Necessity is the Mother of Invention by MisbehavingMaiar

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

The world is a flat, tended garden; symmetrical, calm, lit by lamps and stars in perpetual twilight. 

Ranges of even mountains flank regular valleys. There are no seasons, no weather but the occasional, pre-ordained storm to water the plants. No life teems but what was put there to begin with.

Men are born and die and they feel no particular angst about this. It does not consume their days with worry nor do they strive to be remembered after they are gone. They are content. 

The elves grow and multiply, and then cease to bear children at all, having a stable, immortal population. They build and stay. Their art reflects the beauty of the world, but the beauty of the world is steady and unchanging. It will be beautiful and mild for eternity; why capture it? 

 The tides that trouble the world are fads. Strife is political, mediated, pedantic. The world is mapped to its limits, and so are the heavens. 

The gods move about, singing their perfect songs, smothering whatever is dear to them close to their breasts. All is in harmony; there are only so many harmonies to be explored. 

Underneath the skin of it all, entropy reigns, gnawing the foundations of things. All will fade, all will be folded back into the dark but the incline is so gradual, it is hardly worrisome. Nothing pushes against the pull. Nothing shines the brighter for meeting resistance.

"Do you ever think there might be other worlds out there we could travel to?"

"That seems a lot of effort when we have everything we need on this one."