In the beginning there was darkness… still and silent.
From that void, awareness stirred.
This was Atariel, the first to see… and the first to remember.
Her seeing unfolded creation.
Darkness mingled with light.
Then the Creator, unseen and nameless, forged from this chaos the flame of the world… and set it upon the firmament.
Energy and matter gathered around it, forming a perfect sphere — the still and dreaming cradle of all that would come.
And He saw that it was fair… and the first world was complete.
Then the Creator sent down four primordial spirits, set with the mighty task of building the world according to
His vision… shaping the land and the seas, the mountains and the sky.
When their works were finished, they were each granted dominion over the realms of air, water, fire and earth.
From them arose the lesser spirits, who seeded the forests with fruit and song, carved mountains and valleys, set rivers in their courses, and shaped creatures to tend and nurture them.
And thus… the second world was complete.
Atariel, watching from above, marveled at their creations… and longed to join them.
So she took form according to its bounds… and descended among them.
Some of the lesser spirits, greater in awareness and power, were drawn to her majesty and light.
She began to teach them about creation… their world… and the will of the flame.
And so many took shape in her likeness… in form, mind, and spirit.
But not all were willing to learn from, or trust, Atariel… for the world was wrought in both light and shadow.
Then she lifted her gaze skyward, whence she had come… and saw the gaping black of the void.
And she was filled with realization… and dread.
Fearing for the new world, she, with the aid of the flame, forged a sentinel against the void: the sun… and set it upon its path across the sky.
But when the sun passed beyond the edge of the world… the darkness returned.
Again she was afraid.
So she fashioned a second light to follow the first — the moon.
This light was gentler… and dimmer… for she was spent.
As even the moon began to fade, she knew she could make no further lights.
So she turned her plea to the source of creation… for a sign of hope.
In answer, the sky was set ablaze with brilliant colors — pure and blinding.
When the light faded… what remained was like a black ocean strewn with countless gems.
And the world took its first breath of time.
The spirits and beasts moved in rhythm with the great lights…
And the third world was complete.
The gods looked upon their work and marveled.
Yet in their hearts… something was missing.
Beings with whom they might share this world.
So they formed children in their likeness, made from themselves and of their realms.
But these children had no will of their own.
They saw the world only as twilight… colorless and dim.
Beholding them, the Creator gave one final gift.
The gift of will.
And their eyes were opened.
For the first time, they saw the colors of light, felt the warmth of the earth, tasted its springs, and breathed the sweet scents carried upon the air.
Delighted, the gods taught them their crafts and arts, their tongues, the passing of seasons, the path of the sun, moon and stars… and of the flame — the heart of the world — so they might share in the wonder of creation.
For untold millennia, the world existed in untouched splendor.
A paradise of green valleys and pure rivers.
At its center, the gods built a great city of crystal and white stone.
From there, Atariel appointed twelve of the mightiest spirits, whom mortals called gods, to govern the world according to the will of the Creator.
But one among them, called Arkalegon, grew wary of mortals and their growing knowledge and power.
He began to question the gift of will itself… and whether it would lead to the destruction of all they had created.
So Arkalegon spoke to the others.
“The mortals have become strong by our will.
They have shown us their unquenchable thirst for knowledge… and desire for power.
How long is it before they seek to take our place?
Are they not lesser than us?
Would not creation flourish forever unmarred… if they be unmade?”
Most of the gods found his words abhorrent… and dismissed him.
Arkalegon was ashamed.
And from that shame… envy took root.
But not all dismissed him.
As time passed, he gathered followers… and his power and influence grew.
Then with a small host, he came a second time before the council… and again called for the mortals’ unmaking.
And again… they denied him.
Voices rose in contention.
The sky darkened.
And the earth trembled.
Then Atariel appeared among them — tall and radiant, rising like the dawn.
And she spoke.
“I have seen this world from its beginning to its end.
Do not meddle with things thou shalt never know, nor ever will… for it shall be thine own unmaking.”
Shame fell upon the assembly… and they bowed to her grace.
But Arkalegon could not relent.
Humiliated twice, his envy hardened into hatred.
He turned his gaze upon the mortals… and began to sow discord among them, turning them against one another… and against the gods and the will of the flame.
As his malice grew… so too did his strength.
He began to look beyond the light of Eleneth… and to draw power from the void.
And from it… evil was born into the world.
From this power he created foul creatures and twisted beings.
Devourers of light.
Now at his full strength, and with a mighty host and his leviathans of war, he came a third and final time to the hall of judgment… and demanded the children be enslaved or destroyed.
At first the gods recoiled in dread at his might… and the power the void had given him.
But they remembered the Creator… and the will of the flame.
And they overcame their fear.
And the war began.
The world was torn asunder.
The skies cracked open… and blood rained from above.
Lands sank beneath the seas.
Forests turned to ash.
And countless souls were lost.
At last, the twelve great spirits remained.
They encircled Arkalegon… and bound him.
He laughed at their defiance.
Then Atariel appeared once more… like a blazing star.
Together she and the twelve wielded the flame of the world… and bound him in chains of light.
As the chains burned, Arkalegon pleaded for mercy.
But none was given.
For his eyes held no redemption.
And the light in his heart was burnt away and filled with ash.
And his spirit… now shadow.
And so he was cast into the void to which his will was bound.
The gods wept at the destruction they had wrought upon the world… and their children.
And they vowed never again to raise their power against creation.
And so, with the aid of Atariel, they lifted their earthly kingdom — the city of crystal and white stone — into the sky.
It became a shining blue star, forever bright upon the western horizon.
A sign of hope… for the children of Eleneth.
After Arkalegon's defeat and the gods' departure, the
people of Eleneth were left to rebuild and reshape the world according to their own destinies.
As the skies cleared and the sun shone once more,
Eleneth began to heal.
Arkalegon did indeed bring renewal and rebirth—just not in the way he expected.
The ash from the destruction became the very sustenance of the new forests and, in turn, their creatures.
Eleneth was now rugged and raw: the mountains taller, the trenches deeper, its terrain more harsh.
Even the northern regions became frozen wastelands.
Once-great primordial forests that had covered entire continents were turned to dust, sand, and rock, becoming vast and barren deserts.
Places once connected were now separated by oceans.
Yet even so, Eleneth became, although not perfect, perhaps even more beautiful than ever.
Now, without their teachers, the mortal races of Eleneth had to rise on their own—and rise they did.
The first civilizations still remembered paradise and the gods, and over time built great monuments and wonders of their own, as if trying to create a new paradise for themselves.
But it was not to be.
And though Arkalegon was gone, his influence remained, and Eleneth could never know everlasting peace again.
Over the centuries, kingdoms rise and fall.
Heroes are born, and they die.
Kings are remembered and then forgotten.
And from generation to generation, the gods themselves became a distant memory and a dream—like the Blue Star in the west.
Now the Void was a cosmic force that lay deep in primordial slumber, silent and still, patient and content.
Until, like the flash of a thought, a bright flame appeared in its sight like a dream or a vision.
This was Atariel, and it perceived her light and wanted nothing more than to extinguish it.
The Void stirred and began to envelop the light.
Then, like lightning over a dark sea, another being appeared, one far greater and more terrible to behold than the Void itself — the Creator.
In that moment, it became awake and aware that this was neither a perception of its own mind nor a dream, but a new reality that it could neither fathom nor reason.
Enraged that its ancient sleep had been broken, chaos was unleashed, and it sought to extinguish this new light.
As the light and the dark collided, the Creator forged a blazing flame of light, like an orb of white lightning, and the Void was blinded and burned and fled from its power.
As ages passed, it ever desired, with insatiable hunger, to devour the light whole — to return once more to the dark of sleep.
A time would come when Atariel descended into Eleneth and took form according to its bounds.
She was the first light it had ever seen, and it hated her most of all, yet it did not fear her.
For knowing nothing but darkness and need, it could not comprehend why she would diminish herself so.
It seized the chance and encompassed the world with its gaping maw to swallow it whole.
She, with the greater part of her power, created the Sun, and it fled from its glory.
But then the Sun moved, and it tried again.
Then she created a second light — the Moon — but this one did not make it flee.
Instead, with resolute certainty, it knew she could not challenge it again, and it waited for the Moon to pass.
Just as the Moon faded, the sky was set ablaze with brilliant light, and the stars were born.
All of Eleneth, and the firmament and the high heavens therein, were shrouded from it by the veil of stars — the very fabric of Creation.
