Creative Corner

paint a mural, pass laws, amass fortune. Make new life. This is true for gods and mortals alike. After our time of exploring and frolicking, we too settled and yearned to create. And one after another, we did. Magnificent, strange creatures, each more so than the last. From those creatures, only fragments of inspiration remain. Those were chaotic times of child-gods, ones that could not last. could flourish. We all created our children in our likeness, according to our own aspirations and plans. and they were magnificent! They were everywhere and they were strong and cunning. They were just like all the other children of the other gods, different in shapes and sizes, fallible, free, but ultimately just and kind. Darklings, their original names lost to time. Arian created many beautiful things, but he had a – how should I put it – a period of depression. Poor Arian… He loved all of them so. His many peoples, all from the same core, but so vibrant and unique like the colors of the rainbow, succumbed to time. Only the darklings remained to reflect the cold emptiness left in his heart. all other gods looked down upon. There was simply nothing special about them. They could learn and create almost anything, yet nothing better than the other peoples. But they spread. They grew, and survived, and adapted. In the end, they forgot who their god was. Children who abandoned their mother ja ran to the skirts of other gods. I truly feel sorry for Ilhu. She must watch on from the loneliness oblivion, too weak to even take contact, how other gods, her very friends and family, have stolen her creations who they had mocked for eons prior. Her children who were supposed to be the unifiers of all the peoples, became orphaned, estranged, and lonely. was the kindest and most honest of us. Her loss is the one I grieve the most… One that sealed our fate.

time, a resource we have only a finite amount. For the purposes of this story, the most important is Efirtoamus, the beautiful god. Hah! More like the Vain god. He created those-that-sing. What is it now that you call them? Lyre.. Lyra… Lyralis… Oh! Lyraalians! Efirtoamus has always been perfectionist and craves attention. He wanted to create something so beautiful and perfect that the other gods’ creations could never match up. He wanted to shine with his brilliance. He created a people so beautiful and captivating that gods fell in love with them. Not all, but many enough. Because of them the world had to be purged. Because of them I’m here and weak, and my brother in agony in oblivion of our own creation. couldn’t destroy them. Instead in his anger he cursed them. He cursed them to be hideous in appearance and only by singing would they temporarily gain back what the curse took from them. He made them hide so that the other gods couldn’t find them. They hid deep into ancient forests and brushwoods, in damp twisting caves below mountains, and in unknown dark waters. The Lyraalians became enraged. They renounced Efirtoamus and swore to sow destruction whenever, wherever, and however they could. They swore that one day they would finish what they had started. I doubt if they will ever be able to follow through on that promise. due to my brother’s sacrifice, seemed to crumble. Fortunately, no more direct conflicts arose with my imprisonment set in place. They now had someone to play custodian over, a common enemy. That was enough to keep them from tearing the world apart. Physically anyway. They became distrusting of each other. Vying for followers and praises, they set their eyes on each others’ creations. Each trying to steal followers from one another to become stronger and secure their backs. Each trying to justify their own actions while demonizing others. Wars broke out in the mortal realm. Unrest, purges, persecution, crusades. Some peoples were assimilated and became nothing more than a quirk in the greater population. Some were hunted to extinction. My creations, my children, were hunted and killed like some sort of demons while all I could do was watch. As evidenced by you and my zealous child, some managed to escape and hide. the duty. It gives me more freedom, but I am weak. There are no payers to my name, no monuments, holidays, nor wars waged for me. Not many evoke my name and even fewer, barely anyone in fact, with belief. I want to escape. I want justice. I want true peace. Locked up alone gives one time to think. Fortunately, my vengeful spite has been quenched by time. I no longer wish agony and oblivion to the others, but they do deserve a fair punishment. I wish that you, my lost child, would help me with that.