Of Old Man Time

What follows is a description of one of the gods in whose service I find myself. This post is not a history, but a fragment of a mythos. More of the same will come in time.

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They say the gods are distant and forgetful, at times, and that their worshippers must always be reminding them of their oaths, their responsibilities to the world. Of all the gods, one exception to this rule is the Old Man. He never forgets.

This oldest of kings, this wisest of unchosen tyrants, this serpent-tamer and all-healer, is guilty of every crime committed by any hand; he is to thank for every great wonder bestowed upon the world. Since the Toymaker fell laughing into the world, bringing Change and Chaos with him, the Old Man has lain his eye on every work and declared it cannot be undone.

When Jack won his games, the Old Man ensured they remained won. When Jack lost, the Old Man ensured he never went back on his word. When Jack gifted Fire, his favorite toy, to humanity, the Old Man ensured that Fire could not be taken back, even when it charred us and fueled our petty wars. When Jack froze the world in a fit of pique, the Old Man saw to it that we did not come back from a wintry death.

He is not an easy power to bargain with, but for the most desperate and manic of his priests he makes a small allowance; they borrow specks of sand from him, precious seconds to complete their great works. He collects, with interest, and it is never worth it.
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