Seven Dead Gods
In the city of Mothers carved against the earth, we take such pride in our stories. When grain runs scarce, and the herds thin, what has any man but the songs of his people?
We tell our tales, night upon night, to our children and our children’s children, of Ohenywaa, Wanyiru, and all the rest. How they swept over the plains, riders on a great grass sea, splitting earth and heaven in the war that bore us all. How they came, long ago, when white fire still burned across the stone, and brought something like deliverance.
Yes, that was a long time ago. And this? This is the story of what comes after.
Abigail E. Sims
Since space pirate, traveling swordsman, and dragon-tamer-for-hire are no longer reliable paths to job security, Abigail has settled for wordsmith.
After graduating from college in 2017, she tried on an array of professional hats that included writing for stage and screen, restaurant management, and, briefly, horseback riding. Today, she lives and works in Austin, Texas, where she splits her time between marketing wizardry and spinning stories of the wild, wicked, and wyrd.
Strip, hide from haunch, red-white marbled quarters, cut away—a slow shiver of steel. Blood pools…
Through a limitless fog, on uncomfortably formulaic streets, I saw a man. I had gone…
At the end of the tracks, there is new grass. A broken rail-tie juts— wooden…
Art inspired by the world of Seven Dead Gods and others…
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