There are many legends in this world…

...

A young sneasel sits at attention, wide awake as the other children have drifted on to sleep, entranced by his elder's stories. Stories of a great bird, with wings of black and red, the ender of lives. A deity that grants them favor in the afterlife.

The sneasel looks up to the night sky before puffing out his chest, and proudly declares that one day, he's going to be the one to find their god.

The elder gives him a warm chuckle and reminds him that he needs to rest if he wants to grow big and strong enough to find them.

...

Some share stories of power. Others provide comfort, or promise safety.

...

A bidoof settles down to bed next to her younger brother. He asks their dad for a story in a chipper tone. Just one more, please?

Their father huffs, but settles down in the straw to share the legends of the mountain. Of the great beast that slumbers there. The mountain mover, continent tower, protector of the small. He tells of his father before him, who went up the mountain in search of the great god.

The big sister rolls her eyes and declares that those legends are for babies. But her brother's eyes are full of stars. Her father insists the story is true, that one day, the king will reawaken, and that when he does, he'll protect them all from the coming calamity.

...

Many of these stories are nothing more than that. Legends. But the gods? Oh, the gods are very real.

...

A proud ninetales sits with his mate, murmuring the stories his father used to tell him. Of a deity far to the north. A dragon that had lost its purpose. A dragon that was as empty inside as the people that followed it, that blew icy winds from the mountain tops and froze their hearts, so they might be strong enough to survive.

His mate tells him what a horribly sad story it is, and he gives her a grunt of agreement. He hopes that they're only tall tales.

...

These gods… they may be useful to us. The life in this world is filthy, like vermin. We seek to cleanse it.

...

A bisharp stands in a clearing, the pelt of a slain mamoswine draped over her shoulders. She speaks to her fellow pokemon of the teachings of their deity, of the life-giver. Of their importance. For if the forest were to quit providing life to the prey mon, then surely they would perish as well.

She raises a hand into the air and asks for their deity's blessing.

...

For our people, we will do whatever it takes. We will find these gods. We will bend them to our will. We will use their power to reshape the world.

...

A litten takes his place in front of the sacred stones, sitting down between the two for his vigil, closing his eyes as he recalls the inscriptions.

We give thanks to the Sun Devourer. We give thanks to the Moon Bringer. We ask for their blessings and we pray for their safe returns.

He raises his head and lets out a mournful cry.

...

We must succeed. I will stop at nothing to make this world ours.

...

A tired torracat waits for his gods. A scarred bisharp commands her followers. A world-weary ninetales listens in horror. A stubborn bidoof gets in an argument. A terrified sneasel flees his kin, and the place he once called home.

A ship runs ashore in an underpopulated bay, teeming with activity as the pokemon on deck get to work, putting their plans into motion.

...

For me, there is no sacrifice too great.