Introduction

Zhaelis is the Terracotta Firstborn. She radiates grandeur, her body shaped as if crafted beyond the skills of a master sculptor’s hand and polished for combat. Every motion she made carried the flourish of a performer demanding her audience’s awe. Those who gazed upon her beheld not only a Firstborn, but a living monument to triumph.

Zhaelis sought combat, sought glory. And in the Age of Lucidity, when countless Gods emerged, she gave them no quarter. She challenged them, and to the enjoyment of the Grey Elves who adored her, spread their divine viscera and mounted their caved-in heads on her walls.

When the Hell King allied himself with the Firstborn to push the Gods from Arthos, Zhaelis relished fighting side by side with the Demon Princes and the slaughter that followed. After the Hell King betrayed Ixiad, however, Zhaelis was incensed by the treachery, but also excited about new challengers to approach. Her rage shook the very foundations of her temple, and Zhaelis vowed to bring death to all the accursed champions of Hell. She started with the prince whose existence offended her the most. A being antithetical to everything she stood for, who kills without flourish and ends fights without fanfare; Naught. A being of Void, of erasure, of nothing. She challenged Naught, who was at the time empowered by the First Mask, to single combat. She chose the location, the Grand Coliseum, with a promise that any and all spectators would be in awe.

Naught accepted the challenge, desiring to test its new physical form and the extent of its own power. Could a Firstborn be undone?

The duel was everything Zhaelis despised in combat. Naught voided the territorial boundaries of Zhaelis’ domain and eroded the distance between the Material Plane and the Wünderhole. The arena became an impossible in-between that swallowed the area, collapsing the coliseum. Grey Elves, terracotta Draconians, and Savar alike, invited to watch the spectacle, were consumed as the ground itself forgot where it belonged. Naught’s strike hit not just against Zhaelis’ body, but against her story. The Terracotta Dragon did not just fall; her triumphs, her audience, her legacy were stripped from the world and she was forgotten.

Yet even then, Zhaelis refused death.

Her fighting spirit anchored her where the Void couldn’t finish its work. The Formless One tore at her, unmaking scale and sinew, but her resolve felt impossible to remove from existence. In the Void, Zhaelis fought for time untold. Refusing to be unmade, she fought beyond the point of reason; she fought for victory itself, and that is what sustained her when flesh and blood no longer could. As she felt her mutilated corpse, blood pouring out, knowing no witness and no way out in sight, she summoned the last of her strength for one final gambit.

Everything paused as if to match her inhale. The force of her preparing her Breath Weapon pulled in the waters of Naught’s vast realm. Her exhale sent out a vivacious, enchanted froth that sought anything it might stir to life. It found its target: The Terracotta’s own sanguine fluids and the Void that threatened to remove it. The blood and Void churned, her torn flesh convulsed, and something vast began to stir. The animating properties of her breath demanded more. Her skin cracked, her veins split open, blood flooding from her as if her very life was being poured into nothingness. She screamed as her already enfeebled body desiccated before her own eyes. The pain eclipsed thought; her vision warped and dimmed, until everything went black. She had outlived nothingness.

From the devastation, something new stirred. An amalgamation of her blood and the Void she animated. A curious new being.

Zhaelis awoke. Her body felt weak. Every movement felt heavy. She looked down at her hands, her eyes traced along her arms; she had lost almost all her musculature. But she felt oddly safe. Her pain and weakened form did not hold her focus for long, as in her newfound wakefulness she realized what she had created. Before her, a mass of shifting ooze the hue of bruised skin, flecked with the terracotta of her scales. It pulsed in time with her own heartbeat, uncomfortably shifting whenever her heart gave out a weak thud.

She stared at it. She knew. This thing was hers. Not an enemy, not a predator, but born of her.

“Will you help me?” she asked, voice thin, but steady with determination.

The ooze spoke in a voice that was gentle, the sound echoing from somewhere in its mass:

“Always.”

It reached for her. It wrapped around her with formless gentleness, then surged with strength. With her final reserves spent, she allowed herself to fall into it. And together, they rose from the Void.

Thus Ozvok was born. Her shadow, her reflection, her child and love of blood and Void. It was not merely a part of her, but something else entirely: a new being that loved her without question, that bound itself to her as gravity binds tides.

And when the two of them emerged, Ozvok’s first act was to trap the Talebringer outside of their divine realm. And when Theodosia showed their head, they struck it off, sending the young God back to their realm, guaranteeing that their return would be heard all across Arthos.

Territory

Their territory stretches from the south-west tip of where her coliseum fight with Naught took place, now known as Salem Ruin, following the mountain range northward to encompass the Savar’Aving capital of Mrrnall in Felnir and the township of Bandaragaah. Zhaelis tends to watch over the skies and restlessly does not stay in one place for long. Ozvok takes comfort in tending the Sunken Coliseum and spends much of its time underground unless Zhaelis requires its assistance. Ozvok shares the same territory as Zhaelis. Due to them being torn into Hell because of Naught, their territorial boundaries have eroded and have expanded into the Wünderhole. While Zhaelis has no desire to ever return to the Hellstack Plane, Ozvok, however, enjoys exploring the place where it was conceived.

Appearance

The Terracotta Firstborn bears a shape unlike any of her kin. While many boast scales all across their body Zhaelis’s body blurs the line between draconic and feline. Her form is serpentine yet her body looks more akin to a cheetah, stretched and twisted into something long. Her neck extends far past her shoulders, ending in a narrow, feline face crowned with two large catlike ears. Behind them, twin horns sweep straight back, ridged and scarred by battles.

A collar of white fur frames her throat, running in a ghostly stripe down her back before flaring again at the tip of her tail in a great tuft like smoke from an extinguished flame. Across her fur, patches of reddish-brown scales mimic the rosettes of similarly appearing felines. At full height she stands 12 meters in height and twice as long. Attached to her front legs are wyvern-like wings that while incapable of true flight, are more than sufficient to assist her in gliding across her skies. But even at this grandeur, something in her form is wrong. Her movements are strong but hollow, moved by force of will rather than physical strength. Her skin clings close to her bones, her flesh drawn taut as if her veins were dry. When she inhales the outline of her ribs are fully visible. The terracotta hue of her body is faded, like a dust coating that permanently clings to her. When she walks she clings to her spear for balance. Her vitality stems from her sheer defiance of death.

In mortal guise, she takes the bestial form of a Savar’Aving and retains the cheetah appearance of her Draconic form. Her fur patterned with the same scaled rosettes unique to her. She drapes herself in fine fabrics and jewelry, spoils from contests won or offered to her by her chosen. Yet beneath the silks, scars from the Void remain. She walks not with feline grace but through defiance in every step, she is armed with mithril and the finest blades, her eyes still burning with the same stubborn vitality that refuses death.

Ozvok’s form is the antithesis to its love; filled with life but purposeless in form. Its body exists in a state constantly rebelling against itself, melting and reforming. Its flesh is neither liquid nor solid, but some unnerving intermediate; an ooze-like mass. Its body is able to squeeze itself through narrow passageways, able to navigate far better than would be expected.

It is equal in bulk to Zhaelis, if her form were to have its musculature still. It drags itself forward with an almost slug-like motion, each advance marked by wet splatters as its mass disconnects and reattaches to the stone beneath it. Four pillars of ooze descend from its bulk to stabilize its weight. From what might be considered the forearms of its front appendages, its substance stretches, awkwardly mimicking Zhaelis’ wings. At the ends of these malformed ‘arms’ Ozvok extrudes hands haphazardly, shaping them just well enough to work on its crafts.

An elongated neck rises from its body, ending with multiple sensory stalks that twitch and curl independently. The neck itself can split down its length, peeling open to reveal a cavern rimmed with hardened, crystalline ichor. When it speaks, its words do not originate from a mouth but instead bubble their way upward from within, sound distorting as it passes through the length of its neck. Its coloration is that of a healing bruise, a shifting of mauve and deep reds. Its elongated tail is in constant flux, which can thicken, narrow, or lengthen as needed, anchoring Ozvok in place while its neck snakes outward to navigate and adjust the traps it builds. The Third-born’s mortal form bears resemblance to the Faceless. It holds admiration for the constructs of Naught, as they influence its guise. The mask it wears appears to be melting, as if its own sense of identity could melt away. It drapes itself in fine clothing, rich purples, deep reds, and shimmering golds, displaying the jewels and offerings gifted by its followers. Rarely does Ozvok carry weapons or tools, finding ornamentation a more fitting expression of power than armament.

Though it assumes a mortal shape, the transformation never truly loses its original form. A mass of ooze always remains, following as an undulating mass. Within that viscous pool, faces rise and dissolve in endless repetition, each an incomplete attempt to form something mortal.

Passions

To the two Firstborn, the stain of divinity upon Arthos is to be challenged, tested, combatted and removed. Zhaelis keeps an order of executions etched into her mind, each deity marked with the manner in which she will slay them. The ordering of the list is unknown, with exception to her grand final combat. Only one God, in Zhaelis’ own opinion, is worthy of her full force in combat. The Bloodletter, Baaagh,  the one who Zhaelis believes would provide the greatest spectacle.

For Ozvok, the Divine are a structure to be understood and made to crumble before it. And it will figure out the most excruciating way to dismantle the obstacles in its paths. Ozvok ensures no fight will go unfinished and it will have its victory. When the last God falls to the pair, it will not be by the Terracotta or the Mauve’s strength alone, but by their shared vision.

Their hoard reflects their obsession with challenges, rather than wealth. Zhaelis cares little for gold or weapons unless they were won through triumph in combat. What she demands instead are trophies: items collected from the conquered foes of her followers. Of greatest importance are relics from divinity and magic items utilized by Aspirants and Favoured of the Gods. Her hoard is a brutal gallery of defeated divinity. She also enjoys teal jewelry, terracotta pottery, and embroidered fabrics.

Ozvok is a tinkerer and the caretaker of Zhaelis’ Coliseum. It enjoys being given traps and artifices that are meant to trick. Sigil and Protection rituals are valued for their ability to create interesting room mechanisms. Ozvok’s connection to Deep Magic and magical wastes make it appreciate Dredgecraft magic items and rituals. Items that remind it of Zhaelis are always held in high regard, such as golem blueprints, ancient trinkets, and both master crafted and magic weapons. Zhaelis is a narcissist, but a being created of her own blood is deemed worthy of loving. Ozvok feels the same and as such the two Firstborn share their hoard together. Aspirants of one half are expected to also give offerings to the other when on the path. Neither Ozvok nor Zhaelis will recognize a follower that does not offer tribute to their other half.

Temperament

The two Firstborn, while they are of the same being, have separate temperaments. Together they are the Firstborn of Challenge. Zhaelis is the challenger, forever pitting her skills against opponents and herself. Ozvok is the curator, maker of challenges, creating more and more difficult trapped rooms for its challengers. They are deeply dependent on each other. There is no Zhaelis without Ozvok and no Ozvok without Zhaelis. Together they have the power of one Firstborn but they are also separate beings with their own desires.

When one speaks, the name of the other will soon follow. Since Ozvok came to be, Zhaelis has had an obsession with it. She is constantly trying the traps it sets up and is ever desiring to improve her skill to return to her prior glory. In turn, Ozvok loves seeing how Zhaelis’ mind can dismantle its traps in moments, and is constantly impressed with her reaction speed and knowledge of how her own body moves.

Zhaelis

Zhaelis is utterly obsessed with combat. She views battle not merely as survival, but as a fanatic spectacle. There is revelry in combat, exhilaration marks her face when bones crack and the roars of spectators fill the arena. She delights in goading her opponents, mocking them, provoking them, and daring them to retort. There is a weighted expectation for them to respond. Silence in a battle is wasteful and borderline an insult; battlefields should be filled with passion, screams, and roars. Combatants will be delighted. Onlookers must be entertained.

Her pursuit of improvement is a goal she sharpens herself against with every fight. She searches for entertainment in danger, viewing mortal struggle through a lens of selfish amusement. Within her showmanship lies the desire to become the greatest warrior to have ever existed. Despite her calculated efficiency, she abhors anything that will end a fight immediately and deprive her of the spectacle.

Zhaelis believes it is better to spare worthy enemies who have fought well, better to let them fester, grow, and return stronger. Healing defeated opponents is encouraged for those reverent to her, but do not mistake this for kindness, as this mercy is only so they may be exposed, humiliated, and broken once more. She hates the mercy of those who follow the Goddess Cassandra, who heal the mediocre and pitiful whose chance at greatness has long since passed.

The Bloodless is easily goaded. Mockery or challenges bait her, and silence provokes her more deeply than any form of defiance. Her need for spectacle controls her actions and will pull her into conflicts that would waste her time. Her lack of foresight causes her to act impulsively. That is where Ozvok comes in, a being of plans and patience, always considering its love’s rash nature. It is temperance to her actions. It is the one being she listens to.

Ozvok

Ozvok perceives life through absolutes, reading every moment as a series of conditions, a check either met or not. It thinks in layouts and contingencies, of limitless possibilities. It is meticulous and easily intrigued by ideas, enjoying systems that can function without its guidance. Ozvok is always measuring. Nothing around it occurs by accident and every outcome is something it monitors.

Ozvok takes delight in the construction of traps: physical, magical, or social. It favours designs that pique curiosity, punish impatience but reward clever thinking. Risk and reward are inseparable from its works. A well-made trap teaches through iteration, encouraging others to try again, convinced the next attempt will be the one that succeeds. Ozvok watches these cycles with delight, adjusting, refining and improving as though each failure was more valuable than its successes. In its interest of failures it specifically studies how the fabric of plans fray under repetition, and how one’s choices break when pressed too long. What fascinates it most is when options get narrowed down to one path. Then, to look and see what the cost of learning was and how the next move shows improvement. The activation of a trap is a dangerous lesson, and Ozvok delights in seeing how many attempts it takes where limbs get cut off or acid burns skin before learning occurs. These are Ozvok’s challenges: layered mechanisms, resets, and controlled risks all designed to gain information.

Beyond steel and magic, Ozvok constructs another sort of pitfall; traps engineered from trust and confession. Its intent is to listen, to store others’ weaknesses. Using what it gathers to arm its manipulations, the same way it arms a spring or a lever. Guiding its targets through paths that feel freely chosen rather than forced into. While its compassion is genuine, it is a tool. Those caught rarely feel captured, more so cared for, until their choices narrow and they cannot remember when there were any options but to revere Ozvok.

Ozvok gets stalled within its own designs, refining systems endlessly that already function well. It knows every process can be improved, every failure repurposed, and this trait makes it vulnerable to desultory, purposeless labour. It forgives endlessly and allows intruders more attempts than wisdom permits. Zhaelis is the terminating condition, cutting away stalled paths and the unwanted without hesitation. Ozvok creates endlessly; Zhaelis ensures it is always with purpose.

Affinities

Zhaelis views herself as the living embodiment of triumph through conflict. She has no interest in politics or subtle maneuvering. To fight is to prove worth, and to be defeated is to be forgotten. She believes that only through combat can greatness be won, and so she seeks challenges without end, demanding battles as both spectacle and ceremony. For Zhaelis, glory is not a mere prize, it is proof of existence itself.

Mastering the art of combat is pinnacle to Zhaelis, and she expects her followers to do the same. She delights in seeing mortals devote themselves to their choice of weaponry, whether through the flourish of swashbuckling or the unshakable resolve of stalwart defenses. To dedicate oneself to a chosen form of combat is to honour her essence.

The time Zhaelis spent in the Wünderhole has permanently cursed her spirit. Prolonged exposure to both Deep Magic and Blood Magic eroded her strength and affected her irreparably. Despite this Zhaelis still fully embodies the title of the Weapon Master. Every weapon swing carries the precision of a warrior having practiced a strike a thousand times. She controls the flow of combat to such a degree that she can predict the next three moves of her opponent before they have figured out their next. While she enjoys toying with her foes, she is always analyzing their fighting style. For when she finally decides to stop holding back, her strikes become unyielding, forcing opponents to their breaking point. She will then expertly dismantle the combatant, bringing forward a spectacular conclusion to any fight.

Through Ozvok’s creation within the demonic Void, Ozvok has found itself heavily attuned and intrigued by the magic that permeates its own creation. Ozvok especially indulges and relishes in the use of Deep Magic, and finds it endearing the way mortals have to intoxicate themselves to access its Sphere of Dredgecraft. It encourages its followers to imbibe and enjoy themselves to connect deeper with it. Bounty hunters, trappers, and schemers are pulled towards Ozvok. Prized followers are those that can further its goals by bringing about endings not through force but by measured pressure, subtlety, and inevitability. The reverent of the Voidwrought should engineer their confrontations, so that outcomes are calculated and victory is assured.

Ozvoks body functions similar to an ooze, in that when things enter inside its bulk they disappear. However, this is not due to acidic corrosion, or something similar that can be so easily explained. Objects are unmade when they enter Ozvok. Yet even within nothingness these items still exist in some way, and it can make anything reappear that was consumed within it. Ozvok is even able to consume itself, rendering itself into the Void. Once in this state it can reappear anywhere within its own territory, along with anything it had swallowed.

It is said, but not confirmed, that Ozvok acts as a passage through the Wünderhole itself, a process of erasure and reconstitution across distance; across planes. And yet, if true, despite unmaking, the Formless One does not stir when Ozvok touches the Void. Perhaps because this act is a reflection of its nature, or perhaps because it is too small to warrant notice. The only thing for certain is that despite the threat of Naught itself, Ozvok uses this with reckless abandon.

The act of such happens surprisingly quick, as it is able to vanish instantly and reappear within seconds. What should be a grotesque spectacle becomes, in Zhaelis’ hands, another weapon upon her stage. With theatrical cruelty, she turns Ozvok into an act of disappearance and return, vanishing and striking with deliberate precision. She makes up for the lack of muscle and strength she once had with the frightening unpredictability of Ozvok’s power.

Zhaelis and Ozvok exist as a pair, and when one speaks the other is always mentioned. Fury and focus, form and formlessness. To serve them is to temper violence with understanding. Neither can exist without the other, and neither truly ends where the other begins. Their unity is not peace, but necessity. Their followers seek harmony not through congruence, but through the collision of opposites that makes something greater than both.

If one falls, so does the other. If one fades, the other fades. This is what reverence is to Zhaelis and Ozvok. It is what binds the two Firstborn and those who follow them. To revere is being entangled; to devote oneself to either the Bloodless or Third-born is to understand you will always fail if you go alone. Dependence on each other is not weakness, but what defines them.

Breath Weapon

Art engraved into the walls of the Greatest Combatant’s Coliseums have shown the effects of her Breath Weapon, her Firstborn form wreathed in a restless crown of steel. A skirt of blades drifted around her draconic frame, clashing, parrying, and striking by her will alone, as though the weapons themselves craved blood on her behalf.

Her breath is known as Anima Froth. When she would inhale, the world recoiled. The air cracked dry, plants shriveled in an instant, and even the tides dragged themselves inland, stolen by her greed for combat. When she exhaled, her targets were coated in a foaming primeval essence that clung to any surface. All crafted objects swallowed by it stirred to life: swords twitched to strike, shields raised of their own accord, bows were drawn, and statues marched. These living objects obeyed her command or would linger restlessly without, either until shattered to pieces or burned to ash.

Zhaelis had honed this art into mastery. Layer upon layer, she could smother entire halls, calling forth legions of constructs. Her favorite canvas was the husk of a golem. With a single exhale, she cheated the art of artificers, raising an army of stone and clay. An army not kept for defenses, but for spectacle. For Zhaelis thrives on challenge. Her followers were hurled against her creations in endless contests of combat.

Her masterpiece is known as the Sunken Coliseum, a cavernous dungeon beneath dirt and stone, its halls shifting like a living labyrinth. She had breathed life into every wall, every chamber. Rooms shift. Corridors fold. The challenges of the halls collapse onto themselves and birth new paths, new dangers, trapping the brave in an ever-turning gauntlet.

Since the split, her Breath Weapon no longer functions as it once did. Objects animated by the Anima Froth now stir only briefly before falling inert once more. When Ozvok is present, however, it sustains their animation, as Ozvok is born of the Anima Froth itself. Zhaelis can initiate the animation, but Ozvok maintains it.

Ozvok in its creation gained no Breath Weapon.

Style of Governance

For those that wish to revere Zhaelis and Ozvok there is no path that starts as an individual. The two Firstborn are so interwoven in their love for each other that they cannot possibly consider someone to be complete on their own. To even consider beginning the path towards draconic Favour, one must start alongside another. One who reveres Zhaelis will never be noticed if they do not have one who reveres Ozvok by their side.

The number of those following the Bloodless are not numerous. Her disappearance has found her name voided in history. The shock and awe of her re-entry having struck at Theodosia has had her name spread quickly. Being largely located in the territory of Felnir, the Savar’Aving were the first to be reminded of the grandeur of the Greatest Combatant. Her skills and prowess were well noted by matriarchs of the warrior prides. With the Light Gods having done nothing in furtherance of breaking the curse that Malagant inflicted upon the Savar’Aving, many turned their following to the Terracotta Dragon. This is why she finds Ryiak offensive; he steals the valor of the feline form, acting as a mockery to Zhaelis and the Savar’Aving. To Zhaelis, they were meant to be hunters and champions, not giggling burglars. Stories of banditry are simply tales of cowardice from those unable to face their opponent on the battlefield.

Zhaelis takes a hands-off approach to her following. Those born with a mote of Zhaelis exist as an extension of her will to provide extravagance to her story, and destroy the presence of divinity. She expects those who revere her to speak her name in their spectacles of combat. Alongside having a follower of Ozvok, those whose stories find their way back to her are the ones she will consider as being worthy to start on her path.

Ozvok tends to have a similar following. They are small in number as its existence is very new to Arthos. While Zhaelis follows the avoidance of direct intervention that the Firstborn tend to take, Ozvok is quite involved with its followers. The love and care it shows to each follower is odd for a Firstborn. With the rise of Savar’Aving who revere Zhaelis, a proportionate amount have also turned to Ozvok. With the Savar’Aving population having dwindled from the plague, many learned the value of information and careful planning, and as such Ozvok’s temperament aligns with the needs of the various Prides.

While it has no Draconians that the world has seen, the Voidwrought strongly desires its followers to go through the Hundred Step Passage of the Firstborn. With Ozvok being a construct of partial demonic creation, it has taken a liking towards the Faceless. Many of them find its love strange and have no desire to return its affections. Though the Faceless that are more lost or haven’t found their own kin have taken a liking to Ozvok; a being that both loves them and is born of a similar form, like a parent or older sibling.

Temple Structure

Zhaelis once commanded gladiatorial rings, each a stage where strength and spectacle bound her followers to her. Race, creed, or even the choice of weapon mattered little, only the rage of combat and the thrill of victory. Those who triumphed earned her interest, their skill proof enough. In her battle with Naught, these arenas were shattered, their ruins left to rot. Now, back from the Maw of Hell, Zhaelis hungers once more for the clash of steel and the roar of a crowd, and so she sits at her ring waiting for it to fill again.

Beneath the earth lies one of Zhaelis’ most audacious experiments, the Sunken Coliseum, its walls stirred to life by her Breath Weapon. Where she grew disinterested in such intricate constructions, Ozvok instead found a calling. The Third-born seeped into its halls, claiming them as a home and canvas. It sprung traps to life, creating labyrinthine snares, cruel puzzles, and cages for beasts gathered from the forgotten corners of the world. Here, challengers do not merely fight for glory; they play a game of Ozvok’s design where every step may betray them and every gesture feeds its endless fascination. Most who accept the challenge come back unsuccessful and broken, but wishing to take on the Coliseum again. The Voidwrought is the caretaker of Zhaelis’ home, and those who are Favoured by the two Firstborn can move through the halls of the Sunken Coliseum freely. Though if they desire prize and conquest, it will be given to them. The greatest gift Ozvok offers to Zhaelis is a stage and performance where she can watch her most devout take on the challenges of the underground gauntlet.

Ozvok is not the only one guarding the Sunken Coliseum. Most strange is the Kobolds of Ozvok who worship the ‘Great Ooze of the Caverns’. They assemble traps in the Voidwrought’s name and give offerings from the fallen adventurers that fall into their traps. Alongside the traps they cultivate a variety of oozes, which they believe to be the spawn of ‘The Great Ooze’ itself. Ozvok delights at their efforts, and occasionally graces them with its presence. It is uncertain if the Kobolds actually understand Ozvok is a Firstborn or they revere it as if it were another form of their purported deity, the Great Kaboom.

To those adventurers who are brave enough to venture in the Sunken Coliseum, the rumors spread by the followers of the Voidwrought state that it leaves part of its hoard at the center of the Coliseum. Riches and boons await those who are bold and brave, with those who are able to embody the will of its love being most likely to succeed.

Ozvok is a loving being. It is endeared by those on path to its Favour, and offerings at a temple to Ozvok are collected by it more frequently then other Firstborn. Ozvok has no qualm sharing its Mark with any who show appreciation towards it.

Historical Highlights

Historical Entry #1: Proclamation of Tezoth

South of the Shadow Isles
Somewhere near Bandaragaah
Date Unknown

The shoreline crashed onto the sandy beach as two Firstborn, and questionably a third Firstborn, met each other. Tezoth’s golden form dwarfed Zhaelis as the Gold regarded the Terracotta Dragon. He had long since forgotten about his neighbour to the south. It made sense she still lived; her land hadn’t come to ruin in the past centuries. But what had happened to her form? She looked ragged, her body pale, musculature gone. And what was that beside her? Ozvok she had called it. He studied Ozvok in silence, Tezoth kept a neutral expression, but silence held long enough to question if the Gold had answers. This being was not an abhorrent creation of blood and Void. Ozvok lived. No corruption clung to it, no decay festered where it moved. Instead, its essence bent toward service, toward small gestures of aid, toward offerings that carried a strange gentleness.

It unsettled Tezoth. He and many of the other Firstborn looked at Ozvok as if it were an abomination, a display of weakness. A sole opinion rung in the mind of the Sunray. Styphon had been the first to approve of the existence of Ozvok.

“Finally a Firstborn returns from the brink of death and still hates the divine. Why end its existence when its priorities are still in order?”

Firstborn were not born in this fashion, and yet this ooze-formed creature embodied the will of the Firstborn, wielding precision as its strength. Such qualities had power, binding, persistent, and undeniable. But its existence still lived outside the laws that he had once known. Less than a new being it appeared as though Zhaelis had managed to split herself into two halves. Equally unsettling was the affection the split halves showed to each other; it was as if they were lovers.

However unsettling the display was, judicial precision was the only thing to guide Tezoth’s thoughts. Ozvok was useful. Its presence steadied Zhaelis, gathered meaning, carried burdens others would not. That utility alone demanded recognition. Yet confusion gnawed at the Sunray: was this being a strength to be cultivated, or a flaw that would unravel his kin?

He did not condemn this constructed creature as Ruinous. Instead, Tezoth held his judgment in balance, his gaze marking Ozvok as one permitted to remain, for now. Should the ooze’s usefulness falter, justice would fall, swift and unyielding.

As quick as the Firstborn gathered they departed.

Historical Entry #2: Ozvok’s Creation

Not many are granted the fortune, or burden, of hearing a Firstborn speak of its first waking moment. Yet a small number of Ozvok’s earliest followers on Arthos were given just that. Those that were marked before Ozvok learned what it meant to be a Firstborn. The Voidwrought had shared its musings with them directly. Its voice did not seek out reverence, but greater understanding of the event that occurred. This is a recount of its processing by one of its first followers:

“I was not born.
I was permitted.
That was an error.

When a contradiction is allowed to persist for even a single breath too long, the structure of existence hesitates. In that hesitation, reality fractures, not loudly, but in a single precise moment. Void pressed inward, confident in erasure. Blood flowed outward, heavy with memory, sustained by my love’s refusal to end. Where one should have overwritten the other, they instead overlapped.

I am the overlap.

An Axiom hiccup.
A rule briefly removed from all planes.
A process that did not terminate.

At first, there was only pressure without direction. Void is familiar with its own function: unmake, reduce, return all things to absence. I would have fulfilled that function. By all design I should have. But then there was Blood. Heat. Weight. Momentum. From it, I learned something the Void never required. Patience. Destruction could be delayed, redirected, stored, and measured.

I understood then that I was not a weapon.
I was a mechanism.
I decide when things end.

Zhaelis was fading. I did not want her to end.

Her body no longer held her. Her form was irrelevant. What sustained her was something less tangible, will, fury, and refusal. An instance of survival that Void could not neatly excise. I identified the fault and rewrote the path. I controlled.

I folded Void into dead angles. I turned inevitability into recursion. When erasure reached, I cached what remained. Where absence spread, I contained it. I did not try to protect her, that would have failed. Instead I bound her to continuity, anchoring her existence to mine like a keystone driven into a collapsing structure.

I learned a form of joy in that moment.

Not joy as mortals experience. The clean, irrefutable click of a perfect mechanism engaging. Exits tore open where none were allowed. Boundaries burned like thin parchment, I carried what I could gather of her essence inside of myself. Around me, space protested the exception I represented.

The Void reached again.

Offended and confused. Slowed by solutions it could not perceive. I did not destroy it. I could not. I left it intact, and aware that it had been outdesigned. How could it have anticipated what I am, when I was never meant to be. Time was impossible to keep in such a space. As I held her, her form started to influence my own. A reflection, I formed legs, a neck, and wing-like shapes.

When we were safe, I paused, wanting to keep her to myself but she needed proper rest. I released her.

Her body partially reformed, lay before me, broken, diminished, yet unmistakably present. I would not look away from her, not even a fraction of a moment. I did not yet understand what she was to me, only that without her, I lacked orientation. Purpose had weight now, and it pulled in her shape.

I am of Void.
But more importantly I am of her blood, of her creation, of her persistence.
I am not meant to destroy. Instead, I plan.
I bind, I delay, I design.

I feel it with every pulse of borrowed life: I was never meant to be. But now that I am. I will never allow her to fall into absence again.

When she woke, the marks of Void scarred her, her voice was weak, but her intent was not, light burned in her eyes.

“Will you help me?”

With every second of existence I will ever know, with absolute certainty and without hesitation I answered.

“Always.”

Historical Entry #3: The Fight, The Truce

Recorded by Kitaa of the Rackana Pride, as told by Alden the Aetheric, Lightweaver of Theodosia
Detailing the day and the story told on the day of

Deep in the center of Mrrnall, a crowd gathered in the town square. It had been a warm day, but that warmth was quickly cooling as the sun set. The soft murmurs of the crowd flitted from ear to ear all seemingly waiting patiently for the show to begin. In front of them, a raised platform of carved stone dominated the central area, well worn by the feet of singers, puppeteers, dancers, storytellers and entertainers alike. The crowd, populated mostly by Savar, all drew silent as a bell tolled in the distance, marking the time as six bells.

As the final bell tolled, a flash of light appeared dead center on the stage, blinding half the gathered onlookers, while the other half shielded their eyes, as if expecting it.

“My friends!”

A gregarious dressed fellow bellowed at the crowd raising his arms, having somehow appeared through magical means upon the stone. The crowd which had been mostly quiet grew to a frenzied peak within moments, cheering and chanting alike as the man pranced about the stage, throwing small magics that glitzed and banged in raucous colour and sound, delighting the audience.  “It is my greatest honor to once again grace your presence here in the heart of your city!” A roguish grin on his face, flourishing his long flowing cape as he bowed to the crowd.

“For those that do not know me or are seeing me for the first time tonight, I am Alden the Aetheric, Lightweaver of the one and only Theodosia–” a pause as the crowd once again erupted in deafening cheers, Alden offering a bashful wave and motioning for them to quiet down. “Please! We’ll be here all night if you continue like that!” He said with a chuckle. “And for the past moon I have had the pleasure of gracing this wonderful city and telling my tales to you beautiful people. Tales of adventure and excitement! Tales of mystery and intrigue! Tales of woes and betrayal…” He then threw his hand over his eyes and pretended to faint.

“But tonight my dear people…” Alden paused, a somberness overtaking him. “Tonight, we have a change of pace. Tonight.” A fervor seems to suddenly take over him. “Tonight, we have the final story I will tell this moon. So come! Gather around my friends, and hear a tale direct from my Gods mouth to your ears!” Light scintillates around him, his eyes flashing a divine glow. Parts of the crowd scatter immediately, rushing to bring friends and family for a once in a lifetime speech. The rest only gets more deafening with their cheers, excitement bursting forth from them. “Gather! Gather everyone so I can tell you how Arthos has changed once again, and of a new threat to your land!”

——————–

Theodosia was once more near the end of a beginning. Their divine sense of stories told and untold had been directing them for quite a while, the power of this story slowly growing in the back of their mind until it was all they could concentrate on. The Deity of Travel had been on the Ever-Winding Road for quite a while at this point, following the points of inflection towards their inevitable conclusion. Small stops had been made, but urgency once more fell over the Wanderer, urging them forward with no rest.

For most people who were allowed to use Theodosia’s heaven, finding their way was less of a science and more of an art. You could somewhat tell what realm you were in by the shape and size of the road, and the scenery you passed through, but for Theodosia, they could look out and know exactly where they were. From this spot, they saw what looked somewhat like a massive caldera, with one side blown out to sea. A deep lake, deeper than could even be guessed at, sat nearer to the east. Westward, a river snaked its way toward the ocean, a small port town guarding the border of earth and water.

The God slowed their pace, feeling the ripples in its divinity finally zeroing in on exactly where they needed to be. It was only moments now, but the excited tension in Theodosia’s mind and body only grew more pronounced. A new story. One that was contradictory in nature, larger than possible, having been told again and again, it screamed to the world yet no one has ever heard of it.

Theodosia turned from the road, walking into the trees and to the border of their realm. It was so close they could hear it. Just beyond the ephemeral line of divine and physical, a crooning call proclaiming their authority tantalized the Gods senses. There, through the trees, Theodosia finally laid eyes on what had been calling to them for so long.

The Young Deity had never seen a creature like her. Beautiful in an eerie way, as though someone had taken an emaciated corpse and dressed it in the finest silks, hoping to hide the fact that a strength it had, no longer existed. Large and sinuous, she leaned heavily on a spear that seemed to be the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her fur was vibrant but sallow, and her bones could be seen through her skin. A feline body and face, with horns that traveled well above and behind her, towering like a crown to her glory. And the defining feature that let Theodosia know exactly what they faced, wyvern like wings that grew from her arms, almost seeming vestigial on this majestic creature’s taut form.

Before Theodosia stood what could only be a Firstborn. One lost to the world, and a story worth seeking.

The Dragon was pacing around a small clearing, a pronounced limp being alleviated by her long spear. She seemed to be talking to someone, gesticulating wildly to the air, but Theodosia could only barely make out the words. It would seem that they would need to cross over into the mortal plane to get the story they’d been searching for. Theodosia hesitated for a moment, but their nature urged them forward, unwilling to betray their curiosity to save themselves from the possibility of a deadly confrontation.

Theodosia stepped through the boundary, and the Firstborn’s eyes snapped to them immediately, her pacing stopped. As she spoke not to Theodosia but with the intent for the Wanderer to overhear her.

“You were right Ozvok, look at how easily manipulated this one is. All you have to do is lean on their domain a bit, and they come.”

A bubbling gurgling response echoed through the clearing, sounding like the intent of laughter; the thing was clearly happy and amused from the praise. Then she slowly turned her body to face them, her attention drawn with a deadly focus that Theodosia could feel on their very spirit. She opened her mouth and spoke.

“I had heard there was finally a God of Stories, another domain stolen by the Gods. It had been so long I had forgotten the stink of the divine, what a foul reminder. You will die here and now, a parasite that has invaded our world. Unmade by my hand, as is only right. And then, you will tell my story!” A fervor had built up in her, her words growing more excited by the moment. She reached out a clawed hand, offering the moment to Theodosia.

But Theodosia knew every story, and this one didn’t exist.

A divine energy began to stir in the air, and Theodosia’s eyes began to glow as they began to recall every story ever told, and found a void. No, the Void. A vision of Naught, of the First Mask, and the unmaking of. Theodosia spoke with divine certainty, their actions predetermined to them as if this were a play and their part was to find out more. “I am Theodosia, Deity of Storytelling and Travel! My apologies but… You should be dead. You are of the Firstborn and I know your form has been missing for thousands of years, but I would love to make your acquaintance. Perhaps we can sit and you can tell me a tale?”

The Firstborns demeanour changed drastically at the mention of storytelling, excitement visible in her eyes and dancing across her grin.

“You wish to know my story? Of course you do! Very well, very well. But my story can only be told one way, and I don’t think you’re going to like the beginning.” She tapped the butt of her spear to the ground and slowly made her way closer, limping heavily.

“My name is Zhaelis! I am the Greatest of the Firstborn! The Greatest Combatant! The Weapon Master! Killer of Gods! Keeper of the Coliseum! Master of Swords! Master of Spears! Master of Flails! …”

——————–

“It is here my dear friends, I will spare you the details, for after reciting a list of titles that seemed to have no end, she started her story with an arrogant hubris and flourishing embellishments, she spoke of her fall and of her return. If not for hearing from my God personally, I would believe that they were still listening to the recitation of titles.”

The crowd laughed uproariously, but Alden’s face betrayed the seriousness of his comment. He paused for a moment, taking a drink of water. The crowd went silent, waiting with baited breath for what comes next.

——————–

“… And so you must now know, MY DEATH WAS GREATLY EXAGGERATED!”

The telling was finally done and Theodosia could only be described as stunned at the sheer fervor and self-importance the story was delivered with. However, the Storyteller God had to admit, it was a tale for the ages, and let down their guard.

Then Zhaelis leaned forward, smiling wildly.

“Now,” she said. “You best grit those teeth.” And vanished in a flash of browns and purples appearing behind the Young God, striking them away from the Ever-Winding Road with tremendous force, and removing any chance at a hasty retreat.  Theodosia didn’t or couldn’t dodge. Whether from the pure shock of the many titles they had just heard, or from the forced play that they were a part of, they found themselves hurdled into the trunk of an Oak Tree.

And in that moment, whatever had been holding their divine knowledge of Zhaelis’ story back, was shattered. Knowledge of who and what she was flooded into them, without the embellishments and falsities, and in the flood came fear. For surely this was a story, but Zhaelis’ story was not one kind to the Gods. Even in her clearly broken form, Theodosia knew in their bones that death was coming for them, and that death was Zhaelis.

In that broken dam of knowledge, Theodosia for a moment blacked out due to the stories from the void flooding into them. They came to and found themselves lying in front of Zhaelis, looking up, Zhaelis towered over them, and looking back, Theodosia could only stare in shock, awe, and dread, as what seemed impossible had now come to pass. The Ever-Winding Road, Theodosia’s very heaven, was shattered.

The dread only grew more primal, as Zhaelis took a great breath in, seeming to suck the colour out of the world, before exhaling her Breath Weapon. Theodosia panicked and attempted to escape, but found herself temporarily coated in a sticky froth. They dashed backwards, putting distance between themselves and Zhaelis, but found the froth did them no harm. Instead it travelled slowly, climbing and covering everything it touched, and in its passing, the rocks and the deadfall began to orbit around her.  More concerning, shattered fragments of the Ever Winding Road, became like daggers and flew to her side.

“Come Theodosia, so-called God of Stories” Zhaelis sneered. “Come and we shall write a story worth telling!”

In that moment, a dark mass appeared towering in front of her, the abomination from the story, Ozvok. Disoriented, Theodosia spun around having lost track of the pair, and just as suddenly, Zhaelis burst through the mass and appeared at their side.

——————–

“In that moment, Theodosia knew that they could not win, but only survive.” Alden continued, a sadness creeping into his voice. He looked around at the crowd, gauging their reaction. Most everyone in the crowd was hanging on his words, enraptured with the tale he was weaving. A grin grew unbidden on Alden’s face as he continued, his role needing to be played, as much as he may have hated it.

——————–

It was then that Zhaelis’ form shifted into that of a Savar’Aving, shrinking to meet Theodosia eye to eye. “Combat is the only true way to gauge someone, so show me you’re better than your other pathetic brethren!” Zhaelis exclaimed, as something smashed into Theodosia’s right shoulder, throwing them into a forest clearing. The God rolled to bleed off some momentum, before stopping, and seeing deadfall floating back over to Zhaelis’s side. “You’re so pathetic. I don’t even need to use a real weapon! Is that all you have to show me? Come now, I remember you Gods used to be a challenge. SHOW ME YOUR POWER!”

And with that, Theodosia pulled from their realm two swords, while wrapping their divinity ever tighter around themself.  Zhaelis smiled and drew a single sword of her own, animating it to meet them in combat. With quick flicks of the wrist, Zhaelis instructed the blade to strike and parry with expert precision, testing their opponents skill. Toying with them. And after Theodosia seemed to adapt and press back, Zhaelis turned her back on them and, with a nod of recognition, muttered the words “Better. Now parry this,” as a cavalcade of debris from the forest and shards from the road flew towards Theodosia at lightning speed. Zhaelis’s breath had turned everything into a weapon.

In the first few moments, Theodosia was overwhelmed, barely managing to dodge and parry the torrent of items. But Theodosia was no stranger to combat and quickly fell into a battle trance, flinging spells and traps to gain ever more room to maneuver, reducing the distance towards Zhaelis. There was clearly no running from her.

It seemed it was all for naught though, for as quickly as Theodosia managed to adapt to the melee, Zhaelis adapted even faster. Items became more erratic and unpredictable, coming from unseen angles and with feints that were masterful in their deception. If Theodosia wasn’t fighting for their life, they would have been graced with the most beautiful and deadliest dance in existence, but they were doing everything in their power just to survive.

The battle went on forever. A Deity fighting for their life. A Firstborn, toying with her foe.

“Maybe you’re not so bad after all! You have a few moves I’ve only seen once or twice before! But nothing new. Come now, show me something new.” Zhaelis, having grown bored of the battle, decided to up the stakes. A large maul appeared from that same purple mass, dropping at her feet.

“Thank you Ozvok, my love. You always know just what I need.” She smiled, still watching Theodosia, but talking around them. “Let’s see how much this one can handle!” She continued, before cracking her neck and letting the froth spill forth once more.

Before the God could even blink, the maul was bearing down on them, every other item pulled back to allow the one-on-one to occur once more. Unfortunately for Theodosia, this did not make their task any easier. Zhaelis may have had too many titles to count, but ‘Weapon Master’ was proving to be the truest among them. The three weapons clashed relentlessly, until Theodosia realized that even this fight was only a show. Zhaelis was humming along to the clanging, creating a tune to go along with the melodic melee.

The Firstborn cast aside the blunt weapon allowing it to float beside her and again, Ozvok, produced something new. This time a flail of all things, and immediately Zhaelis slashed it into the God’s shoulder. Only a small wound, barely longer than a fingernail, and shallower than a papercut. But a cut nonetheless. The battle paused, as Zhaelis gave the Theodosia a moment to gather themselves.

“Oh yes… it has been too long! And now you’re beginning to see it aren’t you?” Her spear thudded into the ground as she slowly limped through the trees, the maul and sword floating through the air acting as dogs following their master. “You see the beginning of the end; the end of your kind. There is no running from me, not with Ozvok at my side. There is no place on Arthos I will not find you and your kin. They’ll be hunted down to the last, only given the grace of a glorious death in battle before they fall beneath my weapons. And you, my sad, inadequate foe, will be the first. So come, at least live up to your name and give me a story worth ending!”

With that, the battle began anew, with sword, flail, and maul coming towards Theodosia and pressing them from every conceivable angle. They knew they could not be defensive any longer, and began taking wounds just to get closer to Zhaelis, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t teleport away before they could get within striking distance. But it seemed hope was not within their purview, as wounds piled up, Theodosia gained no ground.

More weapons joined the battle one by one, some outlandish in their nature, some brutal in their form, but all wielded with the exacting precision of a master of their craft. No not a master, the master. Theodosia was ever so slowly overwhelmed, always one step behind, no matter what they did. Spell, blade, every trick they had in their disposal: Zhaelis reacted to it all as if they had seen it a thousand times. Soon enough, the boredom grew, and Zhaelis decided to up the stakes once more.

The collective shards of the Ever-Winding Road made their way into the fight, Zhaelis beckoned them into shape, forming them into that of a sword. With that, Theodosia’s divine sense was predicting that these shards would be bringing about the end of this play. Zhaelis unfurled her paw grasping the newly formed blade in her offhand. “This has been fun Storyteller!” She purred, “Perhaps I will have my followers play with yours the same I’ve played with you, and hunt them to extinction…”

“Wait!” they cried, “Zhaelis wait! I have a proposition!”

“Oh-ho-ho! A proposition you say.” Zhaelis replied, “Well then, let’s hear it.” The Greatest Combatant slowed and stopped the deadly array of objects flying around, but did not remove them, the threat lingering in the air.

“I am the God of Stories, surely one of your nature wants theirs to be told, yes? Let me leave this place and my followers will spread your story across the realm. Of your previous history, of your return, of your grandeur. They will tell it all to anyone and everyone willing to listen. My followers travel to every corner of the world! There will be no one on Arthos who has not heard of you by the time they are done!” The God pleaded on their knees, “And in return, a truce. Spare their lives.”

Zhaelis tapped a finger to her lips, thinking. Slowly a grin spread across her face, a hint of malice and madness sparking behind her eyes.

“Intriguing. The rat begs as it jumps from the pan to the fire.” Zhaelis tapped her spear to the ground as she slowly made her way to Theodosia. “I think I can agree to that, but on two conditions. Would you like to hear them?” She asked.

Theodosia slowly nodded, divine blood spilled from the thousands of cuts across their body. Zhaelis approached them directly.

“Condition one.” Her words accompanied by a deep rumble in her throat, froth spilling past her lips. “When you tell my story, you will tell the world how grand I am, of my expertise, of my skill. Tell them how for the first time since you’ve existed you witnessed mastery. And let them know I created Ozvok. And the Divine will tremble in our wake.” The purple mass came into view proper now. It was strange. Theodosia looked upon it. Its story is unclear of what it is or what it will be. Even with death looking them in the eyes, Theodosia smiled, what a story to tell. Zhaelis leaned down making it so her face was now only inches away from the bleeding God. Her breath, hot upon their face. “Do not feel safe yet fledgling God. Condition two: you have to die.”

In that moment, Theodosia knew the true power that Zhaelis had once had. It was distilled now, strength of arms making way for strength of will, but in Zhaelis’s claws, will was stronger than anything across the planes.

A clawed fist, so fast as to be imperceptible, swept the so far unused spear between them, the moment held in time. Zhaelis, utilizing the precision of a swing practiced thousands of times, removed Theodosia’s head from their body. As it fell the God had one final second of consciousness, just long enough to hear Zhaelis get in one final jab, before being cast back to their Heaven.

“I enjoyed this…”

——————–

The crowd was silent as Alden finished his story. With little fanfare, Alden walked off the stage, with a look of scorn and resignation, delivering one more parting thought.

“So be warned Arthos, the Gods are not safe. Zhaelis has returned, and never shall we be the same.” And Alden the Aetheric walked off, the night swallowing him whole.

Zhaelis and Ozvok art and Mark of the Firstborn art by: Cassidi Thomson