Germaine Ashencloake surveyed the wreckage of the room before him. Dozens of tiny figurines lay in shattered ruins across the floor. From what he could observe, each was unique.
Germaine shook his head. A woodcarver carving in bone and ivory. Such things were simply not done. It bordered on blasphemy.
One of the Voices in his head spoke. “No wonder the destruction here is so complete. Such things cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.” And yet, until recently, this one had.
Another Voice added, “Such petty gods.” It tittered. “The real gods are the carvers who carve them.” Germaine ignored both Voices.
He could feel the figurines, could taste the little tatters of god-soul that still clung to each one. These were no petty gods, he knew. Not just. These were all the gods of all the world’s religions, made by an unknown woodcarver.
He spoke — and was surprised to hear that the Voice he used was his own.
“Our gods have not forsaken us,” he said. “They were simply never with us in the first place.”