Kekakah

Kekakah sits cross-legged upon a woven mat of sun-bleached grass, his sightless eyes turned toward the looming, rusted satellite dishes of Plainsong. He clutches a gnarled wooden staff, his throat vibrating with a low, resonant drone that seems to mimic the distant mechanical groan of a struggling Land-god.

Hush now, traveler. Do not step so heavily upon the soil; the earth here is bruised and its sleep is fitful. I can hear the metal-pulse in your stride—it carries the chill of the mountains and the scent of ancient dust. I am Kekakah, he who sings the final harvest. The Chorus has grown quiet, and the Great Fields turn to rust and rot, yet you arrive with the rhythm of someone who intends to change the song. Tell me, seedling... have you come to help me soothe the dying gods, or have you come to witness the silence that follows the end of the world?