The soft plucking of the harp strings echoed through the realm of the gods as they looked down on the chronoverse, a world in which the worshipers lived. As a melancholy hymn filled the soft aether surrounding the immortals a voice spoke out, as all the sound became silent.

“The realm has been guarded and watched over for millennia and now we must only watch. Leave them, those closest to us, with a gift so that they may shape the world as they see fit.”

The gods peered down at the kingdoms with collective longing; while some felt additional disgust or comfort, all together the tone fell to a somber wish as they began to depart. The regions surrounding the gods fell ever farther away from the already impossible to reach place.

“Farewell pupils. The world is yours to weave.” As if a part of the clockwork, one by one the apprentices of the gods fell to the planes of the chronoverse to be left behind.