In the beginning, long before the existence of mortals and life, there was nothing but vast Darkness. For aeons, this is all that was. One day, a crack appeared in the blackest part of the skies, and the goddess Theta was birthed from the darkness. From here, Theta seized dominion over the vague, infinite expanse, conjuring within it four Goddesses: one for each aspect of the Earth. For Theta feared, without them, life could not exist, and the Darkness from which She was wrought would persist for all eternity.
The Myth of the Four was the oldest and most commonly believed myth in Crissolonian folklore. All of the living must come from somewhere, and all of the dead must disappear somewhere else. The first Goddess born of Theta was Vatia, the Queen of the Skies. The second was Inelia, the Queen of the Seas. The third was Tilene, the Queen of the Underworld. And the fourth was Olena, the Queen of Earth and the Living. Together, the four Goddesses created the Earth and everything on it, each responsible for birthing a different race, so that the living can continue living, and the souls of the dead can exist forever.
The Oris were a white-skinned race, born from the clouds: formed as babies, ageing as mortals did until earning their immortality. They had endured for millenia, esteemed by the Lost Folc as akin to themselves. Cerulea, the city of the clouds, was hidden to mortal eyes, yet many had declared to have beheld it. It was always cool in Zostrule, though not unbearably so. The Oris had perpetually existed. Many mortals scoffed at things which they had ne’er witnessed.
It was due to rain. It did not always rain, yet it was not uncommon for rainy spells to endure four or five days in succession. Since his inception countless ages past, Uri had crafted the rain. He was amongst only a few Oris who had ever trodden the Earth, and he always had tales to recount of his journeys. The Oris had no need for sleep or sustenance - yet, Uri was known to bear foodstuffs or drink during his time on the Ground. This, he intimated, prevented any suspicions by mortals - though the Lost Folc were inattentive, seldom aware of matters which did not pertain to them.
The name of the Cloudmaker was Celeste. She was of a tenderer age than Uri, yet had attained her immortality before he, which had left him rather discomfited. The Oris had hair that always matched the colour of the skies, and which was thick and bouncy. There were always clouds. At times, they were invisible to those who did not live atop them. Celeste held a zheajay on her shoulder, as she always did: a greyish, seven-inch fowl covered in human-like hair, untameable to everyone except the Oris. There was Lior, the Lightmaker, creator of lightning and thunder. There was Vyther, the Windmaker, creator of breeze and storms. There was Mystis, the Starmaker, creator of astronomy and night. There was Dagny, the Sunmaker, creator of summer and music. Lastly, there was Azure, the Moonmaker, creator of mortality and sleep.
Crissolo was a country of mortals: extending but a measly three hundred leagues, with a dwelling of eight hundred sixty one thousand Lost Folc. Such a number was hardly sufficient to effect any significant change. Children of the Queens traversed Crissolo in the twinkling of an eye, whilst the Lost journeyed Crissolo for many days on end.
Celeste frowned. “I implore, Uri, repeat unto me what it is like aground. I long to behold it with my own eyes, but alack! I remain cloud-bound.”
None e’er existed without a purpose. Naught ever did change. A purpose was bestowed at the moment of inception, and this was what one spent all of existence in pursuit of. Some became weary by this: yearning for adventure and thrill. This made the Queens quite displeased. Those who displeased the Queens came to rue it in the end. Uri did not long for adventure. He blended in with the Lost, obeying the words of the Queens, and never stirring the slightest of suspicion during his travels to the Ground.
He had told Celeste, before, what Crissolo was like. For many, ‘twas a distant realm, residing within a foreign universe. Lost Folc could be seen from the heavens, diminutive and indistinct, never privy to the creatures they shared the ground with. “There is much to behold. The Ground is often cold, and the Lost are vexed by this. I do not wear shoes with frequency, and it gathers no suspicion.”
Unlike a human, Uri was pained not by the feeling of rocks or glass under his feet. Though fashioned entirely of rain, he held the power to solidify upon each descent to the Ground. This prevented him from being blown away by a sudden gust of wind, or from frightening Lost Folc by allowing them to walk right through him. Even while playing the guise of a man, he was most adept at conjuring rain, and he did so frequently.
“I can see you at times,” said the Cloud-woman, who formed the white shrouds into strange shapes with the tips of her fingers. “You resemble the Lost, though far less faint. Methinks those on the Ground can receive messages from the rest, even when no sound is made.”
She believed correctly. The Oris were not an overbearing race. There had been times before when an Oris or a Zirrid had fallen in love with a Lost Folc, thereby relinquishing their immortality to marry them. There had been times when an Oris or a Zirrid had fallen in love with a Lost Folc and refused to relinquish anything at all. In consequence, one was cast forth to the Ground, losing their powers and doomed to dwell as a mortal: mediocre and weak. For an Immortal creature, to be fated to a life as a human was the most dreadful punishment of all.
“I have received many a message.” Uri only touched the Ground when it rained, and he had no control over this. When necessary, he produced water out of the air with the palms of his hands, and used his fingers as a hose. When the rain commenced, it engulfed him, so that he became a drop in its very essence, descending from the skies. When the rain ceased, he dried the earth, subsequently drying himself, evaporating back to the clouds until the next rainstorm beckoned. “They always come in the form of clouds or lightning.” When Uri became a God, he would possess the ability to travel at will, and to remain on the Ground even after his rain had dried up. One wasn’t born a God. One had to prove themselves.
Peregrin was the Snowmaker, and the lover of Uri. Although it was forbidden to yearn for the fancy of a mortal, romantic relationships betwixt the Oris were at the arrangement of Vatia. Peregrin had hair of alabaster, swooping delicately: a snow-woman whose hands were always icy. When she wasn’t making snow, she hopped atop the clouds, or tended to the birds and the skies. “On the Ground,” she offered, feeding the bird upon the shoulder of Celeste, “there’s always an abundance of activities. I find great delight in traversing the city streets, savouring the crunch of snow beneath my own feet. I do fervently wish that you might possess the chance, one day, to visit the Ground thyself."
This was improbable. The Queens decreed which Children might visit the Ground, and the will of the Queens was always final. There were stories of Children who disobeyed the will of the Queens, and such Children were never seen or heard from again.
Many years ago, there was a Goddess named Krione, Queen of Spirits, who was venerated for her protection of lost souls and deceased children. Krione, who was born from the darkness, was the fifth daughter and subordinate of Theta. Several years after earning her immortality, Krione was sent to the Ground to guide the souls of forsaken children to the Underworld - a task that had since been taken over by a child of Tilene. During her time on the Ground, Krione succumbed to the enchantment of a Lost Man named Ezagi, thus becoming vulnerable to the mundanity of mortality. Theta, in great wrath, offered unto Krione two fateful choices: to spurn the man, returning unto her home to never speak with him again, or to surrender her immortality, forced to live among the Lost, destined to a life of mediocrity. But Krione was cunning, and her words mendacious. She took on the form of a mortal woman and procreated with Ezagi: dooming her children to a life of misery and sin, and unleashing the wrath of Theta. Krione and her offspring were slain by the hand of Theta, nevermore to be spoken of, and all Lost Folc born henceforth were destined to a life of sin. The Sin of Krione was why mortals were fated to tribulation. It was why only the most upstanding of the Lost would find their souls in the Shadowvault when their bodies perished.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Rain spells often came with wind. Vyther stood atop a cloud wrought by Celeste, exhaling gales from his very lips. Vyther never touched the Ground, but floated in the midst of winds, suspended aloft. Orders were given by Vatia, who ne’er departed the sky, yet governed its destiny. The city of Zostrule lay cold and wet; Uri splashed into a puddle upon his landing. His landings were ever subtle: crashing to the hard ground with the raindrops, and growing back into himself like a plant. It caused him no pain to descend. Cerulea was bright and sprightly, and the chirp of Zheajay could be heard from fifty feet hence.
The Ground did not much differ from Cerulea. The children of the Queens did traverse shoeless amidst mortals, chiefly to avow their humanity. Much could be discerned by the demeanor of one toward those they deemed lesser. Wayfarers with bare feet and tattered raiments seldom attracted notice - for even those who had spent a lifetime in Crissolo walked this way. Upon the demise of a mortal’s body, their spirit met judgment at the hands of the Ghostmaker: a Fire-Creature who discerned which souls were fit to become ghosts, roaming a mortal domain at leisure, and which were fated to an eternity inside the Underworld, ensnared and alone.
Uri fashioned puddles with the water that poured from his hands, and glided soundlessly through them on his passage to the city. Many creatures dwelled within Zostrule: some tame, and some only tameable to those who could speak to them. The Children had existed for centuries in stories and folklore, yet were rarely acknowledged by mortals. It was deemed better so. It was, rightly, looked upon with disdain to consort with one another.
Only the Faeries and the Gods could travel at will. Most Children could not travel at all, and were envious of those who could. The citizens of Zostrule were not meddlesome. Most kept to their own affairs, being too occupied with the burdens of daily toil to vex themselves with the matters of others. It was a small city, but it was home to many.
There was a thunderstorm brewing. These were not uncommon in Crissolo. When thunder erupted from the skies, it contained messages understandable only to Uri. This was the only way to communicate with those still in Cerulea, and it went unnoticed by Lost Folc.
“You look like someone I’ve seen before.”
There dwelt one grey wolf in Crissolo. It appeared at curious times and places, ne’er to be glimpsed outside of this. Varied were the theories concerning the origin of the wolf, though most were naught but folly. Indeed, the Reaper oft took the form of a grey wolf or an aged crone upon her departure from Demonvale. ‘Twas said that a mortal who came face to face with the wolf or the woman would meet their demise shortly thereafter.
Uri had not seen the Underworld. Only those who had been personally invited by the Reaper could travel to the place, and souls who had been made to spend eternity here could never again leave.
A woman in a raincoat stood before him. She was golden-brown, and, though Uri had never before seen her, she looked at him as though they had been acquainted with one another. “What’s your name?”
Engaging in conversation with the Lost was inane, regardless of the nature of such conversation. She appeared to be friendly, or she acted this way outwardly in order to gain the trust of others. For those with short lifespans, it was difficult to obtain a semblance of self-awareness - and the majority of Lost Folc completed an entire life without obtaining any at all. This was not to say that Uri was unfriendly. He spoke amicably when engaged, but seldom went out of his way to make conversation.
“I am not one to pursue in search of acquaintanceship.”
Crissolo, like any place, had evolved over the centuries. Yet this did not imply that its inhabitants had kept pace with this evolution. At times, Uri did find himself perplexed betwixt present centuries and those long past - thus drawing attention to himself by his peculiarities. Despite the dampness and harshness of the ground beneath his bare feet, he felt neither chill nor discomfort. He harbored no malice toward the Lost, but a certain apathy lingered within him, harbouring their discourses unfulfilling. Moreover, due to his brief and irregular journeys to the Ground, Uri was not one to depend upon for stable friendship. He appeared abruptly and unexpectedly, and left the same way.
It rained sporadically: sometimes for weeks at a time, and sometimes not at all. Snow was seldom in Zostrule, but always brought with it excitement and happiness. Peregrin, who shaped ice with her hands, chattered like a human, and found excitement in the most mundane of things.
Uri did not take pleasure in the Ground. ‘Twas simple and lacking charm, yet he was fated there when it rained, forced to seek diversion until he might return home. He wandered, and the woman followed. She held an umbrella clumsily, her feet dragging heavily on the ground with each exaggerated step. “You’re the Rainmaker. I’ve read about you in mythology.”
In Crissolonian folklore, ‘twas said that the first humans arose in Cavekeep Forest, millenniums hence. They were called Zela and Ottix: sand-coloured people, carved from clay, shaped into mortal beings by the hands of Thalia. Zela and Ottix had six children: all of whom had six children of their own. As humankind flourished, they set forth by vessel across tempestuous seas and lofty peaks to disseminate their kind, and to seek out realms uncharted. Zostrule was home to almost twenty thousand Lost Folc, most of whom had arisen there. Yet, whilst Peregrin took joy in conversing amicably with people, Uri had gone thousands of years without learning the name of a single mortal.
Following every rain spell, there was a rainbow. If someone followed the path of the rainbow, they would find Uri.
The woman smiled coyly. Her persistence was not quite maddening, yet typical of the Lost. Although some species possessed the ability to travel by teleportation or flight, the Oris travelled by foot, and this was troublesome and vexatious. Uri was injured not by things that injured humans. He healed from affliction with great swiftness, leaving no trace that he had suffered at all. There was also, of course, a distinctly non-human quality in the inability to die at all.
"You’re described very specifically in the stories. Your hair is always the same colour as the sky. You talk like you're from the 1600s. You fall as a raindrop from the clouds, and solidify on the ground.” The woman spoke a lot, yet uttered little of anything at all. There were many rainy nights in Zostrule. Seeking solace, Uri found refuge in tall building roofs and private, covered patios.
He grimaced, impartial to conversation. “"Methinks you possess an abundance of leisure, which you use unwisely to conjecture all tales to be of objective verity." Such was a lamentable consequence of human nature. Many a Lost Folc took to heart all that was told to them without a moment’s hesitation. Oft, this lead to their undoing. Despite this, it became quite easy to discern the character of the Lost after partaking in conversation.
There were numerous myths concerning the Children and the Queens. The progeny of Theta were held in great veneration throughout Crissolo, in a religion named Thetaxism. It was established many centuries past by a sage who professed to have ascended the highest peak of Mount Berosi, the tallest mountain range in all of Crissolo. Numerous tales were recounted regarding the origin of the Earth and the transgressions of mankind. In the end, all lead back to Theta.
Like Uri, the woman was barefoot. This was curious, yet Uri did not inquire. It was not unheard of for a Child of the Queens to masquerade as one of the Lost, and Uri had done this himself in the past. Unless one was particularly naive, one could discern a human from an Immortal by the manner of their speech.
"My name is Aveline, by the way. What’s yours?”
He had not inquired. Peregrin took pleasure in bidding him to be cordial: that some Lost Folc were worthy of companionship, that others possessed tales worth hearing. The problem with troubling oneself with mortals was that they would inevitably perish, and another entire lifetime would pass without the company of anyone at all. Opinions on the existence of Immortals varied quite evenly in Crissolo. Half of the population seemed adamantly opposed to them, while the rest would have done anything to prove they did, in fact, exist.
Immortals ne’er gave away their names, for their existence was not meant to be proven, and it was crucial for an element of mystery to remain. A name lived only as long as a mortal did, and then it meant nothing. Uri sat, yearning for a message from the cloud-lands. He had been endowed with immortality four and twenty years after his birth, and hadn’t aged since then.
“That knowledge is not yours.”
A breeze had been sent. When Vyther became particularly angry, he sent windstorms to the Ground, and he became caught up in their fury.
The woman played with mud, crouching in a puddle, unperturbed by each raindrop that splashed around her feet. “Come on, Mister Rainmaker. You don’t have to be all secretive and mysterious. I’m not going to tell anyone.” She exhaled loudly, petting the head of a Quala in her pocket. “No one would believe me, anyway.”
The Quala was a six-limbed reptile, covered in green-orange scales. It was believed to understand the body language of humans, and communicated by emitting very high-pitched squeals. The Quala was much esteemed as a companion amongst the Lost Folc, for it demanded little toil.
It rained for three days: pooling into cracks in sidewalks, leaving Uri’s feet covered in leaves and dirt. He was not fussed by this. He was made of raindrops, and did not become cold from wetness or chills. He followed the instruction of Vatia, whose word was always final. In the past, there had been instances of an Immortal disobeying a Queen. As a result, these Immortals always seemed to disappear without warning, and a new one was birthed overnight, acting as though they had existed all along.
