First War

The First War - The War of Dawn

The Ancients, in their unknowable purpose, began the shaping of reality through Song. From the chaos of Xel they carved form and rhythm—first the Titans, then the Faerie, then the Gods. Together, the Gods and Titans wove the World Tree, while the Faerie laced leylines through its roots and branches, harmonizing with the greater plan. All were given tasks, guided by the Ancients, to prepare creation for what could be. For in the space between Light and Dark, there must be law and chaos—tension, possibility. But not all were content with this design.

Altma was once a Seraphim, an infernal-born Titan of law and might, forged in the crucible of divine order to maintain the balance between Primordial Light and Primordial Dark. Yet within their vast brass and fire-forged frame stirred a singular hunger—not for balance, but for dominion. Altma sought supremacy, not harmony. A singular god, shaped by will alone. Not Light, not Dark, but one order beneath them, eternal and unchallenged.

Their first act was cataclysmic. Time, that fragile, freshly-spun thread of reality, was sundered. Virvius, god of time—newborn in concept, older than time itself in presence—was the first to fall. Altma’s blade, a weapon forged from the heart of a dying star, eternally burning Orichalcum, sliced Virvius in twain. His body fell from the World Tree’s peak to the void below, into The Nothing, a space even the Ancients feared to tread. In dying, Virvius birthed death—Atrophy—and time began in earnest, for only with endings could things now be measured.

The Ancients, bound to the undying moment before death, began to vanish. Some faded, others simply ceased, their songs half-sung. With what power remained, they granted the Gods pieces of their vision, fragments of the Song, and the Worldsong surged in them, resonant with Impetus. Setengar and Dearuhk, the first beings touched by the Ancients’ discovery—the Light and Dark primordial—claimed dominion. Their voices, unified, gave rise to terrifying beauty and purpose. The war began.

Many Titans rose, not all aligned with Altma, but united in resentment of the Gods. They seized the Elemental Planes, crafting strongholds and bastions. Some still remain. The Faerie, ever shifting, played both sides. They brokered deals, fed leylines to whoever would promise them advantage. They, too, were changing. Virvius' fall gave birth to Atrophy. The Troll-King, in the height of the chaos, dared to touch Xel itself atop the World Tree—and in that moment he felt everything. The knowing reshaped and twisted him, and the pain ignited something alive and unbearable. A great burning began within, a pulse of truth and torment, and from that fire was born Pulse. And as Impetus bloomed in the Gods, so too did Narrative, dividing the Faerie into Seelie and Unseelie. Allegiances blurred. Gods turned, wavered, defected. Yet the tide shifted when Ulren and Elan—twin gods of Forge and Freedom—joined Light and Dark under Setengar. From the remnants of fallen Titans, Ulren forged Ord, a war-god of resilience—who, even in ruin, rebuilt himself stronger. And just as their bond brought unity to the Light, so too did Zintros and Stallaze, twin gods of stillness and sorrow, rise beside Dearuhk. Twin calls on both ends of the Narrative, shaped not by chance, but by the will of story itself.

The forces of Light and Dark, with the luck of Myria and the magic of Keldin, met Altma’s fury. The Primordial Lightning and Fire surged against the brass titans. Zintros and Stallaze, dark twins of curse and stillness, slowed Altma’s forces. Love and healing followed in Syren and Lo, mending wounds and stirring hope.

And there were others—champions of the turning tide. Wol, with perfect command of inevitability, established law that could not be unmade. Ferra sang a victory not yet realized, and made it so. Olhygg whispered to the minds of Altma’s armies and turned many against their kin. Sahn, goddess of Endings, froze legions in place and shattered them at the moment they sought escape. Shof’Uk hunted tyrants by divine right, cutting down the worst of Altma’s followers. Searith created monstrosities of glory and nightmare, beasts whose only purpose was to destroy Altma. Illiaster, shadow-king of knives, slaughtered Altma’s champions one by one in the dark. Isod, ever the silent chain, bound Altma’s loyal in oaths of shadow. Xerxa tempered chaos itself, preserving what could still be healed.

Altma, mad with clarity, sought to unmake concepts, to burn truth from the world with their starforged blade. But they were undone. The Houses rose—The Righteous House, The Far Courts, The House of Troubles, and the Cold Dark. United, they shattered Altma’s host and struck them down, piercing even their celestial form with Evalius' impossible rays, carved from Mythridian, the metal of gods.

Altma and all their legions—creatures of would-be-gods, broken seraphim, tyrants, fading Ancients who saw the one will, Titans, Faerie, and all manner of primordial thing—were cast down into the Abyss and forever encased. They became known as the Abyssals, frozen in decline. Never again would they grow in power. With each passing age, they would only diminish, forgotten, yet still caged within the belly of uncreation.

The Abyss was sealed. Once meant to be the foundation of the Material Plane, it became a prison. The Faerie severed every leyline to it, an act of rare unity. What remained was broken, scattered—gods mended, Titans fell or fled, rogue fae vanished, and mortal dominion slowly took root.

Wol god of law, birthed the Inevitables. Order resumed its reign, alongside Light and Dark. The First War ended. The cosmos, now fractured but alive, could finally begin.