Of the first cataclysm, the shattering blow that broke the old rules of the world, its true nature is lost to us, shrouded in the mists of time and the silence of forgotten epochs. Its events are a mystery to this day, a subject of fervent debate and wild speculation among scholars and sages. We know only its aftermath: a world deeply wounded, bleeding with the raw, untamed energy of Kuros that seeped from a scar in the very firmament, and populated by the Four Progenitor Races.
But what followed is the true subject of our study, an era I have termed the 'Ashen Age'. For if the First Cataclysm was the blow that felled the great tree of creation, the Ashen Age was the slow, insidious rot that set into its roots, leading to a forest of new, twisted growth that would forever alter the landscape of existence.
—Excerpt from "On the Scars of Ofoni: A History of Divine Meddling" by Philip the Mad Sage
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Melin's voice seemed to wove a spell around Femi, as she began to tell her tale, the very air thickening and vibrating with the weight of her words. The gentle glow of the nightmare's white path seemed to dim in reverence, leaving her shimmering form as the sole source of light in the dark void.
"So, I will tell you the story of the beginning and what is to come," she said, her words painting a vivid picture in Femi's mind. Each syllable resonating deep within his soul
"To know why you are here, you must first know what was." A silence followed this declaration, which was only broken by a sigh from Femi.
You like drama too much ma.
"The truth is not a gentle thing." Her swirling eyes, changed to featureless white, then to black that seemed to see the very fabric of his being.
"It tells of the scar upon the soul of this world, a wound that has never truly healed, and weeps constantly." She paused, letting the statement hang between them.
Then Her tone changed, becoming softer, almost inviting, "I shall show you?"
Her shimmering form gestured and the scape dissolved around them. The smooth, white pathway they had followed were all swept away in an instant, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful nothingness, an endless expanse of swirling, formless darkness. That somehow created a physical pressure against Femi's consciousness.
"Before the first stone was laid, before the first breath was drawn, before time itself had meaning, there was only the Void," her voice echoed in the infinite expanse, "a sea of raw, unformed potential, and from that profound stillness," she continued,
"two consciousnesses awoke. Siblings. Creators. Tamara, the Weaver of Form, who dreamed of mountains and seas and stable, enduring life. And her sibling, Korvath, the Whisper of Change, who believed that creation was a process of constant, beautiful, necessary destruction. That only in endless unbecoming could true beauty be found."
The void around them swirled with nascent energy, coalescing into great, swirling nebulae of colors and sound that had no name. Then it condensed into a golden light of power, shimmering like a billion distant suns being born and dying in the same instant.
Femi watched, utterly awe-struck, as a figure of pure, gentle light, Tamara, pulled at the fabric of the void, her will shaping the brilliant, chaotic light into a single, perfect sphere. Spinning a world into being with intricate threads of divine intent.
"Together, they began their work. Wielding Kuros to sculpt the bones of Ofoni, to pour its oceans and seed its soil with life." The vision showed majestic mountain ranges bursting forth from the plains, sapphire seas flooding the deep basins, and a verdant green spreading across the continents like a hopeful blush upon the face of a new world.
"But Korvath grew restless in his role. Tamara's vision was too still, too final." A shadow, subtle at first, began to bleed into the edges of the glorious creation. Volcanos erupted, quakes shook the world, the even the stars collided.
"In a fit of twisted idealism, Korvath reached into the heart of the creative energy and twisted it, drawing forth a corrupted, destructive aspect of Kuros, a dark and violent twin to the light. He struck at Tamara, not to unmake the world, but to claim it as his own experiment in perpetual chaos."
The vision before Femi erupted into a blinding and deafening cataclysm. The newborn world cracked like an egg, its crust groaning in agony as continents were torn asunder. Mountains exploded even as they were still being raised; oceans boiled away into great clouds of hissing steam, leaving behind barren, salty scars.
"It was a battle of two gods, the Genesis War that scarred the very face of reality itself, etching pain into the foundation of matter." Femi flinched, a cold dread seizing his heart as he felt the psychic aftershocks of that first, terrible betrayal ripple through the eons to find him.
"Tamara fought with everything she had to protect her creation, but the wound was a mortal blow to her essence. With her fading strength, she cast Korvath into a prison of twisted reality at the world's core."
Melin chuckled "He was trapped in a labyrinth forged from his own corrupted power. How ironic."
Femi saw a vortex of darkness, swallow the form of the Betrayer, and dragging him down into the planet's fiery heart. "Weakened, her divine form began to dissipate as she looked upon her four unfinished children, caught in the crossfire of divine wrath, with a deep sadness." Melin tone became sober.
"In her final moments Tamara let her essence seed the very soil she had made. It was a final effort to sustain what she could no longer protect."
The smoke and chaos of the receding battle coalesced into four distinct figures, writhing in the agonizing aftermath of their violent birth, their forms raw and undefined.
"The first to rise was Eldri, formed from the deep, magical woods now tainted by the chaotic fallout of Kuros. He became wise and tall, his form akin to the ancient trees, but his soul was heavy with the profound, immeasurable sorrow of the world's wounding; he would be the father of the Eldrida."
"Then came the second whose name was Krug, born in the ash-choked deserts created by the battles all-consuming fire. He was fierce, strong, his skin seeming to glow with the heat, and bore the first scars of the divine conflict upon his very spirit; he would be the father of the Uruks."
"Third was Drauan, who awoke in the deep, quake-shattered caverns where the world expressed it's pain with a constant, grinding pressure. He was enduring and clever; he would be the father of the dwarves."
"Last was Horen, who emerged in the fractured plains that still held fragile, fading echoes of Tamara's initial, perfect design. He was ambitious and adaptable, his eyes quick and searching, but carried the fickle, unpredictable nature of the sudden battle that took his creator in his heart; he would be the father of the humans."
"They were not born into paradise, but into a convalescent world, each already bearing the indelible marks of the war that made them."
The vision shimmered, showing the four progenitors struggling amidst the broken new word, trying to build simple shelters from the scorched stone and splintered wood, to unite their strengths against the overwhelming desolation, as they tried to find hope in the ashes and ruins.
"But the imprisoned Betrayer's will, though weakened, was like a poison that seeped through the deepest cracks of the earth." Melin voice echoed as she waved causing the scene to change again.
"His shadow came to them as a hooded figure offering gifts, his voice were soothing whispers that promised solutions to their suffering. All were tempted, each seeking the power to mend what was broken, to heal the wounds they bear."
A sigh echoed from all around Femi as Melin continued this strange tale.
"Their desperation made them vulnerable. They were all given brides of stunning beauty to take as theirs but it was all a cruel trap.
Femi listened, while a thought cut through the awe: he wondered what type of fool would take gifts from hooded figures. Now, watching the tragic decisions of the progenitors, he understands why it so often seems the people he had met, in this world lacked common sense. The answer was written in their very blood; just look at their ancestors.
"The beautiful silent brides carried with them not blessing but curses to tie their entire bloodline for all generations to come." Melin words drew him back to the story.
"To Eldri their descendants shall be sparse and infertile, their glorious cities empty tombs, their hearts forever yearning. To Drauan; their descendants shall be squat and ugly, twisted from the noble form they were meant to have, and their greed for the earth's treasures will become a consuming fire in their soul. To Horen; who sought a legacy to outlast the sun? You shall have the opposite. His descendants' lives will be short and brief, their works dust before their children's children can enjoy them, their empires crumbling to forgotten sand. And to Krug; a curse that his descendants shall be slaves to a raging, uncontrollable battle-lust. They will war upon their own kin until the world despises their very name."
The terrible curses lashed like spectral whips against the four figures who shuddered under their weight, and Femi felt a cold, creeping dread settle in his stomach.
"Yet…" Melin's voice softened, cutting through the despair. "A final echo of Tamara's love remained. It offered a counter-balance, a faint hope: To Eldri, may yours have long lives that grants them profound wisdom to guard the ancient ways, the memory of what was and what could be. To Drauan, may your descendants' hearts be as steadfast and true as the deep stone you love, unyielding in their loyalties. To Krug, may honor be the mighty chain that binds you and your descendants rage, a code to give your strength purpose and direction. To Horen, may your descendants brief, brilliant lives burn brightest of all, becoming a glorious light in the long dark, and their spirit never be quenched, no matter the hardship they face."
"These were their shields, against the divine poison in their blood. The four, fractured and fearful, scattered to the corners of the wounded world, each carrying this terrible, warring duality. A divine curse and a dying goddess's final blessing, etched deep within their very souls."
"This," Melin's voice implied with a tone of solemn finality, "is the origin of the Eldrida, the Uruks, the Humans, and the Dwarves. This is the flawed, fractured foundation of all that lives and breathes in this world."
The immersive vision faded, its colors bleeding away into mist, returning them to the quieter, though no less troubled, landscape of the night-mare. The illuminating form of Melin's swirled gently beside him, a strange comforting presence in the wake of the apocalyptic story.
Femi had listened intently, his initial skepticism slowly giving way to curiosity, as the monumental history unfolded, layer upon layer, until he felt the weight of it all pressing down on him.
So... gods, okay, so this world had two powerful jujus and they made a real mess of things. He thought to himself, summing up the whole story, as they walked along the ethereal path, of the night-mare swirling at their feet.
'Wait...Tamara...Tamara,' he repeated to himself, the name sparking a memory. Is it the same Tamara from my own world? he wondered. No, it's just a coincidence...it can't be. he though, yet a seed of the unnerving possibility was now planted, and he looked back at Melin, his gaze searching her now look able luminous features for an answer she may have not yet given.
Melin glanced at him, her luminous form pausing for a moment, as if she could hear the tumble of his thoughts.
"Do you want to hear what comes next?"
Femi gazed at her, now completely drawn into the narrative, the super story was just getting interesting to stop now.
"Sure, why not."