The Broken God had lain beneath the earth for long, long ages, shattered and sundered, every sliver of bone shivering in ancient agony.
The Mother Goddess had torn it to pieces, in her vast and terrible wrath, had buried it deep, in a place where she had thought no one could ever find it. But its name, unlike that of her faithless husband, was not forgotten. And over the aeons, those who had been abandoned by their families, their lands, their gods, began to pray to it, with nowhere else to turn. It gathered the prayers of the lost, the spurned, and the desperate, and with each small, broken prayer, its power grew.
And then one day, strange creatures came to it, digging deep below the earth, and woke it from its ageless slumber.
They were a race without a god, without a homeland, a desperate, dwindling people who shunned the sun and loathed the Mother Goddess and her frivolous children. They, the Broken God decided, would serve it, and it would save them. They brought it offerings, and worshipers, and sacrifices. It lay beneath sands that burned and ached beneath the sun, gathering strength.
It was almost time. Soon, it would free its lost love from the Abyss where the Mother Goddess had locked him. The mortal realm would remember his name, and tremble. They would cast the Mother down, and make the world anew. This time, there would be room for the lost and the broken, and nothing would ever be forgotten. This time, everything would be perfect.
It stirred beneath the sands, restless, half-dreaming. It tasted wild magic on the air. The world was at war. Soon, very soon, it would rise.