Act I

The Great Divide

When the divine barrier fractured, it did not break quietly. It screamed - a sound that tore through the roots of Axoma and split the very heart of the land. The breach grew into a vast wound of dust and desolation - the Great Divide, a golden desert stretching from mountain to sea.

Where once fertile plains lay, now only scorched dunes shimmer beneath a cruel sun. In its center stands the Temple of Axomamma, the last bastion of light - surrounded by crumbling ruins and eternal sandstorms. Here, her remaining disciples guard the goddess’s sleeping form, awaiting the day her light will awaken once more.

The Three Tribes of the Broken Land

As the fertile lands receded and chaos spread, the Pawtatos were forced to adapt - splintering into three great tribes. Each holds a fragment of the goddess’s teachings, each convinced their way is the one that will awaken her. They share no bloodshed, only a quiet, heavy distance - bound by reverence, divided by conviction.

The Sproutkin

To the north, where the last forests still breathe, the Sproutkin tend to the wounded land. They nurture saplings where the soil still remembers life, and whisper prayers through the roots that snake beneath the surface. To them, Axomamma’s return depends on restoring balance through growth — every tree planted, every seed sown a plea for her awakening.

They see the other tribes’ methods as reckless, believing that only nature and renewal can heal the goddess’s slumbering heart.

The Emberclaws

In the west, among the shattered ridges and smoking craters, dwell the Emberclaws. They believe Axomamma’s divine flame still burns within the earth, and that to rekindle it, they must use the resources the land gives and master the art of craftsmanship.

Their forges never sleep; their hammers echo like heartbeats of defiance. The Emberclaws view the Sproutkin’s soft hands and the Flowtails’ shifting tides as distractions. To them, strength and creation will reignite the goddess’s spirit.

The Flowtails

To the east, where rivers still feed a vast shimmering lake, the Flowtails built their villages and shrines. They see Axomamma not as bound to earth or flame, but as the pulse between them — motion, flow, and balance. They believe harmony can only be restored through unity of purpose.

Yet even they hoard what they have, fearing the desert’s reach. They see the Sproutkin as naive dreamers and the Emberclaws as destroyers of equilibrium. Their faith is fluid but firm — to adapt is to survive, and survival is the goddess’s will.

The Quiet Rivalry

Though no blood is shed between them, the air of Axoma is heavy with tension. Trade is careful, words guarded. Each tribe sends pilgrims to the Temple at the desert’s center — yet never together. Each believes that only their offerings, their prayers, their methods will stir Axomamma from her slumber.