Echoes Before Creation Before men carved their kingdoms into the earth. Before sparks flew from the first stolen flame. Before time dared to march forward and remember itself... There were gods.
Born from necessity, each deity was a shard of the cosmos' fractured emotions—irreplaceable facets of creation itself. Some incarnated kindness, some cruelty; all possessed a power that mortals could only dream of. And yet, for all their might, every one trembled before one immutable truth: Azrael.
Sorra — The Goddess of Silence and Stars In the vast emptiness where light yielded to shadow, Sorra first inhaled the void. She was the hush between dying suns, the pause in the universe's heartbeat. When she opened her eyes—always closed until the cosmos begged her attention—constellations realigned like obedient acolytes.
Mortals gleaned her presence only through dreams: flickers of silver across black velvet, whispers half-remembered upon waking. Yet even gods felt the weight of her gaze. In her absolute stillness lay a power unmatched: the ability to unravel secrets without a single word.
Many believed her aloof. But without Sorra's silent guidance, the fabric of reality would snap under its own noise.
Gaius — The God of Memory and Storms He emerged when the first creature tasted loss. In that instant, sorrow coalesced into tempest, and Gaius was born. Thunderclouds draped around him like a phalanx of grief, lightning crackling with every unspoken lament.
To touch Gaius was to feel the weight of eons: an ancient king's final regret, a mother's terror at her child's disappearance, the collapse of worlds built upon broken promises. He wielded memory as both weapon and shackle—summoning storms that dredged lost histories into the open.
Yet for all his mastery over the past, Gaius remained trapped in his own recollection, searching endlessly for a requiem to silence his guilt.
Lynx — The God of Wild and Secrets Born from the collision of predator and prey, Lynx sprang into form—moonlit fur, shadow-woven limbs, eyes like fractured gemstones. His laughter echoed through forests, fracturing reality with mischievous glee.
He fed on secrets; every hidden thought was sustenance. Empires rose and fell on the whim of his whispers. To cross him was to wander blind in an illusion of your own making.
Madness clung to Lynx like dew, but his madness was crystalline—ordered, precise, deadly. In chaos, he found his perfection.
Akaida — The Goddess of Fire and Rebirth She emerged from the heart of the first wildfire, naked and incandescent—each ember a syllable in an unspoken verse of renewal. Akaida's flame did more than consume; it transformed.
Her followers embraced the ritual called The Becoming: they walked through her blaze to shed former selves. Ash fell like rain, and from its dust rose new purpose. Once Azrael's flame-kin, Akaida now brandished her inferno in righteous revolt, vowing to purge his cruelty with every blaze she ignited.
Nuros — The God-Son of War and Justice He was not born. He was forged.
When Tyr's blade clashed with Mira's shield in a battle that reshaped mountains, their union gave rise to Nuros: a sentinel of divine law and martial prowess. His first cry resonated with the clang of steel, his breath a vow to uphold balance.
Destiny carved itself into his armor—runic glyphs that shimmered with prophecy. Rumors whispered that his blade could sever falsehood, cutting through illusions spun by even the most cunning deity.
Nuros craved neither adoration nor dominion. He stood for perfect equilibrium, a living judgment in an impermanent cosmos.
The Five Vanished Deities They existed. Then they did not.
Three perished under Azrael's merciless descent in Niflheim and Tartarus. Two vanished without a trace. Their names have been devoured by oblivion, their temples melted into nothing beyond faint runes and whispered warnings.
Yet their erasure remains a wound in the divine tapestry, reminding the gods that here, even immortals are not immune.
6.1 Varnok — The God of Frost and Endurance A stoic sentinel in Niflheim, Varnok's resolve was unbreakable—until Azrael's touch. He embodied perseverance, his body sculpted from glacier and starlight, binding the frozen spirits of lost warriors to his will. His fall was a cracking echo that shattered entire realms of ice.
6.2 Elyros & Daeva — Twin Wardens of the Abyss Charged with guarding Tartarus's gates, they were two halves of a single vow: cause and effect, question and answer. Elyros wielded paradox; Daeva commanded silence. When Azrael danced through their prison, their collapse ripped open new rifts in reality.
6.3 Thalysa — The Goddess of Tides and Oaths She held the promise of the sea: ever-shifting, yet inexorable. Sailors prayed to her for safe passage, trusting her tides over any star. Her disappearance left oceans unmoored, currents running wild.
6.4 Corvian — The God of Crows and Curses A deity of omens, Corvian's flock once darkened skies with prophecy. His voice could warp fate, cursing entire lineages. Azrael's justification for erasing him: the end of his jest.
6.5 Vespera — The Goddess of Dusk and Reckoning She ushered the twilight hour, balancing day and night. Her scales weighed the crimes of mortals and gods alike. Without her, dusk fell unevenly, and the line between right and wrong blurred.
Azrael — The Machiavellian Deity He is creation and nothingness, everything and absent. He is time itself—a consciousness unbound by second or aeon. To say he was born is a misnomer; Azrael is.
He exists outside the flow of chronology, yet his will guides its currents. One moment he stands at existence's edge, observing. The next, he strides through realms, folding reality into his own script. His smile births storms; his frown unravels fate.
Azrael performs acts both cruel and merciful, weaving them into a grand tapestry. In Greek tongues, they whisper Μακιαβελικός θεός—the Machiavellian god. In common speech, the Machiavellian Deity.
He manipulates gods, puppeteers kings, toasts the fall of empires. He is patron of both hope and ruin—an author whose pen is dipped in chaos.
Azrael controls. Azrael manipulates. Azrael laughs.
And so, in the hush before mortal dawn, the gods stand arrayed—from silence to storm, from wild to flame, from prophecy to abyss—all awaiting the ripple of a divine gesture.
But the author of their fates has already penned the final line, inked in paradox and bound by cosmic jest.