Valeria
Creation Myth
In the shimmering void before time truly began, before the whisper of wind or the roar of oceans, stood the Valar. A pantheon of primordial power, their forms coalesced from the very essence of creation, bathed in the blinding light of their collective will. At their heart, majestic and serene, was Elysian, the High King, whose gaze held the calm profundity of eternity. Around him, a celestial court: Titania, whose touch could coax mountains from dust and rivers from barren stone; Oberon, her vibrant counterpoint, whose laughter echoed in the nascent forests yet to grow; Puk, a sprite of pure mischief, whose essence would one day dance in the wind; Maeve, fierce and unyielding, whose very presence promised the tempering fire of courage; Eldrinë, the stoic huntress, whose keen eyes foresaw the paths of both beast and fate; and Nyxara, a being of profound shadow, whose beauty held the chilling promise of deepest night.
Together, they wove the tapestries of Valeria. Elysian's quiet authority guided their immense power, shaping the raw chaos into form. Mountains, jagged teeth of stone, tore through the primal mists under Titania's will. Oceans, vast and churning, carved their beds from the nascent crust as Oberon sang the tides into being. Puk, with a flick of his wrist, scattered the first seeds of light across the burgeoning plains, while Maeve instilled within the very earth a stubborn strength, a defiance against entropy. Eldrinë’s silent vigil granted the world its first faint rhythms of life and death, the delicate balance of the hunt. Even Nyxara, in her shadowed contemplation, contributed the necessary depths and mysteries, the long, cool nights that cradled the weary day.
Valeria was a masterpiece in the making, a world vibrant with potential, its very air thick with the residue of divine power. Yet, within this grand symphony, one Valar found the measured pace too slow, the creation too orderly. Reoryx, a being of boundless enthusiasm and untamed passion, yearned for life, for beings to walk upon this nascent earth, even before Elysian’s grand design was complete. He watched the careful, slow shaping of the continents, the meticulous crafting of the skies, and a fire ignited within him, a yearning to bring forth life of his own, to fill the quiet spaces with the rustle of movement, the murmur of voices. He would not wait for the designated moment. He would bring forth his children now.
The quiet spaces of Valeria called to Reoryx, echoing with an emptiness that chafed against his vibrant spirit. While the other Valar sculpted grander features, Reoryx burrowed deep, drawn to the very heart of the world, where raw, unrefined magic pulsed like a hidden drum. There, in the earth's warm, secret embrace, he poured his boundless desire into creation, not waiting for Elysian’s decree or the collective Valar's blessing. From the living rock and the deep wellsprings of primordial energy, he fashioned twelve singular beings. They were stout of limb, keen of mind, and their souls hummed with an innate connection to the earth's magic, a resonance deeper and more profound than any other life yet conceived. These were the Noldir, the Gnomes, his secret children, born of his impatience and boundless love.
Reoryx adored them, showering them with whispers of the nascent world's wonders, teaching them the language of stone and root. He wove intricate spells of concealment, cloaking their burgeoning settlements within the earth’s labyrinthine embrace, convinced he could shield his precious twelve from the measured gaze of Elysian. A fool’s hope, perhaps, but one born of a parent’s desperate affection.
Yet, no secret, however deeply buried, could truly escape the serene, all-encompassing awareness of King Elysian. His wisdom permeated every layer of Valeria, from the highest atmospheric reaches to the deepest, molten core. The subtle shift in the world's magical hum, the faint, new heartbeats deep beneath the mountains, were not lost on him. A ripple of unease, rare and unsettling, spread through the Valar. Even Titania, usually engrossed in her verdant creations, paused, sensing an unbidden life. Maeve’s brow furrowed, a premonition of disruption stirring within her warrior’s soul. Only Nyxara offered a faint, knowing smile in her shadowed corner, a hint of ancient malice, for chaos, even accidental, suited her dark designs.
Elysian’s voice, when it came, was not a roar of thunder but a calm, resonant hum that vibrated through Reoryx’s very essence, striking deeper than any physical blow. "Reoryx," it resonated, "what unbidden creations have you brought forth into this world, before their time, and without the sanction of the Valar?"
The question hung in the air, a judgment unspoken but keenly felt. Reoryx felt the heat of shame and defiance war within him, but fear for his children ultimately won. He emerged from the depths, a pleading, almost desperate light in his usually joyful eyes. He stood before Elysian and the assembled Valar, a trembling truth on his lips. He confessed his impatience, his longing to see life fill the world. He spoke of the Noldir, of their innocent magic, their connection to the earth.
King Elysian’s expression remained unreadable, his power a quiet, immense weight in the air. "You have defied the sacred rhythm of creation, Reoryx," Elysian’s voice continued, cool and implacable. "Life brought forth out of season can upset the very balance we strive to establish. These… premature births… must be unmade, before their uncontrolled essence unravels the delicate tapestry we weave."
The words struck Reoryx like a physical blow. Unmade? The very thought sent a cold tremor through his being. His children, his beloved Noldir, eradicated before they had even known the sun! A primal wail threatened to tear from his throat, but he swallowed it, replacing it with a desperate, fervent plea. He fell to his knees, his hands clasped, his voice raw with a parent's anguish. "No, my King! Have mercy! They are innocent! They possess great magic, yes, a gift from me, but it is a gentle magic, attuned to the earth. Let them live! Let them merely... wait. Hide them away still, until their time. Until the true Firstborn walk the lands. I beg you, Elysian! Do not snuff out these nascent lights!"
The silence that followed was immense, heavy with the fate of twelve souls. The other Valar watched, their own forms still and contemplative. Some, like Titania, seemed to lean forward, a silent hope for mercy in their ethereal visages. Others, like Maeve, maintained a stoic neutrality, respecting Elysian's ultimate judgment. Nyxara, however, seemed to lean back, a cruel amusement playing at the corners of her shadowed eyes, eager for the destruction.
Elysian considered, his gaze piercing through Reoryx, through the very earth, to the hidden Noldir below. The balance, the timing, the cosmic order he championed… but also, the spark of life, the plea of a creator. It was a long, agonizing moment, stretched taut across the fabric of new creation.
"Very well, Reoryx," Elysian’s voice finally resonated, a decision made, etched into the nascent laws of Valeria. "They shall be spared. But their magic, their very existence, shall remain bound beneath the surface. They shall not tread the sunlit lands until the Firstborn, the Elves, have emerged into the light and claimed their place. And you, Reoryx, shall be forever mindful of the consequences of your fervent impatience."
Reoryx sagged with relief, a choked sob escaping him. His Noldir were safe. Hidden, yes, and constrained, but alive. A deep, paternal gratitude welled within him, mingling with the sting of his King’s pronouncement. The Gnomes, the magically potent children of Reoryx's early passion, would abide in the deep places, awaiting their designated epoch.
And so, the world continued to unfold, Elysian’s grand design progressing towards the birth of the Elves on the untouched, mystical island of Avondale.
Even as Elysian's stern justice shaped the destiny of Reoryx's hidden Noldir, a different, darker fascination brewed within Nyxara, the shadowed Valar. She had witnessed Reoryx’s fervent act, the raw, untamed passion that had brought forth life from the world’s embryonic core. A cruel smile, thin as a crescent moon in a sunless sky, played on her lips. Order, Elysian's grand design, held little appeal for her. It was the potential for disorder, for suffering, for the forging of something new through agony that truly piqued her interest.
Her gaze, darker than the deepest night, delved past the sculpted mountains and the forming oceans, piercing the very heart of the nascent world. She sought not beauty, but a raw, primordial essence, a force yet unformed, waiting to be twisted. And she found it: a vast, slumbering entity, a titan of the deep earth, whose stirrings were mere tremors in the world’s crust. This was Threnos, a being of immense, unrefined power, yet one whose very existence was a dirge of sorrow, a lament trapped beneath countless layers of stone. His was a nascent agony, a quiet hum of suffering that resonated with Nyxara’s own abyssal nature.
She descended, not in light and glory, but in a creeping shadow, infiltrating the deepest, most crushing chambers of Valeria’s core. Her presence was a chill, a suffocating weight that pressed against Threnos’s formless being. She did not speak in words, but in whispers of doubt, in insidious suggestions of his inherent pain, of the world’s indifference to his existence. She stoked the embers of his latent anguish, fanning them into a scorching inferno.
Then, with a casual cruelty that belied the immense power she wielded, Nyxara struck. Not a physical blow, but a targeted severing of his ethereal bonds, a tearing at the very fabric of his primordial being, precisely where his deepest, unspoken pains resided. It was a wound that bypassed flesh and bone, striking directly at the essence of his existence. The agony was instantaneous, profound, and utterly consuming.
Threnos roared, a silent scream of suffering that reverberated through the very bedrock of Valeria. His colossal form thrashed, not with rage, but with unimaginable anguish, a lament made manifest. Each convulsion tore at the world's deep foundations, carving out vast, lightless caverns, twisting passages, and abyssal pits that bled with tortured energies. His torment was the chisel, his suffering the hammer, as he involuntarily sculpted a realm born of pure, unadulterated pain. This was the birth of the Netherworld, a sprawling, subterranean labyrinth, not just a place, but a living testament to Threnos’s unending lament, each echoing chamber a testament to his agonizing struggle.
And Nyxara watched, a serene, chilling satisfaction unfurling within her, as the deep world groaned and reshaped itself under the weight of Threnos’s endless, agonizing crawl. She had not created, not truly, but she had instigated, she had broken something into being, and for her, that was creation enough. The Netherworld, forever echoing with the "Stone-Shriek" of its tormented architect, became her dark playground, a realm she knew she would visit again.
Even as the primal screams of Threnos carved the abyssal pathways of the Netherworld, echoing unseen beneath the nascent continents, the surface world of Valeria continued its delicate, glorious unfurling. King Elysian’s gaze, though keenly aware of the dark genesis below, remained fixed on the grand tapestry of the heavens and the burgeoning lands, guiding the next, crucial stage of creation. His decree had set the stage for the true Firstborn, and now, their time was at hand.
On the verdant, untouched island of Avondale, bathed in the gentle, pristine light of the morning, life stirred with a grace unlike any before. From the pure essence of Valeria's dawn, from the shimmering mists and the ancient, singing trees, emerged the Elves. Tall and slender, with eyes like ancient stars and voices that mimicked the rustle of leaves, they were beauty made manifest, infused with the very breath of Elysian's magic. They were the Firstborn, closest to the Valar in their intrinsic power, their souls woven with threads of deep, resonant magic that would hum in their very bloodlines for eternity.
Avondale became their paradise, a cradle of shimmering forests and crystalline rivers. They rejoiced in the new world, their laughter like wind chimes through ancient groves. But even among the Firstborn, divisions began to subtly manifest, born not of strife, but of intrinsic nature. Two primary paths emerged from the radiant unity.
Some, drawn by the boundless expanse and the untamed mystery of the great waters, turned towards the endless blue. These were the Sea Elves, their spirits echoing the restless tides, their minds dreaming of horizons unseen. They learned the language of the waves, their hands, nimble and strong, began to coax wood from the forests and fashion it into elegant vessels, the first ships to kiss the virgin seas. Their joy was in the salt spray on their faces, the endless journey, the whispered secrets of the ocean depths. Their connection to the world was one of motion and boundless exploration.
Others, however, found their solace and purpose in the quietude of contemplation, in the pursuit of knowledge and the deepening of their bond with the Valar themselves. These were the High Elves, their minds drawn to philosophy, to the intricate patterns of magic, and to the serene, ethereal wisdom of King Elysian and his court. They built no ships, but instead sought to understand the very fabric of existence, to commune with the cosmic energies that had birthed their world, finding their joy in silent meditation beneath the eternal trees, striving for a mental and spiritual proximity to the divine.
And among these Firstborn, one Elf stood above all others in grace, power, and burgeoning genius: Faenor. His spirit burned with a brilliance that rivaled a supernova, his hands possessing a craftsman’s skill unparalleled in the young world. His heart, however, pulsed with a fierce, possessive love for the beauty he beheld. His gaze fell upon the Eternal Tree, the radiant heart of Avondale, whose boughs shimmered with primordial light, and an idea of breathtaking audacity took root within him.
He spent ages studying its essence, drawing upon his deep, innate magic, shaping and refining its luminous fruit with an artistry born of pure, Elven genius. The task was arduous, consuming him utterly, yet his vision was absolute. At last, with a triumphant, soul-deep cry that resonated through the very air of Avondale, Faenor completed his masterpiece. He had crafted not one, but three magnificent Elfstones. They pulsed with a light that seemed to capture the very essence of the stars, containing within them a fraction of the Eternal Tree’s immortal radiance, and a concentrated power that even the Valar, in their distant contemplation, acknowledged as an extraordinary feat of creation. These were not merely jewels; they were living embodiments of light and magic, forever tied to the fate of Valeria.
The radiant beauty of the Elfstones, pulsing with captured starlight in Faenor’s proud hands, was a sight that drew the breath of every High Elf on Avondale. A collective sigh of wonder, mingled with awe, swept through the pristine glades. Even the distant Sea Elves, sailing their swift vessels across the shimmering waves, felt a subtle shift in the world's light, a new vibrancy in the air. For a time, peace reigned, a fragile echo of the Valar's own harmony, centered around these three magnificent creations.
But peace, to some, was merely the stagnant absence of ambition, the dull quiet before the storm. Far away, yet omnipresent in her shadowed perception, Nyxara, the Spider Queen, the God of Darkness, witnessed it all. She saw the light of the Elfstones, sharper and purer than any star, and a venomous jealousy coiled in her abyssal heart. These gems, crafted by a mere mortal, an Elf no less, held a concentrated essence of creation that rivaled even some of the Valar's lesser works. It was an affront to her ancient, primordial power, a brilliant flame in the darkness she sought to cultivate.
Her mind, a labyrinth of cruel cunning, began to weave a new web. She would not simply destroy them; that was too crude, too final. She would possess them. And to do so, she would first have to deceive.
Nyxara cloaked herself in an illusion of ethereal grace, shedding, for a time, the overt shadows that clung to her. She appeared before the Elves not as the Spider Queen, but as a being of captivating beauty and ancient wisdom, speaking in tones like the rustle of dark silk. She wove tales of cosmic balance, of shared power, of a destiny entwined. She feigned admiration for Faenor’s genius, subtly praising his craft, making promises of protection and shared prosperity. Her words were honeyed poison, slowly seeping into the consciousness of Avondale, particularly among those who yearned for even greater understanding of the world’s intricate magic. She lingered on the fringes, an alluring presence, sowing seeds of trust and curiosity.
Faenor, for all his brilliance, possessed a fierce pride and a singular focus. He saw not the subtle malevolence beneath Nyxara’s guise, but only a fellow powerful being appreciating his masterpiece. He spoke of the Elfstones, perhaps too openly, of their profound connection to the Eternal Tree, of the very light of the world they embodied.
The opportune moment came, as Nyxara knew it would. A moment of communal celebration, perhaps, or a night of profound, moonless meditation. The Elves, lulled by a false sense of security, their gazes turned inward or outward to the stars, were momentarily distracted. In that sliver of time, Nyxara struck with a speed that defied the eye, a silent, ravenous snatch. Before a single Elf could cry out, before Faenor could even react, the three radiant Elfstones were gone, swallowed by the sudden, profound absence they left in their wake.
A chilling laugh, dry as rustling spider silk, echoed across the island as Nyxara shed her beautiful illusion, revealing her true, shadowed form for a fleeting, horrifying instant. With the stolen light clutched tight in her grasp, she vanished, fleeing over the vast, churning expanse of the seas, her dark essence leaving a lingering stain on the very air of Avondale. The sudden, profound darkness where the Elfstones had been was a gaping wound, a cold shock that ripped through the heart of the Elven paradise.
Faenor, the light of his greatest creation torn from him, stood frozen for a single, agonizing moment. Then, an unholy roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, incandescent rage that rattled the ancient trees of Avondale and echoed across the very waters. His masterpiece, the very essence of his soul, stolen by the embodiment of deceit and darkness. Blood and ashes, he would have them back. No force in this burgeoning world, not even the Valar themselves, would stand in his way.
The theft of the Elfstones was not merely an act of larceny; it was a wound carved into the very soul of Avondale, and deeper still, into the incandescent heart of Faenor. His rage, a furious fire that burned hotter than the sun, threatened to consume him whole. The vibrant light that had once marked his brilliance now fueled a terrifying obsession. The Valar had forbidden direct intervention in mortal affairs since the genesis, but in that moment, Faenor cared not a single bloody whit for their cosmic decrees. His only thought was the retrieval of his stolen light.
With a mind aflame, he turned to the Sea Elves, their elegant ships dotting the sapphire waters around Avondale. They were masters of the waves, their vessels swift and true, capable of spanning the vast expanse Nyxara had fled across. He demanded passage, not as a request, but as a furious command. "Take me over the sea! Now! The Spider Queen has stolen the Light of Avondale, and I will reclaim it!"
But the Sea Elves, for all their adventurous spirit, held a profound respect for the strictures laid down by King Elysian. They knew the Valar’s ancient edict: the Firstborn were to rejoice in their new home, to tend to its beauty, not to embark on reckless crusades across forbidden seas, especially not against a primordial being like Nyxara.
Their leader, a seasoned mariner with eyes that held the wisdom of countless tides, faced Faenor with a heavy heart. "My lord Faenor," he began, his voice calm, yet firm, "we cannot. The Valar have forbidden our departure from these shores for such a purpose. It would be to defy the very architects of our world, and invite their wrath upon all our kind."
The refusal struck Faenor like a physical blow. Forbidden? A searing retort clawed at his throat. He had given his very essence to craft those stones; they were an extension of his soul! To deny him pursuit was to deny his very right to exist. His pride, already inflamed by Nyxara’s insult, shattered into a thousand jagged shards. The grief of loss mingled with incandescent fury, twisting his brilliant mind into a monstrous shape. He saw not kin, but obstacles. He saw not prudence, but cowardice.
A guttural cry, more beast than Elf, tore from his lips. "Then you are traitors! Traitors to the light, to Avondale, to your own kin!" His hand flew to the hilt of his blade, forged in the purest fires of creation, and his eyes, once pools of starlight, now burned with a terrifying, blood-soaked madness.
The scene that followed became the eternal stain upon Elven history, a scar on the very soul of Valeria. It was the First Kinslaying.
Faenor, followed by his own children, driven by the same possessive fury that gripped their father, fell upon the Sea Elves. Steel, meant for honoring the beauty of creation, now tasted Elven blood. The pristine shores of Avondale, once echoing with joyful songs, now rang with screams of agony and the gruesome clash of blade on blade. The Sea Elves, unprepared for such fratricide, fought with grim desperation, but they were overwhelmed by Faenor's berserk fury and the sheer, unexpected betrayal.
Bodies, once graceful and alive, now lay broken on the shore, their lifeblood mingling with the pristine waters. Faenor did not pause, did not flinch. He seized the Sea Elves’ ships, commandeering them with brutal force, his eyes fixed only on the distant horizon, on the trail of the vanished Elfstones. He barked orders to his children, his voice hoarse, distorted by the madness of his grief and rage. They would sail. They would pursue Nyxara to the very edge of the world if need be.
But unbeknownst to Faenor, and by the sheer, harrowing fortune of the tides, a single Sea Elf ship, a vessel named the Silverfin, had been far out at sea on a scouting mission when the unspeakable occurred. Aboard its deck stood Valerous, its captain, a mariner whose heart beat with the rhythm of the waves and whose spirit was as vast and untamed as the ocean itself. He was not on Avondale’s shores when the blood was spilled. Instead, a strange, profound tremor ran through the water beneath the Silverfin’s hull, a psychic shriek of pain and betrayal that made the sea itself weep. His keen Elven senses, attuned to the very pulse of Valeria, told him something horrific had torn the fabric of their peace.
Valerous, already feeling the heavy weight of an inexplicable dread, strained his eyes towards the distant shimmer of Avondale, a place usually bathed in joyous light. What he saw, or rather, what he felt, was a profound darkness spreading from its shores. Then, on the horizon, he saw them: a fleet of Elven ships, moving with a desperate, driven speed that was utterly uncharacteristic. They were Faenor’s vessels, unmistakable even at this distance, but they carried a taint, a shadow that struck Valerous cold to the bone. He didn't know the specifics, not yet, but the raw anguish permeating the very air was a clear, terrible omen.
His heart heavy with foreboding, Valerous altered the Silverfin's course. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that something unspeakably vile had transpired on their home island. He would follow Faenor's trail, not in pursuit of the stolen gems, but in search of understanding, and perhaps, a desperate hope to salvage what remained of their fractured world. The air vibrated with sorrow, a silent lament for the innocence that had just died on Avondale's shores.
Faenor’s fleet, driven by a madness that brooked no rest, cut through the churning waters like a predator. His eyes, now devoid of their former brilliance, were fixed on the distant horizon, straining for any sign of Nyxara. He knew she had fled across the seas, but to where? The very thought of his Elfstones in her shadowed grasp made a low, guttural growl rumble in his chest. His children, equally consumed by their father's fury, pushed the enchanted sails faster, their faces grim reflections of his own burning obsession. They would reclaim what was stolen, even if they had to tear the world apart to do so.
Meanwhile, Nyxara, the stolen Elfstones clutched tight in her shadowy embrace, did not merely flee aimlessly. Her dark mind had a destination, a purpose beyond mere escape. She had sensed a new flicker of life on the burgeoning continents, a fresh, vibrant, and crucially, malleable race that had only recently taken its first tentative steps upon the world. These were the Humans, who had established a nascent kingdom of their own, Zylos. Their spirits, though young and less innately magical than the Elves or even Reoryx’s hidden Noldir, possessed a fierce vitality, a hunger for knowledge, and a remarkable capacity for both ambition and fear. They were perfect.
She arrived in Zylos not as a storm, but as a seductive whisper, a promise veiled in night. She manifested before Queen Neferata, the shrewd and ambitious ruler of the burgeoning human kingdom, in a guise of breathtaking allure, her form shifting between ancient wisdom and irresistible beauty, always with a subtle undertone of power that thrilled Neferata’s pragmatic heart. Nyxara spoke not of gods or grand designs, but of ultimate dominion, of an escape from the fleeting nature of mortal life, of a triumph over the petty constraints of flesh.
"Mortality, little queen," Nyxara purred, her voice like silk drawn over obsidian, "is but a cage. Your beauty fades, your power is fleeting, your legacy, a whisper lost to the dust of ages. But there is a path beyond, a secret woven into the very fabric of night. Immortality. Power unending. A dominion that mocks the sun itself."
Queen Neferata’s eyes, already sharp with ambition, widened with a hunger she had never dared to voice, even to herself. Immortality. The word resonated with every hidden desire within her. She had built Zylos with cunning and strength, but the fear of its eventual decay, and her own, gnawed at her. This creature, whatever she was, offered salvation from that ultimate indignity. The potential cost, the true nature of the "gift," mattered little against the promise of endless reign.
"What is required?" Neferata’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with avarice.
Nyxara’s smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp, too numerous for her beautiful visage. It was a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of the Spider Queen beneath the illusion. "Only your will, little queen. And the willingness to embrace the true nature of power."
And Neferata, blinded by the lure of endless life, agreed.
The transformation was not swift, nor gentle. It was a harrowing, agonizing process, a tearing apart of mortal essence and its reknitting with threads of eternal night. Neferata screamed, a sound that was muffled by the rituals Nyxara performed, a cry of both pain and primal, hungry awakening. Her flesh paled, her eyes deepened to pools of crimson, and a thirst, burning and insatiable, ignited within her. When she rose, she was no longer Queen Neferata of Zylos, the mortal ruler. She was the first Vampire, a creature of immortal hunger, her power now a chilling, seductive force that promised eternal night for all who fell under her sway.
With the first Vampire at her side, Nyxara’s influence spread like a silent plague through Zylos. The lure of immortality, of power beyond mortal comprehension, proved irresistible to the human nobility and their eager soldiers. One by one, those who bowed to Neferata’s new, chilling command were "blessed" with the dark gift. Zylos, once a burgeoning human kingdom, quickly became a dominion of the undead, a city where shadows held sway and the living became mere chattel.
The sun still rose over Zylos, but its light brought only a mockery of warmth. The human populace, once free, now found themselves trapped in a terrifying new reality. Their vitality was a resource, their very blood a commodity for their new, immortal overlords. A dark pall settled over the land, a pervasive dread that seeped into every corner of the enslaved kingdom. Nyxara, meanwhile, reveled in her new stronghold, secure in her new alliance, the Elfstones now guarded in a realm she had so subtly corrupted. She awaited Faenor, confident that he would come, and utterly convinced that he would fall.
The dark whispers from Zylos, borne on the western winds, carried a chilling truth across the waves, reaching Faenor’s ears long before his ships sighted the mainland. Tales of a queen transformed, of humans enslaved, of a city claimed by an unnatural night—all coalesced into a single, burning certainty: Nyxara was here. And with her, his stolen Elfstones. His rage intensified, a searing inferno in his soul, but a cold, calculating cunning began to temper it. Nyxara had forged an alliance; he would need one of his own.
He scorned the humans who had so readily fallen to the Spider Queen’s vile temptations. Slaves to immortality, to a shallow promise of power. Bloody fools, he thought, the first minced oath of his kind escaping his lips, a bitter taste on his tongue. Yet, their sheer numbers, their raw, untamed potential, were undeniable. If he could not sway the vampires, perhaps he could turn their thralls into a weapon.
Faenor, however, lacked the Valar’s ability to imbue new life with inherent magic. He needed a conduit, a power source pure enough to counter Nyxara's corruption, yet unsuspecting enough to be manipulated. His mind, still brilliant despite its twisted state, fixed upon Eldrinë, the huntress Valar. He knew her nature: solitary, fierce, fiercely protective of the natural world, and above all, deeply connected to the moon’s ancient energies. She was pristine, powerful, and utterly devoid of Nyxara’s guile. Perfect.
He sought Eldrinë not with demands, but with a carefully crafted plea, masking his true intentions beneath a veneer of righteous indignation. He spoke of Nyxara's blasphemy against the cycle of life, of her perversion of mortal souls, of the unnatural enslavement of the humans in Zylos. He painted himself as a champion of natural order, a victim of Nyxara's dark designs, mourning the desecration of the world. He played upon Eldrinë's innate aversion to corruption and her fierce desire for balance.
"Great Huntress," Faenor implored, his voice a balm of false sorrow, "the Spider Queen has twisted the very essence of life, turning mortals into undead abominations, chaining the living as cattle! The moon's light, your sacred domain, is mocked by their eternal night! Lend me your power, the purity of the lunar essence, to cleanse this blight. Grant these enslaved humans the strength to cast off their chains, to break free from this monstrous tyranny!"
Eldrinë, though wise in the ways of the wild, was not steeped in the deceits of the heart. Her nature was direct, her purpose clear. The notion of life perverted, of innocent beings enslaved by an unnatural force, stirred her ancient wrath. The violation of balance infuriated her. She saw the despair in the human throngs of Zylos, their fear a tangible shroud beneath the mocking immortality of the vampires. Faenor’s words, though carefully crafted lies, resonated with her truth. She agreed to lend her sacred power, the radiant, transformative essence of the moon, to free the enslaved.
But Faenor had no intention of merely freeing them. He intended to forge them into a weapon, a living counter to the vampires' undead might. With Eldrinë’s pure lunar energy flowing through him, he didn't simply break the chains of enslavement; he twisted the very fabric of the humans' being. He focused the raw power of the moon, not to restore their mortality, but to grant them a primal, savage strength, a furious, bestial form that would answer the vampires’ thirst with a bloodlust of their own.
Under the cold, watchful eye of the full moon, as Eldrinë's pure light streamed down, Faenor enacted his grim transformation. The humans of Zylos, those not yet turned to vampires, those who still breathed and bled, screamed as their forms contorted. Bones shifted, flesh rippled, and hair erupted, becoming shaggy fur. Their minds were flooded with a primal hunger, a savage instinct that eclipsed all fear. They became the Werewolves, or the Lunari, beings bound to the moon's cycle, cursed with a dual nature, yet imbued with immense strength and a burning hatred for their vampiric overlords.
The revolt was sudden, savage, and absolute. The newly forged Lunari, roaring with newfound bestial power, turned on their enslavers with a ferocity born of both Faenor's dark manipulation and their own deep-seated terror and suffering. The Masquerade, the hidden war between vampire and werewolf, had truly begun, a bloody conflict that would forever define the shadows of Valeria. Faenor watched, a grim satisfaction settling upon his features. A tool was forged, a weapon unleashed. The Elfstones would soon be within his grasp.
The screams from Zylos were no longer the choked cries of the enslaved, but the guttural roars of newly born monsters and the shrill shrieks of dying vampires. The air itself thrummed with raw, untamed magic and the stench of blood. The Masquerade had erupted, tearing the veil of night with teeth and claw, forever etching its brutal reality onto the world.
Valerous, guiding the Silverfin across the waves, felt the surge of chaotic energy like a shockwave across the water. His grim foreboding had been well-founded. The light of Avondale, he realized with a bitter twist in his gut, had not merely been stolen; it had been corrupted, twisted into a catalyst for a horrific war. He knew nothing of Faenor's deceit, only that something unspeakable was unfolding. His heart, heavy with the memory of the Kinslaying, urged him forward, a desperate plea for order in a world descending into madness.
As the Silverfin neared the blighted shores of Zylos, the horrific truth unfurled before them. The city was a maelstrom of violence. Werewolves, their forms shifting under the baleful glow of the moon, tore through the streets, their fury a living tempest. Vampires, sleek and deadly, fought back with chilling grace, their numbers vast, their power formidable. It was a war of primal instinct against ancient hunger, and caught in the middle were the remnants of the human population, caught in a nightmare born of dark magic.
Valerous wasted no time. He saw the sheer, desperate ferocity of the Lunari, even as they struggled against the organized might of the vampires. He saw their suffering, their raw, untamed anguish, and a spark of kinship, however fleeting, ignited within him. These were the victims of Nyxara’s machinations, and of Faenor's twisted genius. He had sworn to prevent further atrocities, and here was his chance.
He led his crew, veterans of countless storms and skilled in battle, into the fray. Their Elven blades, sharp as starlight, cut through the ranks of the vampires, a precise, disciplined force amidst the chaos. Valerous moved like a wraith, his movements fluid and deadly, his eyes scanning the maelstrom for the sources of this terror. He saw the vampiric queen, Neferata, directing her legions with cold, inhuman precision. He saw the primal, desperate rage of the Lunari. And then, he saw it.
Amidst the swirling carnage, near the heart of the conflict, a fleeting glimpse of pure, concentrated light caught his eye. It was one of the Elfstones, fallen or perhaps dropped by a careless vampire, momentarily exposed amidst the chaos. A surge of protective instinct, ancient and profound, drove him. That light, born of the Eternal Tree, could not remain in such defiled hands.
With a surge of power born of conviction, Valerous fought his way through the desperate, clashing forces. He moved past the snapping jaws of werewolves and the clawing hands of vampires, his focus absolute. He reached the Elfstone, its cool, vibrant light a searing balm to his soul, and seized it. Its power pulsed in his hand, a beacon amidst the surrounding darkness.
The retrieval of the Elfstone sparked an even greater fury in the beleaguered vampires. It also drew the attention of Faenor, who, watching the battle from afar, saw one of his precious creations being held aloft by the very Elf he had cursed for surviving the Kinslaying. Blood and ashes! Faenor swore, his rage momentarily eclipsing his strategic mind. That gem was his.
He confronted Valerous on the battlefield, his eyes blazing with furious possessiveness. "Relinquish it, Valerous! That stone is mine, forged by my hand, stolen by Nyxara! It is my right to reclaim it!"
Valerous stood firm, the Elfstone pulsating gently in his grip, its light a stark contrast to the surrounding carnage. "You speak of rights, Faenor? After the blood you spilled on Avondale, after the kinslaying that stains our name? This stone, born of the Eternal Tree, belongs to no single Elf who would desecrate its light with such madness. It will not fall into the hands of Nyxara, nor into yours, who would wield it with such bloody intent."
He refused to relinquish it. The words were simple, yet carried the weight of a world’s nascent history. He would not surrender the light to either the darkness of Nyxara or the volatile fury of Faenor. Instead, Valerous made a swift, decisive choice. He turned to his firstmate, a Sea Elf as loyal as he was steadfast. "Take this, my friend!" he commanded, thrusting the Elfstone into his shocked hand. "Sail with it. Go deep. Hide it from the world. Guard it until the seas themselves yield their secrets!"
His firstmate, understanding the profound import of the command, nodded grimly. With a swift movement, he rallied his small, dedicated crew and vanished back into the chaos, making for the sea. He would fulfill his captain's command, to protect this precious light from all who sought to corrupt or destroy it.
And so, guided by the silent power of the Elfstone and the desperate need for its absolute concealment, Valerous's firstmate ventured into the uncharted depths of the Western Sea. There, far from the warring lands above, amidst the crushing pressure and the eternal twilight of the abyss, they discovered a vast, pre-existing chasm. Drawing upon the residual magic of the Elfstone, and the inherent magical artistry of the Sea Elves, they began to weave protection and illusion, shaping the very water and stone. In that hidden realm, born of necessity and the desperate hope for sanctuary, the magnificent underwater city of Atlantis began to rise, a silent, shimmering bastion of Elven magic, its heart guarded by one of Faenor's coveted creations.
The conflict between the Vampires and the Lunari was a bloody, sprawling wound across the face of the nascent world. Zylos, once a burgeoning human kingdom, became a charnel house, its streets slick with spilled blood, its nights echoing with the howls and shrieks of the warring factions. The Masquerade, born of Nyxara’s insidious manipulations and Faenor’s vengeful wrath, consumed everything in its path. Cities were razed, populations decimated, and the very ground seemed to soak up the despair and terror of the mortals caught in the crossfire.
Many humans, desperate to escape the eternal night and the primal savagery, turned their eyes to any horizon promising salvation. To the north, far from the ravaged lands of Zylos and the incessant gnawing conflict, lay a promise of untainted earth. Driven by sheer desperation and an innate human resilience, countless refugees undertook a harrowing exodus. They traversed arid plains and treacherous mountains, their numbers dwindling, their resolve hardening with every passing day.
Finally, they settled in a fertile crescent of land, a strategic crossroads between burgeoning trade routes and ancient migratory paths. Here, they found respite and founded the city of Ninevah. It rose from the dust, a testament to human endurance, a beacon of order amidst the encroaching chaos. Strategically positioned, Ninevah quickly became a nexus for the scattered peoples of the world. To its east stretched the formidable Sea of Sand, a vast, arid expanse rumored to hold ancient, forgotten secrets and the whispered legends of the fabled Brass City, home to the elusive Dijinn. To the north, the cold, restless waters of the Cimmerian Sea churned, while to the west lay the expansive Western Sea, linking Ninevah to distant, unexplored lands. It was a city at the very hinge of the world, a place destined to witness the ebb and flow of empires and myths.
Meanwhile, the Lunari, now fully transformed and bound by their new, primal nature, found their own refuge. Driven by the raw instinct instilled by Faenor and the lunar energies that coursed through them, they discovered the hidden entrance to the vast, subterranean labyrinth born of Threnos’s eternal agony: the Netherworld. The perpetual twilight and echoing darkness of this realm, far from the prying eyes of both vampires and the surface world, called to their shadowed spirits. At its very maw, where the deep earth opened its tortured maw, they founded their own sanctuary, the city of Lunaris. It was a testament to their dual nature, a bastion of the wild deep beneath the civilized world, allowing them to exist, shift, and thrive away from the prying eyes of the other races.
While these new human and Lunari settlements took root, other races also continued to expand their presence across Valeria.
To the north of Ninevah, nestled within the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Dragon's Teeth Mountains, the Dwarves had long since established their own formidable strongholds. Their city, Khaz'Abar, was a marvel of ancient engineering and deep-earth magic, carved into the very heart of the mountains. Its echoing halls and massive forges pulsed with the rhythmic clang of hammers, a testament to their enduring craftsmanship and stoic perseverance. They were a race of the deep earth, their history etched into the very stone of their mountain home.
From Ninevah, the burgeoning human civilization began to look outward, beyond their immediate borders. Skilled navigators, inheritors of a seafaring tradition that had taken root even amidst the initial conflicts, they launched their own ships into the vast Western Sea. They sailed westward, following the lure of distant shores and new opportunities. On fertile coastlines, they established flourishing settlements. Azure, a city born from strategic genius and artistic ambition, rose from the plains near the coast, its white stone gleaming under the sun. Further west still, where the sun kissed the sea at the edge of the world, they founded Vespera, a formidable bastion guarding the narrow straits and bustling trade routes.
Simultaneously, not all Elves had remained on Avondale, nor had all been consumed by Faenor's rage or Nyxara's dark schemes. Other Elven tribes, seeking a balance away from the increasingly volatile tensions, crossed the seas to the vast, ancient forests of the mainland, a sprawling landmass that would come to be known as Beleriand. Here, deep within the whispering, emerald embrace of the Whispering Woods, a new Elven civilization took root. These were the Wood Elves, their magic interwoven with the lifeblood of the forest itself, their lives guided by the serene wisdom of the Silvermoons, their benevolent rulers. They sought harmony with the natural world, a quiet existence away from the grand, destructive dramas of the elder races, unknowingly providing a sanctuary for the remnants of ancient magic.
The world groaned under the weight of its burgeoning life and its escalating conflicts. Even as new cities rose and alliances shifted, the true power players of Valeria—Nyxara and Faenor—remained locked in their desperate, world-shaping feud over the Elfstones. Nyxara, ever the deceiver, watched Faenor's maddened pursuit, the bloody path he cut through the very fabric of their kind. She knew his weakness: the obsessive desire for his creations, a desire that mirrored her own insatiable hunger for dominion. She had one Elfstone safely secured in the newly vampiric Zylos, but the others remained tantalizingly out of reach.
Her gaze, keen and calculating, turned towards Faenor's children. They were powerful, proud, and still reeling from the horror of the Kinslaying and the consuming madness of their father’s quest. They craved power, yes, but also answers, and perhaps, a path to reclaim their dignity from the shadow of their father’s deeds. Nyxara saw in them the perfect instruments for her next move.
She reached out to them not with offers of open war, but with insidious whispers, promises woven with the threads of false truth. She presented herself not as the orchestrator of their father’s woes, but as a misunderstood ancient entity, possessing the true secrets of the Elfstones. She painted Faenor as a madman, blinded by rage, incapable of truly appreciating the power he had created.
"Your father's path is one of endless destruction," Nyxara's voice slithered into their minds, a hypnotic melody promising forbidden knowledge. "He seeks only vengeance, and will shatter the world in his pursuit. I, however, possess the true understanding of the Light you seek. The Elfstones, in their purest form, are not merely tools of creation, but conduits to power unimagined, power that could rival the Valar themselves. Join me, and I shall return to you not just the Elfstones, but the wisdom to wield them as they were truly meant to be wielded. Follow me to the desolate peaks, where the raw magic of the world pulses unbound, and together, we shall unlock their full potential."
The lure was irresistible. The children of Faenor, born of his genius and sharing his burning ambition, were seduced by her offer. The promise of ultimate power, of becoming something more than their father, of escaping his increasingly destructive obsession, was too tempting to ignore. They believed her honeyed lies, convinced she offered them a path to mastery. They turned their backs on their father's relentless, bloody quest and chose a new allegiance, embracing the darkness that promised forbidden knowledge.
They followed Nyxara to the Desolate Peaks, a jagged, formidable mountain range that scraped the bruised belly of the sky, a land shunned by softer races. Here, amidst the howling winds and the stark, unforgiving stone, they shed their old identities. They named themselves the Moquendi Elves, the "Dark Kin," a declaration of their severance from their former kin and their embrace of a new, shadowy path. And from the unyielding rock of the mountains, under Nyxara's dark tutelage, they carved their new domain: the city of Narazthul, a fortress built not just of stone, but of ambition and a grim, cold resolve. Its spires, sharp as daggers, pierced the gloom, a testament to their newfound power.
Faenor, meanwhile, utterly detached from the world by his singular, consuming madness, did not trust Nyxara. He saw her manipulations, even if his own children did not. He saw the allure she offered, and he rejected it. He would not be a pawn in her games, nor would he submit to anyone, least of all the one who had stolen his light. His path was his own, singular and absolute.
He vanished from the known battlefields, retreating into the deepest, most shadowed corners of the world, into forgotten lands where the very earth seemed to hold ancient, coiled secrets. Here, in the oppressive silence and the whispering shadows, his brilliance twisted further. He became the Man on the Mountain, a reclusive, feared figure, his mind still alight with flashes of genius, but now dedicated to subtle influence and deadly, unseen strikes. He began to gather adherents, not through grand armies, but through whispered promises of hidden knowledge, of forgotten lore, of power wielded from the shadows. He became the undisputed leader of the snake cults and the master of the assassins, a grim and deadly force that would strike from the darkness, for reasons known only to Faenor himself. His goals remained fixed: retrieve the Elfstones, but now, on his own terms, through the venomous coils of manipulation and the sharp sting of a hidden blade.
The world was a crucible of conflict. The cacophony of the Masquerade echoed from Zylos, the grim spires of Narazthul scraped the sky, and the unseen hand of Faenor’s assassins reached from their shadowed lairs. The delicate balance Elysian had striven to create lay shattered, threatened by the ambitions of Nyxara and the consuming madness of Faenor. While the races carved out their territories and waged their private wars, a growing dread settled upon the more ancient and wise. The corruption spread by Nyxara, the unending suffering of Threnos in the Netherworld, and the chilling perversion of life itself could not be ignored indefinitely.
Valerous, the Sea Elf who had witnessed the Kinslaying and salvaged an Elfstone from the blood-drenched streets of Zylos, felt the weight of the world's burgeoning darkness more keenly than most. He had sought understanding, and he had found it in the festering wounds of Valeria. His heart, once attuned to the gentle rhythm of the tides, now beat with a fierce resolve. He saw the ultimate threat: Nyxara. Her influence was the root of so much of the world's pain, her ambition a poison that would surely consume all. He knew, with a certainty that burned in his soul, that she must be stopped.
He embarked on a perilous journey, not of ships or swords, but of spirit and diplomacy. He sought out the Valar themselves, the silent creators who had seemed to withdraw from the direct affairs of their world. He spoke to King Elysian, recounting the horrors he had witnessed, the desecration of life, the spreading shadow of Nyxara's influence. He pleaded not for intervention in Faenor's petty wars, but for a cleansing, for the eradication of a primordial evil that threatened to unravel the very fabric of Valeria. He spoke to Eldrinë, appealing to her hatred of perversion and her fierce protective instinct for the natural world. He sought out even the Noldir, hidden in their deep places, and the ancient spirits of the wild, forging an unlikely alliance.
It was a monumental task, but Valerous’s sincerity, his unyielding courage, and the sheer desperation of his plea finally resonated with the higher powers. King Elysian, seeing the true depth of the threat, the burgeoning chaos that threatened his grand design, made a rare and profound decision. A great council of the gods, the Valar themselves (though some like Morgana and Puk remained aloof, preferring their own shadowed paths), and the elder races who still held a deep reverence for the pristine essence of creation, was convened. A pact was forged, a divine and mortal alliance against the encroaching darkness. Their target: Nyxara, the Spider Queen, and the legions of demons and corrupted beings she commanded.
The Great War that followed dwarfed all previous conflicts. It was an epic clash between creation and corruption, light and shadow, order and primordial chaos. Angels, winged and luminous, descended from the heavens, their blades singing with divine light against the chitinous forms of demons. The Valar, some of them, descended in their full power, their might reshaping battlefields with a mere thought. The Elves, both High and Wood, fought with desperate grace, their magic a shimmering defense against Nyxara's dark sorcery. The Lunari, temporarily allied with the forces of light against their common, older enemy, fought with a savage, unrestrained fury, their howls tearing through the ranks of the corrupted. Even the stoic Dwarves emerged from Khaz'Abar, their axes biting deep into demon flesh, their ancient resolve a bulwark against the encroaching night.
The war raged across continents, tearing apart landscapes and scarring the very skies. Zylos, the seat of Nyxara’s power, became the epicenter of the final, decisive confrontation. Valerous fought at the forefront, a beacon of resolute courage, his leadership inspiring countless others. He moved through the maelstrom, his eyes seeking only one target: Nyxara herself.
The climactic battle against Nyxara was a cataclysm. Her power was immense, her will as ancient and unyielding as the void itself. But she faced the united might of a world awakened to its peril. Eldrinë’s lunar light weakened her shadows, Elysian’s boundless authority constricted her dark magic, and the combined forces of the allied races pressed relentlessly. Slowly, agonizingly, Nyxara was pushed back, her formidable will finally beginning to crack under the relentless assault.
In a pivotal moment of the war, amidst the swirling chaos, Valerous found himself face-to-face with the Spider Queen’s personal guard, her most twisted creations. He cut them down with grim determination, his gaze fixed on a shimmering light emanating from a jeweled amulet she wore, a light he knew instinctively. It was the second Elfstone, reclaimed from the dark grasp of its thief. He seized it, its pure energy burning away the taint of Nyxara's touch.
Ultimately, after an unimaginable struggle that threatened to tear Valeria asunder, the forces of light were victorious. Nyxara, the Spider Queen, Queen of the Demons, was finally, definitively defeated. But a being of her primordial power could not be truly destroyed. Instead, Elysian, with the combined might of the Valar, enacted a binding spell of immense potency, drawing upon the very essence of creation itself. With a final, agonizing shriek that echoed across the world and into the Netherworld below, Nyxara and all her demonic legions were sealed away, forever imprisoned within the deepest, most inaccessible void: the Abyss. The world shuddered, then fell silent, save for the collective gasp of relief from the exhausted victors.
With Nyxara sealed and the war concluded, Valerous, holding the newly liberated Elfstone, looked up at the heavens. His task on Valeria was done, his purpose fulfilled. He had been the champion of its birth, its resolute protector in its darkest hour. He did not seek earthly reward or power. Instead, as a testament to his unwavering courage and the light he had safeguarded, he ascended. With the liberated Elfstone shimmering brightly, he rose into the celestial sphere, his form dissolving into pure light. The Elfstone he carried now blazes eternally in the night sky, a solitary, radiant beacon: the Morning Star. It became, and remains to this day, the most holy symbol for the Elves, a constant reminder of Valerous's sacrifice, of the triumph of light over darkness, and of the enduring hope of their world.
The final Elfstone, however, remained lost to the world above. It had been with Nyxara when she was defeated, and when the Abyss swallowed her and her demonic hordes, it swallowed the last Elfstone too. It remains locked away, a forgotten light in the deepest, most impenetrable darkness, a silent testament to the dangers that still lurked beneath the world's fragile peace.
