Qezitora is a world of many things, deeply entangled in the threads of Fate and enshrouded in the wings of the Morrigan, that has swirled in chaos long before anything existed. Borne of blinding starlight, the world was originally just pure radiance. The Morrigan, known by another name in that ancient time, sacrificed their colour to offer to the world, pulling every strand of their hues and emotions out to fill this blinding world. As the pulled these strands, some twisted themselves into translucent strings that drifted in wait. The Morrigan, with a world still surrounded by blank brightness, separated each remaining thread of white into colour and blackness, weaving them carefully into a tapestry of darkness, light, and every shade in between.
This tapestry, flawed though it was, pleased the Morrigan in their colourless state-- they found happiness in twisting the strings of the world, doing so randomly until they created life. A shimmering, slight thread, shorter than any they had created, spinning around their fingers all on its own. They took this thread, gentle as they could be, and spun it into its own little tapestry, one they set free into the larger world-- a raven. Small and unintelligent, but something that moved of its own free will, separate from the control of the Morrigan.
They repeated this process many times over, creating dragons, mortals, elementals, devils, angels, aberrations, fae, and their own servants, the Shadar-kai. They even twisted multiple of these tiny slivers of life into gods, 20 of them, all different and free. As they created these lives, however, they grew bored, tired. The other gods had fun causing wars, heartbreaks, stampedes, all other manner of disasters, and they were sat mostly alone, hardly able to even speak to the creations they loved so much.
One night, when the rest of the world slept under their watchful gaze, they tore themselves half to shreds in a fit of enraged transformation of a hidden goddess, Nemain, pulling string after string out of themselves. They took the threads that drifted from their fingers and attached them to the mortals they could find-- a drow here, a dwarf there, a human, a tiefling, an aasimar, everything they had either created or influenced the creation of, pulled along by their fingers. They tore the Prime Plane into three, all mirror images of each other, pulled more light from the sky and wound it into chaos and order alike. Elemental planes, Celestial planes, the Abyss, the Nine Hells, planes of Neutrality and planes only for transition. They hid their face behind a mask as Macha once they realised what they had done, but continued to push creatures to separation, each to their own rightful place. Almost reborn in the frenzy of Nemain, they directed the other gods to what they would control-- war, beauty, trickery, knowledge, storm. They bid the world to flourish and grow as they hid themselves in the Shadowfell, a dark mirror-image of the Prime plane, and used shadows, ravens, and the Shadar-kai to enact their will. The Fatethreads they tugged were a matrix of their own control, pulling people together to fight against everything that went against the Morrigan's will.
The world of Qezitora is by no means orderly, however-- but the Morrigan does not want order; they want balance. They want their tapestry to stop unravelling at the edges and knows just how important their pale gaze is for the safety of the world, lest it fall apart at the seams into blinding oblivion once more.