The Tragic

The Tragic, also known as The One Who Rests Eternal, is a curious god. While they aren't an Ascended of any sort, they are worshipped and venerated within Penumbra, as their story resonates with the city's culture on a deep, spiritual level. While many embody and demonstrate their faith towards The Tragic in innumerable ways, most commonly, followers of The Tragic focus on a deep respect for the dead, especially deceased kin, and attempt to embody The Tragic's dedication to their family. The Tragic's followers wish that those plagued by the turbulence of the world may rest peacefully in the afterlife.

Worshipping The Tragic is a personal affair for its followers. What attitudes have been described previously are merely commonplace, and not dictated by any religious body. With the religion's niche nature relative to the world, on top of its many subjective expressions, there are few unified churches or groups dedicated to The Tragic, nor any commonplace rituals. What exactly a devout follower of The Tragic gets out of their belief is solely subject to their personality and worldview.

### The Story of The Tragic

Long, long ago, before the shardlands were known as the shardlands and before civilizations spread like wildfire across Utharia, there sat a tall, beautiful mountain right off the eastern coast of what would eventually be known as the Qismet Caliphate. This mountain was a grand, whole gem of Solarium, which shined brilliantly in the unfettered sunlight above the clouds; it appeared to breathe with energy; waves of red, green, and blue rising up its brilliantly pale surface up towards its peaks. This energy collected at those peaks, firing itself into the air as wondrous, vibrant auroras which filled the plain blue sky above.

And atop all of this beauty, sat a single mother. Covered in gems much like the ones around her, a dragon laid, protecting its nest of eggs. The dragon called this mountain, the Spire, her home. She rested and waited above the clouds, waiting for her children to hatch so she could share the beautiful landscape with them as well, and travel the world to see other spires much like their own.

However, as much as the dragon waited… her children would not come. Whether it would be weeks, months, or years, one knows not, but the eggs would never hatch, and the mother became worried. She was worried she was doing something wrong, she was scared she accidentally ruined them, but most of all, she was terrified of being alone. The auroras and the spire were beautiful, but one can only appreciate it alone for so long. She needed to do something, she needed to save her kids, but how?

She devised a theory. Maybe there isn't enough energy within her nest. The power rising up into the peaks, transforming into the beautiful auroras above, was all but wasted. She needed it all, all collected to the peak in her nest, to see if it would awaken her children, whose shells have turned pitch black.

And so, she struck down the peaks, smoothing out the ridges that remained and letting chunks of gemstones sink into the ocean below. She needed to concentrate this energy, up to her nest. And to an extent, she succeeded. The vast, vibrant, prismatic waves rode up the smoothed mountaintop up to her nest, and she swore she could see a pale glow within her eggs once more.

Yet, it wasn't enough. She waited still, but her children would not come. She became filled with grief, anger, and confusion. She sunk her talons into the mountain and screamed out into the sky above, desperate for answers, desperate for something to work. She took all the power within her and tried to harness all the potentiality contained within the mountain, trying to harvest it all, bring it all up into the peak, into her nest, into her.

And she succeeded.

As the power washed over her body she screamed louder and louder, her talons sinking deeper and deeper into the mountain, her body filling with pain and agony before she screamed her last.

A shrill, piercing wail filled the sky. Rumors say it could be heard travelling all across the world and back again, the percussive force shaking the ground, sky, and ocean for miles around. However, what it shook most of all, was the spire. The immense force made the mountain tremble, crack, and eventually… break. The entire formation crumbled into fine dust, the grieving mother collapsing with it, tumbling deep down into the depths below. She screamed still as she fell; she was not able, or not willing, to run away. The dust that was once the spire, filled with immense energy, whipped around the ruins of the mountain, shredding all in its path. It took weeks for the dust to settle, but when it had, no trace of the mother or her children remained. Only the shardlands.

Those who worship her, The One Who Rests Eternal, hope she has finally found peace in death, with her children alongside her. They take her tale as a tale of caution, one of tragedy... but also one of love. Devotion to one's family and kin is the primary tenet of The Tragic's worshippers, and while they may not follow a proper ascended, they try their best to embody The Tragic's love as best they can.