American mythology circa 6013 AD

It is told that very long before our current age, powerful gods ruled the world, feasted on its riches, brought forth their sons and daughters and showered them with gold, jewels and the instruments of domination. Only when the flush of Earth Mother Saha (“endurance”) filled the world with searing heat did the great gods finally yield.

The old gods’ king was Qash (“usurper of virtue”), wielder of the golden scythe, who seduced by the alluring goddess Dasire (“mother of temptation”) brought forth with her a fearsome child, the three-headed beast called Ghreede (“sticky fingered”). Each of Ghreede’s three hideous serpentine heads, named Povertae (“robber of hearts”), Bigatree (“cowardly”) and Dhett (“in chains”) could cast spells; Povertae sapped mortals of confidence, Bigatree made mortals cower in fear, and Dhett forced mortals to succumb to slavery.

One brother of Qash, the fearsome Whaar (“hot with rage”), jealous of the powers of Ghreede, caused discord and conflict among mortals, and brought much the same to his dealings with the other gods. Armored in polished steel, able to shoot flames from his blood-red eyes and to roar hot lava from his mouth with the power of an exploding volcano, Whaar repeatedly made waste of the Earth in an attempt to seize Greede’s powers.Tthe clever three-headed beast was too cunning, however, and was able to reassert itself each time Whaar’s back was turned.

The three goddesses Butae, Justis and Merci, sisters of Qash and though gentle, of great power, did their best to influence Qash. Butae (“eye feast”) would spend long evenings regaling and distracting Qash with fabulous tales, her magical powers producing lovely cascades of shimmering colors, pleasing sounds and comforting smells. Justis (“all-seeing”) would soothe Qash with hypnotic stories about his excellent judgement and wisdom. Merci (“melting heart”), the most melodramatic of the three, would enact entertaining plays filled with tears, passion and love songs, lulling Qash to sleep, but each day he would awaken bored and restless, having forgotten everything his sisters had imparted.

While caught in the spells of his sisters, Qash would sometimes weep; his tears would trickle down and fall to Earth. Where each errant teardrop fell, an apple tree would sprout, and from these trees sweetness and goodness would find short purchase in otherwise bare and barren soil. We’re it not for the fruit born of the lost teardrops of Qash, it is said no mortals would have survived.

The handsome and persuasive younger brother of Qash, he who was named Khredit (“seduction that strangles”), had uncountable arms, each ending in barbed hooks of meteoric iron. Gathering desperate mortals by the neck, he dragged them behind him in long lines. Their ceaseless wailing produced the strong winds that drove waves of longing to the shores of the floating Isle of Phoroneus (“bringer of a price”), the home of the gods.

While all this happened, Earth Mother Saha mostly watched in patience – her forests cut, her creatures slaughtered, her breath filled with smoke and soot, her waters fouled. From time to time she would cry out, her shoulders heaving in great sobs that would shake the land and raise the oceans. At last, her patience exhausted, she flushed mightily in the purifying heat of sorrowful compassion, and the old gods and their works were turned to vapor.