The Crimson Exodus & the Birth of a Tyrant

Long before the gods claimed dominion over existence, before even the first whispers of divinity kissed the fabric of reality, there was a dying land—a festering corpse adrift in the abyss of the cosmos.

The ones who called it home were known as the Crimsons.

An immortal race, radiant yet cursed, they drained the lifeblood of their world—Aetheria, the very essence of their existence. When the wells of power dried, when their celestial cradle withered beneath their hands, they did what all desperate beings do.

They fled.

Upon ships of flesh and stone, grotesque cathedrals of living matter carved from the remains of their own ruined land, they sailed through the void, drifting for billions of years, seeking a new home to claim as their own.

And time after time, they found them.

Worlds teeming with life, rich in energy, each one a fleeting oasis in their endless journey. They descended like gods, mated with the inhabitants, marked the land with their presence—and when the last drop of Aetheria was squeezed from the soil, they abandoned it, leaving behind nothing but ruins and forgotten bloodlines.

But then, they found it.

A world like no other. A land that called to them—that pulsed with reserves of Aetheria so vast, so inexhaustible, it seemed as if fate itself had carved this realm for them alone.

They descended upon it, named it Aetherion, and for the first time in an eternity, they felt something akin to belonging.

The Rise of Mortals & the Shackles of Slavery

A millennium passed.

The lush green fields of Aetherion flourished beneath their dominion, a paradise shaped by immortal hands. The Crimsons basked in their supremacy, believing themselves to be the sole inheritors of this perfect land.

But nature does not belong to gods alone.

Something was stirring.

From the shadows of the forests, from the depths of the mountains, from the belly of the caves, they emerged.

The first glimpses were almost laughable—small, primitive creatures shambling in the undergrowth like newborns learning to crawl.

But they were not beasts.

No, they were humanoids—lesser, yes, but undeniably akin to the Crimsons. Though their flesh was weak, their bones fragile, and their minds clouded by ignorance, there was something dangerous about them.

They were evolving.

The Crimsons gave them names, mocking names:

The pointy-eared wanderers in the forests, whose songs carried through the wind? Elves.

The brutish figures lurking in damp caves, gnarled and wicked? Goblins. Their larger, more fearsome kin? Orcs.

The squat but unyielding figures carving stone beneath the mountains? Dwarves.

Curious. Amusing. But nothing to be feared. Not yet.

And so the Crimsons did what gods do when they find something beneath them.

They enslaved them.

Chains were forged. Whips cracked. The first civilizations of mortals were built in blood, in sweat, in the weeping of the oppressed. The Crimsons, once mere wanderers, became tyrants, bending this new breed of life to their will.

But slavery is a cruel teacher, and the lessons it imparts are written in fire and rebellion.

For suffering breeds hatred.

Hatred breeds defiance.

And defiance births war.

The Betrayer & the Birth of a New Order

Amidst the fires of uprising, one among the Crimsons turned against her own kind.

Her name was Ramalel.

Once a daughter of privilege, a god among mortals, she cast aside her birthright and sought an audience with one far above even the Crimsons.

The Creator Deity—Goddess Brahma.

In an act of divine treason, Ramalel swore her soul in servitude to the divine mother, and in return, she was given power beyond comprehension.

She ascended.

No longer Ramalel, but Marafyre the Absolute.

And with her newfound divinity, she unleashed her wrath.

The heavens burned as she tore her brethren asunder, a cleansing storm of divine fire that reduced the once-great Crimsons to nothing but memories and ashes.

The age of the eternal was over.

From the remnants of the fallen, she forged a new pantheon, raising her most loyal warriors into deities, each given dominion over the world she had won.

And with this, she cast away the name Aetherion.

The land, baptized in blood, was reborn as Drakastradorn.

The Madness of the God-Queen

But power is a fickle thing.

Corrupting. Twisting.

At first, Marafyre ruled with wisdom and grace, a beacon of justice to the mortals who had suffered under the Crimsons.

But as the centuries passed, her fairness became cruelty.

Her righteousness became tyranny.

Her love for her people became an obsession with control.

Where once she had fought to end oppression, she became its new face.

Marafyre the Liberator became Marafyre the Tyrant.

And the world trembled beneath her heel.

The Watchful Eyes of Divinity

High above the chaos, seated in the celestial beyond, Brahma watched.

The great mother, the one who had granted Marafyre her godhood, now looked upon her creation with deep, simmering rage.

This was not the order she had willed.

This was not the justice that had been promised.

Marafyre had become something worse than the Crimsons she had sworn to destroy.

But Brahma did not act.

For she knew.

Something was coming.

Or perhaps... someone.

A force that would one day rise against the god-queen. A force that would shake the heavens themselves.

A force that would bring about the end of tyranny.

And so, the goddess waited.

For destiny, like rebellion, always finds its way.