Creation
I will describe The Creation of Threa.
From the Void, the elements emerged. Earth, Water, Fire, and Wind each formed their own worlds. Earth fashioned his to catch Water’s attention, but she was oblivious and instead made her own to occupy herself. Fire, eager to demonstrate his superiority, constructed his own world, while Wind, not wishing to be surpassed, created hers.
In the end, they all failed. Each one tried to shape a world—and each one fell short. Earth’s world stayed still, paralyzed by fear. Nothing changed, and eventually, it collapsed. Water’s world was restless. She drifted from one idea to the next, never settling, never allowing anything to take root. Fire’s world burned too hot. It consumed everything, leaving nothing behind. Wind’s world was scattered—here one moment, gone the next. Directionless, fleeting.
No matter what they did, none of their worlds held together. So they gave up. One by one, they let go and left their creations behind.
Some time later, the elements came together and discussed their failures. Fire admitted that they had each failed on their own. Wind had a realization—one she didn’t particularly like: they needed to create a world together. Water agreed that all four should combine their efforts. Earth took a chance and suggested they work in pairs. Fire and Wind would work together. Only Water didn’t realize that Earth had paired her with him.
With this plan in place, they set off to work.
Earth laid down the solid foundation of their new world. Water wove currents of change through it. Fire spread warmth across its surface, while Wind set everything in motion. This world was unlike any they had made before—greater, more alive. They named it Threa. Fire and Wind set the sun spinning across the sky; Earth and Water guided the moon in its silent glide.
And yet, they failed again. What they made was more impressive than anything they’d built alone—but it was still empty. So, once more, they prepared to walk away.
But this time, something was different. They paused to reflect. Wind no longer felt the need to outshine Fire, and Fire didn’t feel like he had to prove himself. They simply enjoyed being together. Water finally noticed Earth and began to appreciate everything he had done. Earth, in turn, was quietly happy to be seen. For the first time, they all felt a kind of peace in each other’s company.
Then, just as they were about to leave, something new happened. Two new elements were born: Lightning, the daughter of Fire and Wind—and Ice, the son of Earth and Water.
Ice and Lightning entered Threa. To them, the whole world was a playground, and life followed wherever they went—plants sprouted, creatures stirred.
But that wasn’t enough. Together, they created something new: the first people. The first race to walk Threa—the Nawa.
Their creation stirred something in the elders. Moved by what their children had done, Earth and Water came together to shape the Dreavi. Fire and Wind followed, giving rise to the Aetha.
The Aetha and the Dreavi knew they were created—and they knew who their creators were. They offered a level of veneration that made the Primes uneasy. The Primes blamed the failures of their previous worlds on their own interference. They didn’t want to repeat the same mistake. So, they charged the Aetha and the Dreavi with caring for this world. Hesitantly and cautiously, they accepted the reverence the Dreavi and Aetha offered them.
The Neo Elements, on the other hand—Ice and Lightning—had never experienced such failure. They played and intervened freely across the land, side by side with their Nawa. The Nawa also knew they were created, but offered no veneration—and in turn, the Neo asked for none. They were content that way.
For an age, the Perfects—Nawa, Aetha, and Dreavi—were the only ones in Threa.
The Primes made their decision: they would leave Threa in the hands of the Dreavi and the Aetha. Their time in the world had come to an end.
But before departing, each Prime forged an artifact—a piece of their own power, left behind not for control, but for guidance. Should the Aetha or Dreavi ever face a moment too great to bear alone, they could turn to these relics and call upon the strength of their creators.
Earth’s Bracelet and Water’s Earring were given to the Dreavi. Wind’s Armlet and Fire’s Ring were gifted to the Aetha.
What they did with that power—how they used it, when they used it—would be theirs to decide. The choice was no longer the Primes’ to make. It belonged to those who remained.
To shape their own destiny.
The Dreavi and the Aetha spread across Threa, tending to the world with care and purpose. They carved valleys, planted forests, and guided rivers along their paths. They turned the wheel of seasons—calling forth the rains, then the droughts that followed.
They led the beasts to migrate, to gather, to stampede, and to sleep through the cold. Under their watch, flowers bloomed in beauty—and faded in time.
Still, the Primes couldn’t stay away for long. Fire was the first to return to Threa. Thinking back to how he and Wind had once shaped the Dreavi, he forged a new race: the Lor, the people of Fire.
Wind caught sight of what he was doing and scolded him for meddling. But Fire pushed back—he wasn’t interfering, he said. He was creating. Curious, Wind followed his lead and brought forth her own people: the Aria, born of Wind.
Before long, Earth and Water joined them. Earth observed the methods Fire and Wind had used to create the Lor and the Aria. With that understanding, he formed a new race—the Dis Com, the people of Earth.
Water, swept up in the excitement, shaped the Ma Hir, the people of Water.
The Primes wanted something new for the Pures. The Perfects had always known their origins—they knew the Elements who shaped them. But this time, the Primes chose a different path. They would break that bond. The Pures would grow without ever knowing the hands that formed them.
Fire and Wind turned to the Aetha, entrusting them with the Lor and the Aria—urging them to guide, to shape, to lead. Earth and Water did the same with the Dreavi, asking them to shepherd the Dis Com and the Ma Hir, to help them find their own way.
All of it, hidden from the truth of the Elements.
And with that, the Primes departed once again—though this time, they did not go far.
The Aetha and the Dreavi stood in quiet reflection. Guiding the Pures would not be simple—they were blank slates, untouched by the past. The Perfects could have claimed reverence, raised themselves as divine. Some were tempted. But the idea was quickly cast aside. They debated ignoring the Elements altogether. Another thought was to shape the Pures in their own image, to fold them into Aetha and Dreavi society. It would have been easy—but easy was not the path they chose.
Instead, each Pure race was taken far from the others, to the edges of Threa. The Lor were placed at the base of a volcano in the west. The Aria were lifted to the heights of an eastern plateau. The Dis Com settled on the open plains of the north. The Ma Hir were led to a wide gulf in the south.
To guide them, the Aetha and Dreavi took on new forms—shaped in the likeness of those they watched over. In each place, they built a single village. They taught the Pures how to live, how to endure, how to thrive.
At first, they were the parents of the first generation. Then, the grandparents of the next. And when the third generation arrived, they stepped away.
The Pures were left to grow on their own, to explore, to expand. One day, they would meet—when their peoples had spread far enough. And when they did, it would be their choice how to face each other.
The Perfects returned to their true calling: stewards of Threa.
The Elements remained as well, hidden in plain sight. Fire walked among the Lor. Wind dwelled with the Aria. Earth took the form of a Dis Com. Water lived as one of the Ma Hir. They stayed close—watching, waiting, never interfering.
Before the Perfects departed, they passed down the sacred artifacts. Fire’s Ring was given to the Lor King. Wind’s Armlet to the Aria Queen. Earth’s Bracelet to the Dis Com Elder. Water’s Earring to the Ma Hir Chief.
The Perfects no longer needed the power of the Elements. But the Pures might.
In time, the Nawa became dependent on Ice and Lightning. The Neo gave them everything—so long as they obeyed.
But eventually, even the Neo saw what was happening. They watched as the Prime Perfects flourished, and now the Pures, too, were thriving on their own. The Nawa, however, remained stagnant—reliant, unchanging.
So the Neo made a painful choice. They would leave their creations behind. Not out of cruelty, but necessity. The Nawa had to learn to stand alone.
But they didn’t.
Unable to survive by themselves, the Nawa scattered, slipping into the growing populations of the Pures. They blended in—thanks to a gift they had always possessed: the power to change form. Wherever they went, they took on the shape of those around them.
In time, they ceased to be one people. They were separated, hidden among the Pures, living unfamiliar lives in unfamiliar skins.
As new generations of Nawa were born, they inherited the form of the culture they had joined. They believed they belonged. And slowly, they forgot who they truly were.
The Nawa became strangers to themselves—unknowing, scattered, and lost.
The Primes walked among the Pures now. They kept to the edges of their lives—never revealing their true nature, yet never fully absent. And in that quiet closeness, unexpected moments unfolded.
Fire, posing as a humble Lor smith, once bowed before the reigning Lor King—his own creation now ruling with pride. Earth, living as a Dis Com farmer, felt the warmth of his people when an elder gathered the village to help him bring in his harvest.
Water, in the form of a Ma Hir warrior, faced defeat in ritual combat against a rival Chief. She yielded—not because she was overcome (for she was Water, and could have summoned the sea to claim her foe), but because she was moved by the strength and mastery her creation had achieved.
Wind, disguised as an Aria chef, prepared a grand feast for the Aria Queen, offering her creation not power, but nourishment.
Ice and Lightning remained as they were, wandering the world unmasked, unburdened by disguise. But as the ages wore on, a quiet emptiness grew. Purpose faded. Motion felt aimless.
One day, Lightning turned to Ice and said, “Let’s find our parents. Maybe they’ll know what comes next.”
Ice came upon Fire, quietly working in a small forge nestled beside a dead volcano. Curious, Ice watched the life Fire had chosen—a simple one, far from grand.
Fire looked up and smiled. “This is just one of many faces,” he said. “The Pures live brief lives. Each Lor, like a flame, burns brightly… then fades. One day, the warmth I give them will vanish. Cold will follow. It always does—no matter how they live.”
Ice pondered that. He, too, brought cold wherever he went. There was a kind of peace in that finality. And from this shared truth, Fire and Ice gave shape to a new race—the Morts, born from both. The people of Death.
Fire sought out a Dreavi tending the slumbering volcano and entrusted them with the care of the Morts.
Elsewhere, Lightning found her mother in a field of wildflowers. Wind moved gently through the blossoms, serene and thoughtful. Lightning, ever restless, asked why she’d chosen this quiet life.
Wind answered, “Every Aria drifts through life. They meet joy and sorrow, make choices along the way. It’s not about where they go—it’s how they choose to move.”
Lightning thought of her own path—zigzagging, aimless, yet full of motion. From this reflection, Wind and Lightning brought forth the Laurils—the people of Life.
Wind turned to an Aetha who had been watching over the field and asked her to guide the Laurils in their journey.
Ice found his father, Earth, standing alone in a vast desert.
“Aren’t you a farmer?” Ice asked. “Why come to a place where nothing grows?”
Earth knelt and placed a hand on the dry soil. “Even here, the ground holds meaning,” he said. “The Dis Com till it, turn it, crack it—but it endures. It bears the weight of all that stands above it, never breaking. Strength doesn’t come from what it produces, but from what it can carry.”
Ice thought of his glaciers—unyielding, solid, carved from time. From that shared understanding, Earth and Ice brought forth a new race: the Zeur, the people of Strength.
A Dreavi wandered nearby, and Earth entrusted them with the care of this new people.
Far away, Lightning found Water in a tangled jungle.
“You’re a long way from the ocean,” Lightning said.
Water laughed softly. “Not really. Every vine, every leaf, every root is filled with me. The Ma Hir learn by exploring places like this—growing wiser with every discovery.”
Lightning paused, thinking of how she lights the sky, revealing the unseen in sudden bursts. From that reflection, Water and Lightning gave life to the Minka—the people of Wisdom.
In the underbrush, a quiet Aetha stood watching. Water approached her gently and asked her to guide the Minka on their path.
One day, Fire and Earth met on an open grassland beside a forest. They spoke quietly, pondering what they had seen in their creations.
They observed how some Lor, knowing death was inevitable, lived only for themselves. How some Dis Com grew strong by taking from others. How pride and ego had taken root in places once meant for unity.
From that shared concern, Fire and Earth shaped a new race: the Murai—the people of the Dark.
They found an Aetha living alone in the grassland, and asked him to watch over the Murai, to guide them where he could.
Elsewhere, in the shade of the nearby forest besides a grassland, Water and Wind met beneath the trees. Wind smiled, recalling Aria who told stories of the skies they had wandered. Water spoke of Ma Hir who shared their findings with joy, giving freely without thought of reward.
Some among their creations were selfless—moved by connection, not gain.
From that hope, Wind and Water created the Jin—the people of the Light.
A Dreavi who lived among the trees stepped forward, offering to guide the Jin on their path.
With the rise of the Mort, Lauril, Zeur, Minka, Murai, and Jin, a new wave of people—the Unions—joined the world of the Pures.
By then, the Pures had already spread far across Threa. The Lor and Aria had clashed in several wars. The Ma Hir’s control over freshwater sources went unchallenged. The Dis Com, however, had begun to lose ground.
Into this fractured landscape, the Unions emerged, each seeking a place to call their own.
Of them all, only the Murai expanded beyond their origin, pressing outward from the vast grasslands that birthed them. The others remained close to their cradles—the Mort by the dead volcano, the Lauril in the flowery fields, the Zeur in the barren desert, the Minka deep in the jungle, and the Jin within the dense forest. They built their lives there, shaping quiet homelands.
These were the first six Unions—the first generation. And yet, six more still waited to be born.
Ice brought his mother, Water, to the southern snowfields—a vast, frozen expanse where silence reigned and time seemed to sleep. The air held a tranquil cold, untouched by war or worry. Surrounded by a jagged mountain range to the west and violent seas on all sides, the land was utterly cut off from the rest of Threa.
“No one has ever set foot here,” Ice said. “That’s why there’s peace.”
Water nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s see.”
From that shared stillness, Water and Ice created the Imoh—the people of Harmony.
In those lonely wastes, they found a struggling Aetha, shivering as he tried to tend the frozen land. The Elements asked him to guide the Imoh. Grateful for purpose, the Aetha accepted with joy—eager to finally serve something greater.
Elsewhere, Lightning brought Earth to the edge of a sprawling city. It pulsed with life—filled with people from across Threa. Though it began as a Lor city, it had become something more: Aria, Ma Hir, Dis Com, Murai, Zeur, and Minka all walked its streets.
Yet beneath the surface, harmony was missing. Power was uneven. Some ruled while others served. Some lived freely, while many lived in chains.
“There’s a line,” Earth said quietly. “Between chaos and freedom.”
From that tension, Lightning and Earth brought forth the Corlee—the people of Chaos.
Near the city’s gate, they found a Dreavi who had taken to scaring off travelers for her own amusement. As another wagon fled in fear, Lightning and Earth approached.
They had little choice. She was the one here. So they asked her to guide the Corlee.
Earth and Wind sat in quiet thought, trading memories of places they loved.
“Have you seen that tree in the north?” Earth asked. “Its roots reach deep into the soil, anchoring it with strength.”
“I have,” Wind replied. “Its branches rise so high, they brush the clouds.”
“And the waterfall in the south?” Earth continued. “The one that falls from such a height it feels like rain as it crashes to the lush ground below.”
Wind nodded. “Beautiful. And the cliffs in the east?”
“Massive,” Earth said. “A wall of stone.”
“With skies that swirl with color and cloud,” Wind added.
“And the western caverns,” Earth said. “Where your voice echoes forever.”
“Where the wind carves the stone,” Wind agreed.
They reflected on how these distant places, though far apart, seemed to call to each other—as if they belonged together. From that thought, Earth and Wind created the Nink, the people of community.
The Nink were tiny—no taller than a foot—but spirited and clever. Unlike the others, they had not one cradle, but four: the North Tree, the Eastern Cliffs, the Southern Falls, and the Western Caverns.
Earth and Wind sought out the Aetha and Dreavi living in each region and asked them to guide the Nink. But this time, the guides would have to work together, across all corners of Threa, to help one people grow as one.
Elsewhere, in the cold tundra, Fire and Water met under a gray sky.
“There’s hardly any warmth here,” Fire said, breath steaming.
“And what little water there is,” Water added, “is guarded by tough plants with bark like armor and needles for leaves.”
“This land is cruel,” Fire said. “Anyone who survives here must rely on themselves—stand firm or be swept away.”
From that thought, Fire and Water shaped the Rowlf—the people of resilience.
Unlike the other peoples, the Rowlf walked on four legs. They looked like beasts to the unknowing eye, but their strength, will, and endurance made them something far more.
Nearby, an Aetha and a Dreavi lived in scattered cabins, hardened by the land. The Elements approached them and asked them to guide the Rowlf, not as masters, but as companions on the harsh path ahead.
Wind found Ice standing in the middle of a wide, open, fertile valley. The breeze was gentle, the soil rich.
“This land asks only one thing,” Wind said. “Work hard, and it will give back. No secrets. No tricks. Just effort and reward.”
Ice nodded. The simplicity of it was peaceful.
From that shared clarity, Wind and Ice created the Redn—the people of Simplicity.
The Aetha assigned to this fertile valley watched with joy, eager to see the soil finally nurtured by hands that understood its quiet promise.
Far away, Fire met Lightning deep within a lush rainforest. Lightning marveled at the place—how vines tangled with branches, how roots reached into hidden streams, how life pulsed in layers above and below.
“Everything here is connected,” she whispered. “Nothing stands alone.”
From that awe, Fire and Lightning brought forth the Kapopa—the people of Complexity.
The Dreavi tending the rainforest stepped forward to guide them, ready to help the Kapopa navigate the deep and intricate weave of the world they were born into.
The second generation of Unions—Imoh, Corle, Rowlf, Nink, Redn, and Kapopa—joined their elder kin in the world of Threa. Like the first, they were born into a land already claimed, and like the first, they had to carve their place within it.
The Imoh settled in the southern snowfields, far removed from all others. Their cradle was one of solitude, and so they remained—untouched, undisturbed, perfectly alone.
The Corle, by contrast, were born within the walls of a Lor city. Slowly, methodically, they took hold—controlling trade, shaping economy, and extending their reach through commerce and influence. Wherever their networks spread, their control followed—by diplomacy or by force.
The Nink roamed among their four cradles: the Northern Tree, the Southern Falls, the Eastern Cliffs, and the Western Caverns. Their lives were scattered, yet unified—connected by their shared bond across distance.
The Rowlfs lived in tight-knit packs on the tundra, bound by survival and strength. They relied on one another, enduring the harshness of their homeland with quiet resolve.
The Redn worked the fertile soil of their farmlands, and with every harvest, they gave freely to their neighbors. Their simplicity bred trust, and their abundance drew others near.
The Kapopa spread throughout Threa’s forests and woodlands, mastering the complex trade of carpentry wherever they went. Yet no matter how far they traveled, they always returned—to their cradle in the heart of the rainforest, where everything began, and everything connected.
The world of Threa was nearly complete. However, Ice and Lightning had not yet created a Pure of their own. With all they had learned, they set out to do just that.
Ice traveled to a swamp—a place cherished by his parents, Earth and Water. There, he brought forth the Frills, the people of Ice.
Lightning journeyed to a place held dear by her own parents, Fire and Wind. She chose the prairie, where sunlight blazed and swift winds raced across the land. There, Lightning brought forth the Duga, the people of Lightning.
Upon creating the Frills and the Duga, Ice and Lightning chose to guide them personally. They did not want to repeat the same mistakes they had made with the Nawa. They would not abandon their Pures without guidance.
The Nawa were now lost—scattered among the Lor, Aria, Dis Com, and Ma Hir. No one knew they still existed—not even the Nawa themselves.
To avoid this fate, Ice and Lightning assumed mortal forms to live among their creations. Lightning took the role of queen among the Duga; Ice, in contrast, became a cleric among the Frills.
When the third generation was born, the Neo Elements quietly stepped away, allowing their people to continue shaping their own destinies.
Before departing, they too left behind artifacts, just as their parents once had. Ice’s Pendant and Lightning’s Diadem were passed on to their mortal successors.
Now, Ice and Lightning walk Threa in mortal form—side by side with their creations, experiencing the world as they do.
Much of this knowledge has faded from memory. Only the Aetha and the Dreavi still remember the history of creation—and the Elements themselves.
From time to time, the Aetha and Dreavi cross paths with the Elements in their mortal forms, fully aware of who they truly are.
Meanwhile, the Pures and the Unions have forged their own destinies across the world of Threa, unaware of their origins.
Fragments of this history still survive, scattered across countless myths.
Someting of note, currently, the artifacts are lost, and it affects Threa.
The Nawa have assimilated into the Pures, assuming their forms. They are born in those forms—a Nawa in Lor form will give birth to children who also appear Lor. Yet, they are still Nawa and once had the ability to change back.
However, since the artifacts were lost, the Nawa have lost that power. They can no longer shift forms at will—at least, not as easily as before.
As time passes, and the absence of the artifacts weakens Threa, some Nawa have begun to spontaneously revert to their true form. Having lived their entire lives as someone else, they are shocked by the change. Now, they appear as strangers to those who once knew them.
Though difficult, it is still possible for them to regain the skill to shift forms. What was once as effortless as breathing now requires effort, training, and control.