The beginning of time, and the Celestial Gods

Creation

At the start, there was nothing. No time. No space. Only a void—deep, unbroken, silent. Then, a thought. A spark. A force stirring in the dark. Creation. It tried light first—the color of darkness. A shade so faint it barely defied the void. It hovered there for a moment. Then, dissatisfied, Creation shook its head. Not enough. It tried again. This time, light blazed forth, a searing blue, violent in its nature. It tore against the abyss, pulsing, sharp, undeniable. Too much. Too loud. Creation sighed. Again, it would try.

It then hit upon the perfect light— not too bright, not too dim. It smiled. It was all colors together, all bright, but not too bright.

Then it paused. It saw. It was still in darkness. Its light—untouched. That would not do. No. It reached for itself. It touched. Light spilled across its form. Illuminating. "Much better," it sighed. The stars—first scattered, then placed. No chaos. No uncertainty. Each one in its rightful position. They burned, bright and unwavering. Light upon light. And yet—space remained vast. A chasm of silence. So We reached again. We touched again. And in the silence, the stars hummed. Their fire breathed. Their song began. That, too, was better. We know this to be true.

For We are Creation itself—the ones who first grasped light, who first placed the stars, who first breathed song into silence. We are the voice that speaks. We are the hand that shapes. You hear Us now, as you always have. _As you always will._

And thus, the cosmos unfolded—each act, each touch shaping the universe in ways unseen before.

And so We shaped the figments, the Gods —not mere echoes of Ourself, but beings of purpose. Formed in Our image, yet distinct, carrying fragments of Our will, but moving with minds of their own. They were neither gods nor mortals, neither bound nor free. They stood between realms, woven from Our essence yet shaped by their own choices.

Through them, Our dominion expanded. Through them, Our vision was upheld. They were Our hands where We could not reach, Our voices where silence threatened to take hold.

And so, Creation grew, no longer resting solely in Our grasp.

The gods

And so We name them—the gods, Our children, extensions of Our will, bearers of creation’s purpose.

Zolon, Our firstborn, the fire given form. He burns, restless, his spirit ablaze as the star he governs. He holds the temper We shall never claim, his fury a beacon in the void.

Then came Terra. The world beneath, the cradle of creation itself. From the depths We called forth Thalindra, ruler of the waters, flowing, eternal, carrying the wisdom of tides.

And from the land We wove Iriendel, guardian of green and beast, the pulse of life itself. The grasses bow to their keeper, and creatures heed their call. These are but the first of Our children. Their stories echo through all time.

From the quiet glow of Luna, two arose—sons of the celestial body, bound to Terra, yet distant in their own dominions.

Nocturn, first among the veiled, ruler of the underworld. He commands in silence, his decree carried in whispers, his reign met with unease by his siblings. His leadership—necessary, unchallenged, yet unwelcome.

Lunara, luminous yet lost, consumed by their grandeur. They alone, besides Zolon themself, speaks in the tongue We claim— their voice woven with regality, though whether it is earned or assumed remains uncertain.

They drift as the moon itself drifts—never straying, never settling.

Mercurial— small in form, yet aflame with fury. He burns with a fire only eclipsed by Zolon themself, restless, quick, a streak of brilliance and chaos alike.

Then came Venti. Grace carved into divinity, ruler of the unshaken. Her skin, smooth as polished stone—unyielding, unwavering. She moves not with haste, not with fury, but with certainty. No force sways her. No doubt mars her purpose.

Astron drifts, unbound, suspended in the void We carved from the silence. He does not command land nor sea, nor star nor storm. Instead, he tends to what remains—the spirits who have passed beyond the mortal veil. He does not mourn them, nor does he weep. Instead, he gathers them, holds them in his presence, and guides them as they burn. For We, Creation, honor them—those children of other spirits—yet set them aflame. Not in destruction, but in transformation. Their light does not dim; it rises. Their essence does not vanish; it becomes something greater. Thus, Astron remains, forever between, forever beyond.

Joven followed, his gaze bright as Thalindra’s—yet restless, storm-laden. His skin bore the traces of tempests endured, each mark a story, each scar a reckoning. He stood at the heart of their turmoil, witness to the unraveling when Umbra’s decision came to light.

Tethys never arrives unprepared. She adorns herself with precision, every gown a deliberate statement. Her skin gleams like the twins of Terra, yet with the poise granted by Luna’s gods. And always, the rings—symbols of a majesty beyond even the four combined.