text: The era of living gods and sorcerers had ended, leaving humanity to endure within the hollow vestiges of a bygone, golden age. Mankind was no longer a unified empire as it once was, instead existing in the shattered remnants of outposts and strongholds belonging to a time passed. The small village of Sordes had forgotten the old world, its shabby buildings and grimey streets were draped in the low hanging, greasy smoke of wood fire. Its populace was simple and ignorant, unaware of the greater affairs of the world and history beyond them. Generations of isolated inbreeding had made their appearances foul and misshapen, yet on the outskirts of the village, two residents were wholly different from the rest. An old sage and his adoptive acolyte lived there, the sage knew things of the world, crafts that others had forgotten. It was by his hand, miracles to the eyes of the Sordes villagers, were performed; mending bone with nothing but plaster and strips of cloth, predicting the fortunes of weather by looking at nothing but the nighttime sky, cleansing wounds with the captured vapors of boiled mead. It seemed that an ichor of vast wisdom and knowledge flowed through the mind of the old man. Through this, his acolyte studiously learned and observed the devices and crafts of his master. He saw the power that these crafts held. After years of the acolyte’s observation, the old sage sat him down, and spoke, “I knew that one day you would take my mantle, and carry on the work that I have done. But it seems that that time may arrive far sooner than either of us could have anticipated.” The acolyte’s inquisitive stare turned desolate, “What do you mean master? Is something wrong?” “A cancer has taken me, and I am afraid there is nothing to be done. This ailment is far beyond my skill to heal.” “Is there someone that could help? Somewhere that I could go? I do not want to see you die master.” “Death is life, child. It is the natural order of things, and it comes to all of us. There are those that could aid me, but they would not provide it.” “Why? Who would refuse to help you? What have you done wrong?” “I’ve done no wrong, but while I have used my knowledge to aid others, and have chosen to pass it on so that it may endure, there are others who do not feel the same. They chose to hoard what they know, for what they know holds power.” “The power to heal you. These men must be convinced. I must seek them out, so that I may bring back their medicines for you.” “A hopeless endeavor. They will not be swayed by you. Please, just stay here, with me. I do not know how much time I have left, but I know the disease has progressed far. I was not ready to tell you, and you may have not been ready to know.” “Ready to know? You should have told me as soon as you knew yourself. We could have had more time. Where are these men? I will find them, I will convince them.” The sage gave a grim chuckle, “Very well, I’ll tell you.” So the acolyte set out, traveling across lands further than he ever had before, crossing verdant valleys, and tumultuous rivers. The journey was several days. Finally, he arrived to the great ivory tower that he sought, its high reaching pinnacle looking as a skeletal finger groping a claw towards the sky. Foul vespid fumes wafted in the air, billowing out a fetid sulfurous reek from the sides of the tower. The acolyte pushed open the door, and old men in robes sat, arranged in a high circle above their visitor; sooty, grease filled beards draping down their tattered, filthy robes. The one in the middle sat up, straightened himself, and croaked in a gravelly, spite filled tone, “Who are you and what business do you have here?” “Please, my master, he is very sick. A cancer has taken him. I was told that you may help.” “Help? We have more important business than attending to the affairs of a diseased peasant and his boy-slave. Leave us catamite, or we may cast thunder and lightnings down upon you.” “Impossible. My master taught me how thunderstorms worked. Of electrical charges in the clouds and earth, you cannot summon such things from nothing.” The haggard old man gave a wry smile, “So, I see you aren’t of the usual superstitious lot. All the others fear us, they see our sciences and call us wizards, they see our wisdom and perceive their gods of legend, their gods of the old world. If you know such things, then heal your cancerous, cankerous master yourself.” The oiled words continued to pour from his oily lips, his sardonic grin never fading, “We have greater things to attend to than the tribulations of the barely educated peasant. You may know some, but we know all.” “Please, you must help. Without you he will die.” “Then let him die. The old world was filled with knowledge for nothing, yet no one used it, no one appreciated it, they wasted their time with frivolities and primitive pleasure. The masses are incurious, and would prefer to stay ignorant. Even when surrounded by technological wonders they never bothered to learn them, how the things that affected their lives so greatly even remotely worked. This is the new world. Wisdom holds power, the power to control a populace, the power to bend the world to your whims in ways that would otherwise be impossible. We are comparative gods, the populace must be held as newborn children. Weak, and knowing nothing of the world. Only loving the soft, milk filled teat that feeds them. We give enough to others so that they bend to us, yet are still mystified and fearful.” “This is wrong, this is selfish. Please, please do something.” The acolyte pleased, tears rolling down his tired cheeks. “Enough of this. You may know some, but we know all. We are still gods, even to you.” And with that, the old man reached a gnarled hand into his ragged robe, and pulled forth a metal device, a hollow tube with a small drum in the middle, and a handle his squalid fingers rested on. He pointed the hollow end towards the acolyte, “I told you we would summon thunder and lightnings.” A thunderous crack snapped, its reverberations roaring throughout the hall. The acolyte looked down, and a gushing wound had punctured in his stomach. He hunched forward and pressed his hand to the oozing fissure, and shuffled as quickly as he could out the door. The acolyte’s failure rested heavily on his shoulders, made greater by the burden of his mortal wound. He traveled back the way he came, the days stretching into agony. When he finally arrived to his village of Sordes he was met with hushed whispers. “Where is the sage? I need him now.” A bent woman turned to him, her lopsided face and malformed skull difficult to ascertain an expression from, “The sorcerer is dead. A curse took him, he is buried on the far side of the village near the wood so that his spirit may not haunt us.” The acolyte staggered across the village to the grave of his master, his ragged breath growing increasingly more laborious. When he finally saw the freshly dug soil, unmarked by any stone or cenotaph, he collapsed. His coughing and sputtering breath gasped for air, and with a final whisper said, “I’m sorry.