Lore, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Those temples and ruins [archive].

Some of them remain in far away places, those temples to the Primals. In mountains seldom graced by folk but frozen in ice and time. That is where the great monoliths slumber, those most simple to find. Others still lay deep in earth and far beneath the waves. Only two temples in the world are in reach, the ruins of a temple to Air on the Phantom Isles being the only widely known. The Sorcerers who live and worshiped there are cursed to never see it rebuilt, a curse they so eagerly wish to lift.

Cults live far from the world, determined to make their visions true. Sitting in any ruin they can find, they often name their new hovel an ancient temple which saw the graced footsteps once of a Primal God before or during the God War. Often they move so far away so their claims will not be challenged by a local, many of them live in fear of the Sages who will speak the truth of those places.

There are others who seek what else was left behind by the Gods. The Sorcerer race of the Varaí and the mixed race of Sorcerers and Sages, the Adranis, seek out a way to increase their lives or powers. Their goals may seem benign at first, to lift a curse or pay tribute to a fallen God, but in reality those things are struggles to conquer the world about them. From the Arcane gate of Eder Theín to the bones of Na-Trýr and blood of the Dual God, the pursuit is always power.

So few and far between are they who seek out solitude for their cult to be at one with the world which they often proclaim is their only goal. But the elements remember and hold sway to all but fate, their power calling to many of the lost and lonely, offering a rich reward which once the Gods alone held. The temples themselves have become places which offer power unrestrained to those who hold them, at least in the minds of those who seek artifacts and whispers of greatness which might make them great in turn.

In the mountains across the straits from where the Serén once called home, in a place kissed by Primal Fire, and where a land made no more, there are tales of a temple and folk who keep much to themselves. Though this silence was brought after mortals fought on the side of their God, their foundation of all. This silence, though lasting centuries, has not been trusted by those that remember. The Gudehov til Abreí is always echoing from deep within, echoing within the mountains which line the coast and show no life to those on the surface.

Whether ruins which are ruins for a reason, or temples which hold only memories of what was and often the deluded dreams of those that find them. The snow which blankets all both hides and silences that below.

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