The Origin Age
"We were never meant to remember the Origin Age. Only to suffer from what crawled out of it." -Oldwrit from the Deepvaults of Opulence
Before war had names, before gods had temples, before the first tool drew blood, the world breathed in wild magick and out came monsters, mortals, and myth. The Origin Age is not remembered because it cannot be. It is felt, in instinct, in violence, in the shape of scars left behind by the ones who came first. They were not wise. They were not kind. They were merely first. And first things are rarely gentle.
I. After the Dawn:
Before memory, before kings, before death had a proper name, there was only The Dawn. A moment not of light, but of becoming. The Arcane surged forth, not from a place, but from itself, bleeding into the hollow dark. With it came flame, form, and rhythm. Stars blinked alive, one by one, vast and countless, each exhaling that primal force now known as magick into the growing bones of Gaiatia. From molten stone and storm-wreathed skies, this world breathed. It folded into valleys, cracked into mountains, and birthed oceans from the tremble of its own pulse. Life, not crafted but compelled, began as sparks in slime, creeping things beneath boiling tides. Time passed like thunder, slow at a distance, shattering up close. In those first million years, the germ became the beast, the beast became the being, and all the while, magick poured into the cracks of everything. With it came gods, some spontaneous, others grown from the awe of early minds. But Gaiatia was no stage yet. There were no scripts, no rituals, no history. Only hunger, growth, and violence. II. Folk Without Memory:
The first of the Folk, ancient races now vanished, altered, or revered in myth, were not wise. They were large, often grotesque, unformed things. Their minds, slow-burning lanterns flickering through endless dusk. What instincts they possessed leaned toward survival, cruelty, and sacred dread. Civilization was a rumor spoken by firelight, a time truly of naught but roving barbarians, strength above all. Tribes formed by necessity, not by creed. Clans bound together by bloodline or brute strength carved shallow lives into mountainsides, crater lakes, or tree-burrowed ravines. Without stone walls or language deeper than snarls and gesture, they scratched tools from bone, sang to storms, and murdered what they did not understand. The discovery of magick was not a triumph, it was a terror. A fire that moved without wind. A scream that could shatter bone. Those who stumbled upon it were feared, revered, or dismembered. Even minor spells were acts of madness or divinity, often indistinguishable. Entire tribes worshiped those who could alter weather or speak to spirits, until they were torn apart by their neighbors in blood-slicked jealousy. III. Savage Enlightenment:
Conflict was the only constant. As different fledgling peoples spread across Gaiatia’s harsh wilds, encounters between them rarely ended in peace. What could not be explained was branded heresy; what could not be eaten was enslaved. Races warred over salt lakes, bone totems, or even favorable shadows cast by cliffs. Ritual sacrifice was common, rarely religious, mostly political. Chieftains threw infants into burning trees, believing it tamed storms. Others flayed captives to read futures in twitching skin. Agriculture emerged not from peace but from desperation, when prey grew scarce and shamans starved. Slowly, sharpened sticks gave way to bronze-tipped spears. Fur was stitched not just for warmth but to mark status. Villages became camps became holdings. But even as society formed, the blood never stopped spilling. The hatreds seeded during this age would bloom again during the Lost Ages, echoing across millennia like a curse written in the bones of every race. IV. Legacy of the Forgotten:
The Origin Age left little behind. Stone idols with melted faces. Bones warped by forgotten magicks. Burial pits surrounded by standing stones no one remembers building. Some call this era a myth. Others, those who study within the great libraries of The Scholar's Guild, or sleep in the grave-soaked chapels of The Knights of All-Faith, say the Origin Age was real, and its scars are too deep to heal and too undeniable to ignore. What remains are legends. Of gods that never died. Of beasts that predate time. Of wars fought with sky-born words that split the earth. Perhaps we are their heirs. Perhaps we are only what’s left.
Before memory, before kings, before death had a proper name, there was only The Dawn. A moment not of light, but of becoming. The Arcane surged forth, not from a place, but from itself, bleeding into the hollow dark. With it came flame, form, and rhythm. Stars blinked alive, one by one, vast and countless, each exhaling that primal force now known as magick into the growing bones of Gaiatia. From molten stone and storm-wreathed skies, this world breathed. It folded into valleys, cracked into mountains, and birthed oceans from the tremble of its own pulse. Life, not crafted but compelled, began as sparks in slime, creeping things beneath boiling tides. Time passed like thunder, slow at a distance, shattering up close. In those first million years, the germ became the beast, the beast became the being, and all the while, magick poured into the cracks of everything. With it came gods, some spontaneous, others grown from the awe of early minds. But Gaiatia was no stage yet. There were no scripts, no rituals, no history. Only hunger, growth, and violence. II. Folk Without Memory:
The first of the Folk, ancient races now vanished, altered, or revered in myth, were not wise. They were large, often grotesque, unformed things. Their minds, slow-burning lanterns flickering through endless dusk. What instincts they possessed leaned toward survival, cruelty, and sacred dread. Civilization was a rumor spoken by firelight, a time truly of naught but roving barbarians, strength above all. Tribes formed by necessity, not by creed. Clans bound together by bloodline or brute strength carved shallow lives into mountainsides, crater lakes, or tree-burrowed ravines. Without stone walls or language deeper than snarls and gesture, they scratched tools from bone, sang to storms, and murdered what they did not understand. The discovery of magick was not a triumph, it was a terror. A fire that moved without wind. A scream that could shatter bone. Those who stumbled upon it were feared, revered, or dismembered. Even minor spells were acts of madness or divinity, often indistinguishable. Entire tribes worshiped those who could alter weather or speak to spirits, until they were torn apart by their neighbors in blood-slicked jealousy. III. Savage Enlightenment:
Conflict was the only constant. As different fledgling peoples spread across Gaiatia’s harsh wilds, encounters between them rarely ended in peace. What could not be explained was branded heresy; what could not be eaten was enslaved. Races warred over salt lakes, bone totems, or even favorable shadows cast by cliffs. Ritual sacrifice was common, rarely religious, mostly political. Chieftains threw infants into burning trees, believing it tamed storms. Others flayed captives to read futures in twitching skin. Agriculture emerged not from peace but from desperation, when prey grew scarce and shamans starved. Slowly, sharpened sticks gave way to bronze-tipped spears. Fur was stitched not just for warmth but to mark status. Villages became camps became holdings. But even as society formed, the blood never stopped spilling. The hatreds seeded during this age would bloom again during the Lost Ages, echoing across millennia like a curse written in the bones of every race. IV. Legacy of the Forgotten:
The Origin Age left little behind. Stone idols with melted faces. Bones warped by forgotten magicks. Burial pits surrounded by standing stones no one remembers building. Some call this era a myth. Others, those who study within the great libraries of The Scholar's Guild, or sleep in the grave-soaked chapels of The Knights of All-Faith, say the Origin Age was real, and its scars are too deep to heal and too undeniable to ignore. What remains are legends. Of gods that never died. Of beasts that predate time. Of wars fought with sky-born words that split the earth. Perhaps we are their heirs. Perhaps we are only what’s left.
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