The Fragmented Age

by

Finley Vorden

Pre-History

Before mountains rose or seas flowed, before stars lit the endless night, there was the Void. Not emptiness, but a womb of pure potential. Raw power coiled upon itself, waiting. From this churning maelstrom emerged The Eina, the primordial form, chaos unbound and unbridled. So vast was its power, so overwhelming its essence, that it could not hold itself whole. The Eina tore asunder, splitting into beings of perfect opposition and harmony: Ilhdeinir and Osnitan, the Mother and Father of all gods.

As the newborn stars sparkled in the infant sky, Osnitan beheld Ilhdeinir and was overcome with love. Their union bore the First Generation of divine children.

From Osnitan’s seed, Ilhdeinir brought forth six: Dōhāra, whose fingers wove the first threads of magick across creation; Alȳrā, in whose eyes burned the eternal flame of passion; Rūdār, whose broad shoulders would bear the weight of protection; Reīnstīel, who danced between shadows and brought forth secrets; Idrāsil, whose birth lit the first dawn; and Āldiēr, who opened his eyes with questions already forming on his lips.

From Ilhdeinir’s essence alone formed four more: Ōphīa, gentle guide to souls at their journey’s end; Rīōnne, whose breath became the first winds; Ōvlīan, whose first cry became language itself; and Shūjāō, whose laughter rang across the empty world.

The Second Generation

As centuries passed in the divine realms, new gods emerged through union and essence.

Dōhāra and Shūjāō found joy in each other’s company, their merrymaking and magick intertwining until Dōhāra birthed Denēlia, mistress of woodland mysteries and fae secrets.

Yet Dōhāra’s power ran deeper still. From her essence alone formed Ytīa, keeper of fallen souls and dark bargains, and Dhȳrōs, lord of forbidden desires and temptations unspoken.

Meanwhile, Alȳrā and Rūdār’s courtship lasted three hundred years, each season bringing new gifts between them. From their enduring love came Illyāna, whose beauty was so perfect it brought the first tears to divine eyes.

The Third Generation

As gods mingled and formed alliances, unexpected unions bore fruit.

Most surprising was that between cunning Reīnstīel and shadow-born Dhȳrōs. Their tumultuous affair produced three children: noble Temrūs from Reīnstīel, who embodied righteousness despite his parents’ nature; and from Dhȳrōs came forth both plague-bearing Mārdōna and tyrannical Lūdthār, twins of different temperaments but equal darkness.

Ytīa, dwelling in her shadowed realm, formed from her essence Sāhren, keeper of time and history, whose birth marked the first calendar and whose heartbeat became the measure of hours.

Illyāna maturing into her power, created without union four divine children from her essence: Exphīra, whose touch brought forth forests; Ōhgūs, whose hands blessed harvests; Rāvehnswhenh, whose moods shaped weather; and Yāerōnās, who filled the empty basins of the world with water.

The Fourth Generation

Young Temrūs found himself drawn to wise Āldiēr. Their union, blessed by Ilhdeinir herself, produced two children: Vōldāll, who found joy in battle and contest, and Irākstl, who brought both creativity and destruction through fire’s dual nature.

The Fifth Generation

Dōhāra, ever the weaver of subtle plots, convinced grim Ytīa to seduce Vōldāll. From this loveless union came Sanjjīmar.

From the eternal flames of Irākstl’s forge emerged Valfǫðr, not born but formed from the hottest fires and quenched in divine waters. His first breath was steam, his first cry the ringing of hammer on anvil.

The last of the ancient gods came through tragedy. Vōldāll, in his hubris, created a perfect being named Dalucina without consent from the elder gods. When she perished for this transgression, from her divine remains formed Lādīka, goddess of chaos and change, whose very existence defied the order of creation.

The Fashioning of Folk

In the second age of creation, when stars still sang to one another across the heavens, Ilhdeinir took clay from riverbanks where celestial waters had mixed with mortal soil. As she did, Osnitan carved branches from the tree that grew at creation’s center. Together, they crafted the first Ārdans: malleable in form and spirit, curious and quick to learn.

“Let them be malleable,” said Ilhdeinir, “that they might thrive in all lands.”

“Let them be clever,” said Osnitan, “that they might create wonders we have not imagined.”

Into each Ārdan they breathed life, and these first people built their villages along riverbanks, learning to hunt, farm, and craft. Seeing their parents’ creation, the younger gods grew envious and desired folk of their own.

Idrāsil, bearer of light, took certain Ārdans into his sacred groves. “Your lives are brief sparks,” he told them. “Let me grant you the gift of time.” He touched their eyes and ears, extending their lives and sharpening their senses. Their forms grew taller and more graceful, and thus the first Sylvans stepped from beneath ancient boughs.

Deep in mountain caverns, stalwart Rūdār found miners who braved darkness for precious metals. “Your courage deserves reward,” he proclaimed, “and your bodies should match your stubborn hearts.” He reshaped them, making them stout and strong, connected to stone itself. So were born the Oryzans.

Exphīra, who wandered the lush forests, delighted in their verdant growth. When she found Ārdans who lived as caretakers, she blessed them: “Become one with what you protect.” The Ārbyrans awoke, their bodies half-flesh and half-nature.

In shimmering moonlit pools, Yāerōnās observed swimmers who spent more time in water than on land. “Why struggle against the waves when you might join them?” he asked, granting them gills and powerful tails. Thus, the first Myrans dove beneath the surface, masters of the depths.

Rīōnne, forever seeking new vistas, found cliff-dwelling tribes who gazed longingly at soaring birds. “The skies should not be forbidden to you,” she whispered, touching their shoulders. Feathers sprouted and bones hollowed, giving birth to the Ekoyks, who built nests in mountain heights.

Mighty Valfǫðr, impressed by warriors who stood against creatures twice their size, granted them the stature to match their courage. “Rise tall and fear no foe,” he commanded, and the Magnithōrans grew until they towered over forests.

In meadows where dancers celebrated harvest, Shūjāō found joy that matched his own. “Your revelry should know no bounds,” he laughed, transforming their lower bodies into those of powerful horses. The Equydan galloped across plains, their celebrations lasting days without exhaustion.

At world’s edge, where elemental forces clashed unchecked, Dōhāra discovered hermits who sought to understand primal energies. “Become what you study,” she advised, and their flesh merged with fire, water, earth, or air. The Elemyks were born, living manifestations of creation’s building blocks.

Denēlia, walking woodland paths where smaller creatures dwelled, blessed those who honored forest ways. She touched some who loved cunning and mischief, granting them ringed tails and dexterous paws—the Lakrenyks, who find value in objects others overlook.

To those who embodied swift grace, she gave long ears and powerful legs, creating Lapynyks who could outrun danger rather than face it. For hunters who moved with the silence, she bestowed feline features and reflexes beyond measure, birthing the Felisyks.

In secret groves where ancient trees whispered wisdom, she found contemplative souls. “Be small in stature but mighty in spirit,” she decreed, and the Gālyntrāns came into being, diminutive in form but boundless in curiosity and craft.

Smaller still were those blessed by both Denēlia and Rīōnne: tiny beings gifted gossamer wings who danced on moonbeams. “Carry magick in your smallest gestures,” they were told, and so the Lūmynans flitted between worlds, trailing stardust in their wake.

In sacred pools beneath ancient trees, Denēlia found contemplative souls who gathered to share wisdom. “Carry your sanctuary with you,” she told them, touching their shoulders. Thus were born the Shelduryks, who bear both home and history upon their backs.

Vōldāll, ever drawn to strength and combat, found worthy warriors among different tribes. To hunters who tracked prey through forest and field, he granted deer-like grace, swift hooves, and antlers that crowned the males with natural weapons. The Cervidan.

For mountain clans who navigated treacherous heights, he bestowed the sure-footed nature and stubborness of goats. The Caprydan.

Those who embodied ferocity tempered with protective instincts received the aspects of bears: powerful limbs and crushing embraces. The Tedyran.

Reīnstīel, master of secrets, shaped folk to embody deception’s art. “Truth is malleable,” he taught those who became Vekydans, granting them flesh that could shift form at will.

In the desert wastes, he found nomads who survived through adaptation. “Let your forms match your environment,” he whispered, blessing them with serpentine features. The Ofydik have since slithered through history, shedding old selves when times demanded change.

Watching colonies of insects achieve through cooperation what larger creatures could not, he touched certain tribes with transformation. “Divide labor, multiply strength,” became the mantra of the Entyk.

When Ytīa walked the mortal realm, she found those who prayed for salvation and power. “Your bargain is accepted,” she told them, granting horns, tails, and skin in shades no natural being possessed. The Helakan bore her mark.

Dhȳrōs, hearing ambition’s whisper in certain hearts, offered strength beyond measure. Green-skinned and tusked, the Orkimans emerged from his blessing.

The Love of Rīōnne

In the third century, Rīōnne, wild goddess of air and sky, descended to walk among mortals. In the lands that would one day become Nabiesha, she encountered an Ārdan hunter named Caelum whose arrows flew true in her winds. Entranced by his skill and spirit, Rīōnne took mortal form and lay with him through a season of storms.

From their union came a child with hair and eyes the color of the skies. Caelum, gifted with unnaturally long life, is said to still wander the world.

The Formation of the Divine Domains

As the gods multiplied and their powers grew, the fabric of creation strained to contain their collective might. Ilhdeinir, seeing the damage their unbridled essence wrought upon the mortal realm, gathered the gods beneath the stars. “We must create proper domains,” she declared, “lest our mere presence unmake what we have wrought. Three realms shall exist where before there was one. The mortal realm for our creations, The Celestial Domain for our dwelling, and a third for that which must be contained.”

Thus began the Great Partition.

The Celestial Domain

Idrāsil, with his mastery of light, traced the boundaries of what would become The Celestial Domain. Using rays of pure sunlight as his tool, he carved a space beyond the mortal realm.

“Here shall the gods dwell,” he proclaimed, “each according to their nature, in Holds of their own creation.”

Each Hold reflected its creator’s essence. Between these Holds flowed rivers of pure divine energy, streams of power that connected the gods’ domains while maintaining their separation. Where these currents met, neutral territories formed: places where divine beings might gather without any single god’s influence dominating.

The Fall of Ytīa

While most gods accepted this new arrangement, Ytīa nursed cold ambition in her heart. During the first mortal wars, she had secretly gathered souls from battlefields, storing them like precious jewels and feeding on their essence. When Ilhdeinir demanded these souls be released to Ōphīa’s guidance, Ytīa refused.

“These are mine by right of conquest,” she hissed. “I shall keep what I have claimed.”

Ilhdeinir’s sorrow was palpable, manifesting as tears that fell as silver rain across the mortal realm. “Then you have chosen your path, daughter. If you will not dwell with us in light, you must create your dwelling in shadow.”

In that moment, the ground beneath Ytīa cracked open, revealing an abyss beneath creation itself. As she fell, her hatred crystallized around her, forming the foundations of what would become The Fallen Domain; a dark reflection of the Celestial realms above.

The Treachery of Lūdthār and Mārdōna

Following the establishment of the Celestial and Fallen domains, Lūdthār, ever hungry for dominion, refused to limit his influence in the mortal realm. He gathered followers through fear and false promises, building temples where blood sacrifices fed his growing power.

Temrūs, seeing his brother’s defiance, confronted him. Their battle shook the foundations of reality itself; Temrūs wielding righteousness like a blade. On the twelfth day, as mortal witnesses fell to their knees blinded by divine light, Temrūs finally overpowered his brother with a blow that shattered Lūdthār’s divine form. Rather than destroy him completely, Temrūs cast him down into the chasm where Ytīa had already established her dark domain.

“Join our sister in exile,” Temrūs proclaimed.

Mārdōna, who had secretly aided Lūdthār by spreading disease among Temrūs’s followers, attempted to flee when she saw her brother’s defeat. But Ōphīa, who had watched in silence until now, stepped forward.

“You have perverted life and death. Those who should have lived, you condemned to suffering. Those who should have passed peacefully to my embrace, you trapped in corrupted flesh.”

Ōphīa opened a path beneath Mārdōna’s feet, sending her to join her siblings in the growing darkness below.

The Fallen Domain

In their exile, Ytīa, Lūdthār, and Mārdōna found themselves in a realm of raw potential, similar to the void from which creation first emerged, but tainted by their own bitterness. Here, they set about creating their own version of The Celestial Domain.

Ytīa established her Hold first: a vast necropolis where souls she managed to divert from Ōphīa’s care would serve her for eternity, the first Nāktiharik.

Lūdthār carved out territories of pure tyranny, where spiritual essences would know only subjugation. His Hold became a mockery of Temrūs’s orderly realm.

Mārdōna, most subtle of the three, created realms of beautiful decay: gardens where plants bore poisonous fruit, palaces whose splendor masked rot at their foundations, and healing springs whose waters brought temporary relief followed by permanent affliction.

Between these domains flowed rivers of darkness that carried tormented spirits from one form of suffering to another. The fallen gods established their own hierarchy, with Ytīa claiming primacy as the first to descend, though Lūdthār perpetually challenges her authority.

The Balance of Souls

With the realms established, the question of mortal souls became paramount. Ōphīa, as guide to the deceased, stood at the crossroads of destiny; determining which souls would ascend to The Celestial Domain and which would descend to the Fallen Domains.

“I shall not judge,” she declared, surprising even her divine siblings. “Each soul will find its own way, drawn to the realm that matches the essence of their living days.” Those who had lived in harmony with the values of the Celestial gods would rise to join them, while those who embodied the darker aspects of existence would sink to The Fallen Domain.

Some souls, however, remained caught between: too flawed for ascension, too virtuous for descent. For these, Ōphīa created transitional spaces, places of reflection where souls might contemplate their existence before making their final journey.

Divine Wars, Mortal Suffering

By the fourth century, mortal civilizations had begun organizing into distinct kingdoms. The gods watched these developments with varying attitudes. Some, like Alȳrā and Shūjāō, delighted in mortal achievements. Others, like Temrūs and Idrāsil, sought to guide their development with strict laws and commandments.

In the fifth mortal century, divine conflicts erupted into open warfare. Temrūs, seeking to impose order on all creation, challenged his father Reīnstīel’s chaotic influence. Their battles scorched plains and boiled seas.

The most devastating conflict arose between Valfǫðr and Exphīra. Valfǫðr encouraged the Magnithōrans to mine deeper and build higher, while Exphīra protected her forests and creatures. When Magnithōrans felled ancient groves for forges, Exphīra unleashed terrible plant-beasts upon their settlements. Valfǫðr retaliated by blessing Magnithōran weapons with flame that could burn even the wettest wood.

Their war culminated in a battle where an entire forest and mountain range collapsed into a smoking crater at the center of what would be known as The Eldeann Mountains. Thousands of mortals perished, and the gods realized their conflicts brought only suffering to their creations.

At the dawn of the sixth mortal century, Ilhdeinir and Osnitan summoned their divine children. After forty moontides of heated debate, they established the Concord of Constraint: divine laws limiting direct godly intervention in mortal affairs.

Henceforth, gods could only act through willing mortal proxies, grant blessings to the faithful, or manifest briefly during appropriate rituals. Direct divine manifestation was forbidden.

With direct divine intervention curtailed, mortals developed elaborate systems of worship to maintain connections with their patron deities. Great temples rose in every kingdom. The seventh mortal century saw the rise of priestly classes across Ilhdeinia.

The Final Walks

As the century drew to a close, the gods made their final journeys among mortals before the Concord would fully separate divine and mortal realms. Idrāsil walked the eastern plains, his footsteps creating hot springs that never cool. Alȳrā visited every kingdom, blessing unions and establishing festivals honoring love that continue today.

Dōhāra, knowing that mortal memory fades, inscribed the true history of creation onto stone tablets, placing them in seven sacred locations across Ilhdeinia.

On the final day of the century, the gods gathered in a ceremony witnessed by chosen representatives from each race where they severed physical ties with the mortal realm.

The skies opened with light beyond description, and their divine forms rose into celestial domains that would become their permanent residences. From these heights, they would watch, guide through dreams and omens, and occasionally grant power to worthy followers, but never again walk among their creations.