Once, the mortals lived and died at the whims of the gods. The gods had given them life, after all -- it only followed that their lives were owed to the gods because of it, especially at the end of days. 

But that was before, when the world was still young and the oceans sang and the forests swayed with the rhythm of the elder deities. Mortals then saw no other paths, and so they plodded along meekly and with gratitude in their hearts; they were content in the shadow of their beloved gods, and they saw no need to ask for more. The gods, they felt, were good to them, and that was enough.

Now, though... now the seas can be tamed and the forests harvested, the wind and even the light of that fearsome, awesome sun channeled into fuel, into power. And power, for those in the know, is what separates mortals from the divine.

What use, then, are the gods, who even in their ancient wisdom see fit to bow nature's tantrums? What use are gods who ignore progress, ignore momentum? What use are gods who must be worshipped to hold dominion over the world? 

The mortals have found their different path, and the gods fell by the wayside, stripped of their significance, and because of that, of their strength as well. Some mortals miss them, of course, and continue to quietly pray to them in times of need; others have all but forgotten the deities of their ancestors, have put their faith in science and human ingenuity. 

And of course the gods still exist, among these faithless mortals; of course they roam the plains and the deserts they helped shape, trying to fit into this new age of godless wonder. The younger gods have taken to it well, integrating into the mortal realm with relative ease and making use of their godly gifts only infrequently, when they believe them to be needed, or out of some less than noble desire. 

The elders, though... the Old Gods. Their fall was not so mundane, and not without its consequences. 

In this new age, it's wise to remember that one must always beware the fallen.