"In the beginning, the great Odua, our forefather, our great ancestor, journeyed from the skies above. Carried by the power of the Great One, he descended upon the blessed world, his feet meeting sacred soil for the first time. Odua, the great torchbearer, the chosen one of our people, led us to this land, and with the blessings of the Great One upon our shoulders, we were to call this place our home.
It was a land of plenty, or so we were told. A land rich in the bounties of the earth, overflowing with promise and grace, painted in the warm colors of a future we were assured was ours to inherit. But many centuries have passed since those golden words were spoken, and yet, we taste nothing but ash and sand. The sweetness they promised has long since rotted on the vine, and what remains is ruin.
The fabled descendants of Odua, the great Ogun, blade master and forgesmith of legend, the powerful Sango and his song of fire and lightning, the beautiful Oya and her healing streams, the wise Ifa and his peerless, all-knowing sight. They were our pillars, our pride, the very names we whispered in prayer when darkness pressed too close.
Where are they now? Where is the might of Ogun, said to cleave mountains and split valleys in two with a single stroke of his blade? Where is the thunder of Sango, that terrible, glorious roar that brought his enemies to their knees and shook the heavens themselves? Where is Oya, when our children died of cruelty and hunger, when their small bodies grew cold in our arms and we had nothing left to offer them but tears? Where was she then? And where was Ifa, the seer, the all-knowing, who could not, or would not, see the calamity that would befall the very descendants he once cradled in divine light?
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Most of all, where is our Great One? The boundless being who ferried Odua across the void, from a land we have no recollection of, a homeland erased so completely from our memory that we cannot even mourn it properly. Where is that great presence now, when we need it most?
I will say what others dare not speak aloud. We were nothing but a jest to the Great One, a fleeting amusement, and Odua his willing pawn. We were placed here not out of love, not out of divine purpose, but as pieces on a board we were never meant to understand. And now we die off, slowly, quietly, fading into the unwritten history of this accursed world of death and blood, forever condemned to be nothing but slaves in the coming new age.
I weep for my descendants. I weep for my people, who will face horrors far worse than anything my eyes have witnessed, trials that would break the spirit of even the most resolute soul. I weep because I know it, I see it as clearly as the morning sun cresting the hills,
It has only begun."
Lost records of an unknown civilization, recovered in the Second Age.
