IN> A RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES CHALLENGE!

[Josh Krutt]

Eli?  No.  No, this is not Heaven's.  Nor is it Hell's.

Oberto Airaudi has seen things in his dreams since he was ten.
Images.  Dreams are properly not the realm of Beleth or Blandine -
those two who were set upon the Marches by the Interloper, the mad
Strand of Almighty.  No, this is not Heaven's, with their mad hatred
of any new faith - look at what they did to their own, to the
Archangel of Fire, for the gift of Islam.  Nor is it Hell's, with
their unease at anything good and uplifting - especially that which
does not free.  No - to Heaven and Hell, we ascribe the policemen, the
mortal hands of Judgment and the Game.

To Damanhur?  For that, we look into the land of Dreams.  The Marches
hold our answer - in Athena, in Odin, in Isis.  The old gods have not
been still, for all they have been silent.  The Far Marches, away from
the gaze of the Almighty Strand, were where they hatched a plan, long
ago, after Uriel's Crusade ended.  It took them centuries to come
together, and centuries to plan, but at last, a hundred years ago,
they knew what must be done.

It took them ten years to build the talismans necessary.  It took them
thirty-five to find a mortal receptive enough to be useful.  It took
five years to craft the Attunements.  It took three years to reach the
dreamscape safely and undetectably.  And at the age of ten, Oberto
Airaudi was granted the honor of being the First Prophet of Damanhur,
the Pantheon.  Truly do they mean 'Pantheon' - all gods.  All save for
the Almighty Strand.  That they may agree on.  And so, the most
beautiful visions of temples have been Oberto's.  Unto Oberto was
given a new name, for a new man needs a new name: Falco.

And yet the boy did not lead.  After ten years, the gods grew curious.
 After twenty, fearful.  They aided him in life, making him successful
and lucky.  And at last, in 1975, he gave them what they wanted: he
began to lead, and three years later, to build.  Now, the Federation
of Damanhur has grown, protected from the mad Strand of Almighty and
its deluded servants by the might of all old gods.

Damahur grows, and with it, the hopes of the old gods.  In this city,
perhaps, the Pantheon can retake humanity, can save them from the mad
wargame that the Almighty Strand plays with itself.  Perhaps it can
save them from being devoured by Heaven and Hell.  And in return, what
do they ask for?  They ask for that which can be given freely: for
love, for adoration.  They ask that which every being receives every
day, for Essence, that they might further protect and serve their
people.

Or at least, that's what the Pantheon thinks.