The kings hold their dreadful vigil over the valley, passing their silent judgment upon the weary mortals whose fading flesh falls to corruption and decay. Effervescent, the living grow and die before them like waves of grain. The dreadful giants stand, their horrid shadows stretching into night, hungry for the life playing out before them. Helpless, the forgotten gods cannot live, cannot reach out and grasp that which they disdain. Helpless, that life flows on into the grave. Nameless now and terrible, they groan out the lost meaning they once were called, the bellowing, inhuman syllables tearing the world apart.
The Way of the Dead Gods
Tale Told 