Musings of a Mystikal god

The sun set slowly on the horizon, and Mychael couldn't stop staring at the red glow that outlined the mountain range in the distance. "What am I doing here," he asked as he turned towards the house.

The house. Not his house because he was a wandering god. Exiled from his home and all those he knew. Now he dwelled in a modest house that helped him to hide his true nature. Gone were the days and years of granduer and extravagance. The thatched roof barely kept out the rain these days, and the cracks where the walls came together were getting wider and wider. If you looked hard enough, you could see that the house was starting to lean to the right. He couldn't imagine that he had many more months before the decay of the house caused it to crumble down around him. He should fix it.

If only he could afford to fix it. Oh, yes, how the proud and powerful have been humbled. He doesn't have the resources to fix his house because he doesn't have much of a trade with which to get the resources he needs. After all, there's really no use for an old man who's only talent is history and writing about that history. Times are tough, here in this world where he has chosen to spend his exile. People aren't interested in reading his books. So, like every writer before him who finds that he has plenty of books to sell but no buyers, Mychael has found himself broke and devoid of any USEFUL skill. What he wouldn't give to return to the days of his glory. To fight alongside his fellow gods, to weild the ability to make and create, to break down and destroy, to fight the mighty battles that his stories speak of. All of that has now been denied him. The gods have destroyed themselves and scattered throughout the cosmos, and for him, the most devestating part of all is not only having lost his loved ones.

He has lost his powers. He is a god no more.