It began after Ex'Àomë abjured the force that sought to dominate all that is. For this Ex'nílë brought forth their agent, R̄ësha onto creation to fragment its existence and accelerate its decay. At the dawn of time R̄ësha introduced Ego to the universe– and imbued it into all things within creation. This brought chaos to Ex'Àomë's realm, and so the Overgod took each aspect of being and shaped an avatar to contain its Ego.
First were the three chromatics: the Greater Gods of Red, Green, and Blue. Then came the three lusters or luminosities: the Greater Gods of Gold, Silver, and Bronze. And then the two tones: the Greater Gods of Black and White.
From these Ex'Àomë painted the world into being and declared them the eight colors of the earth– each appearing as horned and winged serpents bearing four great legs beset by five claws a piece. Yet Ego had sown discord in His realm and in the gaps of Ex'Àomë's labors, R̄ësha whispered to the chaos of creation. To ease this, Ex'Àomë shaped the chaos of creation into ten sentinels– vigilant, and in His own image. These ten were the Greater Gods of the Heavens.
Asur: Greater God of War, Conflict, and Strife, brought to heel the discord of creation by force, and then made way for Az: Greater God of the Dead, the Unworthy, and the Damned, to execute the untamable. To cast light on the sins of the wicked, Ex'Àomë created Sòl: Greater God of Light, Warmth, and Revelations. When light and shadow refused to coalesce, Ex'Àomë took the ebb of the shadows before the light and turned it into Saul: Greater God of the Recess, Decay, and Retreat. For Saul whose heart was marked by dismay, Ex'Àomë created Azur: Greater God of Rejuvenation, Procedure, and Motion. When the stone and soil of the earth was laid, Ex'Àomë created Alassochisma: Greater God of Breath, Life, and Righteous Suffering to populate the world with things that grow. To bring presence and feeling to the earth, Ex'Àomë made Sigil: Greater God of the Earth, Matter, and Endurance. To improve the nascent world, Ex'Àomë created Metaphor: Greater God of Progress, Advancement, and Technology. Then, to obscure the world from the gaze of the wicked, Ex'Àomë made Sía: Greater God of the Winds, Secrets, and the Sky. Then at last, to distinguish all of Being from Abyss, Ex'Àomë created Yrell: Greater God of Borders, Wards, and Arbitration.
When these eighteen gods were made, Ex'Àomë told each of the gods to organize their domains into coherence and reason– and thus born were the Lesser Gods that served under the greater domains. Among the Lesser Gods of the realms of Yrell and Asur, two came into friendship during the War of Choice. One was Omenoth, the Lesser God of Victory– the Head of the Triumphs under the domain of Asur. The second was Elarithon, the Lesser God of Old Justice– keeper of Oaths and Promises under the domain of Yrell.
These two came to bear a friendship following the defeat of Heŕzeth. The deadly Haraush'teth conjured from his four wicked hands each a meteor to strike the earth. His breath– of fire and fear conjoined and inseparably perverted towards dominion. Each time his caprine hooves struck the earth they caused it to pulse like a bloated heart ready to burst. His flattish tail– emblazoned by the bristles of an ox at its end, whipping the flesh from bone with a flick! And the winding, twisting torso that stretches, rolls and turns about like a whirlwind. How the dark Demon of Defeat brought despair to the gods. Yet not to Victory and not to Justice. With his golden spear, Omenoth pierced the side of Heŕzeth– and wielding a sword of white metal Elarithon beheaded the vile Haraush'teth. So did Victory and Justice overcome Defeat.
To celebrate the achievement, the two swore an oath of brotherhood. Omenoth and Elarithon became conjoined, and vowed to keep each other as comrades forever– never to harm one another. But times of yore's glory passed into legend and again into myth. When the War of Choice had ended and the armies raised by R̄ësha's machinations were banished into the dark corners of the earth, Omenoth and Elarithon reposed in the kingdom of heaven above the Terra. But a prophecy haunted them…
Under Ex'Àomë's invitation, the Daemons of Past, Present, and Future– dubbed the Ariaddnír– came to reside in the heavens. Omenoth, who had heard tell of this, beseeched his friend and brother to join him– and hear what the Voice of Time had to say to them.
"Come," said Omenoth, "let us see if these Daemons of Abyss can tell our fortunes. Or if their fraudulent powers will quiver before our might as once did Heŕzeth centuries ago!"
"But brother, what need have we for prophecies? It would only mire our hearts and minds to hear the Daemons speak."
"Bah—! I am Victory, unquenchable Supremacy and Triumph— and you are Justice! Beyond any fault or reproach. Together we need fear no one– certainly not those Abyssites."
Despite Omenoth's words, Elarithon maintained his fears. Yet he persisted. As his courage mustered, Elarithon accepted Omenoth's challenge.
"Very well," he said, "then let us take to the Ariaddnír, and find out what future awaits us."
So did the two travel to see the Ariaddnír and behold the three in darkness and obscurity. The Present spoke first– "who would come here to seek us now?"
Then the Past, "It was Victory and Justice."
"And what would they ask of us?"
Elarithon thought to be polite and wait to be called on by the Ariaddnír. But Omenoth was boisterous and proud. His voice rang out in the dim hall, "Daemons of Past, Present and Future. I come with my brother to hear my prophecy told. Let me hear you all recount the endlessness of my victories!"
Omenoth thought himself clever– invincible and eternally victorious— but the answer he received did not inspire him.
"Omenoth, Head of the Triumphs…" the Ariaddnír of the Future spoke at last.
"Your brother shall lead you to death– it shall be the jaws of the wolf that claim you."
Future's head turned to Justice next.
"Elarithon, Keeper of Oaths and Promises… You shall be betrayed, and die upon the Terra under the maw of a great shadow."
When both of these prophecies were said, Omenoth bellowed in laughter. His head flung back and chest puffed heartily as he cackled openly in the hall.
"You hear that brother? Leave it to an Abyssite to try and lead us astray! Why Lord Ex'Àomë brought you crones into heaven is beyond me– as is the stool you call wisdom it seems!"
But though bold and defiant was Omenoth, Elarithon felt himself fearful at their words. For many years he feared his own shadow and avoided even cursory shades that lingered around the corners of each room. He would not even sleep unless it was under the light of the sun– the dark would haunt him all his life.
It was years later following the defeat of R̄ësha during the War of Choice that the offspring of demons began to populate the Terra alongside mortals. Their earliest descendants included many creatures of unnatural union. Born of the mixing from men and demons, half-bred creatures took shade beneath dark forest canopies and in the bowels of the earth. Among them were minotaurs, centaurs, satyrs, the Kar-folk, Kobolds, and many other dark creatures of the world.
But one in particular was hunted down to the verge of extinction. Omenoth slew every member of the Dire Wolf species he could find. He hunted them day and night, returned to heaven with talismans of their severed ears or a fist full of their heads to thump upon the table where Elarithon sat in peace.
"Cursed be these vile beasts. Each demon-bred ilk is viler than the last. And the things they do to reproduce— ugh! I dare not speak of it further."
Elarithon greeted his friend with his usual enthusiasm, "you've returned victorious once more! The realms are always safe with you around."
"Aye, though they'd be safer if these demons could ever stop breeding. Why does Lord Ex'Àomë not simply deny their births– is He not the Overgod of Creation? It should be well within His powers to decide what is and is not created upon the Terra."
Elarithon– being well versed in the subjects of justice, pondered what moral reason there could be to permit the demons to breed.
"Perhaps it was not to preserve the demon's right to reproduction, but to grant the right instead to the mortal parent. For a demon grows weaker with each generation they sire– their power thins as it is passed on to another. But the mortal parent need not sacrifice their lifeforce or essence to bear children under normal circumstances. I believe that Lord Ex'Àomë would not deny the children of innocent mortals who were subjected to the ill cruelties of demons. For life is a blessing after all."
But Omenoth felt dismissive to these reasons, "that sounds too rich if you ask me. Better that the child and demon parents be killed as one. I've seen enough Dire Wolves to know they're all of a piece."
Omenoth took a hearty gulp of ale and added, "and to think that the Ariaddnír went on and on about the wolf– yet here they are, dead as stones in my grasp."
The Lesser God of Victory wriggled the heads by their neck tendons as he spoke– to punctuate his point.
"You know– despite my efforts, even the Dire Wolves are starting to form offspring. They've crossed with mortal races to make a breed of man-wolves that hide their true forms in the sunlight and crawl like beasts under the night— Werewolves, as the Westmans have started to call them."
"Now, now, brother. Let's not be hasty or you may cross the line. Remember that we are Gods– keepers of order and right living. It is not in our purview to slay all the evils of the Terra. Leave some glory for the mortals to accomplish too."
"Bah! Those flimsy mortals wouldn't know the right end of a spear! How about you accompany me on my next hunt brother— I believe that I've traced the location of the last Òhrnír— the Great Wolf Demons of old that once we faced in the War of Choice! If we slay it together, we would have nothing to fear."
Elarithon thought Omenoth's actions too eager– careless, almost.
"I am not so sure it is that simple to kill an Òhrnír."
"Oh, my stubborn little brother– why the hesitation. I offer this chance for you after all! I see how you fear your own shadow— come. Help me slay this wolf and we'll prove for the both of us that the Ariaddnír's prophecy was nothing more than the drivel of mad crones!"
Reluctantly, Elarithon agreed, and they set down to the Terra to hunt the Great Wolf Demon on the earth. What they discovered at the end of Omenoth's tracking was Sidji, the Demon of Regret. A great battle ensued which caused Elarithon to be struck by the foul wolf's teeth upon the right arm— yet the two prevailed and defeated the great beast.
But then, things took an unexpected turn.
For within the lair of the last Òhrnír, there was a small pup— just one that remained inside. It growled, yet so small it was as to not frighten the two gods.
At once Omenoth sought to strike it dead beside its mother, but Elarithon stayed his hand.
"Hold Omenoth— the creature has committed no wrongs. It is an unjust hunt to slay a newborn beside its mother's corpse– such cruelty is unbecoming of the gods."
"Bah! It is just a beast– a descendant of demons no less. Need we complicate things by pretending that the creature can be redeemed, when we both know its spirit is damaged beyond reconciliation?"
"It is not our purview to pass judgement upon the living. We are to judge Victory and Oaths."
"Come now! Must you stay my hand? I've had a taste of victory already now with the felling of the beast's mother, why not finish the saga with the pup's death too?"
At last Elarithon stepped between Omenoth and the pup, "I am asking you as your brother– please be merciful. Let me raise the pup and prove that a merciful hand shall not be fed upon by the wolf."
Under Elarithon's earnest pleas, Omenoth lowered his spear– yet would not stop eyeing the pup with suspicion. They returned with the head of Sidji and were met with rancorous applause throughout the heavens. Yet the pup was scorned by many. The gods looked at it with suspicion and revulsion. Some questioned Elarithon's wisdom to bring it into heaven. But these doubts were assuaged by Ex'Àomë, who allowed Elarithon to raise the wolf in his private holdings.
This continued for several more centuries, until the Dire Wolf had grown quite large that even the roof of Elarithon's private palace struggled to contain the great beast's scale. It was larger than any other Dire Wolf seen before or yet in all time– and in the years of care he had given it, Elarithon provided for it a name to remember the wolf by: Nathranír— Devourer. For so ravenous was the wolf's appetite that it had on many occasions nearly emptied the godly pantry. But no doubt, its size began to trouble the other residents of the heavens. Greater God Yrell called on Elarithon to discuss the matter.
"Elarithon," He said, "your wolf has grown too large and its sight too terrible for the heavens to bear any longer. The shadow it casts blocks the light of Sòl, and the smell is ill and often cited in complaints from the other gods. As the mediator, I must tell you that the wolf is unable to stay in the heavens— especially unleashed."
Beside Elarithon, Omenoth spoke out, "I have a solution brother!"
"And what is it, brother?"
"If it is merely the size and the lack of restraint, why not let me handle that. I know a fitting way to tie up the beast— mercifully and comfortably for everyone involved."
But Elarithon expressed his doubts, "I don't know. It would feel improper to subjugate the wolf by force. Nathranír has done nothing to warrant imprisonment against his consent."
"Now, now, brother— there's no need to call it imprisonment. It is merely a comfortable confinement."
"Then, you give your word that it shall not be anything unpleasant?"
"Of course, brother! When have I ever lied to you!"
At high sun the next day, Elarithon went before the wolf, who addressed him in a voice of silk and swords, "Elarithon, what is it? Your eyes are a darker shade of gold today."
"Forgive me, Nathranír– but it seems that the heavens are unanimously upset with your growing size. They fear it will bring great unrest if you are not restrained and made small."
"Have I not been as peaceful as a lamb all these years?"
"Aye, you have at length. But this is what the heavens have asked of me. If you would choose instead to return to the Terra, I would venture down with you for a time."
"And would you stay with me on the Terra, Elarithon?"
"No, Nathranír. I cannot stay on the Terra. It is not a place meant for me."
"But neither is it meant for me, Elarithon– and it seems, heaven too is not a place for me."
"Forgive me– I say, Nathranír. Forgive me. But lo now, hope yet stands before us. My brother has secured a method to ensure you can remain in heaven."
"That petty god of Victory? I do not trust him, Elarithon."
"You need not fear him, Nathranír. He is my brother, his word is as good as mine."
"So you claim, but that remains to be seen. Let us go to this Omenoth– Head of the Triumphs, and see if he is as good as your word."
So Elarithon brought Nathranír to the palace of Omenoth in the heavens, and in a basement veiled by the wandering clouds, Omenoth awaited his sworn brother and friend.
"There you are, brother– and I see you brought the beast!"
"Now Omenoth, are you sure this place will be quite comfortable– and what are those chains?"
At the feet of the Lesser God of Victory were a set of thick shackles made of a bronze and gold-like metal.
"These are the restraints of course! I had them made by Amos to restrain even the strongest demon around the time you took in the pup. A mere precaution of course– and fear not brother! I gave my word after all."
"Lies," said Nathranír.
"He means to slay me, Elarithon! You must not trust this fell god's words!"
Elarithon was shocked at the shared animosity that his two closest friends bore each other.
"Why, Nathranír. There is no need for doubt. Like I said, Omenoth is my brother, he would not break his word."
And Elarithon had good confidence to believe it. Omenoth had given his binding word to Elarithon. Promised that he would not deceive his sworn brother– and a promise with the Lesser God of Oaths and Promises was not one easily broken. Yet Elarithon had underestimated the worm of pride that moved Omenoth. For what had a god that's never tasted loss have to fear from merely a broken oath?
Elarithon– seeing Nathranír's unwillingness, took on an ultimate risk to keep his word. He put forward his dominant hand before Nathranír and spoke, "Nathranír, Omenoth will only bind you– nothing more. If I should lie then take my right arm as penance."
There was a pause, uncertainty stretched between the three, and then, Nathranír accepted the gambit and opened his maw to hold Elarithon's hand before him.
"Excellent!" Yelled Omenoth who began to work at once to restrain the wolf.
Nathranír kept his eyes on Elarithon though, watching– waiting for a hint of doubt. But there was none– no lie in Elarithon's expression. Then, the last shackle clamped shut– and the cage was sealed.
Omenoth's voice rang out proud at once and vicious.
"It's done now! Excellent work brother– now the beast cannot escape!"
As Omenoth drew his spear with which to pierce the wolf's side, Nathranír's tear-filled glare narrowed on Elarithon.
"You lied!" He screamed– jaws poised to close on Elarithon's arm.
Like a thousand storms Elarithon's mind swirled– but alas. What could be done about the past? Perhaps instead they should've asked how to change the past when they saw the Ariaddnír– rather than asking to know their futures. But the scar of Regret could not now be mended. At once as these events unfolded in heaven, their impact on the Terra was immediately consequential. Oaths began to not just fail but warp and twist into something profoundly tragic. To preserve the balance of things, Elarithon made the only choice he could to save his brother, his friend, and fulfill his duty as the Keeper of Oaths and Promises all simultaneously.
Elarithon set his gaze to Nathranír's own flaming eyes and spoke calmly.
"Yes, Nathranír… I lied."
A pause– a cry– a fury!
Then came the crunch of flesh and bone– and the splatter of something red oozing down Elarithon's cheek.
The bound wolf was helpless, yet before Omenoth's spear could strike, Elarithon took his white sword and struck the wolf through the eye cleanly.
Nathranír was dead, and with it came the death of all promises spoken round the world. Every god felt it— watched in fact as Elarithon's palace crumbled into nothing. Then, Ex'Àomë appeared.
At once they were in the Grand Hall of the Gods– Just Elarithon and Ex'Àomë alone.
"Do you know why I've brought you here, Elarithon?"
"Yes. It is because I lied."
"Why did you lie, Elarithon?"
"I had to– or else my brother would be made a liar instead."
"So you lied to make your brother's words true?
"Yes, he said that he would only bind the wolf– and that was all he had done. I was the one to end the wolf's life."
"But why did you call out to me? Why not let Yrell preside over your trial?"
"Because, my lord. There's no need for a trial. I confess all guilt, and request you exile me to the Terra. I shall live out my days in a frail body– bereft of my strength there. Should I die at the hands of mortal means, then it shall process my soul to the realm of Az, where all mortal spirits go when they die."
"Is this your way of repentance?"
"That— and more. For no doubt the Oaths and Promises have all been twisted now by my failure. In my absence, that which has been ruined can be paused. Until you should find a suitable replacement for my position to restore rightful order to the Oaths and Promises, I shall wander the Terra as penance. Please grant me exile as I deserve."
"And what of Omenoth?"
"He has not broken his word, nor did he do wrong by the laws of the heavens. Thus, he need not suffer any consequence for my failures."
"Will you not live to regret this choice?"
Elarithon answered as calm as still waters.
"I will not."
"Then go to earth with my blessing. I shall permit you to call upon your power thrice each day and under pain of oblivion should you use it for ill."
"I understand."
"Additionally, you are forbidden to use your powers to rob the mortal races of their moral agency– you may not compel them under force, or dominate them through excessive might. You may not steal from a mortal their right to ill choices, nor should you command them unto good either. You may only guide and teach– though I will permit you to wield your might in the presence of the supernatural and only so to fell it. Keep to these conditions, and you may live upon the Terra diminished– but undying. Should you hold true enough to these laws, I will eventually permit your return to the heavens."
"I thank you, Lord Ex'Àomë."
"Now go— unto the Terra to serve your penance."
Thus was Elarithon cast down from the heavens– where he would go on for another four thousand years. Upon the Terra one day, the elves and demigods of Aurum would call him Vaelor— 'Graceful One.' And across the ages he watched the world change. A vagrant of countless years, wandering the world dressed in black and white. Such was his penance and his last remaining Oath.