The world is because Raijo Goldshadow was there to lend his claws to Shining Brow of Foresight for the battles of the high First Age.

Because Red Fangs Gleaming fought at the edge of the world, and though pierced by a thousand blades did not fall until his Raksha foes were driven before him.

Because Jeesha of the New Moon uncovered the Realm’s plot to assassinate the Council of Entities and, through Nexus, topple Lookshy with silver instead of swords.

Because Many Eyes Watching divined that this man should be king, and quietly disposed of his opposition before they became a problem.

Because Vaogun Wyld-Walker protected the tomb of his long-dead mate, Shian the Searing, from the Deathknight that came wrapped in her memories, intending to rob it of its artifacts and unleash her previous incarnations ghost on the lands.

Because of these things and more, the world is the way it is. But perhaps the Stewards were not necessary. A hundred times, the Moonchildren need not have been.
Creation would have marched on without them, a little less bright perhaps, but not greatly diminished.

But there are not a hundred such incidents. There are thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. More, until the works of the Stewards outnumber the dreams of mortals.

If they are not as glorious as the Lawgivers thunder or as byzantine as the Viziers machinations, they are no less vital that we do not see a world brought low by the lack of them.

That which is protected does not change, and so does not know it. Cast aside your shield, for no blow has struck you. Spurn your armour, for you are unharmed. Act without caution or care for your life; the worst has not happened yet, why should it now?

Because the silver fires burn yet. Because as long as the Stewards draw breath, so shall Creation. Broken, beset and hunted, their devotion is yet unquenched. The worst has not happened, because they do not let it.

Without their muses to inspire them, their lovers to soothe them, their companions to temper them, the Solars scorched Creation dry with their matchless perfection, until nothing remained but broken slaves to echo praise of the shining god-kings.

For want of the Stewards the Shogunate choked on its first, gasping breath as Creations enemies saw the Dragon-Blooded distracted by the aftermath of their treachery, and struck.

For lack of the Moonchildren to divide and harass them, the Raksha drowned the fledgeling Scarlet Empire in barbarians and gibbering mutants. The Sword of Creation struck again and again, until its backlash broke the Blessed Isle apart, and the Wyld claimed its due.

So shout out in joy, and sing for the silver heroes whose glories you shall never know, for you will never need to know

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