It had been a century since the war, now something spoken only in whispers, an age of myth some looked at fondly set. It was a time of great innovation, the gods themselves took form, at least… they’re called. Yet in words people did not forget yet, the diaries and writings too plenty, they could not all be burned, only suppressed. Slowly… A year is short, decade longer, yet with slow and steady pressure even… even the books would forget, faded thoughts. So… some historians took the mantle, a job of great risk, under the mountains. The world has entered a dark age, like past. They wished to hold on, just one more days time, for they would emerge when the gods slumbered. Like they did, even before the gods borne. Unlike back then however, the gods wept, their tears lasting longer than a lifetime, the gods wept, for the lives of humans lost. The historians noticed, after time, lost time never regained drifted away. They could not stay here, they could not rot long. Impatient as they were, they hoped, they cried.

Even the most patient of them were rushed, at least in the timeframe of them, linger… they could not. Their lives too short, shortening.

“We need to go, but where? The stars shine bright…”

So they looked up, captivated by far, this land they would never reach, they wouldn’t. But their legacy? Maybe they soon would…

“One hundred years pass, an age of wander.”