As his thoughts settled, Gortog focused on the lotus flower before him and slipped into meditation, his mind racing across the stars to the boy god of dreams. He communed with his god, the raw power of magic flowing over him, his dreams unraveling from the night before to show their true meanings. How anyone could turn their back on such liberation to embrace a diabolical witch goddess was beyond him.
Suddenly the connection snapped, Gortog's consciousness reeled back to his body with enough force to throw him backwards, his head cracking on the marble floor of the Grand Temple. He was unable to move, the last words of the boy god echoing through his head, a plea for help followed by screams of pain. How could one so grand, so powerful, call out to someone as lowly as him for help? Yet, it was the screams of a child that would stay with Gortog for the rest of his short life. The connection was lost, the dream was gone, the child was dead.
Gortog pushed himself up and began his meditation again, but there was no one out there. The communion with his deity he experienced just moments before was replaced with an all consuming numbness. Erias was dead, his faith betrayed. It would be nearly a week before the rest of the city puzzled out the death of their patron deity. It would take over a year before it was understood that Vlaakith herself slew the boy god. By then, Gortog had already thrown himself to his death off the roof of the Grand Temple, unable to go on with his life with such profound emptiness, but really it was that final child's scream that pushed him over the edge.
Some priests followed Gortog in his suicide, while others were more pragmatic. Perhaps they had always been pragmatic in their faith, but they found alternatives. None were to be so disloyal and vile as to worship Vlaaktih, a goddess of diametrically opposite beliefs from Erias, but they found other patrons. Those in the faith for the power used their knowledge of magic to find positions in arcane organizations. Those who needed to re-direct their faiths sometimes turned to Zheenkeef, worshiping his/her aspect of the mind, while most turned to Tinel and his domains of magic and knowledge. None of these priests ever achieved significant positions of power in their new organizations. There was always a stigma about them, an heir of opportunism and a belief that they were someone irresponsible or neglectful in their gods demise.
With the ghustils neutralized, the council made their pact with Vlaakith. The Ghustil ward was taken over by the priesthood of Vlaakith, the new patron of the city. They were quiet and respectful about it, not wanting to upset the populace. The people were slowly won over by a new focus on law and order and an influx of new spending by their diabolical masters. At first, there was a quiet, systematic purging of groups that were believed to be subversive. Those who behaved and assisted their new masters were rewarded well. For the most part, existing power structures were maintained, with just a slight twist to ensure their obedience. Religion, beyond worship of Vlaakith, was discouraged and many of the hundreds of gods of Iron Crown slipped into obscurity.
Over the next several decades, carrots were replaced almost entirely with sticks, once it was assumed that the population had been pacified. Under the iron fist of the diabolical powers, the streets became unsafe, trade was stifled by restrictions, and authority was abused. Iron Crown was used for its production of goods and only compensated enough to keep the factory town going. There were no more dreams with their patron god dead. Their spirits were broken. An entire generation lost all hope. Would their children be able to restore it?
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