Once upon a time, the Apollonians built a great mighty stone-city on seven hills, bestride the primal riverstream, and with gave power to their People to pin and subdue the Sunset Lands. Over in the east, in the Land of the Morningstar, a millenia and a half later, the Magians and their desert prophet rose up and shook the sand from their hairs and girded up their loins for holy war —
And the Magians then went to war with the Sons of Apollo, and the Apollonian warchief Freeman the Hammer stopped their charge at the Court of the Martyrs — blunting their teeth, widowmaker —
The galaxy turns again, and the Sons of Apollo gird on their steel and push back against the Magians — and then, the light came to the Sons of Apollo, Mephistopheles in strange corners, whispering secrets and questions — and so we barrel down, no longer Sons of Apollo but now Children of the Faust-Bargain, running, charging, but not seeing the dark-things lurking in the shadows —
And Magians, once sleeping, now rise again, and the Dragonempire from Ancient East is breaking its chains, and the Gate of the North is breaking and broken and the darkness storm clouds are brewing on the edge of the sky —
Twilight of the Gods, Rag’narok, the tragedy of Faust, striving seeking building this future, surrounding ourselves with magical trinkets shining and spinning, thinking of our transcendant singular plane of undying but we shall not go on we shall not achieve it we shall die and pass from the world our work unfinished leaving ruins and memories that may shine a light on new civilizations that come and replace us like we replaced others and our trinkets and baubles will fall by the roadside but these things — the eternal things — they will remain they will survive.