he hears his master's voice
They will, inevitably, pay the price for their new world.
Altera was only a game. An infinite machine of crunched numbers, an ever-unfurling scroll of binary and hexadecimal mantra turned into something greater than the sum of its parts - but still a game. A world unto itself, vibrant and multi-colored, but a false world. Not life, but faux-life. The Remnants, imitation mountains to marvel at; the Deadwaste, a macabre horror of our own creation, our own sadistic indulgence. Simulations, microcosms… macrocosms, at best, highly sophisticated trophies of our vanity, at worst.
But, for one instance in our long history, we were perhaps as good, as smart, as brilliant as we thought we were; if, indeed, it is to believed that Altera is real. Nonetheless, we are stranded, and for the first time in this faux-world, I feel thirst, and hunger, and fear. Some of our number are missing, felled by constructs of the world, vanished into wisps of nothing.
So if, on your journey, you should come across gods...
We are surrounded, on all fronts, by terrible beasts of our own creation, behemoths, colossi, and leviathans. To our West are the warring clans of the Remnants, to our North the treacherous forests of the Xo, and to our East, the rotting earth of the Deadwaste. Beyond all that, the winds howl, and thunder sounds as if death sentences - wrath of gods we created and instilled with our own programming.
The best and brightest among us set forth to carve a way out of our self-made predicament. Men and women from all walks of life, donning false faces and false armor to fight for our survival. They are the thousand yard spear into darkness, our shield against the predators, and our Vanguard.
... strike them down.