A tale of the beginning of all things, As written by Durlic Fae, 148BB

In the time before time, when silence ruled the Neitherverse and nothing yet dreamed of becoming, a single light drifted through the vast emptiness. It had no name, for there was none to give it one. It moved alone through the void, brilliant, eternal, and unchallenged.

This Light, mighty and graceful, explored the endless black for eons unmeasured. It shaped nothing, broke nothing, and was met with nothing. And though it could not age, it grew weary not of life, but of loneliness.

In longing for something more, the Light did what had never been done.

It divided itself.

From its blazing soul came six Children, each a fragment of its own being. They emerged, not as sparks, but as gods living fire and will, shaped from thought and flame.

The first was Nar’Zhulen, the StoryTeller. He carried the voice of origins and held memory like a flame in his hands. His eyes never closed, and his book of light bled truth and fiction alike.

Then came Elareth, the Dream Weaver. She spun fate from starlight, her fingers threading dreams through the silence. weaving visions even the Light could not foresee.

Vaeliryn, the Stolen One, was born strange and quiet. Shadows clung to her, not as a threat, but as armor. She walked apart, drawn to the corners others would not touch. Her mirror cracked even as she held it.

Aurexiel, the Light Bringer, followed, a being of radiance and pride. He bore the dawn in his chest and spoke of justice and fire. A sword of light always burned at his side, unquenched.

Then rose Kaelithra, the Battle Maiden, who forged her strength in falling stars. She was war given voice, protection given wrath. Her presence sang with the sound of clashing symphonies and hearts too fierce to break.

Last came Sylhuin, the Wind Walker, who left no footprints and no certainty. His voice traveled in breezes, his step from one realm to the next. He spoke the language of change, of the moments between.

To give them a home, the Light shaped Bliss, a realm where stars grew like blossoms and light sang in the sky. There, the Children danced and learned and wondered, their hearts warm with the Light’s love.

They came to call the Light Mother.

She did not speak in words but in beauty. They saw her create with ease, mountains with a gesture, stars with a sigh. Harmony unfolded wherever her gaze fell.

And so, as the centuries passed, the Children’s joy slowly shifted and what began as admiration twisted, as admiration often does, into hunger.

They wanted to create.

Each in secret watched their Mother’s works, learning the slow rhythms of making and unmaking. They practiced the art in silence, hoarding stolen moments of understanding.

Then, one day, they gathered not in rebellion, but in hope. They wished to show the Mother they had grown.

Together, they wove their magic raw and imperfect but burning with ambition. From the edge of the Neitherverse they shaped a new world:

Zandeleth.

It was wild and strange and glorious. Its oceans whispered truths. Its mountains pierced the stars. The skies carried old dreams in their clouds. It was a world born not of one will, but six discordant, beautiful, alive.

For a time, the Mother wept with pride.

But creation, like a mirror, shows not only beauty but cracks.

The Children looked upon Zandeleth and saw not unity, but rivalry. Each believed their magic had shaped it more deeply than the others’. Each claimed mastery over some hidden aspect.

And so, jealousy older than time but new to them grew like a vine in their hearts.

They broke Zandeleth into pieces of power, carving domains, crafting creatures, and bending the land to their desires. Their cooperation became competition. Their unity gave way to quiet war.

Bliss watched in silence as the Children shaped not paradise, but a battlefield.

The Light Mother Soladriel did not stop them.

She dimmed.

Her radiance faded from Zandeleth’s skies, though it never disappeared. She became distant, unseen but never gone.

Some say she waits.
Others say she mourns.
A few believe she speaks still, but only to those who remember the harmony from which they were born.

The gods still walk Zandeleth, and their marks lie deep in the stone, sea, and soul of the world.

And above them, faint but constant, the Mother watches.