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𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐆𝐎, 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐀. Each one of them bore different traits, different powers that separated them from the rest. In fact, it's these powers that caused a rift to form between them. When war broke out in throngs of radical contempt for the other, the high ancient beings decided to split the civilization apart into seven distinct provinces.
The once united kingdom of Aelethia slowly became nothing but a myth as the seven provinces thrived apart from one another.
Reovell was a mountainous region to the north, swamped by cold bitter winds and snow, but also valleys of lush evergreens and maples. Deep inside the core of those towering peaks are vast stores of precious stones and valuable minerals. The lack of easy access made travelling on foot through the region impossible, so it became the perfect safe haven for the wyng. The wyng are sometimes thought of as fallen angels. Their human physiques match those of the terrans, but the large wings that spread from their shoulder blades are enough of an indicator that they are far from the sapiens they mimic. The wyng are a people of generosity, of kindness, yet so easily manipulated by the invisible creature that lurks beneath their skin. Rumour has it, these creatures know everything about their surroundings, surfing through the air to decipher whether someone is a friend or foe. They link wyng to their supposed mates, causing them to be drawn together. Although gentle, there's still evidence of something wild brewing inside of them. The Reovell highlands were untouchable by most, but the wyng were always a tribe of inclusion, so paths for those who were unable to fly were formed by stone and mortar. Much like the fae, the wyng find themselves poisoned by iron, although the fact never became a problem until the war broke loose.
Reovell's roadways lead to another province: Brecia, home of the terrans. The terrans are nothing more than human, than earthly. The other provinces never thought of them as a threat due to their physical weaknesses, but they always admired their ability to repopulate without struggle while the other provinces declined. Brecia grew at such a rampant pace, overpopulating the little resources that they had in their major cities. Although the people lacked physical advantages, the terrans were resourceful in their contraptions and inventions. It's this brilliance that caused the terrans to outwit some of their neighbouring provinces. In the beginning, the terrans would share their newfound discoveries with the six other provinces, but the terrans twisted their perceptions and shut the others out. They were greedy, lustful for dominance over the rest. To them, everyone else became the enemy. In return, they shut them out and kept to themselves until they were ready to gain the upper hand.
But there was one province that the terrans kept in close quarters. Eshon was the south-eastern neighbour to Brecia, a smaller echelon of land that jutted out into the Rosrey Gulf. The seaside pinnacle was all that was needed for the nautica to establish a home base. The nautica are a sea colony, a breed of terrans that have evolved to be able to breath and forage beneath the waters. Most have gills on their necks and empty eyes. Others appear as sirens that lure sailors to their impending doom. The nautica are crafty in their schemes, always outsmarting the others and tricking them like pirates and thieves. Most of their cities have grown beneath the ocean's surface deep into the heart of the gulf, out of sight from anyone who dares try to attack. No one knows of the leviathans they keep hidden for war. It's better that the nautica keep to themselves.
Just west of Brecia was another colony—Tabrien, that belongs to the werewolves, commonly referred to as the were. They are feared by most, but the were learned that their ways polarised them from the rest of the kingdoms. Their lands are stricken with meadows, forests, and rivers, easy to get lost in, yet easy to hunt large game like deer and elk. The were find themselves connected to the moon, their lives and actions all revolving around the sky and seasons. Its under this light that the were shift from their human forms and into brute wolves of carnage. The were themselves operate under a hierarchy of sorts, all obeying the alpha's command. The alpha will lead the people, will provide for them, will keep them safe when pack numbers dwindle as the inability to fall pregnant from mating becomes frequently common. There's consequences when a wolf selects a mate that isn't a were, consequences that surely will leave a bitter sting.
Most choose to avoid Tabrien and the volatile were, but the province of Scaerus fares worse. Although dreadfully small, only half the size of Tabrien and Brecia, Scareus becomes a home for the witchers and witches. Long ago, there was an ancient that followed the paths of twisted magic and spells. The cult following grew until the curses and incantations forced them to choose their own isolated lands. No one dares enter Scaerus unless they have a favour to ask that goes beyond the realms of life and death. The rituals performed will leave lasting scars—physical or ones meant to wound the soul. The runes etched into stone outside the main city gates are enough to deter those who travel by, and yet they there's still a draw to their complex prophecies. It only makes a passer-byer ask, is the request truly worth it?
For thousands of years, the fae have thrived in the whimsical lands of Yestrea. All breeds of woodland fae have been welcomed within their borders, even those who have been considered outcasts find themselves calling Yestrea their home. Sweet berry wine flows abundantly as nymphs play fiddles and sing ancient ballads. Pixies cause mischief, especially towards outsiders who are unfamiliar with the ways of the fae. Fae seek a good time, a good fuck, a good dance. Yet, beneath all that delight, fae magic becomes one of the most powerful in the kingdom. A fae can obliterate a witch at any magic, although fae magic cannot touch anything regarding the dead and damned. Generally, the fae are a welcoming bunch if you can stomach your drink.
To the southwestern corner of Aelethia lies Pailon, home of the ancients. They're descendents of the heavens, dominant in their powers and abilities. To the other six provinces, the ancients are like gods. Powerful. In control. Divine. The ancients are the chieftain of the seven groups, but eons have passed by since their reign. They've fallen due to their own decisions to reject the other six provinces, isolating themselves to their own lands. Invisible borders rise from dust to prevent any intruders from infiltrating their domain. In that moment of pure isolation, the other six provinces fell into disarray, depending on their own instincts and abilities to survive. No one knows what lies within Pailon. It's only a plethora of rumours stacked upon each other, telling tales of mass torture for those who defy their orders.
It's here, at such a desolate time, that the shift within Aelethia begins. With the seven provinces completely divided, there is one who vows to stitch that rift back together. There's an enemy greater than what anyone can comprehend, a disease eradicating those who breathe in the air of Aelethia. It's a defect, a blight, killing living organisms without mercy.
There's no known cure.
But there can be, if one is willing to tear their soul apart.
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september 16, 2023.
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