Once upon a time, the people of Osturgar worshiped their pantheon. They praised Gretchana for the Hunt and for Wolves, Wraen of Arrows, Shur of Clouds, Byth of Sea, and Ptolmer of the Snow and Sky. Long did the country adore these heroes, whom they raised to the status of gods for their heroic deeds—for overcoming chaos and the bitter trials of life. The Five stood elevated, and ascended to the heavens to drink and dine with Holvagner. 

But as time went on and the land became wiser and more capable, a great death occurred: the people looked out over their world, up into skies and deep into crags, and found no gods. They looked harder, with tools and instruments crafted by their own hands, but found nothing.

Worse than nothing, tragedy remained—the bitter ills of the world plagued them: sickness and bad fortune, famine and death. All these things persisted. Hardship dogged at the people’s heels, and no matter how hard they prayed—nor if they even did—the suffering of the world did not relent. Chaos reared its terrible head, and when the people of Osturgar prayed, no one answered.

So they gave in.

“There are no Gods,” they cried. “Only man.”

This thought filled them with a terrible despair. They fought. The north became shrouded in aimless anger: resentment at the meaningless of life. Things became no more or less than any other, all when the anger and war had finally died, the people became lost in melancholy grey.

So they made ways to contend with it.

Many fell to hedonism, others to masochism, others to their own thoughts and worse fates still. Suicide proved common and popular. Anomie ravaged the country.

None could blame any other, for who could say their way was best?

“For to whom do we turn?” the people wept. “When there is no one to turn to?”

But then, in the midst of the dark ages of the world, a man climbed to stand above the others. He found a tall place and he steadied his heart, and in a sea of despair and apathy, he tried to do something good.

“Is it true that all things are nothing?” the man asked.

“Yes!” the people cried—the peasants, and the great thinkers, the magicians and craftsman.

“And is it true that there is no meaning in this dreary world of ours?” he asked again.

“Yes twice!” the people chanted, pleased to voice their contempt.

“Then if these things are true,” the man began. “Must it also be said that one man’s thoughts are as bad as any others another’s? That any solution is as hollow as the next?”

“Thrice yes,” the people sang, and wallowed in their despair, which felt good.

Then the man turned towards a group.

“Look to you, you hedonists, who drink and carouse and seek all the sensations of the body. Is yours the way to cope with aimlessness?”

“The way we please!” laughed the hedonists. “All is aimless, and pleasure is greater than pain.”

“Then what of you, masochists,” the man turned again. “Is your way good? You whom seek suffering to realize your existence? Have you just as much truth as the hedonists?”

“As much as the next,” the masochists cried. “To suffer is the truth of life, and so that is our way of it. But let the hedonists have their pleasure, we hardly care. Let each whither the way they think best.”

The man turned once more.

“And to you, the magicians and scholars,” the main asked. “Have they the right of it? Is life so aimless?”

“Yes!” cried the magicians and the scientists. “We can find no other answer. There is nothing else to see.”

“Then to all of you, I ask: if your way is no better than any other, what of my way? Is mine just as useless? Just as good? Might I go about existence in whatever way I am able?”

“Yes,” the people cried. “Do what you will, for it is all the same and equally meaningless.”

“Then I would speak and have you hear my voice!” the man cried. “For I, too, believe our ways are equal. I too believe in the aimlessness of the world: that we are alone here, and that there are no gods to guide us. But my fellows—if nothing matters, then life is a trick. If none of it matters, my friends, then everything matters! If it is all equal in the final count, then it is we who can shape the world. By our power, and ours alone, must we agree to aim high and better. Let us cast aside these dreary notions that shroud us from carrying our weight. Let us rise above the mire and forge a different future for ourselves: a better future. For our children. For the world! For those who come after, that they may not share our fate. We, friends, may create something great; we may forge a God where once was none.

What does matter, my friends? What things in this life are worth fighting for? Worth suffering for? When any one thing is as good as the next: when pain is as good as pleasure, and right is as good as wrong, and to be wet is just as good as being dry, what would we choose? If we were the creators of Gods, what might we create worthy of our worship?

Love, say I, and courage. Kindness. Compassion. Discipline. Honesty and evidence. Logic and sound reasoning. Are these things not worth worshiping? Are these things not better than their counterparts?”

“They are no better!” the people cried. “No better, and no worse.”

“Exactly, my friends—exactly. They are no better and no worse—save what we ourselves decide. We must choose: we must carry the burden. With no god to guide us, we decide, each one of us, what will be right and wrong. For with the father absent, the sons must steward the home. So let us make these values meaningful. Let us decide, and no other, what things should rule on high. Let us by way of agreement preach them to our children and theirs. Might then we cope with this merciless, unforgiving world? Might then we reason with each other? Play this game properly with each other? Though the universe seeks our destruction? Come, brothers, sisters, and let us together forge a God worth worshiping!”

And the people were so unimpressed by his speech that they stoned him there in the square.