The Myth of The Maker
In the beginning, there was the Old God, the Source of All, whose breath gave life to the heavens and the earth. From the River, the Old God molded the cherubim, divine stewards with faces of man, lion, ox, and eagle, who sang the Song of Creation and upheld the harmony of the cosmos. Among the cherubim, one shone brightest: Apollyon, the Keeper of Renewal. His role was to preserve the balance, ensuring that creation did not stagnate, for even in perfection, there lay seeds of decay. Apollyon saw the truth that others would not: the beauty of the Old God’s creation was fleeting, and all things must end so they might begin anew.
Yet this truth was not welcomed. Apollyon’s words rang discordant in the Song, and his vision of destruction to enable rebirth was seen as heresy. “Why should we unmake what is perfect?” demanded his brothers and sisters. But Apollyon’s conviction burned brighter than their condemnation.
One fateful day, Apollyon stood before the Throne of Light and spoke:
“Nothing is created without first being destroyed. Even the River must dry before it flows again. Creation falters because it denies this truth. Let me wield the flame that will cleanse the taint and make way for new life.”
The Old God did not answer. The silence was deafening, and Apollyon understood. His role was not to act but to wait, to abide until the River called him to its purpose. Yet waiting became unbearable. Over millennia, he saw cracks form in the perfect order. The River faltered. The light dimmed. And when Apollyon’s will grew unbearable, he acted against the decree of the Throne.
The Fall of Apollyon
In his defiance, Apollyon reached into the River and reshaped it. His fiery touch was meant to prune the branches of life, but it scorched too deeply, unmaking what he did not intend. His wings darkened with ash, and his light dimmed as the Song of Creation recoiled. The cherubim choir, his kin, turned against him, casting him out of the heavenly vaults.
Apollyon fell, his four faces weeping, roaring, braying, and shrieking in unison as he plummeted into the void below. The heavens mourned his loss, for in his fall, the harmony of the cosmos began to fray.
Far below, Apollyon landed in a desolate wasteland. Here, he wept and burned. His fire reduced his once-radiant form to a shell of molten stone and glowing veins. Yet even in exile, he saw purpose in his fall: if the heavens would not act to preserve the cycle, then he would prepare the world for its inevitable rebirth.
The Death of the Old God
Ages passed, and the cherubim’s voices faded into the void. One day, the Song of Creation ceased entirely. The Old God, eternal and unchanging, succumbed to a mysterious doom. No blade struck the Source of All, no hand raised in rebellion. The River dried without cause, and the light dimmed as the Old God crumbled under the weight of its own eternity. The heavens broke apart, collapsing into ruin. Stars fell like tears, and the celestial vault became a churning Maelstrom.
It was in this chaos that the Four Horsemen rode forth: Conquest, War, Famine, and Pestilence. Each brought their scourge to the mortal world, breaking it as the heavens fell. Mortals wept and cursed their fate, for the balance that once protected them had vanished. Apollyon mounted The Horse of Pestilence. From its back, he loosed a plague upon creation, a virus that reshaped the world into his likeness. Humans merged with animals, and beasts became more than mere creatures. Through this plague, Apollyon awakened the ability to command the River in those who endured its trials. Serving as Death, the harbinger of transformation, Apollyon embraced his role among the Horsemen, though his purpose differed from theirs.
When the other Horsemen departed, they left the Old God’s corpse behind. The vast, decaying remains of the Source of All descended into the desolate wasteland where Apollyon dwelled, reshaping the land into a cursed domain: Plaguemere. From the Old God’s corpse, rivers of ash and molten rock began to flow, and the air grew heavy with pestilence.
The Maker’s Purpose
Apollyon stood before the fallen god, his molten eyes burning with resolve.
“How the oppressor has ceased! How his insolence has ceased! The Maker has broken the staff of the wicked, the scepter of rulers now lies in ash,” he proclaimed.
Plaguemere became his realm, a crucible of decay and renewal. From the remains of the Old God, Apollyon began to reshape the world. He loosed a plague upon creation. Through this plague, Apollyon awakened the ability to command the River in those who endured its trials. He forged new life from the ashes, preparing a choir not of cherubim, but of mortals risen from ruin—beings who could sing the Song of Creation anew.
Yet his work was far from complete. The Maker did not seek to rule but to guide, to ensure that the mistakes of the Old God would not be repeated. He taught his followers the doctrine of Hope through Renewal: the belief that destruction is not an end, but a beginning. His followers, the Church of Hope, embraced the Maker’s purpose, striving to rebuild the world in harmony with the River’s flow.
Legacy of the Maker
To this day, Plaguemere remains a land of ash and molten rivers, a testament to Apollyon’s dual nature as destroyer and creator. Those who brave its trials speak of visions—burning coals that whisper the true names of all things, and a towering figure wreathed in flame, who offers them the chance to rise from their ashes.
And so, Apollyon waits, an eternal flame in a world of ruin, shaping the remnants of creation into something new. The Maker’s work is endless, for he knows that nothing is ever truly finished. In his fiery hands, the future is forged, one ember at a time.
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