Chapter I - In The Beginning

What follows is the first draft of the opening paragraphs of a story set in the world of Evalaria. In these paragraphs is detailed the creation mythos of the world, and the events that would bring about the two Cataclysms that the peoples of the world would come to call the "First and Second Coming of Blackfire". From this, we then enter Evalaria through the city of Castelmaine, a metropolis of magic, academia and commerce, and are introduced to a couple of the main characters, Gideon and Folk.

I hope you enjoy what you read here - comments are greatly received. I will continue writing and post anything as and when I deem it complete enough for viewing. Please note that all posts are subject to change, and though I deem them viewable, may not be entirely complete.

In the beginning there was darkness, and into that darkness they came. Two they were; he who is named Laran, in whose breast burns the passionate fire of life, from whose mind flows all the knowledge of creation and everything within it, and whose hands shape galaxies; and she who is named Estariel, in whose visage shines the light of hope, from whom comes the breath of spirit into a nameless form, and from whence the life giving waters flow. Beings of Order, together they span threads and danced amongst the void, weaving and spinning into creation the early canvasses upon which the stars and world would one day be painted.

Into this brave new creation they birthed their son, Mortelkir, and unto him they granted their powers. Laran gave him hands with which to mould the universe into pleasing forms and shapes, to carve out the valleys, to cast colour into the stars and skies, to build great nations. Estariel gifted him with her breath that he may bring warmth to suns and life to the people's of the world. From both he received great knowledge and wisdom, and they were proud of their son. Upon these canvasses they hoped he would create a great and marvellous world of beautiful form and unending peace. Into him they poured their gifts, and onto him they placed their hopes, desires and expectations.

He played gleefully upon the canvasses his parents had spread before him, and at first his works were those inspired by the words of Laran and Estariel, for these were the words that had formed him. Thus were carved the earliest mountains, valleys and seabeds, the first great plains laid across the bedrock, and forests planted. Thus were born the noble races of our world into this beauty, sprung from the thoughts and desires of the Elder Gods, crafted by the youthful hands of the Son. For a while, it was good.

All children are curious creatures, explorers, thinkers, for they are unburdened with the weights of the world, and Mortelkir was no different. Gifted with all knowledge from each of his parents, Mortelkir saw beyond the brightness of stars a darkness. He noted that the stars looked brighter viewed against the bleakness of the void. He saw that beauty looks even more beautiful when viewed aside something foul. Thus it was that Mortelkir saw in all creation the perspective we now call Good and Evil. His creations he looked now upon with disdain in their peaceful utopia - how bland a world with no comparison, no relativity. Without turmoil and struggle his beloved creations would stagnate, and what then when his parents grew tired of his world? Would they be destroyed in a whim to be recreated anew? So it was that Mortelkir stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back.

Now he painted upon those canvasses works of destruction, desecration, and into the fair places of the world he placed foulness too. Into peace he poured war and strife. Into life he poured decay and death that the strong may live and the weak may die and be recreated anew at his whim.

Then Laran and Estariel looked upon their sons creations again and saw the madness and chaos that he had wrought unto their utopia, and they dismayed. In them was not the Power of Destruction, for Mortelkir had gained this alone through the union of his parents gifts. Though they wished to burn the world away and start afresh, they could not, and were thus forced to look on in disgust at the world that once was fair. Mortelkir, fiercely proud of his creations railed against the Elder Gods, upset and frustrated that they could not see in his work the divine cycle he had created. They could see only chaos, for they were beings of Order, and Creation, and so they punished their son. 

From him they took the Power of Creation and locked it away deep within the heart of our world, for to enter our world he must make himself mortal, and no mortal may wield the Power of Creation. This chastisement wounded Mortelkir deeply, and in that moment, the entropy of the void flooded into him. The Fire of Passion within him that had been gifted him by Laran burned first furious and vengeful, then cold and full of malice. He struck out against his parents, infuriated that they could not see the beauty in what he has wrought, he denounced them as lesser beings unable to appreciate the intricacies of his work, and declared himself sovereign heir to the universe, born as he was of the Elder Gods and the union of their gifts, and viewing himself as superior; but no God can reign without the Power of Creation, and so his dark and hate filled eyes fell upon our world and his parents wept.

"What happened then?"

Gideon looked down at the little girl, her wide expectant eyes peering up at him from beneath locks of curled red hair. She sat there cross-legged amongst a little semi-circle of children eagerly listening to his story, each sat on the cool stone slabs of the Almata Cloister facing him as he perched on the short stone inward wall. A gentle spring breeze shook the leaves and pink blossoms of the large tree planted in the middle of the little grassy square at the centre of the courtyard, sending a cloud of soft petals cascading behind him. Clerics, academics and scholars bustled past, passing from the Grand Library to the main halls, multicoloured robes matching the duty of the wearer. The clerics, of course, wore a pristine ivory white with a coloured trim to denote which of the Gods or Goddesses they had dedicated their lives to, a sky blue trim for Isobel of the Waters, a fiery yellow for Tarak of the Sun, a pale silver for Elu of the Moon. Some had simple trims, others were elaborate whirls and swoops of stitching that had been embellished over the years as a sign of the clerics continued service. The academics and scholars wore robes that equally matched the colour of their magical studies, fire wielding pyromancers wore scarlet robes, often chased with Taraks fiery yellow, and so on. Gideon himself wore robes of deepest midnight blue with intricately sewn trims of gold, curled into needle thin spirals. These were the robes of the School of Time, Chronologers and Chronomancers, History Keepers and Time Benders, and Gideon wore his proudly.

He smiled at the girl warmly, she was one of his favourite students and he secretly hoped that when she came of age to choose her Path, that she would join the students of the Sapphire Tower under his full tutelage. It was a selfish thought, of course, but one he could not help but have. The young girl had been brought to the College Orphanage as a baby, and he had taken a fondness to her inquisitive nature. She was bright, curious and intelligent, and he was fascinated by her.

"Well, Folk, that's another story for another time." He said eventually. The notion was not well met and a sigh of disappointment arose from the crowd. He took a small copper pocket watch from his robes and checked it, "Yes, I have other places to be, as do you children. Run along now and we shall continue for tomorrow's lesson. How does that sound?"

There was a slight murmur of cheer raised from the crowd of youths, as each rose aching to their feet and began their dispersal to other lessons. Gideon watched as Folk brushed down her brown dress and then skipped along to catch up with her classmates, disappearing through an arch towards the Grand Library. Purely selfish, perhaps, but there was just something about that girl. She had been like the daughter he had once known and possibly the granddaughter he had so very nearly had before the Second Coming. Sometimes he wondered back to those years and wondered how different things would be now. Sometimes he peered into his devices, tools of his academia, and he wept, reason caught up with him and kept him from such maddening thoughts eventually.

He stood slowly, the weight of his years hanging heavy about his bones. He was old, too old, he reckoned; his years stretched thin as suffered all of his line of study. Peering into the Timestream had its perils and was not without cost, after all. Despite it all, he was not unhappy, he mused as he withdrew a silver watch on a black cord from another pocket. He flicked it open and, happy with his reading, slipped it back into his pocket, and patted it gently. Not unhappy at all. He picked up a couple of scrolls that had rested next to where he sat, and made his way back towards the Sapphire Tower.