Editing can be hell on my nerves. The desire to create gets stifled by anxiety over whether or not my writing is punctuated correctly, let alone any good. So I’m taking a break. Instead, I’ve begun a journey into the magical history that shaped the Realm and all my beloved characters. Enjoy!

This isn’t a child’s story. It has too many hard edges and sharpened swords to be blunted.
This is a story forged in fire and blood. Born in the darkest part of day, when the sun shone brighter than shadow, blacking out triumph and free will until the only sound left was a muted cry.
In a time before time, when the Realms were scarcely more than infants, the Goddesses conjured the Amaranthine Sheathe. Hemsut foretold a great reckoning and asked her sisters, Oya and Gula-Bau, for guidance. They created the timeless shield to maintain peace, but as time passed the realms grew from three to seven, and onward to eleven, until the Sheathe strained against their onslaught.
The smallest realm throbbed at the Sheath’s core. It was the first created and the first bound. All others spawned from its glimmer, but couldn’t contain its restlessness. The Goddesses were stretched, their magik wavering at its heart, and Evirdahl was ripe with chaos. Invaders warred for control. Infinite worlds battled, connected by Henge Veils, unsealed and exploited.
Evirdahl was sought after, for any who conquered the heart controlled the rest. Each of its tribes commanded a Henge, protecting the portals from invaders. Success was rare, the invaders were ruthless; they forced their way through the barriers, spewing magik and pillaging the fertile elements.
Factions rose, lording over the meek and mighty alike. Evirdahl needed a leader.
It couldn’t be any leader, she must be stalwart and kind, a fierce warrior and diplomat. But where in the Realm did such a woman exist?
It was Oya, much like the Lady of the Lake in the Other’s ancient tales, who first voiced the solution. They needed an Excalibur.
Unlike the glinting crowns of old, the Rowan Stellar was wrought of coral in the Drekimar’s deepest caverns; anointed with stars from the tallest peak of the Rvaaed Fjall and threaded with the root of the Nifl’s ancient Rowan tree. It was born through the natural progress of time, and its magik hinged on the three elements: Air, Water, and Earth.
The Goddesses created it to embody both purity and wickedness, for only the true leader would harness both. Boundless energy, confined in the gossamer wings of butterflies, nested within its branches. It had the power to create and the desire to destroy.
And it searched for its queen.
Prospects rose and fell, some daring to enter the cavern deep in the heart of the Tjorn and claim the crown for their own. Many entered the cavern, but none left.
None but one.

It took the dusting of fallen stars seeping into the air, water and soil to conceive a Disir. They were children of the Goddesses, born to create—guardians of the elements.
Like all children with the dew still fresh on their magik, they were mischievous. Their talents manifested in the balance of birth and death, each creature gifted with both talents. The Airies matured first, lording their abilities over the others, casting their Carving Stares at the Earth Sprites, still struggling to grow a seedling. The sapling would punch slowly through the soil, roots anchoring its delicate limbs only to be cut to the quick with a slice from an Air Fey fluttering overhead. The Woodlings responded by growing the trees higher, fighting with the Airies over the unfettered canopy of metasequoia trees, blocking the sun’s prism as it tilted over the earth. Eventually the Airies targeted the Water Nymphs, drying water basins until the earth was scorched and cracked, but the Waterlings fought back, raising the tide until the crest of a wave touched the heavens, spraying its salty brine over the altocumulus’ fragile fingers. Fey, unable to rest until they bested the Nymphs, froze the water droplets mingling within the clouds. As the frantic ice bumped and bounced, the air tensed, crackling with electricity, sizzling the newly formed storm clouds.
The land fizzled and groaned.
And the Goddesses were displeased.
Their children needed censure, guardians to nurture the elements created by the Disir, and keep them at bay. Yet they couldn’t agree on the method, Oya wanted fierce warriors to police the rebellious creatures, but Hemsut wanted a more gentle jailor.
Unwilling to bicker with her sisters, Gula-Bau pulled a fragment of bone from her jaw, molding it with a sliver of flesh and a solitary beat of her heart. The creatures took form quickly, like pottery spinning on a wheel, sputtering to life under the watchful eye of the Healer goddess.
Gula-Bau hid her creations deep in the heart of the Fjall, cautioning the fledgling dwarves against disturbing the delicate balance of earth, sea and sky. They must nourish, but still allow the Disir to create. Preserve without stifling. The Jord Dwarves grew in the shadow of the Earth Sprites, creating a kinship with the more peaceful Disir. As the Woodlings created, the Jord cared for the minerals and sediment, the tree roots and caverns. The Waterlings were resistant to the new creatures at first, but over time they allowed them to keep watch over the oceans, ensuring the reefs prospered, and the sea life abundant.
Soon, only the Air Fey resisted the Dwarves’ gentle onslaught.
Oya bristled, still believing that only a fierce warrior could police them. She wouldn’t listen to her sisters. While Gula-Bau’s Jord had indeed tempered the Nymphs and Sprites, they would need a creature less gentle to guide the Airies.
They needed Alfr.
Hemsut disagreed. The Disir would regard the Alfr as competition, spawning unrest and upending the peace the Jord had accomplished.
They needed to contain the Fey’s mischief, Oya argued.
Gula-Bau was silent. Her golden irises flickered to Oya.
Hemsut groaned.
Oya twisted a lock of her black hair around her finger, a smile brightening her eyes. With the flick of her wrist she pulled the delicate curl, watching as the atmosphere froze it until a bevy of droplets rushed, one after another, down the slender strand. Thickening as Oya’s fingers molded the frozen form into the limber shape of the Rimevar—her warriors.