live!

Pathfinder: Gallowspire Survivors Launch – April 4 at 9 A.M. Pacific

Paizo Community Manager Jon Morgantini joins the BKOM team for this special launch day co-op playthrough of Pathfinder: Gallowspire Survivors!

Paizo LIVE – April 5 at 4 P.M. Pacific

Join us Friday, April 5^th for this month’s Paizo LIVE! We’ll be chatting with James Case about the upcoming Pathfinder Howl of the Wild rulebook, the Starfinder team about Starfinder Second Edition, and James Jacobs and Bill Fischer about Abomination Vaults for 5^th Edition!

War of Immortals Kickoff – April 16 at 4 P.M. Pacific

The wait is over! Join members of the Pathfinder team as they lay out the War of Immortals Meta Event! Plus—an extra special (godly) death announcement!

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We’ve got some very fun stuff to unveil this month. We hope to catch you at one of our streams! If you can’t make it to the stream live, be sure to watch the VODs on our YouTube channel!

As I near the end of my review of the Godsrain Prophecies, I’m reaching the part of any research project that’s the most daunting—the conclusion. While it will of course be up to my Lady to decide what, if anything, to do with these prophecies, I plan to present her with the two or three reasons for their existence that I believe are the most plausible (other than them all being true, which I maintain is nearly impossible).

Unfortunately, this need for clarity means that I must dismiss (or at least deemphasize) one of the more exciting ideas I have come up with thus far: that these are a collection of the gods’ fears. I have noted throughout these pages that there are responses to the gods’ deaths in each of the prophecies that seem out of character, either for the other gods or their followers, but I don’t believe this lack of consistency is due to these being reflections of what a god would worry over. In truth, I am not sure that gods fear anything at all. Is fear not driven by a sense of mortality, or at least, the potential for one’s role in the world to change or end at a moment’s notice? I wonder if, instead, the “prophecies” are intended to help the gods develop fear, to remind them that they are not beyond the reach of death and give them a small taste of mortal terror. Though to what end, I do not know. Who would want to give a god a nightmare?

–Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The “Death” of Irori

Irori is not one for dying. Death is common. Death is normal. Death is there for mortals who have not yet mastered how to reach new levels of perfection, who have not willed themselves into attaining the divine. Death might take some weaker god if given the right circumstances, starting with those cheaters who let the Starstone grant them power, grabbing godhood like some prize for drunks and thieves and zealots. But for a god like him, who’d worked and willed himself to godhood? Death is something of the past and he is moving forward.

Irori’s never rested long, no matter his successes. There’s always some new path to take at any well-earned milestone, some new technique to master, some new knowledge to find. Yes, it was good to be a god, if for no other reason than to share new possibilities with those who’d turn their will toward doing better with their lives. But he is one of many gods—some virtuous, some indolent—and so there must be something more, some way that he can still evolve. Some new route toward perfection.

Irori works with diligence, the way that he has always done, reaching beyond the world he’s known to better what he has become. Until one day, he grasps it all—the spaces in the sum of things, the power in the truth of everything that was or will be. And though total enlightenment is only for a moment, slipping between his fingers like a cloud of windblown sand, he still can feel the barrier between himself and something more, as pliable and thin as what once kept him from divinity. While he has it in his reach, he passes through the boundary, as bracing and as easy as a step through falling water. Irori, once a mortal, is now much more than deity.

Irori savors everything, if only for a moment. He takes a breath in every plane, his heartbeat now a multiverse, and feels the coursing power as it crashes through his veins. But he has departed our reality, has left a tear along the border of the way of things, and everything, on every plane, begins to shift toward him, as if he were a beacon for something within the Great Beyond—a single life, a single god, become a singularity. Gruhastha is the first to fall, the Keeper’s arms stretched uselessly, hands grasping at the emptiness he finds beside Irori’s feet. He’s swallowed by a void that somehow still contains a multitude, his body torn asunder in a bright and blissful darkness, his lips mouthing his gratitude, his throat choking on screams.

Irori is a magnet now, pulling those closest to him; Chaldira’s luck lost in a cry while Magrim’s runes go tumbling, some force dragging them both to places even he can’t follow. All he can do is close the gap before it sunders everything, using the power that he holds, still far beyond what it once was, to fix whatever he has done (or is doing or one day will, time half-unraveling in his hands). As he repairs the barrier, still dripping with the power that he touched from passing through it, Zon-Kuthon comes to stand beside him, image of the blinding void reflected in his longing eyes, and Nethys tries to touch the power nestled just beneath his skin, hands clawing unknown patterns of magic in the air. Both soon become his shadows, hounding every move he tries to make, Zon-Kuthon chasing memories and Nethys seeking answers, with Torag always close behind, holding his brother Magrim’s blade with vengeance on his mind. Some of Irori’s followers also trail behind him; those who were deep in prayer at the moment that he moved beyond, unable to unsee the void, dedicate themselves to its return, doing whatever they can to hasten the end of all things.

But Irori has a new path now, divinity left far behind as he masters the power that’s now deep within his bones. He sees things now—beneath the ground, between the breaths, inside the skin—and knows that they will take him where Gruhastha and the rest have gone, that what tore them apart will help him make himself anew. If there are prayers for him to hear, he is no longer listening. If rakshasas take his guise and use his faith to build their power? If Urgathoa’s clerics tell his followers that next time he will end the world and they should eat and drink and die with no thought for tomorrow? How can he care when there’s a new path for him to gain perfection? And if the world unmakes itself, if he had to unmake the world, if that brings him enlightenment, then that’s what it must be.

What lies beyond divinity, and who better than Irori to first achieve such exquisite perfection that he leaves even other gods behind?

---

Well, that was certainly involved. Multiverses? Singularities? Bright voids? And yet, in all of that, I almost see a pattern. I have tried not to reference other prophecies in my notes here; if my Lady chooses to read them out of the original order that I chose, I would hate for her to learn a piece of information in these notes that would be better divulged by the original text. Still, I am reminded of the prophecy regarding Desna, which also mentions a void. And there are similarities between this prophecy and the one for Nethys, not only in their reciprocal mentions but in their fascination with the fundamental properties of our universe. Perhaps instead of looking at the prophecies individually, I should be looking for these types of commonalities—could things that are repeated be elements of some underlying message, or a hint as to what among these “prophecies” might be true amidst the overstatements and suppositions? If there was ever a time to make a chart, that time is upon us.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

One of the theories that I intend to run by my Lady in my compilation of these so-called Godsrain Prophecies is that they may be warnings of some kind. This is a relatively new addition to my admittedly large list of potential reasons for their existence, which range from sensible hypotheses to outlandish theories, including one recent concern that this has all been a test by my Lady to discern whether I am trustworthy and analytical enough to handle some of her more complex research needs. I know she would never do such a thing, in truth, but after a particularly vivid dream (involving my being back in one of Lorminos’s classes and asked to deliver a talk about a research paper I had somehow forgotten to do), my anxiety briefly took hold.

The warning theory is of particular interest to me because it reflects an ongoing scholarly debate about the ability to prevent a true prophecy. As noted in Beyond Aroden (which I believe I have already mentioned in these pages), there are some who believe in the Fate’s Chain theory, which holds that any action taken to prevent a foretelling only hastens its speed and effects. Conversely, others believe that all prophecy presents the opportunity to exert free will. In the words of one notorious scholar, “those who lie down in front of the hooves of prophecy instead of taking the reins of their lives deserve to be trampled to dust, even if only metaphorically.” Fiery words, and ones I am not sure I believe, but given the gravity of this particular set of prophecies, I do like the idea that this might be an opportunity to shift the course of the future.

–Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The Death of Desna

The thing about journeys, especially the good ones, was how easy it was to lose track of the past. Hard to move forward while looking behind you. Desna had always believed that. Each new night, each new step, had something new to offer up—a bit of knowledge to excite her, a dark horizon to invite her, a way for love to keep her grounded as she wandered from place to place.

But something else was out there. A threat that she’d forgotten from the void between the stars, seeking only to expand its brutal, ceaseless silence. Not an enemy that could be caught or stopped forever, but something she’d held at bay as it consumed star after star, by making them anew as she had done since the beginning. Back then she’d set the stars like jewels, each a perfect piece of art, and now they were a chorus that only she could truly hear, gentle bells that softly chimed and brought new hope to dreamers.

Except with so much journeying, she’d let the task slide down her list, forgetting to replace the stars that steadily winked out. She hadn’t heard their quiet ringing slowly growing quieter, as something more than silence brought new fury to its form. And by the time it reached her ear, that music wasn’t quite as rich, and starlight twinkled that much less, and butterflies flapped weakly. Absence had turned to abscess turned to deep vulnerability, and what was of the past became the killer of the present. In one fell swoop of emptiness, no longer held back by her lights, something of the Dark Tapestry she thought she’d left behind took her and Cynosure as one, and with her all the stars that filled the skies above Golarion.

Desna was loved by many, and all stepped up to play a part and try to build a new world in the space left by her death. Cayden Cailean raised cups “to Desna and to freedom” (though he stayed still for many months, sometimes with Kurgess by his side, drinking to his memories and running up his tab). Shelyn offered welcome to those who sang in Desna’s name, collecting songs and poems so she would not be forgotten. (And when they sounded out of tune, as if something was missing, she called them Desnal melodies and blessed those who repeated them, ignoring art’s new promise for the haunting elegies). Sarenrae sought her vengeance but had no one to strike out against, and so she turned to healing in its place (by never letting hurt inside, and building walls around her heart she dared Shelyn to climb).

No one could prove the daytime light was any different than before, but even on the fairest day, there was something in the air—a stagnant sort of thickness that weighed upon the spine. Scouts moved slowly, and travelers lingered though they knew to hurry (to get themselves to safety long before the starless night). With no means by which to navigate, sailors called off voyages, reduced to tiny odysseys that kept the shore in sight. And while the feeling dissipated, slowly easing day by day, everything about the world felt dormant for a time.

Even as the pace picked up, no stars returned to fill the sky. At night, only the moon shone down, and paths forward could change in ways unlucky and impossible; more often did travelers disappear from the shadowed roads ahead. And while some blamed her ancient nemesis, Ghlaunder, who was emboldened by Desna’s demise, or Zon-Kuthon, who reveled in the new depth of the darkness, only Desna would have known that what killed her waited, determining its next advance, growing in the spaces left within a starless night.

Do the stars and their keeper, Desna, truly protect the Universe from some fell threat that hides in the darkness beyond them? May the stars shine forever, if so!

---

The Dark Tapestry? It has been some time since I thought about that void of space, which has long been reported to be the home of godlike beings far beyond my comprehension. Maybe this is why I am the most intrigued about Desna’s seeming knowledge of the place and its dangers. It is the first I am hearing of a potential connection, though that may simply be because I do not attend the right discussion groups. Whether or not this prophecy turns out to be true (or, again, maybe a warning that my Lady might be able to give to Desna to prevent this outcome), I will add a note about the possible link between Desna and the Dark Tapestry to my collected papers covering her works as a deity. I am not sure when or if I will have the time to publish any of the works I have begun to write, or if there will be room in my papers for all of the data I now have, but I am glad that I have at least begun collecting information. If these prophecies make nothing else completely clear, my own takeaway is this: it is important to understand what you know (and don’t) about the gods.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

Something that I have been mulling over for some time (but have yet to mention in these annotations) is the naming of the Godsrain Prophecies. By the time I first heard of them, they had already been given that title, but nothing I have read so far has given me any indication as to how or why. Personally, I would never presume to name a collection of this potential impact and importance without a very clear reason, lest I end up in a repeat of the Fatal Four disaster. (To think that one scribe’s decision to include a bit of wordplay in their recounting of a minor historical prophecy would lead to not one but two assassinations is truly beyond the pale!) Issues like this are the reason that Lorminos insisted I read Notorious Names and Narrative Novelties: Navigating the Nuance of Nomenclature early on in my studies (a book that could easily have been 150 pages instead of over 700, in my personal opinion). While I must make reading these prophecies a priority, I will also endeavor to track down the origin of the word Godsrain. For one thing, it is possible there was a mistaken transcription somewhere along the line. Perhaps they should instead be known as the God’s Reign Prophecies, alluding to the end of a specific god’s reign? It is something to at least consider.

–Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The “Death” of Zon-Kuthon

Shelyn has tried countless times to touch the heart of Zon-Kuthon, but in the end her music is what dooms the Midnight Lord. He’s long ignored his sister’s tears, no matter how they stream or pool, collecting any that he can and using them as salt to rub into followers’ wounds. Her pleading declarations he considers almost background noise, a counterpoint that makes the pain that echoes through the Netherworld sound that much more divine. But when she finds the beauty in the way his Kuthites scream and whimper, weaves together suffering into a string of rousing chords, builds melodies from dripping blood and rhythms from a clanging chain? Only she could find the art in all the suffering he wields, a dulcet murmuring that calls out from an orchestra of pain. Dou-bral, brother, I love you still. Dou-bral, come back to me.

With newfound strength, Dou-bral returns, soul breaking through its cage of bones and kicking out the usurper who’d lived beneath his skin. But even free he’s trapped inside a body built for cruelty, his face a mask of agony that tells a brutal story—scars and cries and sharpened blades, blood and tears and pain. The anguish he has known and caused, the torment Zon-Kuthon embraced—how can he reconcile himself with all he now remembers? He tries to flee back to his cell, to turn back into what he was, but Zon-Kuthon is memory now and only he remains.

Dou-bral can feel divinity like sparks beneath his fingertips, but with all that he’s done and been, he cannot now reward himself and let himself play god. He takes the power in his hands (so good now at destroying things) and rips it from his very being, leaving something more than man but less than deity. He stumbles from the Netherworld, his ears ringing with tortured screams (most of which are not his own), and makes his way to Pangolais, as if Zon-Kuthon’s capital will help him understand the things his other self has done. And when Shelyn walks next to him, her arm outstretched in kindness, the glaive she’d taken from him offered up with open hands, he turns his back and walks away, her music souring in his ears, reminding him of every chain he used to break their father.

Art and beauty pay a price for all that Shelyn’s sacrificed—the nightmares that disturbed her rest as she crafted a song of pain, the knowledge that Dou-bral is back but still wrapped up in suffering, the loss she feels from victory that’s nothing like she’d hoped. In theaters and galleries, on stage and page and instrument, creative minds start struggling—the colors dim, the music fades, the movements don’t flow smoothly—and lovers’ disillusions grow as nothing feels the way it was, until the disappointment drives some life-long pairs apart, an echo of a sadness that she cannot seem to shake.

Dou-bral’s other flesh and blood, the spirit-wolf turned Prince in Chains, roams the grounds of Xovaikain, trying to fill the absence that his son has left behind. But for all his vicious howling, what is left of Thron is not a god, and soon two new contenders come with plans to claim the Netherworld—Asmodeus who wants to bring new pain to the unworthy, adding a few new items to the tools he has for torment, and Iomedae, who seeks to free the souls still left within the realm, turning their search for pain into a sacrifice for glory. Neither willing to back down, they fortify positions, preparing for a battle that will change the Netherworld.

Far from the squabbling of the gods, Dou-bral travels through Nidal, hoping that he will find some path to redemption. Instead, he watches Cheliax, no longer held by ancient pact to stay within its borderlines, begin to take Nidalese lands, while members of the Umbral Court each claim to be Zon-Kuthon’s heir and stab each other in the back to claim his legacy.

Is the tainting of love and beauty worth Shelyn’s sacrifice if the shadow her brother’s replacement leaves behind remains to darken the world?

---

I will be completely honest here: Zon-Kuthon terrifies me! Always has. And yet this prophecy wasn’t scary at all. At least not to me. My Lady, I know, fears little, but I have been feeling the whole set of emotions during these annotations—terrified one minute and smiling the next. I truly thought I would be shivering after reading this, but I think I feel more sad than anything. Miss Shelyn trying so hard to free her brother and achieving her goal, only for him to reciprocate no love? It almost reminds me of my role in collecting these prophecies. I have wanted to be a part of something big to show my Lady how I can be of help to her for some time, and yet that means collecting a group of so-called prophecies that could be devastating in the wrong hands. It is odd to think of the gods having the same types of problems that the rest of us sometimes do. We revere them, and yet, especially as I read these prophecies, they seem more… mortal somehow? Or not. I hope that doesn’t sound too disrespectful. Best to leave this line of thought behind and move on to the next prophecy.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

As I continue reading through the Godsrain “prophecies,” I have begun to develop a troubling new theory about their origin. I will admit up front that this idea may seem more in line with one of those Another Absalom tales of spies and skullduggery than a scholarly review (though I have always believed that those tales should be studied for their ability to keep the reader’s attention, something we researchers often do not do as successfully as we would like!), but I’ve noticed that several of the prophecies seem to strike at the core of what many think about the divine. This is not to say that gods cannot die, or falter, or fail in some way, but the more I read these documents, the more I can imagine negative outcomes that I might once have dismissed as distant possibilities. What if this is deliberate?

Perhaps the author of these works is no prophet at all, but someone who seeks to weaken what we understand of divinity. I am not certain who or what would seek that as an outcome, but any entity that benefits from faltering faith is one that cannot have the best interests of Golarion at heart. Still, if I am being candid, the thought of some mysterious villain appeals to me more than it probably should. Perhaps I simply wish to find a reason for these prophecies outside of any potential truth I might find in their pages. Or perhaps I have stumbled onto a workable theory. I will note the thought, but only as one of many I might bring to my Lady. False comfort can too often be found within visions of conspiracy.

–Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The Death of Nethys

Mind. Matter. Spirit. Life. Four essences. Four building blocks. Four cornerstones whose intersections shape the way that magic works. And in that four, two pairs that are too different to be joined together. Matter never blends with Spirit; Mind and Life remain apart. Nethys knows the truth of this, but never quite believes it fully. (Is he not the proof that there is power in duality?)

As the centuries progress, he keeps returning to this quandary, tells himself that he alone can meld the two opposing pairs. He can be the font of knowledge. He can give the world new magic. He can take the contradictions, put them through a transformation. He can start two new traditions. Mind and Body. Heart and Soul.

Does he succeed? Perhaps he does. Perhaps he stands awash with pride, his fingers trembling at the feeling, ready to share something of the magic he has wrought. But if he feels triumphant, it is only for a moment—a breath of jubilation as he soaks himself in magic, followed by a cry of horror as his body falls apart. Nethys, by sheer will and power, holds himself together briefly, fractures crawling down his arms, breaking him to pieces like a chunk of splintered glass. He remains alive just long enough to see the power of his folly, spreading from his fingers to the very building blocks of magic, tearing them asunder as his body turns to ash.

In an instant, magic changes—bends and rips and stretches thin, settling like a shredded cloth pulled tight across the world. Where it is torn, all magic ceases. Long-held items lose their power. Spells are nothing more than words. Spellcasters within these hollows lose all tether to their magic, even if they only cross the boundary in the aftermath. Some regain their skills with time, but others never quite recover, every magic word they utter turned to dust between their lips. Some don’t even make it that far, dying when the magic ends, falling from the skies above, losing shields that keep them safe, gulping down a healing potion turned to flavored water.

At first, the new uncertainty inspires mass devotion, but there is little solace from the other gods. Pharasma asks for a report. Irori swears to make it right. Their followers still cannot cast a single spell within the hollows. And those who lose the taste for magic, prayers dying in their mouth? They do not seem to gain a thing from all their dedication.

For those who never cared for magic, hollows are a place of refuge, leveling the playing field in favor of the fist and sword. Many flock who follow Nethys, loyal to his knowledge still, believing this to be some test that leads them to a new reward.

Many on Golarion relocate from their hollowed homes, fearing what it means to lose the magic in their lives. But travel is no easy thing, not even with the scout and map and herbal kits (now free of magical augmentations) that have become requirements for any trip outside. Rumors abound of hidden dangers scattered through the Great Beyond: places where the magic varies, strong one day and weak the next, turning one night’s cantrip to the morning’s deadly strike; villages consumed by all the magic stolen from the world, drowning in a power they have no way to unmake.

Magic is so fundamental to our reality that the thought of its absence or unreliability on a multiplanar scale is nearly as unfathomable as the concept of Nethys’s own ambition being magic’s undoing!

Magic has never been among my preferred subjects to study, but I now wish I’d learned more of it! It would help me to properly evaluate what, if anything, within this prophecy is truly feasible. Could one death (even the death of a god) create this level of chaos within such a fundamental part of life? This prophecy seems to indicate that magic is forever changed by Nethys’s actions, but even a disaster of the magnitude described seems unlikely to change fundamental principles of magic (a statement I would be much more convinced of were I sure that I fully understood them). While I doubt that this prophecy would come true, I am now curious if there are any projects that Nethys has undertaken that might lead to his attempting something on this scale. Perhaps I judged too quickly, and these are less dastardly plot than desperate warning? I need more information to be sure.

---

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

One interesting line of thought that I have yet to formally consider goes beyond the question of whether these “prophecies” should be considered equally as a whole to whether the whole of each of them should be equally considered. If, for example, I dismiss the effects of a particular god’s supposed death, does this mean that I am dismissing their prophesied death altogether? Does every part of a prophecy have to come true for it to be considered prophetic? If the vast majority proves true, what is wrong could be an error of translation, interpretation, or prophetic understanding. On the other hand, if most of a prophecy is false, what is accurate is likely a lucky guess. The Windsong Corollaries never reach this sort of sentence-level consideration (a gap that I might perhaps publish a small paper in when my Lady does not need me, so long as I keep things strictly theoretical). I expect a reading of Beyond Aroden: Failed Foretelling in the Age of Prophecy is in short order to establish a bit of a baseline, but it will be up to my Lady (with my assistance, I hope!) to determine what level of possibility and accuracy any of these must have to be fully considered a work of prophecy.

–Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The Death of Erastil

Erastil runs. Gallops really. Hoof over hoof, his antlers gleaming, bounding over shallow stream and whirling under tree branch, his body flying forward in a streak of joyous motion. He cannot always be the stag, but there are times he needs to run and feel the wind across his legs, familiar as the dawn but as new as any sunrise. He runs until he’s just past tired and ready for a drink of water, shaking leaves from antlers in a spray of autumn colors and transforming back into the form his followers are used to—horned head and wiry body of an age-old master hunter.

But he is not the only age-old creature resting in this wood. Something emerges, slowly, from a refuge it has tired of, assorted sharp and fleshy parts dragging its pouch of hunger up from somewhere down below. Even Erastil’s well-trained eyes do not quite see it slowly crawling, clawing onto haunch and belly, drawing closer to the god and waiting for the perfect moment. Not until the instant that it rises up to strike.

Erastil runs. Scrambles really. Step after step, bow at the ready, preparing even as he flees, trampling through a clutch of bushes, plunging through the river’s cold, trying to stay ahead until he whirls around to face what hunts him, show it that he’s unafraid. But there are things that even Old Deadeye has no defense against. And when that something catches him, its jaw wide and devouring, it turns what once was hunting god to nothing more than helpless prey, only stopping its ravaging to marvel at the flavor. There’s something here it’s never savored, in between the crunch and squelch—divinely filling in a way that it has never known before and now can never be without. Once it has consumed its meal and all that’s left is bits of bone, it scents the air and twists its body, reveling in the aftertaste of something past mortality, and lurches through the undergrowth to find another morsel.

Followers of Erastil who felt his blessings fade track his remaining footprints to the place he fought and fell. (There’s luck in that, or Jaidi’s hand, steady despite a widow’s grief, putting firm hands against their backs until they find whatever place his hint of dust remains.) A hunt is called, a holy ride, in honor of the fallen god, to track and take whatever beast has left their altars bare. But all they find across their path are other grieving worshippers whose gods (most small in name and reach, their purpose only known by handfuls) now are merely carcasses, devoured by some wretched beast that no one ever glimpses. The Hunters offer shelter and a purpose to these wanderers, and some find comfort in the endless chase across the Great Beyond, even as they never seem to find the subject of their search. Whatever killed Erastil, whatever hunts the other gods, is always hidden from their view, is always one quick turn away, is always adding to the trail of carnage just ahead.

The gods take notice of the beast, each readying their own defense. Some draw together, forming pacts and promising to shield each other—the radiance of the Dawnflower reaches the realm of the Midnight Lord, Norgorber and Iomedae draw swords with Cayden Cailean, the half-abandoned Summerlands fill up with frightened deities—but others use the moment as the perfect time to strike. Gorum turns on the cowardly and sharpens blades against their backs, Asmodeus carves clauses into those he has a contract with, Calistria builds safety from the ashes of revenge. Pantheons rise and fall and splinter in the shadow of the beast, endlessly repositioning even when it has gone to ground, its hunger sated only briefly every new time that it feeds.

Among the mortals, fear takes root as one god or another falls, and those who live are sometimes absent, too caught up in safety to give followers their strength. Some flourish in these absences that gods might once have kept in check, selling hope or cruelty as counters to divinity, creating order from the chaos any way they can. And when the gods grow used to fear and venture back into the world (beast still lurking in the corners, drooling at the prey), some find their temples turned to rubble, dusty from years of disuse, or built over to some new purpose they can barely recognize, and must now find a new path in a half-godless Golarion, even as something in the shadows starts to hunt

When the god of the hunt falls prey to an unknown hunter, what chance do the beast’s other quarries have of avoiding a similar fate?

---

Much as I found it distasteful to read about, I wish this supposed prophecy had gone into greater detail about this “beast” with what I suppose is a taste for divine flesh (a prospect I can barely conceive of, let alone comment on!). While I did attempt to use my rudimentary artistic talents to create some sort of sketch, even my best guess at the appearance of this beast has fallen quite short, as it matches nothing I am currently aware of. Either my skills are not up to the task, the prophecy has purposefully been vague, or this beast has never been seen before. If the latter, this is yet another reason to doubt this prophecy in particular. Anything this powerful would surely be noted in someone’s annals. Beyond that, though, the breakdown of the gods noted here seems very unlikely. In both my studies and experiences of the gods, I have found them to be quite devoted to those who worship them (each in their own way, of course), even when to their own detriment. No matter how horrible the threat, I do not believe mortals would be abandoned in this way, nor that they would abandon their gods in return. Or, at least, I do not wish to believe it. Best, I think, to move on to some new, and hopefully less troubling, prophecy.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

It may seem odd that I have not made any notes within the margins of the prophecies themselves. It is certainly not for lack of opinions, but out of an abundance of caution; some of the most heated debates that I have ever witnessed during my studies dealt with the supposed impartiality of the researcher, with some believing that we should be as unbiased as my fellow psychopomps in their judgments of souls in the Boneyard and others noting that our beliefs influence everything we do, and should be acknowledged and even used within the way we work. The arguments grew heated more than once, and while it cannot be said for sure that they led to what some call “The Dueling Quills Incident,” they certainly caused plenty of frayed nerves.

This particular debate has taken on new meaning for me now, though, in reading of one supposed divine death after another. Maybe it is something I will grow out of one day, but it is hard not to be affected by these, whether I am mourning the potential loss of the Lady I serve or learning of the potential demise of a god I do not care for. I’m not sure I would ever want to view them and feel nothing but analysis. Passion drove me to this work and passion should be part of it—for all I know, that may even have been what brought me to my Lady’s attention. Still, I will present the prophecy with no further comment, and fear that once I have read it fully, even my small bit of glee will dissipate. As always, momentary gains bring unexpected consequences.

—Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The Death of Urgathoa

The feast is a sumptuous spread of delights if that’s the sort of thing you like. Piles of sweets and meats and cheeses, decadence on decadence, to celebrate a distant plague gone better than expected. Urgathoa is smiling as the undead shovel down the food, the flavors barely noticed in their urge to sate their hunger. It would all make Arazni sick, if that was still a thing she felt, and if she wasn’t steeled by something greater than revulsion. For all the gods Urgathoa hates, and all who hate her in return, she hasn’t even bothered to secure her own protection, relying on the undead to sniff out any intruder. Except they know Arazni’s scent. A tiny boon from all her years forced into undead servitude, now sharpened to a weapon to take down the god who dared to bring undeath to the unwilling.

Arazni moves in shadow, and if the diners notice, they barely pause their latest gulp to see her blade unsheathe. Urgathoa dies easily, falls lengthwise on the table, face-first into a centerpiece of something rich and juicy. As panic and dismay begin to spread throughout the Bloodrot, Arazni leaves the way she came, a vengeful shadow baring teeth in something like a smile. Divinity is still a thing she’s learning to inhabit, but this almost makes everything she’s suffered seem worthwhile.

Arazni waits, for…something—some rest for those trapped in undeath, some halt to necromantic work, some alteration in what had been a truly loathsome status quo. And there are places in the world where she can see the fruits of her handiwork—the Whispering Way is driven back, Geb’s Blood Lords struggle for control—until the undead start to rise from any perished soul. Not all, but some, begin to turn without a necromancer’s aid, and stagger from their resting places trying to fill their hunger. Without Urgathoa to lend some order to the chaos, some dead stay locked inside their graves, while others now reanimate with no real rhyme or reason, rising from their tombs and slowly crawling off battlefields, horrified and terrified and sometimes all too eager to see what unholy agenda their new bodies can pursue.

In places where undead have always been a threat to life and limb, the champions against them try their best to hold the line, not looking at the faces that are suddenly familiar, comrades-at-arms turned into bodies cut down by their blades. Some look to magic to protect the bodies of the newly-dead, but magic has its limits, and others fall to the horror they once tried to quell. At least they know how to respond, unlike those who are wrapped in grief, only to see a loved one rise as some new transformation. Do you love or do you fear? Do you watch or do you help? Do you wait or do you run and run and keep on running?

Some families go missing now. Some villages are overrun. Some cities bar their crypts and add guard shifts to every other street. Some call undeath a blessing, see the change as nectar from the gods. Some view it as a threat to something they once lived and died for. Others search for patterns, narrow in on who or what is to blame, let something they don’t understand consume their baser instincts, and rain fire down on those they think have brought this new world forth.

Arazni owns what she has done, seeks out the help of other gods, but they know just as little and have found themselves just as besieged, as undeath spreads like the diseases Urgathoa once held dear, refusing to contain itself to one singular plane. And as the numbers slowly rise, a flood that grows by sodden inches, one undead soul at a time from Axis to the Boneyard, some say the Pallid Princess watches from some place beyond undeath, relishing the moment like a feast to truly savor.

The severity of this prophecy ensures that even I, a loyal servant of the Lady of Graves, take no joy in the foretold destruction of the Pallid Princess. May that these prophecies prove untrue!

---

That was, to say the least, unexpected. While the horrors of undead potentially coming from every grave are one thing (and something that I know my Lady will not enjoy, no matter how untrue this prophecy may turn out to be), Arazni’s direct role in this cataclysm is not something I am quite sure how to parse. She has broken free from her centuries of servitude as Geb’s unwilling lich queen, and in so doing attained true divinity, a risen herald. With her newfound power, is she capable of slaying a fellow god? Is this merely one facet of the unreliability of these prophecies? Perhaps I should begin watching Arazni more closely, as some sort of harbinger, a sign that this alone among the prophecies is true? Does she have knowledge of this prophecy, and if not, is this something to warn her of? I will be dusting off my copy of What the Future Holds: The Ethics of Prophecy immediately. In the meantime, my Lady will know what to do with this. All I must do now is move forward.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

While it would require someone with far more expertise to confirm this absolutely, I am now convinced that this set of so-called prophecies are all authored by the same hand. Some of this is due to the handwriting on the documents that have been found in more pristine condition (it is perhaps fitting that a prophecy dedicated to the death of the Lucky Drunk was found on a scrap of parchment that looked like it had been dragged through the floor of more than one tavern), but the rest I attribute both to the places in which they were discovered and, I believe, the rhythm of the writing (though I would be a bit more sure of that if I had read The Peculiarities of Prophetic Speech more closely despite what I believe to be a truly excessive number of footnotes). I am sure that Lorminos knows someone who can confirm my beliefs if needed. That is if, of course, my Lady wants a set of writings so inflammatory to be so widely seen. I am far from convinced of the truth of any of them, and a single author could point as much to a singular troublemaker wishing to create strife as someone with a sudden gift of foresight.

—Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The Death of Cayden Cailean

Cayden Cailean had never thought himself a liar. A storyteller, sure, in the tradition of the tavern, where convincing someone of your worth might mean a refilled tankard. Who among his fellow patrons hadn’t added enemies to boost their tale of combat or invented some new twice-trapped room deep within the dungeon of a newly fallen foe? To claim that he’d become a god was more than normal boasting, but he couldn’t quite remember what had happened with the Starstone. Maybe he had passed its test and that was what kept him alive. Maybe he’d become a god and godhood felt no different than mortal existence. Maybe he would take another round of good ale on the house (a thank you from the barkeep for the honor of his presence). Maybe as he told his tale he could almost believe it. At least until the nightly dreams began.

They started off as flashes, tiny moments in the dark of night—a clanging sword that echoed down a long and shadowed hallway, the smell of new-cut marble turned impossibly acrid, the taste of blood and honey in the space behind his tongue. And still, no matter what they were, each vision woke him shuddering—skin drenched in sweat, heart racing wildly, cold breeze crawling up his spine, a voice he’d never heard before that whispered in his eardrums—liar, drunkard, cheater, thief. One day you will pay for this with everything you owe.

Cayden Cailean would never call himself a cheater. How could he know belief alone could make a deity? But every time the story spread that he had passed the Test of Starstone, something shifted in him, brought him that much closer to true divinity. By the time he heard his story chanted like a rowdy prayer, he was every inch the god that he had claimed to be. He did his best to share the gift, empower those who followed him, pass blessings out like cups of drink to those who strived for freedom. But no good deed had earned him pity from the voice that stalked his dreams, a whisper he now recognized as that of the Starstone itself, murmuring about the flask that he kept tight against his waist—forbidden, stolen, holy power. There will be a reckoning.

The flask was Cayden’s property from long before the Starstone, but now it held a draft he’d brought back from the Cathedral—a distillation of the power held within its core. And while he still could not remember what he’d done to make or bring it back, he knew that every sip gave him a taste of the divine. His followers’ convictions may have been the thing that made him a god, but all beliefs grow worn and frayed and faded over time. No matter who believed in him, he knew one thing down to his core: the liquid in his flask was what kept his lie alive.

But every tiny sip of nectar took his dreams on twisted paths, until he dreamt of death in the Cathedral every night. And after he had died each way the Test of Starstone could devise—some with the sound of steel on bone, some with the fall of flesh to floor, some with a bargain on his tongue that faded in a gasping breath—it left him with a final and unalterable verdict: time for you to pay your debt, return to mortal life.

Cayden Cailean had never minded being mortal, but as his story shifted, he mourned his legacy. Word spread, as words are wont to do, of his deceitful rise to grace, and those who’d raised his name in praise could barely muster pity. The innkeepers and brewers he’d counted as his worshipers now barred him from their premises, afraid they would be thought of as complicit in his lie, and soon the one-time god had faded out of public life, so far removed that no one knows quite how and where he died. Some say it happened in an alley, slumped over in the pouring rain, while others claim he died in battle fighting for a righteous cause, or braved the Starstone once again in one last fatal try.

Iomedae and Norgorber, as fellow gods Ascended, both moved to quell the rumors that they had also cheated to obtain divinity—Iomedae appearing on the front lines with her champions in tireless demonstrations of her prowess on the battlefield and Norgorber eliminating each one of his followers who dared to voice dissent or wonder who he used to be. But neither sees the true change that still lurks along the margins, as one after another shop begins to claim that, for a cost, you too can be transformed from mortal life to deity. If all it takes is stories and a liquor no one understands (as noted in a few reports of Cayden’s sad demise), then nothing stops a hundred shops from selling sugar water and a complement of town criers to those who feel that being god is next on their agenda—a warlord here, a despot there, the righteous and the vengeful—and what new revolution might they bring if they do rise?

---

A god created from belief alone? That is both deeply intriguing and somewhat baffling, as this is the first report I’ve read of such an occurrence. Surely if this were truly possible, I’d have encountered it before in my studies. This will require more research, though with what time I will pursue it I know not. It does make me wonder how many believers one might have to acquire to cross the boundary from mortal to god, and whether belief was nearly as important in this case as the Starstone nectar mentioned above. I have no doubt that if someone were able to distill a liquor from a source of pure divine power, it would be Cayden Cailean, but for those of us not blessed with that specific set of skills, I am struck by the idea that you could solve for number of believers and gain divinity simply by exceeding that threshold. Equations are not my strong suit, but I may see if I can find a collaborator and determine what that number might be. Though it might be difficult to do without revealing where the idea has come from. Perhaps it would be better to wait until I have all the prophecies properly analyzed and know what my Lady wishes to do with them before I begin making them a basis for a new research field, but it is hard not to get excited!

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

As I continue my reading of the Godsrain Prophecies’ dire predictions of the deaths of various gods, it should be noted (and will be, in the compiled report for my Lady), that their existence as a collection brings into question the validity of each one. I believe that a corollary of the Windsong Paradox explains this best (as unsettling as this discovery of “prophecy” has been, I relish the opportunity to apply one of my favorites!): each individual prophecy exists independent of the others, as if they each occur in their own solitary void (note, for example, the mention here of a living Pharasma).This means they cannot all be true and, per the corollary, the chance of any of them being true is lessened¹. A reassuring thought that I am happy to consider!

¹In all fairness, a counter-argument could be made that one of the Godsrain Prophecies is correct in full, with all others either invalidated by its truth or purposefully created to mislead, but I tend to believe my initial theory (perhaps, if nothing else, because it is a bit more comforting).

—Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

---

The wound that kills Asmodeus has ached for countless eons, and still he has no memory of how Ihys drew blood. He knows the war between them, can hear the ringing battle cries as he fought hard for order, and Ihys, sympathetic fool, set chaos in his sights. He sees his brother’s hand outstretched, can feel the arm against his back, remembers what it tasted like to plunge his sword into his kin, but never feels the moment that some blade or nail sliced at his leg, has only blood upon his hands to prove that he was hit.

Some days the cut is barely there, a scratch upon his surface, a moment’s irritation as he moves from place to place. But other days, it festers into leaking, pulsing wetness, a shooting pain that drips and strikes and stops him where he stands. He spends those days in agony, sealed deep within the Catafalque, encouraging the rumors of his secret chamber of delights, returning only when the wound has calmed itself again.

He’s known, somewhere inside himself, that this would be what felled him, but somehow, in his final steps, he still feels disbelief. How can one cut unravel everything that he has been and done, the worlds that he has built and wrecked, the Hell he has created? He stumbles through the empty hall, his body crashing to the ground, a rictus of shocked agony carved deep into his face. Perhaps it is a mercy that he cannot see what happens next, does not perceive the brother who emerges in his place. Ihys, summoned by the force that kept the gash forever open. Ihys, who, with sorrowed glance, replaces him upon his throne. Ihys, who believed in taking mercy on the mortals, giving them their freedom even when they broke and twisted things, seeing good inside their souls as something worth the sacrifice. Ihys, now the Prince of Darkness. Ihys, Lord of Hell.

Deep inside the Catafalque, the new god works deliberately, taking time to understand the Hell his brother wrought. He finds a few things to preserve—the contract of creation and its binding power on the gods, the prison that holds Rovagug, whose key he’s now charged with keeping—and vows he will uphold them in Asmodeus’s name. The rest he’s ready to unmake, but slowly, with the greatest care. This time he will not act in haste. This time Hell works his way.

He first visits the archdevils, his enemies of ages past, who greet him with their surface smiles and offer false obeisance—some dripping poison-syruped words, some sharpening their blades and fangs, some gathering a mass of shades to wait for new wartime demands. But Ihys understands their ways and flaunts his new divinity, his scepter Archstar swinging in a show of all his power, and while the peace he gains from them may be a prelude to a war, he makes each of Hell’s denizens sign contracts to a new decree—a kinder, gentler punishment for those whose souls have damned them there, a way for those to free themselves who want to choose another path, a safe route as they journey back up from the depths of Hell.

He's visited by deities—some curious, some threatening—who see the shifting way of things and wish to understand. And while Pharasma alters how her psychopomps send souls to him and Sarenrae applauds an ancient ally on his newfound life, the Four Horsemen of Abaddon begin to seek advantages, to plan some future action they may one day undertake.

With Hell remade to suit his likings, Ihys settles on his throne, turns the power of his gaze to fixing mortal things. He pores through every contract that he must now enforce, underlining loopholes that invalidate the cruelest clauses, marking for destruction those he cannot bend or change. With every small relinquishing, the power in some region shifts, as those who felt their contract as a prison or a heavy weight now have the chance to change the old direction of their lives. But none change more than Cheliax, where House Thrune used the power gifted by the Lord of Hell himself to make the many contracts that have kept them on the throne. Ihys rescinds this favor and refuses to grant any more, leaves the realm of Abrogail to manage on its own.

As Ihys rests then, satisfied. He does not hear the whispers, as close as Mephistopheles and far off as Egorian, of bitterness and revolution, hanging in the air. Or if he does, he honors them as choices made of mortal will—whatever comes, he lives and breathes, and he can always start anew. If devils come to challenge him, if Cheliax is torn to shreds, he’s happy to rend everything (with Rovagug set free to feed) and make the world again.

While one might assume an end of Asmodeus’s treachery would presage improvements in the multiverse, this prophecy presents a very different potentiality.

---

I felt such relief while reading this to know that the death of Asmodeus (at least according to this still unproven and unidentified source) might not mean the release of the Rough Beast, only for the prophecy to suggest that Rovagug might still be unleashed? Those who claim that research has no excitement are simply in the wrong field of study. I also must confess that this prophecy has piqued my interest in learning more of the fallen god Ihys—a topic I might not otherwise have considered! It will, though, have to wait. I must reach some conclusion, and still have much to read through, before I can present this to my Lady.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Lost Omens Firebrands, Lost Omens Highhelm, and Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.

I begin my annotation holding death between my talons. An overly poetic beginning, that, and one I will certainly change when I report back to my Lady. Perhaps this a consequence of reading the Godsrain Prophecies, each with its dire tale of the death of a god and everything that comes after. I am reminded of the year I read What Comes Down: A Treatise on Mortal Falls and used the word defenestrate so often in my papers that Lorminos asked me to limit the word to once per page at most!

As my earlier field notes on these works detail, I learned of the Godsrain Prophecies not long ago, and have acted with great haste to locate as many as possible, despite my many doubts as to their accuracy. I must confess that I have also felt a certain unanticipated exhilaration in bringing rigor to a rumor, despite the grim contents of the documents once discovered. I believe that I may almost understand the impulse of adventurers (a mortal drive that remains an obscure field of study), though I likely took as much joy from detailing my methods as I did in undertaking them. Research rarely moves at such a rapid pace, but then rarely has any researcher been so motivated!

What to make of these “prophecies” is a wholly different matter, and one that I must settle before reporting to my Lady, lest I stir up visions of doom with no attempt at context or framing, no better than a doomsday caller singing in the streets! Any thought of these being accurate seems at first impossible, given the current failure of prophecy overall, and their author has yet to be identified. I immediately recall the many false omens in the years after Aroden’s death, many of which had Golarion perishing brutally a thousand times (and will one day, I assume, make for a fascinating set of studies).

Still, there is something about these pages that makes me ill at ease. The detail, perhaps, or the nature of the futures they forecast. This is heightened, of course, by the subject of the first of them, which I hoped never to find but must still document faithfully, as I have below. Perhaps the thing that troubles me lies in this simple question: how do you tell your Lady that she’s prophesied to die?

—Yivali, Apprentice Researcher for the Lady of Graves

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The Death of Pharasma

When Pharasma dies, she dies by inches. She grasps for a prophecy beyond her reach and the skin on her fingertips blisters. She dreams the lost feeling of futures foretold and wakes with a tooth ground to ashes. She feels an uncertainty chilling the air, and her bones grow cold and brittle. What changed with Aroden’s death? Why has prophecy faltered? The questions race and turn and tumble, edges carving at her mind as she tries to judge the mortal souls whose futures she’s unsure of.

Is it any wonder that she shatters?

The god they called Survivor dies alone inside her palace—cold, exhausted, broken. No psychopomps to judge her works, no Atropos to take her reign. Most of her servants lose their power in the instant she dies, and no one comes to place her in a plane for all eternity. The fear of how she might be judged has kept her upright more than once, but in the end it’s simply this—she is and then she isn’t. Pharasma ceases to be.

Death does not pause for the Lady of Graves. Death does not stop for anyone. Mortals succumb to the usual things—some in the arms of those who loved them, some at the hands of those who did not. Some in a show of bravery, some in a haze of regret, some drenched hot with sweat or fear or love or loss or anger. All plunge into the River of Souls like jagged rocks sent tumbling, leaving eddies in their wake that shift and roil the current. The river churns with energy, a swirling froth of rapids, throwing souls from in its midst with no set rhyme or reason. The guardians who watch it pass are nothing more than onlookers, as this soul bound for Heaven is shunted off to Abaddon, and that one at the brink of Hell is flung into Nirvana. With souls no longer guided to the places where they’re most aligned, the outer planes turn turbulent, splintering to factions where they once found harmony. Fights break out, and rescue missions; pacts and trades and promises no sooner made than torn apart—a muddied bloodied mess of souls askew for all eternity.

Pharasma’s former psychopomps, distracted by the chaos or the torrents of the river or the sorrow of their grief, rarely see the predators who feast within the river’s wake—daemons and worse who grab souls up by the handful, taking them to sell or gift or simply disappear with.

Among the mortals, resurrections now begin to falter, as souls are often missing from the places where they’re sought. Even for those who never cared a moment for Pharasmin things, the new finality of death leaves many saying prayers for Pharasma, desperate for a sign that she might one day still reach out.

Her followers are hardest hit—the clerics and diviners, the midwives and morticians—their boons no longer functioning, their spells bereft of power. Those who battle the undead see their advantage dissipate, and some who cannot fight or flee fall easily to undead foes, their victories turned to slaughters in a hundred grim tableaus.

Urgathoa laughs, heartily, to see a foe defeated, declaring 50 days of feasts and manifesting blood-soaked wine in any empty cup. She calls upon her followers to press their new advantages, as those who fought her worshippers are left to face a reckoning—some turning to another god whose purpose fits their calling, some searching for a prophecy or ritual or sacrifice that might bring back Pharasma and the surety she gave them, some finding other pledges for their cause.

Above it all, a visage hangs and grins upon the chaos—Groetus watching eagerly from just above the Spire. Some say the crescent of his moon begins to wax in earnest, as we move ever closer to the end times he desires.

A prophecy foretelling the death of Pharasma specifically caused by the death of prophecy in the Age of Lost Omens certainly poses a paradox.

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An unpleasant future, to say the least. I shudder to think of it! Thankfully, much of this prophecy remains questionable at best. Not only are there are many questions raised here, including the likeliness of my fellow psychopomps to simply cease their work and let souls be ravaged, whatever their grief, but this also appears to note the cause of my Lady’s death as indirectly caused by the end of prophecy. And yet if there is no prophecy, then how has this one come to be? A paradox, if I ever knew one, and one that I cannot yet untangle. Perhaps my next annotation will offer greater clarity.

About the Author

Erin Roberts has been thrilled to be able to contribute a few small threads to the fabric of Golarion in the pages of books like Pathfinder Lost Omens Firebrands, Pathfinder Lost Omens Highhelm, and Pathfinder Lost Omens Travel Guide. In addition to her work for Paizo, she freelances across the TTRPG world (and was selected as a Diana Jones Award Emerging Designer Program Winner in 2023), has had fiction published in magazines including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Clarkesworld, and The Dark, and talks about writing every week on the Writing Excuses podcast. Catch up with her latest at linktr.ee/erinroberts.