The Chronicles of the Divinity

The Origins of Creation

Before all things, there was only the Tempest—an unending instant of raw essence, the potential of all that could ever be. Power existed in its purest form: unshaped, lightless, locked in eternal war with itself. The infinite swirled without time, a ceaseless churn of chaos.

From the grinding mills of the Tempest, sparks leapt, and from those sparks came aspects of itself—part of the Tempest, yet apart. Most were crushed back into its unyielding tides, their substance devoured. But a few tore free, escaping the consuming fires. The Tempest’s hunger reached for them still.

Drifting through the twilight dreams of the Tempest, these survivors became the Primordial Gods—each one a singular will yet also a pantheon within themselves, ruling over energies both one and many. In taking names, they claimed power.

Grhtoth, firstborn, steeped in curiosity, knew all things and mastered the crossing of all distances. With Grhtoth came the first breath of time.

Raoglak, second, felt the heat of the Tempest’s fires and feared them. Seeking refuge, Raoglak fled along Grhtoth’s paths.

Fhothotu, third, followed Raoglak’s trail and found Grhtoth waiting.

Then Maeg, the fourth, spoke into being the first division of space: here and there.

Lathos, fifth, wandered between them, tracing Maeg’s boundaries by way of Grhtoth’s crossings.

L’oia, sixth, reached both Maeg and Lathos, but only by passing first through Grhtoth’s gates.

With their arrival, a gulf yawned between the Primordials and the Tempest—a place none dared approach.

From that distance burst Luyata, seventh, and with her came pulse and vibration.

Nhurakal, eighth, emerged next, drawing close to the others for shelter.

When the Tempest’s winds lashed out, its fire burned them, and from those flames came the last: Athyarn, ninth, whose essence was spirit.

Together, the Nine fashioned new aspects in their image, sharing their power in the hope of breaking free from the endless torment Raoglak had foreseen. L’oia, aided by Fhothotu, persuaded Grhtoth to move ever forward, never back, so the Tempest could not reclaim them. From this choice arose the Great Barrier, the first wall of all creation.

Within this sanctuary, the Nine mingled their essences and brought forth children. These children were named Aeon.

The Birth of the Aeons

And it came to pass that the Aeons awoke in the void, where laws unseen had already taken root.
Beneath the dominion of the Nine, they dwelt in a realm of chaos untempered, where form was fleeting and purpose unspoken. For though each Aeon bore the mingled breath of all the Primordials, this very fullness kept them apart—unable to behold their progenitors as they truly were.

In the emptiness they wandered, finding one another in the deep stillness. And in their fellowship they began to know the works of the Nine, though the faces of the Nine were hidden from them.

Thus the Aeons set their hands to their first great labor. By the gift of Maeg, they drew forth the division of here and there; by Lathos, they moved between them; and by L’oia, they bound the spaces together.
Then Luyata gave her gift—that the Aeons might touch one another in that place—and Raoglak stirred them with the warmth of feeling, so that love arose among them. And by love, the Aeons multiplied, and by their multitude they fashioned the beginnings of existence.

But the Nine looked upon their children’s work and laid entropy upon it, so that all their labors were undone. Then the Aeons learned the curse of Raoglak, which is Pain; and they wept for all that had perished.

By the counsel of Fhothotu they reasoned, saying, “We shall take names of our own.” And so it was that Xyreus began his first work. He traversed the vastness and spoke to all the Aeons: “Let us build a world apart from the Prime Forces; let us divide their might into lesser powers, that we may hold them in our hands.” And many gathered unto him.

Xyreus beheld the Nine moving upon the face of the void, and by their going he learned their Names. With this knowing he sought to bind their essence, weaving a hidden design to rule over them. And the Nine, perceiving not his craft, murmured among themselves.

Then Madion, most wise of the Aeons, beheld a strange thing—that the Nine had wrought after the likeness of the Aeons and brought forth beings of their own. And these were the Ancients, born of madness and given life by the will of the Nine.

Madion summoned the Aeons to witness, and fear came upon them at the sight of the Ancients. And they contended bitterly over what should be done.

Three hosts arose among them:
The first, bold in spirit, would fashion warlike beings to contend with the Ancients in endless battle, that by the gathering of essence they might at last strike down even the Tempest itself.
The second, timid in heart, would make a hidden refuge where their creations would serve and worship them, freeing them from all toil.
The third would embrace the cycle of making and unmaking, content to build anew without end.

And the Aeons found no accord. But Xyreus, unwilling that these counsels defile his dominion, shaped for himself a new host whose sole purpose was to destroy the Ancients. These were the Dragons, firstborn of his wrath. And with their making, the quarrel was stilled for a season—yet the debate endured without end.

The War of the Gods

And in those days, the whole of Creation was cast into ruin, for the Aeons rose against their makers.
The children sought dominion over the essence, and the Nine would not yield. So was the First Great War kindled, and its fires raged from the outermost edges of the void to the innermost pillars of the worlds.

Aeon struck down Aeon, Primordial smote Aeon, and the heavens shook beneath their strife. Many of the Eternal Children perished, yet the Aeons prevailed in the end.

They took Maeg, Lathos, and L’oia alive.
They slew Raoglak, bearer of fear; Fhothotu, keeper of reason; and Athyarn, spirit of the flame.
And in the last battle, Nhurakal fell, struck down by the hand of Xyreus himself.

Then the victors made a dread sacrifice: Maeg, Lathos, and L’oia were bound and offered to seal the survivors of the Nine beyond a gate of unbreaking power. This gate was called the Maelstrum, and it became as a burning pool of essence, its fires feeding all creation until the end of days.

There the three were driven to madness, and they clothed themselves in new names.
Lathos became The Mad God, The Devourer, The Devil King Zsog.
L’oia became The Curse-Maker, Ruler of Miseries, The Devil Queen Kelanys.
Maeg became The Blind One, The Fair King of Hell, The Devil King Elaugat.

In their prison they made war without ceasing, each blaming the others for their doom. Their curses rolled like black waves across the veil, and all who heard them fell to raving madness.

When at last the Aeons returned to their space, they beheld a wonder and a dread: from the corpses of the slain Primordials there rose a tower, vast and gleaming, standing both outside and within their realm. This they sealed away in Amu Ra Amala.

But Xyreus remained apart, and his eyes alone beheld the passing of Nhurakal. That god withered and rotted, and from its ruin the dead Aeons gathered, whispering to its husk until another world took shape—Naraka, devourer of souls, the realm of all that is dead.

When the dust of battle at last was stilled, the surviving Aeons took their thrones, each by their name and their deed:

• Xyreus, for he struck down Nhurakal and broke the power of the Nine.
• Luniel, the Peacebringer, who declared the end of the First War.
• Zaal, the Wanderer, who measured all existence and stretched the bounds of the new world.
• Satal, the God of Pleasure, who in the midst of war sang to soothe the hearts of the Aeons.
• Sonael, the Maiden of War, who slew Fhothotu.
• Madion, the Wise One, who discerned the mind of the Primordials.
• Patum, the Queen of Darkness, who abides where no light dwells.
• Eron, the Keeper, who set down all that had come to pass.
• Talek, the Lord of Seasons, who laid the turning of the year upon the Lyorta as punishment.

Thus ended the War of the Gods, yet its scars remain in all the worlds.

The Birth of the Lyorta

And it was in the days after the War that the Aeons and their children spake one to another, saying,
“We shall have servants to bear our will into all the corners of Creation.”

So the Aeons wrought the Ora—innocent and unwearied, whose single desire was to serve.
They moved only at the command of the Aeons and the lesser gods, carrying forth their edicts into the breadth of existence.
As high priests they lifted worship to their makers; as lords they ruled over their appointed dominions in the heavens.

Mighty were they in strength and in swiftness.
As warriors, they hunted down all malefactors and cast from the worlds all that displeased the Aeons.
As messengers, they crossed the gulfs between realms, bearing the commands of their masters to the furthest stars.
As watchmen, they beheld all that passed in Creation and gave their full account to the Thrones of the Aeons.

In the fullness of their number, the Ora gathered essence from the far reaches, and with it they fashioned a new world.
Not so great as Tera, yet fair in beauty and rich in form—this was the Terrestrial Realm.

The Aeons sent the Ora into that place, and they shaped the land and the waters.
They raised the mountains to stand as pillars of stone, and they spread the plains like vast green mantles beneath the sky.

When the work was done, the Aeons encircled the space and called the lower portion Lyorta.
And to govern it, they made four orbs:

• Matsula, the blue orb, to keep the harmony of the waters.
• Abula, the red orb, to guard the fires and the lifeblood of the earth.
• Dahula, the black orb, to bind the shadows and the secret depths.
• And the fourth, which they hung above Lyorta and called Tera—world of the gods, seat of the Aeons, lofty above all realms.

In the heart of that space, the Aeons shaped the world and sealed it in a shell of water, declaring it fit for life.
And when it was ready, they filled it with beasts of air, land, and sea, each after its kind.

And when their labor was ended, the Aeons beheld the Lyorta and the Terrestrial Realm, and they were well pleased.

The Second War of the Gods

And it came to pass in the land of Lyorta that there arose new Aeons among the hosts of the dragons.
Once they had contended with the Nine and fallen, but the wandering essence that drifts between worlds found them, and they were raised again to life.

In their pride they ascended unto Tera, expecting crowns and welcome as heroes.
But at the gates they were met by Xyreus, King of the Gods, who spake unto them, saying:
“What are your designs for the days to come?”
And from their lips came the old contentions of the First Age.
Xyreus heard and would not receive them.

Then wrath took hold of the returned Aeons, and they cried for a place beside the thrones of Tera.
But Madion, the Wise One, counseled them: “Lay down your vain quarrels, and build a future worthy of your name.”
Yet they hardened their hearts, and the ancient divisions rose again—the three factions of war, dominion, and ceaseless rebuilding.

Seeing their strife, Xyreus cast them down into Lyorta and loosed the dragons upon them.
And there began a war without end.

In those days, many dragons fell, but the Aeons also perished.
Lyorta was broken—the mountains sank, the plains shattered, and shards of the world drifted through the heavens like islands of stone.
The Ora, beholding the ruin of their labor, lifted their voices in lament before the Thrones of the Aeons.

Thus dawned the Age of Dragons.
Long did the dragons wander alone, guarding their scattered realms, devouring one another in the famine of desolation, until only the strongest endured.
And the last of them tore holes in the Barrier, seeking escape.

Then from the Tempest came forth burning winds and living fires, and the world was filled with new powers and strange essences.
The Ora looked upon the floating ruins and beheld life taking root among them.
In wonder they named this power the Glyths, for they were remnants of the Nine’s own substance, cast upon the world by the breath of the Tempest.

With these fires, the Ora descended and shaped new lands and fresh creatures.

But in the High Places, the Aeons of Tera spake together, saying:
“This world is defiled. Let us fashion another.”
So they made a new Lyorta above the old and gathered up the worthy to dwell therein.
And Talek, Lord of Seasons, sent forth the Great Tides to drown all that remained below.

The Aeons that had brought ruin to the first Lyorta were taken by Naraka, devourer of souls, and cast into the World of the Dead.
The Ora were charged to bring pure essence back unto the Thrones, but the essence steeped too deep in sin they were to bear into Naraka.
And if the corruption were too foul even for Naraka, it was to be abandoned to the devils in Maelstrum.

But in the dark vaults of Maelstrum, the devils conspired.
They gathered the leavings of essence and, by their craft, made a sickness to poison the world.
This blight rose into Lyorta, and the bound Ora were seized by fury, turning one against another.

The Aeons beheld the chaos with dread and sent forth their soldiers to restore order, but their hosts withered in number, and the gods themselves were moved to descend.

When the tumult ceased, many Ora lay slain, and their spirits were as countless as the stars.
Yet the Aeons found the essence vanishing into places unseen, and whispers spread in Tera that a hidden Primordial had taken it.

Meanwhile, in the deep shadows of Maelstrum, the devils gathered the stolen essence and shaped it anew.
And while the veil was thin, they sent their spawn into the world—spirits made flesh, called demons, who bowed to the will of the devils.

The Fall of the Dragons and the Rise of the Gods

And it came to pass in the days after the Second War that a great and terrible dragon, Tambrion by name, heard the whispering curse of Maelstrum.
He gave ear to the devils’ breath and was filled with pride in his own strength.

Tambrion went forth among the dragons, proclaiming:
“I am mighty and I am proud; why then should one such as I bow to my equal?”

And they gathered at his call, the hosts of the winged lords, and they ascended to the court of the High Gods.
There they spake before the Aeons:
“We are mighty, and we are proud; why should we serve those who are no greater than we?”

Then Xyreus, King of the Gods, answered Tambrion:
“If you are so mighty, then stand against me in battle; and if you prevail, you shall be my equal indeed.”

But Tambrion was not only strong in limb, but cunning in thought, and he replied:
“You boast in your own strength, O Xyreus, yet you ask us to call even Patum a god. Should I not prove myself against any among you whom I choose?”

Xyreus, unshaken, yet knowing the weakness of Patum, turned to the gathered dragons and said:
“Go then, as you will.”

And so it was that many dragons departed from Tera to seek their own glory.
But those who remained faithful to the Thrones were exalted and numbered among the House of the Gods.

Yet the thrones of Heaven now lacked servants to tend the vast works of Creation.
Therefore the High Gods took counsel together and shaped for themselves lesser gods to serve them and their offspring.

These new-born deities were mighty in their measure, yet far beneath the dragons in strength.
They set themselves in orders and hierarchies, each to their appointed labor, and they served the High Gods without faltering.

And the Greatest of the Gods rested, beholding the Divine Machine they had set in motion, and they kept watch over all that was.

The Rebellion of Xyreus

And in the fullness of time, the words of Tambrion took root in the heart of Xyreus, King of the Gods.
Though enthroned in glory and set to watch over all Creation, he found no rest in his station, nor joy in the order he had wrought.

A hunger stirred within him, and he set his hand again to forbidden craft, shaping the essence as the Primordials had done in the first days.
The other High Gods looked upon his works with unease, for in his face they began to see the shadow of the Nine.

But Xyreus heeded them not.
The hunger became a fire, and the fire became madness.
In his lust for greater might, he seized the lesser gods and offered them as sacrifices to his designs, draining their essence for his own becoming.

Then Madion, the Wise One, came before him, saying:
“Cease from this path, for it leads only to ruin.”
But Xyreus answered:
“I shall make myself as a Primordial, and none shall stand before me.”

So Madion went forth to the other High Gods and told them of the King’s abominations.
And they, fearing the end of all things, took counsel together and resolved to cast him from the realms of Lyorta and Tera.

They came upon Xyreus in the height of his corruption.
His servants lay slain, their spirits bound within his very being, and the light in his eyes was turned wholly to darkness.
Then was there war in the High Places, for Xyreus fought fiercely against those who had once been his brethren.

But they overcame him, binding him with the same seals by which the Nine had been chained in ages past.
And they bore him to the threshold between here and there, before the very face of the Tempest, and they cast him into its eternal fires, seeking to unmake him utterly.

Yet it was not so.
For though his form was consumed, his essence endured, twisting and rotting until it became a world unto itself—Vulg, the realm of wickedness and raving madness.

The Return of the Primordials

And in the far deeps of the Void, where the light of Creation wanes into nothing, the cries of Xyreus drifted, carried upon the tides of eternity.
They passed beyond the bounds of known time, until they reached an ear that had never before been heard by god nor Aeon.

Then a voice answered—vast and alien—belonging to a Primordial whose name was unknown among the Thrones.
At its call, the Aeons trembled, for they knew not from whence it came, nor how it had escaped the Maelstrum.

In fear, they loosed their armies into the darkness, charging them to seek out and destroy the hidden One.
But their hosts returned empty-handed, having found nothing in the endless gulfs.

Long ages rolled away, and the heavens knew silence—until at last the stranger stepped forth.
And it spake its name: Gritoth, Lord of the Gates.

The Aeons rose in wrath against it, but neither their hosts nor their might could prevail.
They watched in horror as Gritoth opened the veil, and through him crossed beings from the forbidden tower of Amu Ra Amala.
These came in numberless hosts, walking strange and graceful, and Gritoth was their path.

The gods fled before his power, retreating to Tera and weaving new boundaries about their realm.

The ones who had crossed the veil came to be known as the Fae—mysterious in manner, yet cunning and wise as the gods themselves.
They wandered the lands of Lyorta, building their own societies beneath alien skies.

When at last Gritoth departed and the Gate was shut, the Aeons took courage and turned their gaze upon these newcomers.
Descending in majesty, they revealed themselves, and the Fae received them as deities, offering worship and praise.
And the Aeons, pleased with their homage, called them friend.

Yet still Amu Ra Amala remained bound to Lyorta, its tower thrusting like a spear through the very bones of the world.
It was seen only when Gritoth drew near, yet its shadow lingered.
In time, the Fae forgot the place of their beginning, and the memory of the tower faded from their hearts, until they were counted as true children of Lyorta.

The Lumaria and the Wildlings

Yet in the blackness beyond the stars, Gritoth was not alone in hearing the echo of Xyreus.
Another voice, strange and wrathful, rose from the depths—a Primordial unknown to the Aeons in all the ages of their warring.

This one had escaped their vengeance in the First War and hidden herself in the secret folds of the void, biding her time.
Long did she wait, weaving her designs, until she brought forth her own children in vast number, and she clothed them in great power.

Her name was Lumaria.
And those born of her breath were called the Wildlings.

Then Lumaria cried aloud to Gritoth:
“Lord of the Gates, open the path, that my children may avenge our kin who have fallen!”

And Gritoth hearkened, and the Gate was opened.

Without the watch of the High Gods, the Wildlings poured into Lyorta like a living tide, conquering its breadth.
They came before the lords of the Fae and spoke cunningly, turning their hearts from the worship of the Aeons.
And the lords were persuaded, commanding their armies to stand beside the Wildlings in the day of battle.

Together they cleansed the lands of the spirits of Maelstrum, so that the soil would remain pure.
Then they scattered into many tribes, each shaping its own ways and perfecting its own arts.
Yet at the call of war, they gathered as one host, countless and fierce.

And in the fullness of their strength, they rose against the heavens, and their legions fell upon the gates of Tera, breaking them asunder.

The Invasion of Tera and the Birth of Man

Then the hosts of the Wildlings and the Fae, countless as the sands, broke the gates of Tera and poured into the High Realm.
The Aeons, beholding their numbers, fled to the holy city, and the dragons who yet remained faithful to the Thrones took wing against the invaders.

Long did the dragons battle with tireless fury, but their strength waned beneath the ceaseless tide.
At last, the gods saw there was no hope save in the forbidden craft of Xyreus.

Thus they set their hands to his works and shaped from essence a new people—beings after their own image and likeness.
These were named Men.

And men were mighty in the mastery of essence, and standing beside the dragons of Tera, they smote the invaders like a legion of gods.

The lords of the Fae were the first to falter.
In fear, they broke their covenant with the Wildlings, withdrawing from the war as cowards.
The Wildling war-bands, though still great in number, could not withstand the joined power of Tera’s dragons and the hosts of men.
Thus they were driven back into Lyorta, wounded and outnumbered.

Then the gods placed crowns upon the heads of men’s war-lords, saying:
“Lyorta is yours. Go forth and claim all lands you desire.”
And so, after the Great War, the race of men spread across all the breadth of Lyorta.

Though men were counted subjects of Tera, they came and went freely between the realms.
They built forts in the Wildlings’ lands and swept their borders of all creeping vermin.

Under the unrelenting pressure of war, the Wildlings gathered their scattered tribes, and their war-lords forged a single dominion.
This was the Empire of Aria.
And so long as they stood united, the men of Lyorta could not prevail against them.

But the Fae were left accursed—traitors in the eyes of gods and Wildlings alike.
Few dared gather in the open, for they feared the vengeance of their former allies.

Then the high priests of the Fae spake, saying:
“If there be no place to hide, then we shall make such places.”

And so they wrought their hidden sanctuaries, calling them glades—pocket worlds woven of secret magic, joined to Lyorta yet apart from it.
There they built their palaces, veiled from all eyes.
And the men and the Wildlings passed unknowing through the Fae’s realms, never perceiving the enchantments that cloaked them.

The Crown Given to Man

Though the Aeons looked upon men with favor for their valor in war, yet a shadow fell upon their hearts.
For Zaal, the Wanderer, came before the Thrones and spake, saying:
“They are too mighty. Should they rise against us, we would all surely perish.”

And the other gods agreed with his counsel.
Thus they laid heavy burdens upon the race of men, punishing them with cruel torments for the smallest trespass.

But their hand was too harsh, and order turned to rebellion.
A host of men gathered in defiance, daring to challenge the gods themselves.

Yet the gods were far stronger.
They cast down the rebels, broke their bodies, and cursed them, changing them into vile and monstrous shapes.
These they scattered across Lyorta, to wander in darkness and to bring fear upon all living things.

The rest of mankind did not escape judgment.
The gods drove every mortal from the high realm of Tera, sealing its gates and lifting it beyond mortal reach, so that no man might set foot there again.

Thus the tribes of men were cast into the wide lands of Lyorta:

• The Belkurians, beloved of the gods, were given the far western stray isles.
• The Azurians were set in the east of the western continent.
• The Borgains were placed in the south of that continent.
• The Lagians dwelt in the northwest of the western continent.
• The Valdians were given the southwest of the western mainland.
• The Sihayains were set upon the northern continent.
• The Iesians were placed in the eastern continent.
• The Dalmians were given the far eastern stray isles.
• And last, the Talmians, cursed and most hated of all mankind, whose hearts were filled with vengeance, were set in the very heart of Aria upon the southern continent.

And so ended the Age of the Gods, and a new age began—the Age of Man.

Before Recorded History

The Divine Casting

In the first days, in the age men call The Divine Casting—long ere the rising of empires such as Talmia, Azuria, or even Galm—humanity dwelt in the shadow of its own frailty.
The world was set against them, and survival was a bitter toil.

From the high realm of Tera above, there flowed into man a gift called Anima—the breath of life, the pure essence that binds the soul to the eternal.
With Anima, the firstborn of men could shape the earth, heal the wounded, and stand against the beasts of darkness.
By it they raised walls against the floods, called harvest from barren ground, and spoke with the creatures of field and forest.

But the gift was not to endure.
Whether by divine wrath, by wasteful use, or by the turning of the heavens, the bond was broken.
Anima faded, first to a whisper, then to silence.
Man became as dust before the wind—mortal, vulnerable, and cast upon the mercy of Lyorta’s cruel seasons.
Tribes wandered the wilderness in hunger and in cold, their fires few, their hope thin.

And the hunters became the hunted.
The Wildlings—beast-folk born of savage blood—drove men before them as quarry.
The Fae, tricksters of mist and glade, lured them with fair words into bondage and illusion.
Even the Dragons, who in elder days had fought beside man, turned away in scorn, calling them “faded echoes.”
From their lairs of stone and fire they descended, bringing ruin upon whole clans, leaving only ash and bone.

No god of Tera came to answer the cries of man.
The heavens were silent, and faith began to wither.

Then did the voice of man pass beyond the veil—not upward to the Thrones, but downward to the pit.
The plea was heard in the black halls of Maelstrum, realm of filth and fire, where dwell the devils.
These came forth, clothed in shadows and sweet words, offering safety in exchange for oaths.
And many tribes, weary unto death, agreed.

Thus came the bargains.
The devils built strongholds for them and blessed their seed with plenty.
But the gifts were poisoned.
The hearts of men turned to gluttony, lust, and treachery.
Brother betrayed brother; blood was spilled in dark rites; and souls were bound in chains unseen.
The tribes, once whole, fell into ruin within.

From this age sprang the taboos that endure: the curses upon Maelstrum’s name, the burning of artifacts tainted by its touch, the dread of all infernal pacts.

Yet in that crucible of suffering was forged the iron of man’s spirit.
The loss of Anima planted a hunger to regain it, giving birth to the shamans of old and, in time, to the magisters of Talmia.
The wars with Wildlings, Fae, and Dragons sowed the seeds of mistrust that would shape the conquests of Azuria.
And the touch of Maelstrum left behind cults, cursed bloodlines, and relics whose evil lingers to this day—treasures sought by the bold, yet often destroyed by the wise.

The Old Age
(OA)

Thus is named the Old Age, which is all the span of years before the keeping of the Imperial Archive of Azuria.
It is the measure that divides the days of shadow and forgetting from the days of light and record.
In its telling, all things before the Year of the Archive are marked with the sign OA and numbered as best the scribes may reckon, though the count is uncertain and the years are as shifting sand.

The naming of the Old Age came in the first years of the Azurian throne, under Valarious Imperator, when was begun The Commission—a mighty labor to search out, map, and set down in record all the lands of Lyorta.
From the tongues of the conquered and from the ruins of old dominions, the archivists gathered what knowledge they could.
And they saw the need for a mark to set the present apart from the chaos before, especially from the long shadow of the Talmian Empire.

So in the year 5 of the Azurian Era was decreed:
“Let the birth of the Archive be Year Zero of the New Age, and let all years before be called the Old Age.”

This reckoning spread quickly through the nations, for the Empire pressed it upon them with the weight of treaty, coin, and sword.
Even those of the far eastern tribes, who clung to their own count of years, were forced to reckon with OA in their dealings with Azuria.

Yet this was more than the keeping of dates—it was the shaping of memory.
By the tongue of the Empire, the days of the Old Age were called barbarous and Talmian-tainted, to give cause for the purging of all that came before.
The scrolls and relics of that time were gathered and destroyed, or else rewritten to serve the throne.

Thus is the Old Age a dim and broken mirror.
What we know is from shards—ruined artifacts, the myths of wandering tribes, and the rare scrolls of Talmia that escaped the fires.
And so the truth of that age is half-seen, like a lantern flickering in the fog.

The Rise and Fall of the First Order of Priests
(circa 3500 OA)

In the mists of the Early Old Age, when the years were without number and the empires of men were yet unborn, the Talmian people dwelt upon the southern continent of Lyorta, in the green heart of the Aria Domain—a vast wilderness of choking jungle, ancient ruin, and wandering mist.

Against them stood the Wildlings, beast-born tribes who bore in their blood an ancient hatred for the gods of Tera, blaming them for the death of the Primordials before them. These roamed like storms upon the land, laying waste to every settlement, sparing neither hearth nor altar.

In those days, the bond between mankind and Tera was but a broken reed; the Anima was gone from their veins, and no breath from the high realm came to strengthen them. Therefore their elders cried aloud for the gods’ favor to be restored.

Then from among the shamans arose a company of visionaries, who bound together their scattered rites and prayers into one path. Thus was founded the First Order of Priests, whose charge was to open again the way to Tera. They wove mystic craft into form and law—rituals, essence-working, and the drawing of sigils—to call upon the unseen Thrones.

Their leader was Brigon, an elder whose eyes had beheld in dream the golden courts of Tera. He was proclaimed High Priest, and he wrote the first holy tomes, setting forth the right ways to harvest the essence of Lyorta’s ley-lines, to channel it through sacred symbols for the healing of the sick, the guarding of the weak, and the command of the elements. His gift of sigilism spread this power to many hands, and the Order’s authority was without challenge.

But the Wildlings grew more fierce, and their war-lords, hating the gods, sought out every temple to burn it, every idol to cast it down. The Talmians withdrew deeper into the jungles, their pleas to Tera growing ever more desperate.

In this time there came Rendor, a warrior of great renown, whom some named once a general in the heavenly armies. He swore that by the blood of the godless Wildlings the gods would be moved to mercy. Gathering war-bands, he swept through the northeast of the southern continent, leaving only the ashes of Wildling camps and skulls piled high as offerings to the heavens. Many of his victories were wrought with essence-bound wonders—sigil-wards that turned aside ambushes, walls of power raised in a single night.

High Priest Brigon, beholding his zeal, anointed Rendor with sacred oil before the gathered tribes, naming him Lord of Men. Thus was forged the Mystic Tradition, a binding of war and worship: sacrifices, essence-rites, and devotion, that the grace of Tera might be won anew.

For a time, the Tradition brought order to the Talmians. Yet murmurs arose among the people: “Why bow to absent gods, when a living champion stands among us?” Rendor’s fame swelled; the Order’s hold grew thin.

The cry for a king arose from the jungles, and Rendor was crowned the first of men’s kings. He set his will to the building of a great city, to be the cradle of his house and the heart of his realm, hewn from jungle-stone with tools forged by essence. But pride entered his heart, and he named himself god-king, demanding worship as one who stood between gods and men.

The Order declared this blasphemy, and the covenant between crown and temple was broken.

In wrath, Rendor struck. Before the multitude, he seized the priests, and Brigon among them, and put them to the sword. Their holy books he cast into great pyres whose flames reached for the night sky. He raised towering obelisks, carved with the scenes of their deaths, as a challenge to the silent heavens.

Yet some priests escaped the slaughter, fleeing north across the perilous Galm Straits with hidden copies of the Mystic Tradition. Dispersed among far tribes, they planted the seeds of sigilism anew, which in time would take root in scattered cults and the later arts of the Talmian Empire.

Thus fell the First Order, and thus rose the throne of kings over the temples of priests. Rendor’s reign brought unity for a season, yet deepened the rift between men and Tera, and the whispers of Maelstrum began to creep once more into mortal ears. The hidden texts became treasures sought by emperors, for within them lay the lost ways of essence. And the Wildlings, though broken, nursed their vengeance in secret, feeding the fires of wars yet to come.

Exile and the Invention of the Glider
(circa 3450 OA)

And it came to pass, in the days after the slaughter of the priests, that a remnant escaped the wrath of King Rendor.
Clutching the torn fragments of the Mystic Tradition, wherein were etched the sigils of Brigon, they fled into the wild places of the southern continent.

They came unto the cliff-lands, where the winds roar like beasts, striking the stone with unending fury.
Before them lay the abyssal void, girdled by the aethereal waters—veils of shimmering light that encircle the continents of Lyorta.
These waters, to the intruder, bring death: dissolving flesh into mist or casting the soul down into the black fires of Maelstrum.

Rendor’s patrols sought them without ceasing, and the remnant knew they could not remain.
Therefore they set their minds to a work unknown before among men.
Calling upon their mastery of essence, they shaped a device by which a man might take to the air.

Thus was born the glider—woven of vines from the jungle’s heart, bound with the light bones of great beasts, and clothed in fabric marked with sigils to catch the breath of Anima.
The runes, drawn from Brigon’s lost tomes, turned the faintest winds into lift, bearing the bearer from crag to crag and between the sundered isles of Lyorta.
Yet they were frail, greedily drinking of essence, and at the mercy of sudden storms.
Still, they stood as the first step of man to reclaim the sky and the gifts once taken from him.

When their craft was ready, the exiles gathered upon the precipice.
They cast themselves into the heavens, seeking a far western land beyond the sight of Rendor’s throne.
But the journey was perilous.
Many fell into the aethereal waters and were unmade.
Others were taken by storms, their sigil-cloths torn asunder.
Winged predators—drakes and horrors of the upper airs—struck from the clouds, casting some into the void.
And for many, the essence within their runes faded, and the wind gave them no more bearing, and they fell.

Yet some endured.
They came at last to the mist-crowned cliffs of a western isle, which in later days would be named Azure.
There they were received by the wandering tribes of the island, gatherers of essence from the azure winds, who gave them shelter.
And the exiles, in turn, gave them forbidden knowledge, sowing the seeds of sigilism anew.

To this day, relics of that flight—weathered sigil-cloths, broken glider-frames—lie hidden in the caverns of Azure.
It is said that whosoever finds them may wake again the arts of lost essence, or call forth the forgotten beasts that once roamed the void between the worlds.

The Rise of Galm and the Divine Reckoning
(circa 3400 OA)

And it came to pass after the purging of the First Order, that Rendor, Lord of Men, turned his heart wholly to the making of his legacy.
In the heart of the southern continent he raised his great city, and he named it Galm.
Its towers were hewn from stone by essence-bound craft, its walls marked with wards of sigil-power.

From Galm’s gates he went forth in ceaseless war, subduing not only the wildling hordes, but also the scattered tribes of men who dwelt in the jungles and upon the cliffs of the Aria Domain.
The remnants of the Mystic Tradition, taken from the priests he had slain, armed him with cunning in battle, so that his warbands swept the land like fire before the wind.

But pride waxed great in him, and one of his mightiest captains, Redrent, beheld his king’s hunger for dominion and feared the ruin it would bring.
On a day of blood and smoke, Redrent met Rendor in the field and slew him in single combat, declaring the act a mercy to save the realm from tyranny.

Yet the people murmured in dread, for a doom followed hard upon the king’s death.
It was said that Dahula’s Curse rose from the black depths of Maelstrum, called forth by the king’s pacts or by the wrath of the silent gods.
Then came Zsog, devil of decay and vengeance, whose whispers rode the aethereal waters, and the veil between worlds was torn.

From the rifts poured forth abominations—spawn of Maelstrum, clothed in chitin and fang, dripping venom.
They fell upon the land, devouring village and field, befouling the essence springs, and casting many into the void.

The people, seeing this, believed that Rendor had been exalted to godhood in death, and that this was his curse upon those who struck him down.
So was born the dread saying: “Only a king may slay a king, lest Maelstrum’s gaze fall upon the realm.”

The scourge laid waste to both man and wildling, and the skies became hunting grounds for horrors.
Refugees fled upon gliders between the continents, yet many were lost to storms and beasts of the air.

Then Sonael, Maiden of War and guardian of the pantheon, looked upon Lyorta’s ruin and took pity.
She gathered an army of the lesser gods, and they descended upon the winds like a host of burning stars.
With sword and sigil they smote the spawn of Maelstrum, sealing the rifts and cleansing the land.

But their coming bore a price, for the gods took open dominion over the mortal realms.
Temples were raised in their honor, and oracles spoke their decrees.
Thus began Patronism, wherein each soul might bind themselves to one among the gods, seeking favor through rites and offerings, to win again some fragment of the lost Anima.

And to bind the faith of man, the gods set forth the Sacred Order of Eight:

• Luniel the Peacebringer – who grants the stilling of strife.
• Zaal the Wanderer – who guides those who brave the voids.
• Satal the God of Pleasure – who grants joy in the midst of toil.
• Sonael the Maiden of War – who gives victory in righteous battle.
• Madion the Wise One – who guards the knowledge of old.
• Patum the Queen of Darkness – who shields the world from Maelstrum’s night.
• Eron the Keeper – who watches the springs of essence and the hidden things.
• Talek the Lord of Seasons – who turns the cycles and blesses the harvest.

In the years that followed, Galm was rebuilt under the heirs of Redrent, its walls rising higher, its banners spreading far.
The wildlings, seeing the shadow of human armies once more upon their borders, bound themselves in uneasy pacts, gathering their tribes for war.

Thus was laid the bedrock of human worship and power, and the Sacred Eight stood as the pillars of faith, keeping the people from the fear of abandonment, and holding the gods in the sight of man.

The Founding of the Aria Empire
(circa 3350 OA)

In the long shadow of Dahula’s Curse, and in the days when the gods descended in reluctant mercy, the Wildlings—children of Lumaria’s primal breath, despised by the Thrones of Tera—stood at the brink of their unmaking.
From the north and west came the hosts of Galm, from the depths rose the spawn of Maelstrum, and within their own ranks they were torn by endless strife.

Thus the remnant of their tribes withdrew into the Feral Heart, the sacred ground of their beginning, hidden deep within the Southern Kingdom.

There, the war-lords who had once slain one another in rites of dominance set aside their blood-feuds.
They bound themselves by oaths and by the spilling of blood into the earth, forging the Aria Empire—so named for the howls that rang across the mountains, calling the scattered packs to one banner.

From their covenant arose the Wildling Legion, a host without equal in its feral craft.
Burrowers moved unseen beneath the soil to lay snares for the unwary; the swift-footed struck and were gone before the cry of alarm could rise; and from the upper airs the birdlings, few in number and beset by drakes and sky-beasts, gave fleeting sight of the enemy’s paths.

They raised the Fang Lines—fortresses of earth and thorn, bound with wards of their shamans—so that the land itself became their wall.
These strongholds asked little of the people’s strength, leaving the tribes free to flourish and keep the essence of their nomadic ways.

At the heart of their dominion they carved from the black rock a citadel named Khar’Zul—the Unyielding Fang.
Its walls were of obsidian and bone, its gates warded with totems to turn aside the touch of Tera’s gods.
Within were deep dens for the packs, and great arenas where they scorned the devices of man—gliders, sigils, and all tools of the sky-bound—calling them crutches for the weak.

Their city was not as the cities of men, for it grew with the land rather than against it.
The warrens followed the flows of the earth’s essence, the hunts fed the multitudes without machine or mill, and from the fires of the deep they drew the heat to forge their arms.

From Khar’Zul, the Aria Empire stood against the march of Talmia, holding the borders in defiance of all human designs.
Its shamans were the keepers of Lumaria’s will, who inscribed their hatred of the gods upon hides and bones, and called the worship of Patronism the way of slaves.
They bent the essence-springs to their rites, summoning gifts of keen sight, sharpened fang, and the speech of the pack’s mind.

Rule was held by the Council of Warlords, so that no one alpha might reign as a tyrant, as Rendor had among men.
Their legions fought with the weapons of their own making: swarming assaults that swept away the gliders of men, mastery of jungle and stone that turned the land into a snare, and the strength of their own blood—untempered, unbroken, and unbent before the gods.

The Galm–Aria War Ignites
(circa 2850 OA)

In the year 2850 of the Old Age, the long-smoldering enmity between the realm of Galm and the dominion of the Aria Empire burst forth into open war.

Galm—rebuilt from the tyranny of Rendor into a great fortress-empire beneath his warlord heirs—had grown swollen with ambition.
Its walls were bound with the strength of essence, its legions warded by sigil-lore, and its armies pressed ever south into the wildling lands.

But the wildlings, children of Lumaria, beheld this march as a defilement of their sacred wilds, an insult to their blood and their gods.
From the Feral Heart they came forth under the banner of Khar’Zul, the Unyielding Fang, calling the Wildling Legion to war.

At the first clash, the borders burned.
The hunters of Aria fell upon Galmite patrols from shadow and thorn, leaving only torn banners and broken steel.
The armies of Galm answered with storms of essence-fire, turning the jungles to cinders and shattering the strongholds of the wild.

Yet even as the war hardened, a new craft arose among men.
From the yoke of Galm’s warlords, who drove slaves to mine essence and build walls without end, some fled into the open lands beyond the forest’s heart.
There, upon the rolling plains and the cliffs above the essence-springs, they shaped anew the glider—born from the priests’ old designs, but swifter, stronger, and carried farther on the winds.

With these wings, they soared above the reach of pursuers, passing westward to lands of greater safety.
The wildlings scorned such “wing-crutches,” relying instead on their rare birdling kin, but to men the glider became a sign of freedom.
And scholars, hunted for their keeping of the Mystic Tradition, took to the skies with their secrets, weaving hidden networks that stirred rebellion beneath Galm’s rule.

When at last Galm’s legions, guided by the eyes of their glider-scouts, struck into the very heart of Aria, they sought the essence-geysers that fed the wildlings’ rites.
The Legion answered with fury—burrowers breaking the ground beneath human forts, Warrung packs tearing supply-lines, and the birdlings watching from the heights.

In the west, the human refugees gathered into war-bands, striking at both armies yet bound by their hatred for Galm’s kings.

The land itself bore the scars:
Forests fell beneath storms of raw essence, rifts to Maelstrum opened where curses had festered, and the voices of the gods were still.
The oracles of Tera’s Sacred Order gave no sign, and the silence fed the fears of all.

The toll was heavy—villages enslaved, clans broken, the skies emptied of birdlings slain for their keen sight.
In fire and blood the Galm–Aria War began, and the cries of the fallen rose into the void where no god would answer.

Human Resettlement and Tribal Formation in Azure
(circa 2815 OA)

In the days when the memory of the priestly exiles was already old, the seed they had carried from Lyorta yet lived upon the floating realm called Azure.
Long before, in the year 3450 OA, their fathers had taken the sky upon gliders, passing over the aethereal deeps to escape the wrath of Rendor, and there they had found a land apart from all others—a continent adrift in the upper airs, called “island” only for its lonely place among the realms of the sky.

Through the turning of centuries they were shaped by Azure’s veiled cliffs, by its azure-hued winds, and by the deep caverns rich with essence.
They mingled with the children of men who had somehow endured the Divine Casting, and with the scattered wildlings whose blood had been gentled by their long separation from the wrath of Lumaria.

These wildlings, unlike the god-hating packs of the Southern Kingdom, had forgotten their old feuds.
They dwelt in secret glens and upon high plateaus, trading crystal and hide with wandering men.
Thus there was peace enough for the children of the exiles to gather their strength, building fortified encampments and binding their tribes by oath and kinship.

From the shards of the Mystic Tradition they rekindled a dimmed sigil-lore, and by births, alliances, and the bounty of the land they grew into a people.
And from their tribes would one day rise the realm of Havel, whose name would be spoken far in the ages to come.

The Fragmentation of Galm Refugees in the Southern Kingdom

But while Azure’s sons grew in quiet strength, the Southern Kingdom was torn by the war of Galm and Aria.
From the year 2850 OA came waves of refugees—men fleeing the lash of Galm’s warlords and the vengeance of the Wildling Legion.
They rode the winds westward upon their gliders, seeking safety in the plains and forest-edges rather than daring the greater voids to far-off lands.

Some among them were hardened and warlike.
These turned northward with ambition in their hearts, seeking to cut new dominions from the untamed borders.
They clashed with wildling outposts, their banners carried into fresh wars beneath alien skies.

But others hungered for peace, and for the cleansing of their souls from the taint of war and the blight of Galm’s mines.
These pressed westward into the hidden valleys of the kingdom’s heart, where the mists lie thick and the ruins of the elder world sleep in silence.

There they raised simple halls and fortified them with humble wards of sigil-lore.
They gathered essence from the land in common, and turned their minds to the worship of the Sacred Order of Gods, seeking to keep their faith pure of kings’ corruption.
Yet even there the whispers of Maelstrum were carried on the wind, and some among the weary lent their ears to forbidden counsel.

The New Age
(NA)

The Founding of the Azure Empire
(Year 0 of the New Age)

In the years when the yoke of Talmia was cast down, there rose among the freed realms Valarious, King of Azure, who had waged long war against the tyrants of the southern throne.
When the dust of battle was settled and the banners of Talmia were torn from the walls of every city, Valarious proclaimed himself Imperator, that the scattered nations of Lyorta might be bound together in one dominion.

Yet he was wise in the ways of rule and wary of stretching his hand too far.
Therefore he demanded not the crowns of the lands he had freed, but their fealty.
He let each realm keep its own rulers and laws, yet placed them beneath the shelter of the Imperial Kingdom of Azure, which would stand as the heart of the new empire.

The first to stand within the circle of his authority were Havel in the southeast, rich in river valleys and tilled fields; Kingsland in the southwest, a rugged land of fortresses older than memory; and the Eastern Duchy, a wide and untamed realm of wandering tribes and wilderness beyond the known maps.

For this fealty, Valarious gave his word of protection.
He set the roads with guard-stations to drive away thieves and smugglers, and posted his finest soldiers upon the frontiers to turn back the Wildlings—beast-born raiders from the far borders.
By these signs the strength of Azure was known, and fear kept rebellion far from the hearts of most.

But Valarious deemed the realm not yet safe.
For the remnant of Talmia still lingered like a shadow upon the world, and in their keeping were the sorceries and cruelties of the old tyranny.
Against these he vowed to make war until none remained.

Thus he sent forth ships and companies to explore the unmarked corners of Lyorta, to name every land and know every people.
In the capital he raised the Imperial Archive, where all such knowledge was to be kept, guarded, and used for the strength of the empire.
The archivists paid the journeymen, and the journeymen ranged far afield—across mountains, into deserts, and over the skyborne seas—bringing back maps, tidings of strange tribes, and warnings of hidden foes.

When Valarious found a people whose hand he could grasp in peace, he offered them the empire’s trade and its sword.
When he found those who stood against him, he returned with his war-fleets and broke them beneath his power, lest any harbor the enemies of old.

In this way was Azure lifted from the dust of war into a vast dominion.
But the cost was heavy—hatred smoldered in the hearts of the conquered, and many within the court whispered of the weight of such a reign.
Yet the Archive grew in its might, and from it sprang new arts of magic, the sharpening of weapons, and the ordering of laws.

Thus Valarious laid the stone for the house of empire, and the ways of his reign became the measure for those who came after.
But in his works also were sown the seeds of strife to come, for the Eastern Duchy would one day rise against the hand that had drawn it into the fold.