Where Gods Forget Their Names Grey reality stretches in every direction... and at its centre, the blood moon... What remains of the face is ash... A God,... or what was worshipped as one. It no longer remembers the distinction.... Features softening back into stone, into dust, into the slow indifference of things that outlasted their own meaning.... It was named... It was built... It was believed in, with the particular devotion that civilisations extend to things they cannot afford to doubt... They fall... They always fall... The hourglass still turns... Sand falling for no one, measuring nothing, faithful to a purpose that outlasted everything it was built to serve... Time's cruelest quality... not that it ends, but that it continues regardless... The celestial map remains... rings and meridians charting a sky above a civilisation that no longer exists to look up... The cartography of the void... Precise... Pointless... Beautiful in the way that only truly useless things can be... The ruins do not mourn... They simply stand as evidence, patient and indifferent, for whoever survives long enough to read them... Few did... As it tends to be... The blood moon... Simply watches over what was once called great, over names now dissolving into grey..., over the last cartography of a world that forgot... finally, completely... even itself....