Behind this world, there is another. Forces there in the formless ether great enough to rend the very fabric of our own lands clash in eternal turmoil. There is some debate as to the nature and number of these forces, but of three we are sure.

One is a quiet thing, but massive beyond imagining. It sits confidently in the onslaught of the chaos around it. What it does, though done slowly, is rarely undone. Time itself slips past it meekly, like the softest breeze.

The second is the sum of all wrath. It is the destroyer. It consumes whatever it can, and would surely devour itself if it could only find a way.

The last is a soothing counter-weight against both the obstinacy of the first and the rage of the second. It urges change and growth, for it is ever in flux.

Beyond that ether of forces there is what can only be called life. It is a purposeful ordering amidst disorder that strives to impose itself on its surroundings. In its quest, once in a thousand years a piece will fly away like a shooting star with such force that it passes through the ether and falls here, in our world. On its journey, it must encounter at least one force. It clothes itself in those forces it does encounter so that it might survive here. Then, soul and body complete, it comes to rest on some mountain or beach.

Thus do daemons, clothed in flame, walk amongst us, feasting on the weak.

The dwarves are sturdy people who are as likely to give the name brother to a boulder as to their mothers’ sons. There is little question as to what force molded them as they stalk the deepest parts of the earth.

The Aelir, the blue-skinned dwellers of the sea, spurn the land like a sickness. Only necessity beyond life and death brings them from the water for more than mere moments.

The faeries, the humans, and all other manner of creature were brought forth through the ages, all with varying degrees of fire, water, and earth intermingling in their blood.

The same forces, in their constant struggle, stretch the very boundaries of their existence and encroach on ours. It is no small thing, even for such raw power. For this reason, they enter solely through weaknesses in our own world. These weaknesses are formed by the presence of something which mirrors a force’s temperament. A torch left to burn is as a crack in the wall for the destroyer. So too may the other forces enter, whether through a babbling brook or a towering mountain.

There are those among us who have come to use their bond to the forces which created them to focus the energy, the essence, which flows from those weaknesses. The larger the hole, the more power they may draw. This channeling is not without a cost though. A mortal being can only focus so much power before exhausting, at least for a time, its ability to do so. However, as with all things, a little practice can stretch and extend the limits. Woe to the fool who displeases a master, for not all the armor in Olithum can shield him when a volcano erupts at his feet.

Ejected from across the planes, we are trespassers here in Olithum. Our mortality is due to our foreign nature. When our bodies are spent, our spirits are ripped back to its origins. It is believed that there were beings here before us though. Like a lion in the jungle or serpent in the ocean, they belong here. Though they may change, they are rarely destroyed. What’s more, they understand the rules and exercise nearly limitless power not only over the world, but us as well. They are our gods.

The ages have seen many gods. Some are hardly aware of us, considering us animals to be ignored. Others, for whatever reason, take a more active role in our affairs. It is not unheard of for a god to sit upon a kingdom’s throne. However, more often the gods do not share enough in common with the mortal races for such things. Instead, they seem interested in only some particular aspect of our lives.

Lheir, it is believed, is some being spread thin between Olithum and the ether. As we pass away in death, and the forces which bind us here fall away, Lheir is ready to catch them. He is the sifter of souls. He is the god of death. Anyone who revels in sending souls screaming back to oblivion can expect to be in his favor.

Yenia is the goddess of life, counterpoint to Lheir. It is unknown what she gains by our survival, but all who strive to nurture are her friends.

Irin, Byd, and Seith revel in the channeling of earth, water, and fire. Elium and Ghin are the epitomes of good and evil, with Icarius standing between them in eternal neutrality. There are many gods, and we tend pick among them as if we were choosing a ripe fruit. We must keep in mind though, that they are foreign, dangerous beings. Take care in your devotion and your prayers, for though they are intelligent beings, they do not think the way we do, and will always be lions and serpents.

As if the lives of mortals weren’t complicated enough, the world itself decided long ago to add chaos to anarchy by periodically rending itself apart. Perhaps it is the forces acting from the ether or some property of Olithum itself. With each tear, parts are left disconnected and all those living within are forced to either become allies or enemies. Such fragments may lie secluded for centuries, encapsulating all manner of races and beasts. Inevitably they must all reemerge though, and what springs forth is often something very new. It is a testament to the influence of events that such things can produce daemons devoted to healing or elves bereft of conscience. These tiny prisons and their little histories may set kin against one another or ally old enemies. The fragmentation is erratic and can come at the best or worst of times. It halts wars and starts them in equal measure. Though all races have a tendency to keep to their own when left to their own devices, the world mixes them eternally, like some mad alchemist. All for the better, some say. Perhaps.

Make of this what you will, for, though I write this to you, I do not know you. You may be my enemy or my friend, a warrior or a tired hermit. But in at least one thing I can be confident; you are a fellow being of this place. Though I may die by your hand or that of your brother, the blood which our world has shed will always far outweigh that of any mortal. In this we have a common enemy, and are friends. I wish you good luck, and extend my sincere wish that you survive to the sun’s next setting.

- Ael Thelonius, Master Scribe and Keeper of the Tomes of Phiniul

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