The History of Our World
As written by Othrakar, the Silent Clock
This is the tale of six mortals who shattered eternity’s chains. I, Othrakar, scribe of the gods, bore witness to the unmaking of their dominion. Though my earlier chronicles were stolen or twisted by the Masked Weave, this final testament endures. Let it be known: the Age of Eternal Darkness did not end by divine decree, but by mortal defiance.
The Age of Eternal Darkness
Before dawn, before hope, there was only the void. Mortals toiled as slaves to the Old Gods—sculpting mountains, carving rivers, seeding forests—only to see their labor claimed by celestial tyrants. The gods fed on suffering, their will etched into reality itself. But no reign, however cruel, is unbreakable.
Six mortals, scattered across the dark
land, carved the first cracks in divinity’s hold. Their rebellions were not great wars nor blazing spells, but acts of defiance that festered like wounds in the flesh of gods. This is their story. This is the Sundering.
Koryn, the Unbroken Chain
The First Rebel
She was born a slave like any other, a name never given. For decades, she bore the lash—her back scarred, her spirit bent—until the day she refused to kneel. It began in whispers: a prayer to no god, a curse spat into the wind. When the overseers came to break her, she shattered their skulls with her own chains.
Word spread. Rebellions flared. The gods, enraged, dragged her before their blackened throne. “You are nothing,” they roared. “A nameless worm.”
“Then name me Koryn,” she said, “for I will be the chain that breaks you.”
Her execution was meant to be a lesson. As the divine blade fell, she screamed—not in fear, but in defiance. The sound cracked the sky. Chains dissolved. Collars shattered. Mortals, for the first time, stood unbowed.
Koryn’s body was ash by dawn, but her name became a weapon.
The Masked Weave
The Thief of Truth
The gods ruled not by strength alone, but by lies. “You were always slaves,” they decreed. “This is the natural order.” Mortals believed, for these falsehoods were inscribed in the Grand Archive—a vault where history itself was written.
But the Archive had a flaw: words could change.
A figure cloaked in shifting shadow slipped past its guardians. Some say they were mortal; others, a rogue fragment of divinity itself. They left no name, only a title: the Masked Weave.
They did not steal a single tome, nor burn the Archive. Instead, they rewrote it. By dawn, every decree of the gods had been twisted against them. Where once it was written, You are slaves, the words now read, You have never been bound. Edicts of eternal rule became prophecies of their downfall. Laws of divine order unraveled into riddles and contradictions.
Reality faltered. Rivers flowed backward. Fresh wounds healed without leaving scars. Mortals awoke with memories of a world before chains, and in the chaos, the gods' dominion weakened.
The gods hunted the Weave, but they vanished, leaving behind only a final message, scrawled in divine blood: “Truth is a thread. And I weaved it.”
Thalgrun, the Gatekeeper
The Jailer of Gods
Death was no escape. Souls who defied the gods were cast into the Black Vault, a realm where eternity unraveled in endless torment. Thalgrun, a humble gravekeeper, discovered its horrors while burying a fallen rebel.
The earth collapsed beneath him, revealing a staircase carved from bone. He followed it into the Vault, where souls flickered like dying embers. At its heart pulsed a shard of obsidian—the key to their prison.
Thalgrun seized it. The Vault’s gates shrieked open. A torrent of souls flooded the mortal world, screaming vengeance. But the gods descended in fury to seal the breach.
Thalgrun did not flee. He drove the shard into his own chest, binding himself to the Vault. “You will not take them again,” he vowed. His body petrified, his soul became a sentinel. Now, he guards the boundary between life and death.
Illios, the Verdant Maw
The Rot That Devoured the Gods
The gods’ touch festered. Forests withered. Rivers ran foul. Illios, a druid, sought to heal the land—but nature itself had turned to ash beneath their rule. Desperate, he struck a pact with the blight.
“Infect me,” he whispered. “Let me be your vessel.”
It consumed him. His flesh sloughed away. His bones twisted into antlers. But when the corruption finished its work, it recoiled—for he was the hunger now.
Illios rampaged across the gods’ dominion, devouring their plagues. He swallowed the Rotting Heart of a god’s stronghold and vomited forth a forest of thorns. He drank from poisoned springs and exhaled pure rain.
The gods cursed him: “You are a monster!”
“Yes,” growled the Verdant Maw, his voice a chorus of wolves and wildfire. “But I am your monster.”
Veyra, the Shattered Star
She Who Lit the Sky
The gods forbade the sun. Light was their weapon, leashed to their will. Veyra, a starseer, vowed to steal it.
She climbed the highest peak and stood at its apex. With her bare hands she broke open her ribs and she carved out her soul—a glowing orb—and hurled it into the void.
It detonated. Light tore through the eternal night, birthing the first dawn. The gods howled, their eyes seared by the radiance. Veyra’s body crumbled to dust, but her soul shards became stars, forever burning holes in the gods’ dominion.
To this day, dawn is called Veyra..
Othrakar, the Silent Clock
The Liar Who Told the Truth
I was the gods’ scribe, cursed to inscribe their lies into history. My quill etched their cruelty as righteousness, their tyranny as law. But as the Six rose, my hand faltered.
When Koryn’s scream split the sky, I wrote The Unbroken Chain. When the Masked Weave rewrote the Archive, I wrote Truth prevails. When the Verdant Maw roared, I wrote The rot is purged.
The gods commanded me to erase it all. I refused. They stripped my voice, my name, my face—but my quill never ceased. This chronicle is my defiance.
Let it be known:
The gods are gone.
We are the reckoning.
.
