Much was forgotten and much hidden by the priests to give them power over the people. How else to make them erect temples to far off gods? This is why my family, a family of scribes, passed knowledge of the ancients by story and poem, passed by memory.
We know what a star is and that we live on a planet and that the planet we live upon that is near there stars is not the planet from which our forefathers came. We know that our folk came to this place in a great ship and that they slept in a deep chill to preserve them in their long journey. Perhaps this is why the priest leave young children, tightly bound, in icy mountain top retreats, some perverted memory of our arrival here or perhaps it is just that they love death more than anything.
We write their words and copy their proclamations, we record the annals and publish their oracles. We know their desires and they are not even to their gods, but rather, they lust for blood, for death, always for death.
The Corn King’s people they call us. It would be truer to say we are the Corn King’s Priest’s slaves if we live and the priest’s victims if we don’t.