Lakes of Blood and Ash
Thorns: The Conservatorship of Dust
Grand Treasurer of Thorns
Men are not the only ones to die. We see trees, their lives measured in centuries, they did as well and we note them in their forests laying tired among their living peers. They devour them you know. We too, like vultures, depending on the hoarded wealth of family and flaring angrily against our kin for the larger strip of meat. Everything dies and all that it was finds new purpose, a new home. Gods too, so many seeking to survive in the land of One Thousand Temples, so many open for rent…different ones each week.
It is not like the world to sit still or for people to sit still. Mortals, they wax and wane in strength. They hope to hoard enough in their prime to live well and be flanked on each side by those who want what they had. Cold succor allowed those who don’t take it with them. Gods, when they pass, their alliances dissolve and trust and faith find new homes in the arms of another. Their delegations scatter and seek new sources of solace. It is simply the way things are. Desire, need, power and wealth – those are eternal. They are tied to no person or thing, but are necessary to all creatures, even the dead. They change hands as needed. A great economy is woven into the fabric of existence.
So, do you let the dead meat go to another? A worm or a beetle, nourish the soil, allow the continuation of toil. Some, but you want the larger strips for yourself. You can’t let it slip through your fingers, this unseen truer currency. That is where true power resides. A funeral is a fine time to find alliances and to launch an attack on the kin of slain enemies.