There are few things more uncaring within the vastness of timeless space than those born out of its unquantifiable energy. Beings that gain shape through the continuous churning, defragmentation, and reassembly of the very eternity that holds us in its grasp.
These are the same beings that those bound by mortal flesh once called gods. Those that we worshipped and adored with zealotry, believing that through their might and endless lifespan, we may also obtain ascension.
How naive were we, the fragile children of the earth, to seek wisdom from immortal constructs that, if compared to the wider span of space, were mere infants themselves. Yet the allure of power drew us in, as we built temples, fought wars, and committed, time and time again, both acts of mercy and cruelty alike.
I stand now alone, facing a new dawn as the golden rays of the age of godhood fade into the annals of history. Folly and hope alike light my way, for within these pages I wish to impart the memory of those who once served these beings and the imprints that their influence brought upon the world... Who am I?
I am no one, a simple passing chronicler, who is fated to pass alongside the dwindling embers of celestial grace. Even if they despair now, the world will march on even in their absence, for they are not the creators; they are the created posing as infallible beings. Let the age of gods be put to rest as the stars shift once more in a never-ending cycle.