The History of Ene'we

Creation Myth:
Before the Stars: The Silence Before the First Song
Before there was form, before time dared to count its own passing, there was only the Infinite Still, a realm without edge, thought, or meaning. And within this formless eternity, two awarenesses stirred, not born but becoming.
Vael'theron, The Blooming Flame was the first motion, not yet light, but the will toward it. She did not exist in shape, but in urge, a pulse against the silence. She dreamed of color before color was known. Her presence was warmth without fire, rhythm without sound, potential before possibility. In her presence, the Infinite Still began to ripple.
Nyrr'zhul, The Silent Dusk awoke in reply, not in defiance, but in equilibrium. If she was the ripple, he was the gravity that stilled it. Where Vael'theron longed to unfold, Nyrr'zhul defined. He was the first pause, the breath held at the edge of creation. From his silence came structure, from his restraint came shape. He was the keeper of boundaries in a place where none yet existed.
They did not speak. They were speech, every clash between them a syllable of the First Language, every meeting a spark. But it was not love. It was not war. It was the ceaseless straining of opposites, a cosmic tension so fierce that it gave rise to existence itself.
What followed was the First Fracture, the moment when their pressure against one another tore a wound in the Infinite Still. That wound bled form. That wound was Ene’we, the first of many worlds.
The First Fracture
The First Fracture was not merely the creation of a world—it was the first wound in the Infinite Still, a break in the perfect tension between Vael’theron and Nyrr’zhul. It was not planned. It was not willed. It happened—inevitable, chaotic, divine.
For unmeasured eternities, the two Primordials pressed against one another in unrelenting contradiction. Her urge to create, his need to restrain. Her chaos of bloom, his lattice of silence. Their clash birthed resonance—the First Language, the soundless vibration that echoed in the Infinite Still.
But as that pressure grew, so too did the tension. The Infinite Still could no longer contain them. The moment they met in full—will against will, not in balance, but in unyielding force—reality split.
From that unbearable moment of paradox came a single rupture, a crack through which being itself poured. Time spilled forth. Space tumbled after. Flame and stone, light and shadow, joy and sorrow—all burst from that singular break.
That crack was the First Fracture, and from it emerged Ene’we—not by design, but by consequence. A world not of order or chaos, but of both. A scar in the Infinite Still that became a cradle for existence.
Some myths say this was a mistake. Others say it was the only possible outcome of opposing eternities. A few cults whisper that Ene’we is still the fracture, a bleeding, imperfect echo of a wound never healed.
Lasting Effects of the Fracture
The Aether is believed to be the ambient echo of the First Fracture—a lingering tension between creation and cessation, raw and unstable.
Reality in Ene’we is imperfect, like a dream half-remembered. This gives rise to rifts, planar bleed-throughs, and strange phenomena.
The Fracture is not closed. It pulses still, buried in the deepest part of the world—somewhere unreachable, or perhaps everywhere at once.
After the First Fracture: The Shaping of Ene’we
From the wound in the Infinite Still came the raw tides of potential—wild, unrefined Aether, surging in waves and eddies. Where it pooled, stars ignited. Where it struck the void, land took shape. Where it cooled, silence returned. Ene’we was not sculpted—it coalesced, a world woven from contradiction and chaos.
Vael’theron moved through the newborn world like wildfire through a field of dry thought. She filled the valleys with breath, stretched oceans with a sweep of will, and seeded the skies with beasts of light and wonder. Her joy was overwhelming, unmeasured. She created not from need, but from the sheer impossibility of not creating.
Nyrr’zhul followed in silence. He did not unmake what she built—he shaped its boundaries. He taught mountains to stop growing, gave death to the undying, and planted the first shadow beneath the sun. Where her joy knew no restraint, his hand brought purpose, cycle, and end.
But neither could control the Aether.
It surged with the memory of their clash—wild, unstable, divine. Magic bled into all things, alive and dangerous. It filled rivers with song, gave stones dreams, and carved truth into the air. But without balance, Aether began to twist. Some places overflowed with impossible beauty. Others festered, warped by uncontained power.
The First Children
As the world found form, the first sentient beings awoke. They were not created, but born from the Aether’s resonance—flickers of will shaped into form. Some bore more of Vael’theron’s light, radiant and wild. Others carried Nyrr’zhul’s silence, cold and knowing. These early beings were immortal, elemental, and strange—now lost to time or sealed beneath the world’s crust.
"We were not made. We were the world’s first thoughts—unfinished, unbearable, unforgettable."
Origin: In the chaotic silence following The First Fracture, as Aether bled freely into the void, the raw collision of Vael’theron’s will and Nyrr’zhul’s restraint birthed strange consequences. Where that tension pulsed, beings awoke—not from wombs or stone, but from concepts, forces, and contradictions.
These were The First Children—also called the Echokind.
They were not Gods, but greater than mortals. Each was a living expression of the world’s first attempts to understand itself. Some scholars say they were the dreams of Vael’theron shaped by Nyrr’zhul’s silence. Others call them the mistakes of creation, left behind when the world moved on.
Nature: The First Children had no shared form—some were towering serpents of light and stone, others drifting cloaks of wind and fire, or faceless giants who bled music.
They did not breed, age, or die—until The Binding began to tear them apart.
Types and Roles: While many faded into myth or were lost in the collapse of the early world, legends speak of four archetypes among The First Children:
The Weavers of Veil and Flame
Shaped dreams and light into temporary realms. Gave the stars their names and set rivers into motion.
Some say these Weavers taught mortals how to bend Aether before vanishing.
The Boundless Beasts
Great elemental titans, untethered by purpose. Each was a concept of wildness—storm, hunger, fury, or joy.
Some were slain or sealed by later Gods and Kingdoms. Others still sleep beneath mountain roots or ocean floors.
The Memory-Keepers
Lived backward in time, remembering what would happen. Carried truths that broke the minds of those who heard them.
Some were broken into relics—Sentient Artifacts still wandering the world.
The Dreadless Ones
Children born entirely from Nyrr’zhul’s stillness. They walked without sound, carried silence in their blood.
Some say they became the first deathless kings, locked in timeless crypts.
Their Fall: The First Children began to unravel when the Binding of the Aether occurred.
Some:
Faded like old songs, leaving ruins and artifacts behind.
Fused with places, becoming living dungeons, forgotten gods, or cursed forests.
Fought against the world’s shaping—and were cast down by the earliest mortals and lesser gods.

The First Mortals of Ene’we
“We were not born. We were broken pieces of stories made to walk, to question, to bleed.”
The Virathaen — The Flame-Carved
Nature: Sentient beings of flesh etched with living glyphs. Their skin wrote itself as they lived, carving memories, thoughts, and oaths across their bodies in glowing runes.
The Naedrim — The Rooted Ones
Nature: Humanoid beings born from stone wombs and ancient trees, with barklike skin and sap-blood that carried song and sorrow.
The Elakari — The Clay That Sang
Nature: Forged from red earth and starfall, the Elakari were shapeshifters, molded anew each season based on their internal truths.
The Zhaethi — The Bleeding Skyfolk
Nature: Luminous beings of blood and vapor, the Zhaethi had no fixed form, flowing between liquid, mist, and radiance.
The Moruun — The Pale Witnesses
Nature: Born without mouths, the Moruun spoke only through gesture and dream, communicating with pure thought and touch.
Legacy and Echoes:
These beings were not ancestors of today's races, but conceptual scaffolding—souls carved from the tension between meaning and survival.
Their remnants may still exist as:
Forgotten statues that whisper when touched.
Dream-figures who offer knowledge in exchange for emotion.
Blood-bound echoes—ancestral memories that awaken during moments of grief, art, or transformation.
Ghost-cities made from language, memory, or song.
The Proto-Deities
“Not Gods. Not mortals. They were the pause between questions—the choice between endings.”
Origins: Born of Thought, Need, and Fear
The Proto-Deities are not children of Vael'theron and Nyrr'zhul—nor are they The First Children themselves. Rather, they arose in the aftermath, as Ene’we began to crack under the weight of boundless Aether and the chaos left in The First Children’s wake.
They were born not from pure concept, like The First Children, but from interaction:
When mortals first prayed to the stars, something answered.
When the dying begged the earth for mercy, something listened.
When minds collapsed under the weight of truth, something held them together.
The Proto-Deities were responses—catalysts, bindings, and voices between extremes. They did not shape reality like The First Children. They defined it, gave it limits, morality, sequence, purpose.
Nature of the Proto-Deities
Less primal, more structured. They understand compromise, patience, and cycles.
Their essence is tethered to symbols, belief, and ritual, but not dependent on mortal worship like later Gods.
Some say they were forged, others say they were dreamed into coherence by the fractured world itself.
They are bridge-beings—between Godhood and element, between story and silence.
Notable Proto-Deities:
Aserion, the Nail in the Sky: Keeper of constancy, the one who drove the stars into place so they would stop screaming.
Myrrane, She Who Cups the Flame: Contained Aether’s madness in vessels of language and breath.
Thal'korath, the Chain-Walker: Forged the first constraints across time and entropy. He walks the Binding still.
Elarûn, The Mask That Loves: Created the first persona, allowing mortals to hold onto self amid shifting truths.
The Binding of the Aether and Their Role
When it became clear that The First Children were too vast, and that Aether itself was becoming a devourer, the Proto-Deities acted in unison—the first and perhaps last time they would.
They did not kill chaos. They caged it.
Key Roles in the Binding:
Aserion mapped the celestial lattice, aligning stars and ley-lines to hold the weave.
Myrrane taught language and containment—binding Aether to syllables, symbols, and structure.
Thal'korath forged the seven Aether Anchors, each a tether linking the core of magic to fixed laws.
Elarûn created masks of identity, stabilizing minds warped by wild Aether, enabling mortals to shape magic without becoming it.
Their work cost them. Each was diminished, fragmented, or bound to their creations.
Post-Binding Legacy
The Proto-Deities are rarely worshipped directly. Their names are known to scholars, Weavers, and heretics, but not sung in temples.
Some believe they still whisper through ancient relics, or that their minds are echoed in the structure of high magic.
Cults that attempt to undo the Binding often seek proto-relics—shards of Thal’korath’s chains, echoes of Myrrane’s breath, or stars that remember Aserion’s alignment.
The Binding of the Aether
“When the stars stopped singing, the world began to breathe.”
What Was Aether Before?
Before The Binding, Aether was limitless—an unfiltered current of pure will, possibility, and form. It bled from the wound of the First Fracture, and from the clash of Vael'theron and Nyrr'zhul. In its raw state, Aether could create mountains with a whisper, summon storms from dreams, or speak beings into existence.
But it was wild, volatile, and alive—responding not just to intent but to fear, madness, and contradiction. Magic wasn’t cast. It was felt—a symphony of thought and instinct that mortals were never meant to conduct.
Why the Binding Was Necessary
As The First Children walked the world—some dreaming, some devouring, some reshaping everything with thought—Ene’we began to fracture.
Entire landscapes collapsed under paradox.
Time began rewinding, splitting, or stalling where Memory-Keepers wandered.
Weavers drew Aether like breath and burned the air itself.
Dreams became real and then died screaming.
The First Children themselves began to unravel, corrupted by too much Aether.
The world teetered on the edge of total metaphysical collapse.
So those who remained— Proto-Deities, came together to Bind the Aether.
The Act of Binding
The Binding was not a single spell or structure—it was a global metaphysical chain, a rewriting of the rules:
Aether was tethered to form: bound to material things—sigils, relics, words, blood, song.
Magic was limited by consequence: to cast was to pay a price.
The Veil between thought and reality was drawn, making dreams and memory less dangerous—but less powerful.
The First Language was shattered into fragments, making the act of true naming rare and dangerous.
This Binding didn’t kill magic—it domesticated it, turning it from a beast of chaos into a tool. And in doing so, it seeded imperfection into the world.
Consequences of the Binding
Weavers were born—those who could still manipulate Aether through understanding, discipline, or inherited spark.
Magic became feared, because its roots were in an era that terrified the world.
The First Children fell dormant, unable to exist fully in this new, narrow frame of reality.
Forbidden Knowledge survived—echoes of how to undo the Binding, or pierce it in places.
Over time, the Binding itself began to weaken—fracturing from mortal ambition, forgotten pacts, or something deeper.
Signs of the Binding Today
Aether behaves erratically—in some places stable, in others chaotic, especially near ancient ruins or sites of myth.
Relics and locations tied to The First Children often exhibit unbound effects—wild, divine, unpredictable.
Factions like the Ashen Concord or Black Root Pact seek to either restore the original flow or break the Binding entirely.
Storms, plagues, voidquakes, and mutations—all are signs of Aether’s fraying leash.
The Shuddering
As time unfolded, the wound of The First Fracture began to pulse—a slow, deep rhythm that could be felt in the bones of the earth. This beat of creation and cessation is known as the Shuddering Stillness, a cycle of cosmic breath that creates the Veins of Aether, ley-lines of raw, unstable power.
Some say each pulse is the heartbeat of Vael’theron, struggling to expand. Others say it is Nyrr’zhul’s breath, drawing all things back into silence.
The Age of First Light
As the raw surge of Aether slowly settled, and the first songs faded into echoes, Ene’we entered its First Age—known to mythkeepers and Weavers as the Age of First Light. This was not a golden age of peace, but one of miraculous terror. The world still remembered its own birth, and reality had not yet fully decided what it was.
The Age of Divinity and Sundering
“Where The First Children were questions, the Gods became answers. But answers, too, can burn.”
The Rise of the True Gods
As the Binding of the Aether took hold and the Proto-Deities fell silent, something new stirred—less chaotic than The First Children, more personal than the Proto-Deities. These were the Gods, born not from the raw fabric of existence, but from:
Belief, given shape
Ritual, given voice
Mortals, given hope
The first Gods were shaped by those who remembered the terror of the First Age, and those who sought guidance in the silence that followed.
They were:
Mirrored in mortal form, walking among their worshippers.
Tied to domains that reflected emotional, seasonal, and societal needs.
Empowered by faith, and in turn, gave structure to civilization.
Some Gods claimed to be echoes of First Children or Proto-Deities, others denied such lineage. The truth is lost—or perhaps intentionally hidden.
The Emergence of the New Mortals
Where the First Mortals were archetypes, the New Mortals were adaptation. Shaped by the Gods, Aether, and the hardened laws of the Bound World, these beings:
Could reproduce, evolve, and build.
Formed the first empires, faiths, and schools of magic.
No longer carried metaphysical roles—they carried choice, desire, ambition.
Each God claimed patronage over new mortal lineages, guiding them through whispers, miracles, and covenants.
The world entered a golden age—glorious, radiant, and doomed.
The New Mortals of the Golden Age

The Drolkarn – The Stone-Eaters

The Umbrathi – The Children of the Loomed Mist

The Huraan – The Flameborn Husk

The Ellaketh – The Hollow-Singers


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Sundering Calamity
“From the silence came order. From order came faith. From faith came pride. And from pride came the fall.”
The Gods grew powerful, and with power came conflict. Faiths clashed. Empires rose in their names. Entire regions reshaped their skies with divine will.
Then, the impossible happened.
A God was killed.
"Today, no one agrees which God fell first, or who wielded the blade. Some say it was a mortal. Others say it was one of The First Children awakened in rage. Some whisper it was Kaavh, answering a question no one dared ask."
This murder shattered the balance.
Effects of the Sundering:
The Veil was torn in places. Aether bled violently, tainted by divine essence.
Realms collapsed. Cities melted into glass or became floating mausoleums.
Entire pantheons were consumed, leaving only feral miracles in their wake.
The New Mortals scattered, splintering into bloodlines and fractured cultures.
The world broke. And in that breaking, the Age of Mortals began—not as a triumph, but as a struggle to survive in the wreckage of faith and fire

The Collapse of the Old Order
The civilizations of the New Mortals— Drolkarn, Umbrathi, Huraan, Ellaketh—collapsed. Some perished entirely. Others were:
Transformed by mutated Aether
Isolated by planar breaches
Forgotten, preserved in myth, ruins, or nightmares
The divine cities became ghost metropolises, where prayers still echo but gods do not answer.
Temples became engines of disaster. Some now float, twist, or scream.
Birth of the True Mortals
In the wake of divine ruin, from the scattered fragments of Gods, broken First Children, and the remnants of the New Mortals, the True Mortal races arose.
These were not shaped by Gods or concept. They were shaped by survival, adaptation, and trauma.
These mortals:
Could no longer access Aether freely—magic now had rules, costs, and risks.
Were more grounded—flesh-bound, short-lived, but resilient and resourceful.
Inherited ruins, curses, and myth-shards rather than paradise or prophecy.
These include humans, and the other races, Draelin, Kaelven, Mirjani, Murn, Orrun, Scorathi, Sketh, Thrynx, Umbrin, Velathi and the Veyari
Where the First Mortals were symbol, and the New Mortals were bridge, the Mortals of this age are the broken synthesis—the scarred inheritors of a splintered world.
The Golden Age of Mortals
“When the Gods fell silent, mortals filled the world with their own voices.”
Time Passed in Ash and Ember
For a thousand years, the world of Ene’we healed and hardened. The age between the Sundering and this new rise was not peaceful—but it was patient.
The skies ceased weeping divine blood.
The Aether slowly restabilized, although warped in places.
Survivors of the Sundering built with what remained—stone from fallen shrines, magic from broken anchors, faith reforged into legend.
Nothing was forgotten. Everything was repurposed.
What Marks the Golden Age?
This is not a time of perfection, but of achievement—a rare span in Ene’we's grim history when hope blooms and holds for longer than a heartbeat.
Magic, though volatile, is studied and regulated.
Factions, kingdoms, and cultures emerge and stabilize.
Mortals take to the skies in floating citadels powered by half-working divine engines.
The first great cities since the Gods ruled begin to rise again—some atop their ruins.
The Third Fracture: The Shattering Twilight
“The world did not end. It simply remembered what it once was—and broke under the weight.”
The End of the Golden Age
The Golden Age did not collapse in flame or war—but in revelation.
Kaavh whispered a final question.
And reality folded again.
This was not like the Sundering, where Gods fell. This was existence itself curving inward, truths unraveling, magic no longer bound by intention but by interpretation.
Consequences of the Third Fracture
The Veil shredded in many places, and many realms (Fey, Shadow, Elemental, Hells) bled directly into the world.
Magic became dangerous, volatile, sometimes sentient.
Mortals were twisted, blighted, or awakened to terrible truths.
Civilizations collapsed under madness, corruption, or silence.
Aether Anchors cracked or disappeared.
The Gods returned—but fractured, diminished, or monstrous.
The Present Dark Age
Now, thousands of years after The First Fracture, you live in a world of ruins and revenants.
The few surviving cities are fortresses of paranoia, clinging to relics of stability.
Faiths have split into radical sects—some worshiping what the Gods were, others what they became.
Magic users are feared, hunted, or cloistered—Weavers walk the line between miracle and calamity.
The First Children stir, bleeding into the dreams of prophets and beasts.
The Aether is cracked, and its use requires sacrifice, madness, or both.