Azdan, the Lord at the End's page

Though the deities can still see forward and backwards in time, the new order of the universe pleases Azdan. Life and death are under control. In fact, an interesting side effect of his invention is that space, and life and entropy all conform to a rational set of rules. God are not rational, but their creation must be.

Azdan looks into the future at the trials to come, and then surveys creation once more. Apocalypse and destruction is unavoidable, but in the future. The mortals have time to grow, to worship. Lagdan's creations separate themselves into distinct groups—an act that presages bloody conflict in years to come.

The toll of time on the universe gives unassailable power to the truth of death. Creatures wither as they age, distant suns die and fail to shed their light. Though mortals will not know of the death of other worlds, again because of time and its ordered rules, death and decay affects all things, and there are no exceptions.

Azdan smiles and watches the universe succumb to the ravages of his newest invention. He see the other gods use it to order their own plans. Every, even Azdan, must obey.

He looks into the world and waits to see what happens next.

Actions

The ordering of time ripples across the universe like a tidal wave. Some events are obliterated, some rearranged. The universe begins again as void, but quickly sees the development of land, water, and ice. Cold winds blow from the great northern glacier and young mortals herd flocks of animals toward warmer climes. Barbarians roam nomadically, inventing songs to honor their fallen heroes. Greater heroes arise, planting their tents and building cities. The dead follow Azdan's cloak to the Amaranthine, where the Pit or ascension awaits.

Aeon still does not invent the sun, so Mortals learn to keep themselves warm by fire. They study their own tales, love and hate, war and make peace, and history orders itself for their edification.

Somewhere, a burning village stops dying. Though Azdan is loathe to watch time re-order the lost lives into living potential, flames gutter on the burned corpses and they get up again, they cease their running and resume work, as the object of their fears, the invading machines from the stars, return to their home.

In the future, the fires of industry and science may yet bring them back to conquer. Lagdan turns his eyes to building other servants in the mean time, but as Azdan gazes across the stars, the Last One knows that the same war may still be coming.

Apocalypse. In due time.

It had never occurred to Azdan that there might be to much death at one time. Though it fell to him to oversee the advent of apocalypse, though he worked his craft and fulfilled his duties, and left it to others to create new life or defend extant life, the near-instant interstellar war risked by this new god was too much. There was no maturity. There was no mechanism for snuffing souls into oblivion. Too many would simply return to existence as souls in the afterlife, flooding his brother's halls and slowing down the process of sorting them.

He considered the problem, and it solution. Centuries passed by, though it was still not too late to act in the very beginning of things. But that, too, was complicated. Suppose a god conceived of this destruction before the advent of death. Even Yidhra could not contain that paradox, and if she could, there was no stopping another fledgling deity or powerful sorcerer from conceiving of paradox before she did.

Nes talked of rationality. Of rule the universe could depend on. Azdan could not remember a concept like the one he grasped for, but it was clear its invention was essential.

It must be done in a way that pleases them, so that it binds them, the Last thought from the shadow of his palace. Rational but cheatable, for Nes. Cheatable, but only in a way that contradicts itself, for Yidhra. Inviolate without consequence, for Aeon. Defining of, and related to all science and knowledge, for Lagdan. Structured in a framework that helps Melehan's work.

[i]Time, he realized. Not an iteration of like events, but a flow. Not just last time and next time, but a framework for defining creation—a beginning and an end. The space between punctuated by historic events. The struggle of even gods contained in a line of time. Began by the awakening of the divine, ended by the inevitable apocalypse, which must be, and which must be on...

Time.

The present moment took control of his thoughts again. He looked into the chamber and saw his audience—formless, black shadows awaiting their own creation. Time would figure into the creation of his new life form. They must be mortal, so they would die on a schedule. They would therefore need replenishing.

One of them took form. A dried jackal corpse with a rotten throat. It rasped when it spoke.

"Throatrot answers your call, Last One. All who die of hunger and thirst are my domain. Any who cheat their deaths will see me until they surrender."

Azdan smiled. He knew.

He lifted his arms and cast out his will to the remaining seats in the room. The rows of blackwood chairs expanded by thousands. For every conceivable death a new beast took a chair and answered with obedience. Azdan introduced time into their making, giving them mortality of a sort. He gave them a way to replenish their ranks.

From the blackness of the Obsidian Palace, Azdan spoke into the cosmos.
"I have made my offering, Noble One. I invite you to come, and see."

Actions
Azdan invents time via cosmic decree. Time is inviolate, meaning the very mechanism of time cannot be cheated. However, there will be those who attempt, so should time be cheated, it is self-correcting and applies the strength of creation to that process. Any effort to change time or travel receives resistance from the cosmos itself, manifest as paradox, as time-traveling error, or as the conjuration of cosmic forces that seek to eliminate time travelers. Time is also linear and ordered. It can be measured by mortals. Civilizations grow on a pace, and travel requires time over distance. Technology and miniaturization develop not on a schedule defined by Azdan, but with a sense of requirements achieved over time (ie, a bronze age before an iron age). Natural disasters, old age, epic poems, succession of kings and corrosion of monuments all obey the linear procession of time. 5 points.

5 points spent toward time, entropy, corruption.

Azdan observes the interaction among the gods and conceives a plan for Nes' invitational.

"Noble One, I am grateful for the opportunity to explore the memories of your great hall once more. I have souls to gather in my cloak, and must take my leave. However, I find the challenge of creating mortals who must enforce mortality. With recent events, I have need of such minions who do not blur the lines between life and death. I will return with my offering."

The Lord at the End gestures broadly to the assembled divinity. "Farewell my friends. Until next time."

Later...

The Last Candle observes his subterranean races and receives their worship. Mortals the world over pass into his cloak and are delivered to Melehan for judgment. As the system for passing and movement into the planes beyond continues apace, Azdan surveys his realm and gains divine confidence.

He then observes the lives on every continent. The venerable pass in peace. The wicked perish on the swords of the just, or of their own enemies. Life is sustained by death throughout the natural world. The arrival of Nes and Lagdan disturbs him over the first few generations, as civilization and knowledge provide new mechanisms for extending the life of mortals and kingdoms. But in time, civilizations take stands against one another, and new knowledge is used to kill with increasing efficiency. In time, Azdan sees that increasing reliance on casual magic and machines undermines the value of life. Humans becomes soft and prone to disease. The undesirable and simple are put to the sword, first by hard cultures bent on breeding strength for survival, and then by softer people who define life with a higher aesthetic. Every advancement for the cause of life is accompanied by new complications for mortals.

His decree is secure. The Lord at the End grows strong.

Now, the shadows whisper around him, reflecting his own thought. "We need new life. Ordained for the cause of death, but not immortal or in violation of the edicts of their master. But I loathe the creation of actual life. Such belongs to the others. How, then, can I achieve my purpose and keep my own commandments?[/i]

Actions
I intended to do this before the weekend, but spent all my time writing an adventure to turn over Sunday night. :(
Ascend to Lesser Deity: 5 points

Azdan may have roamed this place for a hundred years. Ancient empires, forgotten architecture, things the new world had not yet seen and would never see again.

The capitol of one great empire stacked on top of another. The sense of nostalgia amuses the Last Candle as he strolls through decades of memories. One of his aspects is offended—there ought be nothing to survive the end of any world. If things must persist, they should begin anew.

Another of his aspects takes somber appreciation. The totality of death, the passing of millions of lives over the long count of time, the evidence of so many fallen, proud empires, pleases a part of him.

Whatever the method of preserving these memories, this Nes would bear watching closely. Does he seek conflict for his petty amusement? To improve the lot of mortals while they last? to gain enough power to prevent the end and rule opposite Azdan as the only remaining god?

With mortals, one answer would be prevalent. With gods, even fledgling ones, many or all of them were possible at once.

The signs point to some sort of planned approach, however, As Azdan glides from the Shadow Palace, to the pinnacle of Nes' estate, the Lord at the End remembers. The great halls and crushed temples he walks through are in order. From times and worlds long past, up until the greatest city of the last world.

The place where the war to end all live saw its climax.

Doubtless even Nes remembered all the details. Azdan won those wars one after another, waiting for eternities at a time under the last coals of life finally burned out. And even being the architect of the end, the appointed vigil of every end, Azdan struggled to remember even a few details of each apocalypse.

The Lord of Death gathered his aspects and focused his will. Ascending the stairs to enter Nes' abode from its ancient dungeons, he spreads his arms in customary fashion. His black cloaks drops to the floor behind him, dark as ever.

For the thousandth time, he greets Nes for the first time.

"Noble One. It appears I have failed yet again," he says with a smile.

The Moonless Night enters the world, looking for those who would fall into his cloak. He feels a stirring in the earth, as though butterflies fluttered in its nervous gizzard. He remembered that mortals had once gone under the ground to flee life above. War or winter, it mattered not. They live Below the earth , just as Azdan lives below the cosmos. He feels a kinship with them.

Moving into the bones of the world, he makes room for his own presence. Great vaults open. Earthquakes force a shudder on the world above, and earth and magma fill some of the inhabited spaces below. Thousands die.

Humans and other mortal races flow into the spaces Azdan creates. They see in the total darkness. Their tribes war against one another for food and water, and to control the great vaults of open space. Great seas of mineral-rich water grow cold deep below the surface. Hot springs bubble from even deeper places. Tribes gather, chiseling homes out of stone and using their growing understanding of magic to shape the World Below.

In the dark, ignored by the other gods, they embrace death as a way of life. The worlds itself tries to kill them every day. They form ruling houses and murder one another for ascension's sake. Their aggression becomes more than survival. Their cults of death revel in their hunts, their battles, their sacrifices to appease the Black Blade, as they begin to call him.

They live in darkness, and their souls reflect the lack of light in their lives. In time, their worship sends many souls to the Black Blade, and they invent new ways to fight and kill. Azdan watches in his new aspect, setting aside a portion of himself to watch the World Below and all that transpires there.

Spending 2 points to create the Unlit—sentient tribes of various (and variant) extant races. They don't specifically have to be drow or duergar, but they are underground versions of the surface world. They fight and mate and scheme and hate each other. Also making room for them by creating terrain underground for 1 point. Finally, spending 6 points on the evil and darkness domains.

Azdan's whisper takes on a measure of discomfort, but Jezebelle knows it is an affectation—an attempt to communicate in an emotional context the Last Candle does not quite understand. A chill radiates from him as the two gods savor the emotions of the man.

"He's praying to me, even now," say Death. "He wants me to give her one more day, but I cannot. If she lives, then the pleasure you gain from this moment is spoiled. And in any event, I give no one an extra day. Not even you or Melehan."

He is silent for a moment, letting Jezebelle bask in the unrestrained emotion displayed by the grieving husband. "Death has few friends, Secret Lover. Though I must do my work, it means I must take from every soul, every family, even every god. It is my hope that you and I can sometimes share moments like this. I promise to bring you to the sweetest of them. But understand, they must all end this way."

A brief seizure wracks the sleeping woman's body. With a single cough and a final grip of her husband's weathered hand, she passes. A soft gurgle sounds in her throat and she is still.

She sits up, eyes wide with fear as her soul separates from her body. Tears fill her eyes as she looks into the vast darkness of Azdan's shadow. He wraps his cloak around her and she immediately shakes with chill.

Azdan looks at Jezebelle, his arm still around his shivering charge. "I have enjoyed our time together, Jezebelle. I hope we can sit together again soon. Have you anything to ask of me?"

The shadows darken, and Azdan lifts his cloak as if to shelter Jezebelle from the rain. When his arm falls, they are in the world. A small cabin, dark but for scant candlelight. A woman labors atop a wooden table, biting down on a wooden stick in obvious pain. Her feet are spread wide, with a midwife and another young girl working between her thighs.

Azdan whispers to the goddess in his company. "There are many places you and I might go to see the union of our concerns, Desirable One. Choose, and sit with me a while."

The room fades, a misty field stretching out before them. A lovely young girl sobs, calling out the names of two men as they cross swords and prepare to duel.

The sun sets quickly, the three disappear. They are in a quiet room, full of soft moonlight and sadness. An old man sits by the side of a small bed, holding the frail hand of a venerable woman. Her breath rasps as she draws it in slowly. There are tears in the old man's eyes, but he dares not look away. He watches her sleep with quiet resignation.

The world is below them now. In the way that gods see, the whole world is below, with moonlight at their back, yet prominent in their field of view are the three scenes they have visited.

The Lord at the End speaks again, his voice a combination of lust and sadness, like a guilty lover.

"Which captures your heart this night, Jezebelle? Take any of them as my gift to you."

A shadow falls in the presence of the goddess of desire. Whispers precede the arrival of death, hopes and dreams that will not ripen, words on the lips of those who pass before they can be spoken.

"Woman of Want," the Last to Die addresses Jezebelle in a throaty voice, as if confessing a secret. "I bear a gift, and seek audience with you. Will you join me?"

In the northlands, part of a world so young it has no name, and its people barely know war, remote tribes grow. The fight for survival is constant. Half the year, the sun never sets, the other half it never rises. The daily work for food, shelter, and fire consumes the cultures of each tribe. They hunt, work, sing, and multiply their numbers with frost on their breath. Even in the warm seasons, life is hard. Great beasts and fast floods threaten those who live below the forested peaks. Harsh winds and disastrous icefalls threaten those who live atop the world.

The terrifying struggle against the elements leads the northern tribes to become intensely spiritual people. They venerate the omnipotence of winter, observe the inevitability of death, and pray for rest in the life beyond. They look past the flaring colors in the night sky, at the stars beyond, and hope for a life in the heavens that rewards their courageous struggle.

Their prayers form priesthoods. They begin to exhibit a process called fasting, where they remove themselves from the lifesaving campfires of home and test their faith and their physical endurance against all that winter has to offer. They warm the souls of their dead by placing their bodies on great pyres—a practice that also begins to ward of the rising of any who are murdered. The priests look into the smoke wafting from the burning dead and divine their place in the afterlife, and any messages they may have as they depart for the stars. And they practice harsh justice against those who take lives beyond tribal law. The practice of capital punishment becomes know as the Chaju-hia ("Death has enough"), a method of protecting tribes from the predations of criminals by keeping death at bay.

Over time the tribes grow, intermingle, break apart, and war against southern outliers. Over centuries they may speak different dialects or give new names and rituals to their gods. They may even embrace a few lesser gods as stories become legend and legend becomes myth. But among the cultures of those northern tribes, the pantheon known as Iawut—Winter, Death, Afterlife—remains strong.

Azdan furrows his brow in confusion. "My minions will precisely serve the purpose of destroying those who attempt to unlock immortality, or cheat death. No one will pass beyond mortal being without my knowledge, and those who do not enforce my edict will fail. But Yidhra acted by making her worshipers immortal first. She did violate both your and my demesne. All things must die, and all with souls must pass to your judgment. Those who do no die cannot pass."

"What do you think," he continues, "will happen once one god simply denies the reality all others must obey for her select faithful? Why would the others refrain? The precedent is now set. If you violate another god's primary decree, you owe a boon. They will be more careful. There will be no more immortals. And there will not be undeath unless I allow it. Any who defy me in this are subject to my servitors."

The Last One pulls his chair and sits again, shifting tones. "There may yet be another answer. You would have had me oppose Yidhra rather than demand payment. But what then? Another god acts similarly until your brother is unable to control his domain? None of us is strong enough to simple overpower another. And the act of countering her own results in a weaker god of death."

The roof overhead changes from stone to shadow. The cosmos comes into view, then the world. The world rotates and the north moves closer until both gods can see the people struggling through a harsh winter.

"I have struck an accord with Oenar, Goddess of Winter. She understands my intentions. I will make you the same promise I have made to her. The people there respect death. Death comes naturally—they do not war overmuch, they do not cheat. They fight the winter until they are claimed, where they die with courage and enter your halls with honor."

The scene in the roof changes to show mighty polar bears swatting down bandits. Azdan speaks again.

"Oenar exacts from me the promise that I will not allow undead except to prevent unnatural or untimely death. She promises that where her guardians find any sort of undead, they will smite them with prejudice. I concur. When mortals cheat death, I will send guardians to court them back under my cloak. When her or your warriors find these mortals, or my servants, I will not balk at their destruction. This gives you some measure of influence over the advent of undeath."

"I will also create living beings who will serve death. Surely Death has its priests in some cultures, but I have little interest in murderous cults or monsters. My minions will enforce death, and you will always have a place at the table of the one who controls death and undeath. Moreover, I will need strength to ward away those gods who seek to exempt their creations from my decree. ANd so I have a proposal for that as well."

Azdan stands again, looking up at the ceiling and watching the simple, noble people of the harsh northlands. "You are concerned, brother, that death will increasingly become evil. That unlife will be used by despots and warlocks to oppress the living. I have no interest in choosing sides against any god, least of all you and Madame Winter. Let there be tribes of worshipers who venerate death as you and she would see it. Rather than my defending my place with a black hand, let my aspect here," he gestures to the northlanders on the ceiling, "be one of natural law. If I should break the natural law there, you may accuse me. If someone else breaks that law, we will unite against them as the gods of our people. Their prayers will give us strength. Our compact will entitle you to destroy undeath wherever you find it. Our pantheon will reinforce the agreement with every story they tell, every song they sing, and every pyre they burn. Here, I will be Azdan. To some, I will be Lord at the End. But among Oenar's people, who die with virtue, I will be—only will ever be—Chajut, the Final Night. When I take them into my cloak, and they climb into your realm, they will strengthen our bond. They wil face me with certainty, and you without fear."

"Winter sees the value in defining my place without any mixture of evil. Do you, Brother?"

The Lord at the End smiles graciously. Ghostly hands, attached to no bodies, slide a plate along the long table. Meat, cheese, and fruits fill the plate, guided by translucent hands.

Azdan breaks the silence with a deeper voice, stronger than his customary whisper. "Why are you angry with me brother? You do not want our new world overrun with dark, magical creatures who massacre the living? Nor do I?" his smile turns to a grimace, a pondering look as if he were confused.

"Why do you fear that I will beset the world in death by undeath? I have made no such threat. I merely demanded a favor of one who violated my decree. She sought to cheat death for her followers. You understand she violates both my edict and yours. All I ask is the means to fight such measures in the future. Otherwise, there will be no death. ANd that, my brother, is impossible."

The Last to Die stands above his table, observing the stacked plate that slides before his friend. He walks to punctuate his rhythm. His pale, six-fingered hand slides along the smooth mahogany table.

"This wood comes from a death tree. The chair you sit in is covered in once-living flesh, stretched taut, padded, so comfortable and handsome. Your plate bears the flesh of a dead animal, the dying seeds of plants, the curdled milk of livestock, seasoned and mixed until it pleases the palate. All this," he gestures to the entire table, "comes from death."

Azdan studies the face of his brother. He knows his brothers assumptions have been challenged—his sense of trust betrayed. " I will apologize for the confusion if I must, Melehan. But I note your realm was not challenged. No god determines there is no afterlife for their faithful. Even Aeon waits for your decision as you process souls to his realm of light. What purpose does the decree of death serve if you simply say that your faithful do not answer to me? Suppose I decree that the world be bathed in eternal darkness. Suppose I debase mortal souls such that they stamp and rape one another? Will Jezebelle not act to restore their higher passions? If one of you acted to defend your one realm, I would not be angry. It is reasonable. After all, it is our world, not mine. Not yours."

Shadows flit around the room, as if cast by unseen candles. A ghostly hand pours Melehan a sweet-smelling wine, the ambrosia of dead grapes, into an obsidian goblet. Azdan continues.

"I believe you fear that evil will corrupt the world and we will hasten its destruction. The you want your tenure as god of the underworld to be a peaceful one, marked by deserved souls passing into Light, and damned souls passing into oblivion. How can I assuage those fears, brother? Can I promise to answer the prayers of the northeners such that their deaths are less savage? Can I swear to use my minions solely as agents to enforce my decree? Can I take away the notion of oblivion and create a Hell that souls might graduate from after a time? Are you concerned about your realm? The mortals souls? Oblivion?

Tell me, Brother. What would you have me do?"

The Lord at the End prepares a table. Every cut of meat, and every fruit of the earth is set at the long table in the main hall of his Shadow Palace.

As is his custom, Azdan speaks from his realm into the Amaranthine. "Brother, I have hosted a feast for you, that we might have accord. Come and see."

He stands by the table and waits for Melehan to arrive.

Azdan looks at the hardy people of the north, braving winter and accepting the dangers of a hard life. They accept death stoically, they fear and respect the snow and wind and seasons full of night. They mete out tribal justice and pray for their dead. They have balance, he muses. Their lives are no complicated by jealousy, or the struggle for a throne. Death here is respected, but is their unifying factor, not a tool for their petty advancement."

This gives Death an idea. He speaks into the heavens, quietly, so only his intended audience can hear. He listens to the collapse of stars and the fall or empires.

And waits.

Azdan does not appear just when called. Instead, he speaks into darkness, and his voice emerges from the shadows.

"The creation of the undead is most reasonable, brother. Yidhra spoke immortality into Her most loyal believers. In doing so She crossed from Her authority into Mine. It cannot be that the rest of you impose on My domain thusly, when I do not tread on yours. As such, I deferred to Her protection of Her chosen few. They will not be touched by My shadow, not by disease or ancient years, not by the ravages of their vices or the poisons of the earth. Not even by the sword or spell, unless the wielder of the sword is a divine appointee in service to one of us."

The Lord at the End looks from his shadow plane and locks eyes with both Yidhra and Melehan. "As payment for this sleight, the Mother of Madness has created the paradox of life-in-death. The undead will serve Me in the enforcement of death. Where mortals cheat death, I will send those who enforce my edicts. Aeon will be pleased to know that when death is premature, I will also dispense justice against those who claim power over it without my authority."

When Death grins, it is chilling. He is polite, having no reason to be otherwise, but his words are firm. His smile is forced. "Remember that we are equals brother. I did not soil Your authority, I merely defended My own. I ask You not to be wroth toward Yidhra. She created undeath at My request, and paid back Her offense against Me. You worry that undeath will become the scourge you fought against last time, but in that world, undeath was used to mock mortality. I despised it as much as you. All that remains is for Her to give this paradox fully to Me. If undeath is Mine alone, your task is easier, and any remaining ire You feel should be directed toward Me. I will accept responsibility for undeath, and also the blame."

Azdan's gaze never wavers. In the eyes of mortals, two pinpoints in the blackness of space become known as the Eyes of Death. Souls pass from the world, into his cloak, and arrive in the Amaranthine.

"Please, the both of you. Tell Me we are past this. Undeath is My tool alone, and Yidhra should not be charged with offending you. If anyone owes you a debt for this action, let it be Me."

In time, Azdan's grasp of death and the void becomes strong. Satisfied that his nearest companions respect his necessity, he begins to cast his cloak wider in the world. More mortals die form the struggles forced on them by insanity, lost love and more.

Azdan cast his gaze across time, still malleable for the gods, still so loosely defined for the mortals of their world. He see the strife placed by competing warriors, jealous lovers, and mad recluses. They live, struggle, and die all at once under his immortal gaze.

There. Azdan's cold black eyes flash red, becoming shooting stars for the northerners to behold. On another continent, in a remote village, he sees the thing he searches for.

Haghma Blacktree aspires to be chieftain. He also wants the women of his chief. He take a large chunk of flaked obsidian and prays to the poorly defined gods of his tribe. He swings at his chief in full view of the women who will become his new wives. Haghma takes the sacred blackwood spear from his dead foe's hand and declares himself strong.

Azdan does not approve or disapprove. All that matters is that early in the world's history, a young warrior took up a crude obsidian blade and committed the world's very first murder.

The Lord at the End looks forward in time, cocking his head. Haghma has kept his rule, despite any real talent for leadership. His people struggle to develop language and fall behind. They defend themselves well against the neighboring tribes and monsters, and Haghma has many sons. But ultimately, he catches rot from a dire wound and passes into Azdan's cloak.

Another year. Haghma's soul as yet has nowhere to go. No place has been prepared for the wicked dead, but his role in the evolution of mortal death cannot go unobserved by the cosmos.

Azdan reaches down into the world with a thin robed arm. His bony hand passes into the earth and removes a blackened, pocked skull from Haghma's final resting place.

The power of creation is in both deed and word. Rather than think within himself, the Last One speaks his will into the skull. "You are Haghma Blackwill, the First Murderer. Wherever you travel into the world, murder and death will follow. Few shall ever know your name or look upon your decrepit face. You are a secret from the shadows, unknowable but by My self and My champions."

Azdan looks at the long shadow cast by his cloak. It stretches from his back, to the world, to the pale light of Amaranthine. It covers the Dust of those animals and creatures with no souls.

In am instant, Azdan has an obsidian hall. Black marble mirrors the deep void, and shadows so dark the world cannot see them become the far corners of his estate.

"Behold, my brothers and sisters," Death says to the other gods. "My home is the realm of Death. Here, all things but Me can die. Be careful in Your comings and goings, and keep safe Your mortal followers. None who venture here will live long. The Shadow Palace is My realm and Mine alone, reachable only by My will, via My cloak, or through the deepest shadows."

The palace furnishes all that Azdan needs as he walks from room to room. A basalt pedestal rises in his personal quarters.

The Lord of Death places the First Murderer atop this pedestal and divines future plans as he looks on it. "I will not cast you into the world yet. Let them covet the mortals' prayers and favor their heroes and kings. Such is their right. I will not plague the world with you, Haghma, until one of them attempt to violate my decree."

Azdan proceeds with his arms raised in his common gesture. "The Nothing wishes to observe, and does not wish to involve itself. The Nothing is neither light nor dark, does not support law or chaos, good or evil. But the Nothing desires a role in the creation it watches through the eons.

What does Nothing say to that?"

Gods are fickle things. Barely controlled by the rules they themselves set into motion. Beyond sense, beyond mortality, beyond time. And yet, they must govern and perceive senses, mortality and time.

So it happened that while the gods declared their demesnes and set the world into motion, that Azdan sought the chosen few who worshiped Yidhra, goddess of chaos. She invested her divine portion and brought her highest priests into her holy of holies. It did not escape Azdan's notice that the gave them long lives, and whispered secrets to them that defied death.

But all things must die.

Azdan went to this holy of holies, the great temple to Yidhra where her great priests contemplated the contradictions of divinity. He wrapped his cloak around them, but did not take them from the world. Instead, he showed them to Yidhra.

"You have broken the one rule of mortality, Mistress of Paradox. But I see that an undying mortal serves the interest of contradiction. And the longevity of your faithful serves your interests. I cannot hold this against you.

Do this, Madame Paradox, and Death will pass by those I bring you in my cloak even now.

How he senses the void around him is a mystery. It seems to Azdan that entropy itself was forming a will of its own. It feels too close to his purpose, to close to the work he had already begun.

Azdan responds with a thought, projected out of the shadow and into the void.

"We are not the same, you and I. But you hover near. While I live in the absence of light, you passively watch both light and dark."

It occurs to Azdan that the existence of a Nothing outside of death and decay in fact did define him as darkness instead of void. Mortals feared death, and Azdan was born in shadow. Perhaps it was fitting if he filled the shadow and separated it from nothing.

"I have already decreed that life returns to Dust, that causes fail and structures crumble. It remains true that everything must die. Even you and the others, at some time, will pass. By definition, I will pass, but I pass last. After I herald the loss of all things, then I too will bow, and then nothing, not even Nothing will remain.

How, then, will you act? How will you be different? You cannot be nothing, and something. What will you safeguard for creation's sake? Who will pray to you, if you are not know, or not knowable? We already have a god of paradox, though she is more chaos incarnate, and her contradictions whimsicle. But even she has followers. Even she can be known."

Azdan looked out into space. Though he felt the dead leaving the world, following his long black cloak into the Underworld, he stared beyond them, into the cosmic expanse. Into Dust.

"If you would act from afar, and watch, but if you would not have all creation ignore you, I have a proposal."

Azdan bows to the lady first, and then to the others. "I have spoken my will, and now I must return to duty. I will create a place for those souls that must return to Dust. I will appoint guardians to oppose those who cheat Death, so be careful. If you would have audience with me, meet me in the world, or here in the Amaranthine. By definition, Death is powerful in its home, and I would not have the limitations of mortal imposed on you all."

Azdan raises his arms again, whispering the names of mortal souls due for his attention. The light dims in his presence, and he is gone.

Death surveyed the vast, full stores of souls waiting to enter the world again, and turned to Melehan.

"Aeon has created races, that create more creatures still. In time, the world and all the heavens will be full of souls crafted from the will of mortals and animals. But suppose we chose some creatures to have will, and some creatures to have none. And suppose souls lived once in the world, and the rest of the time in service to we, who must govern life, and death, and everything in between?"

Death Himself stretched his hands across all of the Amaranthine. His shadow touched everyone. "Let those with souls live once, and bide their eternity in the heavens. Let those without souls live once, and settle back into Dust. For a dog is not a man, and if all creatures survive all time, there will be no Dust left to make room for them."

In another tale...

"Aeon, your face is light and your will is goodness for all Creation. As such, I cannot join in your pantheon of brothers. Death is universal. All things must die, and as such all things fear Death. It cannot be that some places fear Death and others do not. It cannot be that this tribe understands what Death is, and that tribes blasphemes and plots against Death. Such conflicts would choose one tribe over another, and ultimately you and I would become enemies by their design, and not by our own."

As Azdan responds, the shadows around him darken slightly, a balance to the bright light of Aeon's countenance. "But let us have an understanding all the same. Death must be feared, as Death must not be avoided. But let us make Death a beautiful thing on occasion. When life is given or taken for the sake of justice, mortals must take somber appreciation. When life is taken by the selfish, let their death provide release for those who grieve. In this way Death is a tool for light as much as it is for darkness."

As the Shi Fueng monks tell it, Death was once a friend of the gods who later shunned him. One of their parables follows:

One day, Death traveled to the domain where all souls go to be judged. All ancestors, all reincarnations, all eternal souls filled the underworld. For every soul lasted forever, and after many moons, the Seat of Judgment presided of all creatures great and small.

Death smiled at those he walked by. Some met him with understanding, some with courage, but most with fear.

(1) Create Mundane Concept: Death is cold and mysterious, and should be feared. 9 points left.

Death approached Melehan, God of the Underworld, and said "You seem very busy. All of these souls keep returning to the world, men and animals and trees. You can do nothing but fall farther behind."

Death smiled, for even Death smiles from time to time.

"I have a proposition for you."

All was formless at first. He waited in the void, uncertain of the moment He was waiting for. Something had changed, He knew, and something was coming. But despite the growing feeling of certainty, despite the knowledge that the void would release him to task when it was time, he could not describe Himself or His purpose. He was as formless as the void itself.

When Light came to separate the Darkness, He knew He was standing there in the First Shadow. Nothing changed except that He knew where He was.

When the Dust of the cosmos became aware, He did not move. He watched with the Watcher's eyes, even though He knew even then that He was not the Observer.

When other beings stepped forth, weary as if from battle, or groggy as if from sleep, He did not consider them friends or acquaintances. He did not know them, but He felt that same tug of destiny.

Ice was formed, and stretched onto cold land. He did not move. Rock and water and land filled the globe that spun through space, created out of the Dust, and the will of the others. He did not join them.

When the first men were born into the world, crawling from their lush virgin gardens or rising from fresh-formed sand, He did not move from the First Shadow, but instead watched with great interest. It was something about them, something He knew would be revealed soon.

The it happened. The one called Melehan spoke words, and the struggle for survival that plagued the early men became something more. They looked at one another with minds full of feeling and thought. They acted with Will.

They had souls. Eternal souls.

Even then, He had no name. No purpose other than to wait out this event, this decree of the acting god. He was watching the little creatures when Melehan spoke again.

And gave them an afterlife.

With the afterlife, the people suddenly became frail. They gave birth to new people, lived and died among themselves, and began to toil for the things the world gave them, so that they could live. The first people died when Melehan invented their afterlife, and when they died, He knew.

All things must die. It fell to Him to make sure.

The first people to die stepped into the First Shadow. They called Him by many names. Azdan. Lord at the End. Mituatl. They begged him for mercy. Azdan did not understand mercy. He took their lives and bid their souls enter the presence of Melehan on the Amaranthine.

Men on the little world looked up at the starts and charted an eternal journey through the skies. Some of them conceived of a river and claimed the water delivered them to the underworld. Elsewhere, mortals forged weapons and took up cause against one another for survival, or over their different views of the afterlife. Azdan did not intervene. He simple roamed across the planes, taxing those who lived with death. He delivered souls to the Amarinthine. The First Shadow grew.

Action:

I was thinking that an afterlife is a safe assumption as soon as anyone decrees that souls are eternal.

You won't be hearing that from me.

In the darkness of the Void:

In the beginning, there was Nothing. A formless shape of dust and darkness stretched across the vast void. The Nothing saw the dust and observed that the dust was contained within the void. It was the act of seeing the dust that created the First Light. The First Light cast the First Shadow, and thus there was light and dark in the shapeless void.
Seeing the dust, the Nothing observed a Beginning and an End. It noticed its own eternity and saw all: dust and space, light and dark, day and night.

The dust felt the eyes of the Nothing and understood the Nothing watched, and Dust was born. The Nothing therefore observed life and death. The Dust wondered what the Nothing saw, but the Nothing never answered, for Nothing can do nothing but observe. Dust began to form shape, twisting and reforming under the watch of Nothing, and Creation was born.

Creation warped and buckled and took shapes before Nothing's gaze, but Nothing said nothing, and Creation remained without form, and returned to Dust.

It was from dust that all came, and therefore to dust all things must return.