In the days of the Realm’s beginning, it was only El. Then Angolon was dreamed into being. And then together they began to dream the dreams that would wake the varied beings of the world.

One could not be faulted for assuming that the first to wake in the realm were the Gods of Asgard. But one would be mistaken. The Gods are old and powerful to be sure, but not as ancient and immortal as the beings that would go on to settle Vanaheim.

These are known as the Vanir.

In the early days on the Realm, El and Angolon rested upon the banks of the mighty river Duin. One night El and Angolon laid down to rest, and when they did, their dreams were filled with dark fire, terrible and powerful and beautiful as the cosmos themselves. 

And when they woke, they beheld a being. Towering above the pair with hair of spun silver and skin of a deep indigo that shone like fresh inky snow, the First of the Valar possessed eyes that flamed a furious black violet, radiating their own light.

Even in the sparkling golden morning rays, only shadow touched the one in front of them, the sun skating away like water on well-waxed wood. He did not speak for a long time.

When he did, he said, in a voice as deep and dark as the heavily shadowed western forests, “And what are we to do, now?”

It was a good question. El did not know. How does one greet a newly formed, if seemingly infinitely powerful creature such as this?

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Angolon asked.

“I would.” said the Shadow Lord.

In clay mugs, the tea curled steam over the lips and into the sunbeams, dampening and dropping the dust motes that floated past their tendrils. The small stone room of Angolon’s apothecary smelled of grassy green leaves and the perfume of the sort of sweet tree blossoms that portend fruit.

“So...how are you finding the realm?” asked Angolon.

The figure that sat across the wooden slab table from his, cloaked in the throw of corner darkness, watched his cup steam but said nothing for a long time.

Finally he pulled himself up from his position of brooding repose, and into the beams of light that streamed through the window, which scattered before him like mice when the storeroom door opens. The darkness hastily rearranged itself around him.

“It is...bright.” he said, quietly, halting, as if sounding out a written word in a language one does not know.

“Excellent!” Angolon exclaimed, with wild gesticulation of hands. “It is quite a nice day, isn’t it? We are ever so glad you find it pleasing.”

The tall, powerful figure in the corner raised an eyebrow slowly, although Angolon did not see it in the shadows.

Although there were only three speaking creatures in the realm in these early days, it was already well divided among those comfortable with silence and those who seek to fill it. “Oh my, how rude of me.” he continued. “Let us introduce ourselves. My name is Angolon, this is El. We seem to have...er...made you.”

Daechir’s blazing violet eyes flashed toward El, who was made of nebulous shimmering light the color of grass reflecting off clear blue water. It studied him, but did not speak.

“WELCOME.” said Angolon in a tone of eager formality. The Shadow Lord’s attention returned to the grizzled man before him. 

Angolon continued, “We will admit, we are not exactly sure how this is supposed to go. When I woke, I sort of just bugggered off, built a tower and began to try to make sense of this world.” He took a sip of his tea, wiggling his lips to fit his grand moustache around the mug. When he replaced it on the table, it dripped.

“So you could certainly do something of that nature if you like, although who are we to tell you what your purpose is, yes? For all we care, you could spend your life running nude through the forests and defecating on the flowers.” He chortled, spraying moustache tea into the air. “My companion, my creator, has done this once before, greeted a new being, you see. This is my first time.”

The Valar was admittedly mere hours old, but his innate sense of propriety and order led him to believe ones creator should have had some sort of PLAN for a being that they had created.

El fixed its eyes on the darkness. Angolon had been created not by will, but by chance, or perhaps inevitability, even out on loneliness, it was hard to be sure.

This being was much the same, although a creation of the both of them. One being created was a fluke, but a partnership of sorts. A second created was a pattern, with no reason to think it would not continue. Perhaps a plan was in order. At length, El spoke.

“Each created must find their own path. Your will is your own. Your journey is your own. But we may give you something to help you to find that path. Stay with us until the dawn, and then your journey will begin.”

That night by the light of the silver spark, El and Angolon did not dream, because they did not sleep. They labored together in the tall tower, melting and blowing the powder-fine sands Angolon had collected from the most beautiful beaches in the realm into small glass orbs, smooth and oblong, of a size to tuck perfectly into ones palm, each with a filament-thin hinge that allowed the orb to open like a trunk.

Nine stones they made that night before the gold spark rose and they had exhausted their sand reserves in the tower. They had only needed the one, but so long as they were making things, they might as well make all they could.

As they worked El thought of its time in the void, and how the names it had given to things in the realm thus far had sprung from one musical and honeyed tongue it had heard often, one made for song and to describe the natural world.

When Angolon woke in the world, he had the ancient face and boundless curiosity of one who had been there forever and yet was brand new. After a time, El had arrived at a word that had meant many things in that far off-tongue. 

A word that meant magic, which Angolon most certainly had, nearly as powerful as El, although he used his magic for much smaller works than the creator. The word also meant Deep Lore. Angolon’s penchant for study certainly bore that name.

And one final meaning for the word was stench, as Angolon plainly never intended to wash that great beard of his.

And now, come morning, they would need to set their new creation on his path.

In dim dawn when both silver and gold still hung near the horizon, they found the Shadow Lord standing in the spot where he had woken along the banks of the river, still cloaked in eddying pools of shadow. 

El carried in its hand one of the orbs, which it held aloft before removing its hands, allowing the near-invisible orb to float before them.

El plucked a mote of silver and gold, one in each hand from the sky and placed them inside the orb where they hung, sparkling in turn. El blew a small breath upon the orb, the lid snapped shut, and the two small sparks began to move and orbit each other. The orb now appeared as a smooth and oblong crystal stone, pricked with light.

It spoke to the terrible, beautiful creature before them. 

“We shall call you Daechir, for lord of shadow you are, but that is all the course we will set for you. We give you this stone, and in it is the light of the world, but that is all we shall give to you. Your path is your own. It is not our place to chart its course, but we can set you on your way.”

“Now find your place in the realm. I know not where it is, but it will call to you, as it did to my companion. When you find it, breathe a single breath onto this stone and it will open for you. Place inside a pinch of earth from your new land, and water it with one drop of your own blood.”

“Then the stone will close and it will never open again, but then will contain the soul and the power of your people. Because you are the first. Wield that power well.”

Daechir plucked the stone from the air, and the sparks continued to shine inside their shell, but did not extend their rays to his skin. He looked at it for a time, turned, and walked straight across the mighty river, waters parting before his feet, and into the forested mountains to the west.

When his silhouette had disappeared into the trees, Angolon said to El, “That was a lark, but might we try a pinch livelier fare next time? That was a bit grim for my tastes.”

Daechir walked amongst the dense trees on the northern side of the Óleryd Mountains, a dark, deep forest blanketed by cold mists. Shadows were his friend, but this was not his place, not so close to the one that speaks so much.

And so he went...in search of silence.