The Seed of Chaos and Earth

Long before the world settled into seasons and rivers carved their paths, Zemia, the Titaness of Earth, roamed the land. Her hands shaped mountains and valleys, her breath stirred the winds, and her steps left forests blooming in her wake. She was the mother of the earth, and her children—trees, beasts, and streams—flourished under her care.
But Igmut, the Trickster God, watched from the shadows. He saw beauty in Zemia’s work but resented its order. To Igmut, the world was too still, too predictable. He craved a place where chaos could bloom, where life could writhe and twist free of form and restraint. And so, he began to scheme.
One day, as Zemia wandered deep into her forests, she came upon a treant, its bark thick with moss and veins of golden light. It bowed low before her, its voice a low rumble like roots shifting through stone.
“Great Mother,” it said, “I have wandered your forests and witnessed your beauty, yet my roots ache with longing. I am bound to the earth but dream of growing beyond it. Would you grant me your favor and share your power, that I might help your creations flourish?”
Zemia, moved by its humility and enchanted by its devotion, opened her heart. She saw no deceit in its words and believed it to be one of her children—a guardian longing to serve. And so, she gave herself to the treant, entwining her essence with its own.
But as the union bore fruit, the treant shed its bark and revealed its true form. Igmut stood before her, his laughter echoing through the glades.
“You wished for beauty,” he said, “and I have given you chaos.”
Zemia’s heart broke, for she felt the child growing within her—a being of untamed magic, shaped by her strength and Igmut’s trickery. It burst forth into the world not as a creature of wonder and terror. Everything they created twisted the world it's mother had made. Forests twisted and shifted with sentience, rivers ran silver with enchantment, and the skies burned with twilight fire.
Vyrewood was born.
Zemia wept for what she had created. In her fury and sorrow, she cast the child out of the mortal plane, binding it to its own world. Yet she could not undo its existence, nor could she sever her connection to it.
“If you will bear his deceit,” she declared, “then you shall also bear my truth. Let no child born of this place speak lies. Let them carry the burden of honesty, their words as sharp as thorns, so none may deceive as he deceived me.”
And so, Vyrewood became a realm of wild magic and unyielding truths. The fae, born of its essence, could not lie but twisted their words like vines, ensnaring the foolish and the bold. It became a place of beauty and danger, a sanctuary and a snare.
Yet it is said that Igmut still walks its shifting paths, laughing as mortals lose themselves in its endless dance. And Zemia watches, her sorrow buried deep in the roots, mourning the child she could not tame.