Humans, Karnathi, elves (later to be known as the Syl’Aeris), halflings (later to be known as The Felden), orcs and goblin-kin emerge (who collectively come to be known as the Varnokh)—each carrying distinct traits, purposes, and relationships with the world.

Mortals are not granted full knowledge by the gods and must navigate their own paths, fostering growth and forging civilizations through trial and discovery.

The Elder Four observe with a mix of wonder, trepidation, and hesitation, recognizing that mortals will shape the course of existence in ways beyond divine foresight. 

Mortal life introduces the inevitability of death, though Luzion’s influence remains absent until his arrival in 289.

Conflict begins to manifest—survival, ambition, and division take root. Astraea, Chaztan, and Thyrron soon rise, reflecting the growing complexity of mortal existence.

Mortals recognize the sun as the giver of warmth, sustenance, and direction, shaping early rituals tied to dawn, seasons, and cosmic cycles.

She becomes a symbol of movement, hope, and prosperity, influencing navigation, survival, and the rhythm of existence itself.

Mortals learn that death is not simply a void, but a necessary passage—one that shapes life’s meaning and ensures the cycle endures.

Luzion’s rise brings solace and reverence for the departed, inspiring funeral rites, ancestral veneration, and the solemn acknowledgment that every ending is a doorway to something beyond.

In the shadow of his dominion, mortals find the courage to honor the past and embrace the future, knowing that even in endings, there is the promise of renewal.

As the Felden gather around the crackling warmth of communal fires and the bounty of harvest feasts, they call upon Dallamir Hearthshade. He emerges not as a distant deity but as the glow of fellowship itself—an unspoken vow of mutual care and a promise that none shall go hungry or unprotected. In every shared loaf of bread, every roof built by many hands, and every laughter echoing in the night, his spirit grows stronger. His blessings are not thunderous proclamations, but the gentle strength of belonging and the enduring power of kindness woven into the very heart of the Felden way of life.

The forests of Syl’Aeris whisper with secrets, and the rivers run as pathways to places yet unseen. Aelthor emerges as the flicker of curiosity in every Syl’Aeris heart, the call of distant horizons and the echo of forgotten paths. He is the compass in the hand of the wanderer and the courage in the soul of the dreamer, urging them to step beyond familiar woods and known stars. In his name, each new dawn becomes a chance to chart the world anew, to dance along the thresholds of what is known and what still lies shrouded in possibility.

In the proud hearts of the Varnokh, Vreshka’s presence burns like a forge-fire—unyielding, fierce, and defiant. She is the oath kept when all else fails, the fury of wrongs avenged, and the resolute spirit of a people who will not bend. Every clash of steel in her name echoes the Varnokh cry for justice and their unwavering belief in their own destiny.

Meanwhile, among the green fields and tilled earth of the Felden, Ilyra Greenbriar is the gentle breath of the soil. She is the promise that every seed planted will yield a harvest, that every table set will be shared with laughter. Her blessings are woven through the bounty of the earth and the warmth of communal feasts, reminding the Felden that in nurturing the land and each other, they honor the cycle of life and the bond of fellowship.

The Scourge of Black Vein descends like a shroud upon the lands, a merciless blight that blackens the blood of the living. Villages once teeming with life stand silent, obsidian statues in place of kin and kindred. In the quiet aftermath, grief becomes a language spoken in every empty field and crumbling hearth.

The Syl’Aeris, ever attuned to the wild currents of life, adapt swiftly, and the Felden’s strong communal ties fortify them against despair. But for the human realms, the plague is a cruel reckoning—millions lost, their bones swallowed by silence. Amid this devastation, the early priests of Luzion whisper of divine judgment or a trial to test mortal resolve, weaving grim interpretations into the tapestry of survival. Yet for many, the only truth is the dread in every breath and the hope that life might still be reclaimed from the shadows.

The Scourge of the Black Vein leaves scars that will never fade—a trail of obsidian corpses and hollowed cities. From this terror, Ssthax emerges, the god of disease, poison, famine, and pestilence, his essence woven from the despair of the dying and the dread of the living.

In the aftermath of the plague, mortals can no longer deny the dominion of sickness. Ssthax rises as both herald and harbinger—his voice a rasping breath in fevered dreams, his power the silent decay that steals warmth and hope. To some, he is punishment; to others, the bitter truth that rot is as constant as growth. Each cough, each withered crop, each drop of blackened blood—an offering to Ssthax, whose shadowy reign is born from the ruin of the Black Vein.

From the murmuring leaves and the silvered streams of Syl’Aeris rises Aravethiel, the goddess whose voice is woven from dawn’s first breath and dusk’s last sigh. She is the music of the heart made divine, the muse in every melody, the soul of every verse. Her emergence echoes in the lilting harmonies of Syl’Aeris poets, in the laughter shared by flickering firelight, in the hush of a world listening to its own hidden pulse.

In this age of new melodies and verses, the first Spellsingers arise among the Syl’Aeris. Their voices carry the breath of Aravethiel herself—song given shape and power, binding words to wonder and weaving magic from the very air. Song becomes more than art; it becomes magic, a bridge between the mortal and the divine. In her name, the Syl’Aeris find themselves uplifted by the power of shared sound, their voices a testament to the promise that music is memory, music is magic, and music is the breath of the world itself.

In the steady rhythm of the Felden’s labors, Bryndal’s spirit stirs—an unyielding force forged in the quiet moments of struggle. He is the silent vow to rise again after each fall, the gentle but unbreakable resolve that grows like roots in the soul. In every calloused hand and every hopeful glance, his presence is felt, an invisible shield against the weight of the world.

Bryndal’s emergence is not heralded by fanfare or spectacle, but by the simple, steadfast acts of those who endure: the farmer who sows seeds in rocky soil, the weaver who threads the loom with steady hands, the child who carries the stories of ancestors in their heart. To the Felden, Bryndal is not just a god of survival, but a testament to the quiet triumph of the spirit—proof that strength is not always loud, but it is always enduring.

In the dappled light of ancient groves and the hush of still waters, Liantharion emerges—a god born from the breath of creation itself. His presence is the bloom of new life, the careful balance of growth and decay, and the art of beauty that shapes the world. To the Syl’Aeris, he is the quiet architect of wonder, the sculptor of nature’s design and the whisper of harmony in every leaf and petal. Through him, they learn that to create is to honor the world’s rhythm, and to shape beauty is to cherish the soul of all things.

Across the stone-hewn strongholds and the echoes of battle cries, Thraghul rises among the Varnokh, his name a promise of might and endurance. He is the roar of defiance and the shield raised high, the lifeblood of a people who stand together against all that would sunder them. In him, the Varnokh see not just power, but the glory of kinship—every scar a story, every victory a testament to the clan’s unbreakable will. In the iron of their axes and the beat of their hearts, Thraghul’s spirit endures.

From the roaring blaze of the forge and the crackling hearthfires of the Varnokh, Drukhal emerges—his essence forged in every glowing ember. He is the breath of the forge, the spirit of invention, and the fierce test of fire’s trial. In his glow, iron is shaped, stories are born in flame, and the clan’s bond is sealed with each shared blaze. Drukhal is both warmth and crucible, the heart of every hearth and the ever-burning promise that from fire’s embrace, new worlds may be born.

In the gentle hum of Felden voices and the lilting melodies of their hearth-songs, Cymbryn awakens. She is the echo of memory in every ballad, the grace of story woven into music, and the soul of fellowship carried in every note. In her name, the Felden weave tales of old and new, songs that are more than mere words—they are the breath of history, the laughter of kin, and the bridge that binds one heart to another. In every whispered tune, she is present—a testament to the sacred power of music to heal, to remember, and to unite.

In the quiet turning of the seasons and the patient arc of stars across the sky, Enannaria takes form—her essence woven from the pulse of time itself. She is the breath of spring’s renewal and the hush of winter’s rest, the silent drumbeat that guides the dance of sun and moon.

To the Syl’Aeris, Enannaria is the keeper of the eternal cycle—an unending wheel of beginnings and endings, loss and rebirth. In her name, the passage of time becomes a sacred melody, each moment a note in the grand symphony of existence. With every fallen leaf and every budding bloom, she reminds the world that to live is to move ever forward, to honor what has passed, and to welcome what is yet to come.

In the hush that follows the last breath, Karmorr rises—his domain the silence of the grave and the endless stillness of the deep. To the Varnokh, he is both final judge and silent guide, the keeper of secrets only the dead can share. In the quiet of crypts and the dark between stars, his shadow falls—a promise that all mortal tales find their close and all truths are known in death’s embrace.

Meanwhile, across the boundaries of life’s shifting sands, Chaztan emerges, his spirit the bridge between what was and what shall be. In every vow spoken and every door crossed, his presence lingers. He is the hush before the threshold and the breath after a promise, the quiet witness to mortal transitions and the silent keeper of their weight. In him, mortals learn that every passage is a covenant, every oath a binding thread in the ever-turning loom of fate.

In the shadowed alleys and on blood-slicked battlefields, Zivoka ascends, her name whispered in the cold hush that follows a life snuffed out. She is the patron of every dagger’s thrust and every life taken in anger or malice—intent made divine, where violence no longer serves survival, but desire. Her rise is marked by the dark beauty of death’s certainty, her presence a testament that blood spilled by mortal hand shapes a power all its own.

Yet in the bright laughter of feasts and the music of unbridled revelry, Merridyn stirs among the Gelden. She is the song that defies sorrow, the dance that scatters the weight of the world. In every toast raised and every footstep in joyous rhythm, Merridyn lives—proof that celebration is not an indulgence, but a shield against the void. Her blessings wrap the Gelden in warmth and color, a promise that even in the heart of despair, joy can yet bloom.

From the dying crystal sphere—its light snuffed out by the slow creep of entropy—the dwarves of Khassid arrive, guided by the final wish of a forgotten dwarven deity. Their world had withered, its forges gone cold, its mountains crumbling into dust. As the last echo of its breath, the dwarven deity petitioned Aeru to grant his people sanctuary—a plea born of love, faith, and the desperate hope that life might yet endure.

Aeru listened, and so the dwarves came—only a few thousand souls, each carrying the weight of a lost world in their hearts. They settled in the crags and volcanic peaks of Khassid, crafting new halls from ancient stone, their resilience a quiet testament to the memory of the world they left behind.

And as they stepped onto Khassid’s soil, the dwarven deity who had shepherded them across the void faded into silence, their divine spark snuffed out with the loss of their worshippers. In this final sacrifice, the god’s essence became a whisper in the dwarves’ forge-fires and the echo of hammers in the deep—an unspoken vow that what was lost would be reforged in the crucible of their new home.

As the flickering dawn of civilization brightens, Kieron ascends—his spirit the mortar in every courthouse stone and the steel in every word of law. In him, mortals find the strength to bind their hearts to codes of justice and duty, forging societies where oaths are as sacred as the breath of life. Kieron is the shield of the innocent and the judge of those who break the trust of others, the quiet promise that order shall endure, even in the face of chaos.

For the Varnokh, the forge’s glow reveals a new truth in steel and fire. In the ringing of hammer on anvil, they find not just war’s necessity, but a testament to artistry. From this union, Zadruhk, Keeper of the Thunder-Hammer, emerges—his name carried on the wind with every strike of the hammer. He is the song of the forge and the battle cry of the warrior, his spirit alive in each blade that bears both beauty and power.

Among the Barazûn, the dwarves’ new name for themselves, the first forges are lit with prayers and purpose. Beldrun Emberforge stirs in the embers, his breath the spark that brings iron and stone to life. He is the divine architect of their craftsmanship, the guiding hand behind every chisel stroke and molten pour. In Beldrun, the Barazûn find not just a patron, but a promise—that through craft and creation, their people will not only survive, but flourish.

As the seasons turn and the forests of Syl’Aeris echo with music and laughter, Callonirion emerges—a divine chorus woven from every note of celebration, every shared smile, and every hand clasped in unity. He is the light of festival fires and the warmth of feasting halls, the promise that even in hardship, joy can be kindled like a flame.

To the Syl’Aeris, Callonirion is the dance that binds them, the song that lifts weary hearts, and the sacred bond of community renewed with every gathering. In his name, celebration becomes an act of defiance and a testament to resilience—a vow that no matter how long the night, they will always find reason to sing and to stand together.

In the gentle touch that soothes fevered brows and the steadfast arms that shelter the lost, Naelis arises—her breath the balm of sanctuary, her spirit the seed of new life. She is the quiet healer in every village, the silent promise of safety in the storm. In her name, the wounded find solace and the weary find rest, her light a constant flame in the dark.

Within the mountain halls of the Barazûn, Harrak Stoneward is forged in the anvil of determination. He is the unyielding rampart and the silent sentinel, his presence the echo of hammer on shield. As the first holds rise from the stone, Harrak’s spirit stands watch, a testament to the power of unity and the vow that no foe shall ever breach their walls unchallenged.

Among the Felden, Feyndra stirs like a whisper in winter—her grace the quiet courage that endures when hope flickers low. She is the ember that refuses to die, the calm in the tempest, and the strength to stand even when all else seems lost. In her, the Felden find the will to keep faith alive, tending the fragile flame of resilience until it grows bright once more.

As mortals come to see their lives as more than fleeting moments—each heartbeat a link in a grand and unending chain—Ilario rises, the breath of ages stirring in the quiet turn of each hour. Yet Ilario has always been, though unseen and unspoken. In the timeless expanse of the cosmos, he is both witness and scribe, a presence born of the eternal rhythm that binds all things.

The gods of Khassid have always existed in the swirling energy of creation, their forms and names shaped only when mortals gave voice to belief. In Ilario’s domain, time itself is the river that carries their reflections—gods and mortals alike cast into the endless flow. He knows the past in its entirety, every dawn and every fall of night, every fleeting joy and every final breath. To him, the past and present are laid bare, woven into the tapestry of destiny.

Yet the future remains a mystery even to Ilario, for it is written in each choice, each breath, each flicker of mortal will. It is the only realm he cannot claim, and so he watches the horizon of what might be with the same reverence he offers the weight of what was. In the echoes of his name, the very timeline of Khassid is born—a testament to the dance of belief and the silent heartbeat of eternity.

In the gleam of the artisan’s chisel and the patient hum of the loom, Esharra takes form—her spirit woven from the spark of creativity and the quiet triumph of the skilled hand. She is the breath of inspiration that guides each stroke of the brush, the echo of possibility in every idea that takes shape in clay, stone, or song.

To mortals, Esharra is the muse who stirs the embers of invention, the quiet voice that urges them to shape the world with beauty and purpose. In her name, the act of creation becomes a sacred rite—each crafted wonder a testament to mortal dreams made real. From soaring cathedrals to delicate jewelry, from the rhythm of the potter’s wheel to the glow of forge and furnace, her blessings infuse every work born of skill and vision.

Esharra’s emergence is not simply the birth of a goddess, but the affirmation that artistry itself is divine—a promise that in shaping the world, mortals touch the eternal.

In the hush of forest glades and the soft sigh of leaves in autumn, Isilkarion takes form. To the Syl’Aeris, death is not an ending, but a gentle passage—a return to the embrace of the world itself. In her name, they honor each life as a verse in the song of memory, each farewell as a promise that nothing truly ends. Isilkarion is the quiet hand that guides the soul beyond the veil, her breath the peace that follows a life well-lived.

In the forge-lit halls and the bone-strewn plains of the Varnokh, Sulnakh arises—a fierce and resolute goddess of decay and renewal. In her domain, every ending feeds new beginnings, and every ruin is a seed for what may yet bloom. She is the breath of rot and the pulse of rebirth, a reminder that even in the ashes of what was, the world’s heart beats on. For the Varnokh, Sulnakh is both end and beginning, a testament that strength is found not just in survival, but in the cycle of life’s endless turning.

As dawn’s first light breaks over Alzharan’s marble spires, the city-state awakens to its destiny—a beacon of human ambition and promise. Under the iron-willed vision of King Eranthes the First, Alzharan expands its dominion, forging the first great empire of humans. Military might marches alongside the measured cadence of arcane study, and the ink of new laws shapes the boundaries of conquest.

The empire’s banners rise in proud defiance of the wilderness, each conquest a testament to the unquenchable human spirit. Yet beneath the glint of steel and the shimmer of spellcraft, Alzharan’s heart beats with both pride and peril. For in every conquest lies the seed of hubris, and in every written law, the echo of those who will challenge it.

Alzharan’s rise is not merely an age of expansion, but the birth of an idea—that humans may shape the world in their own image, if only they dare to claim it.