By the Ancients- The Creation of A Champion

                                                                     Prologue

A  Fae History Lesson Part I

  It began with the birth of a new realm, before the earliest Fae chronicles.  In that pristine age Immortals stirred into being, immortal architects who wielded both creation’s breath and destruction’s edge. With a whisper they could fashion worlds; with a sigh they could unravel them back to stardust.

 Cybele, the eldest of all, hailed as the Mother of the Ancients. From her sprang rolling hills and towering mountains, forests draped in emerald leaves and meadows alive with wild flowers. She urges seeds to grow and roots to spread. All in a delicate harmony. Breathing life into the new realm.

Sedna, the Ancient of the Seas, controlling tides with a flick of her hand. Beneath her gaze the seas swelled and receded, salt wind dancing on crests of foam.  The winds and rains beckoned at her calls. She weaved underwater worlds, could summon the beast of the deep, and granted the Fae the skill to sail and fish and be witness to her creations.

Juno, the Ancient of Elysium, opened the gates to the celestial heavens, a place the Fae believed their souls would reach after death. The Ancient was celebrated for her protection of hearth and home, light, and vitality. Juno was the source of the Fae's longevity, granting them lasting youthfulness. Moreover, she gifted the Fae with the ability to have children. And the ability to love.

Nyx, the Ancient of the Night Sky and keeper of the Underworld. She commanded darkness itself, weaving it into endless corridors that devoured the screams of the corrupt and wicked as they clawed at their own flesh in final reckoning. Stars punctured her black expanse like the eyes of a thousand vengeful gods, cold and merciless in their eternal watch.

Persephone, The Ancient of War, stood poised between storm and calm. When her voice rang forth, armies called truce and laid down arms; when her glance sharpened, revolts sparked into flame. She was the pulse of conflict and the hush that follows victory, equally at home amid clashing blades or the soft bloom of reconciliation.

  Majii, the Ancient of Magic, scattered shards of wonder across the realm. In her gentle smile mystery was born, inventions of healing, miracles of alchemy, and the quiet enchantments that made mornings glow with possibility. Through her gift, scholars discovered new sciences and mages learned spells that danced like fireflies on a midsummer night.

Lastly, and most tragically, there was Lyssa, the Ancient of Forethought. She alone pierced the veil of time, witnessing the ecstasy and agony that her sister Ancients would birth into existence. Humanity found no fiercer champion; she burned with love for the Fae, her favored creation. Fire leapt to her command, scorching those who defied her principles of brutal justice and glorious redemption. Yet her gift of prophecy was her curse, a blade that cut everyone but herself. Blind to her own destiny, she never saw the horror that would ravage her mind and body, leaving her broken beyond repair. Her madness echoed across realms until her sisters, weeping blood, forced her into an eternal slumber, a mercy that felt like deceit.

In the whispered corridors of the realm, where myths were spun into reality, and legends were carved into the very fabric of time, there existed an entity known to all as the Eighth. He was a shadowed figure, veiled in the mists, his name uttered only in hushed tones and with an air of fear. He was not a creator, but one who thrived to destroy. To the revered Ancients, he was but a male amidst goddesses, his presence regarded as a stain upon their immaculate spectrum. With disdainful eyes, the sisterhood dismissed him out of hand.  To them, he was a disgrace that dirtied their divine heritage.

Beneath arches of light, the seven sisters convened their tribunal. Their verdict came swiftly, unanimously. The Eighth, their brother, no longer belonged among them, an aberration in their perfect Fae harmony. "Banishment," the eldest pronounced, her voice like breaking crystal. They denied him of title, of heritage, of home, condemning him to borderland realms that where neither day nor night held dominion. Rootless, he drifted through the twilight realms, a shadow among shadows. Yet in his heart, a single flame burned, not of belonging, but of vengeance. As he traversed the forgotten paths between worlds, his thoughts turned ever toward the sisters who had cast him out.

At last, the Eighth's opportunity arrived. He cornered Lyssa in the shadows of her own sanctuary. His plea twisted logic, if she would only embrace him, surely the others would follow. Her refusal ignited his rage. What followed was violation of both spirit and flesh, a desecration that left her collapsed upon cold stone. Hours later, her sisters discovered what remained of her dignity, shattered like temple offerings upon an abandoned altar. The Eighth had fled like a coward, not to be seen or heard of for a thousand years.

              Together, the seven female Ancients embarked on a grand endeavor to build and shape their new Realm. They unanimously embraced the name Elphame, signifying the essence of their collective vision. With meticulous care, they molded the lands into breathtaking vistas, lush and fertile, and commanded the wild seas teeming with formidable beasts, creating a sanctuary where the creatures of their imagination could flourish. Thus began the era of the Fae kind. These beings were swift and nimble, exuding an aura of strength and grace. A select few among them were bestowed with extraordinary powers, gifts granted at the discretion of the Ancients themselves. As the centuries unfolded, these lands blossomed into mighty kingdoms, and the Fae population thrived and multiplied. Other creatures evolved alongside them over time. The prevailing peace and harmony brought profound joy and satisfaction to the Ancients, prompting them to carve out their own domain within this Realm. They named it the Isle of the Ancients, each constructing a temple reflective of their unique vision. Even Lyssa, the Ancient of Foresight, was honored with a temple, a place that secretly became her tomb.       

  Over time, the Ancient known as Manjii found herself restless. Her spirit yearned for creation beyond what was, but her fellow Ancients lacked the same fervor. They each found solace in their secluded island, some even contemplating joining Lyssa in the long rest; a deep, comatose state that enveloped immortals for extended periods. Manjii, driven by her unquenchable thirst for creation, departed from this Realm to forge new ones, her absence leaving a void among her sisters for countless years. Life continued for the remaining five, until one day, an ominous darkness seeped into the Realm once again. The once-vibrant lands withered, the seas' bounties dwindled, and the skies were shrouded with unprecedented storms.

Tales spread of a mysterious entity, of unknown origin, whose presence tainted the Realm with malice. He was of the Fae kind that many referred to as Lazerus Draven. Rumors circulated that he possessed the formidable ability of a Syphon, capable of draining the powers of others. The Ancients, perplexed by his origin, endeavored to locate him, but he eluded them with the cunning of a shadow. All knew this was a sign that the creature they sought was the Eighth returned.

The Ancients were in unanimous agreement that a champion was essential to seek out and defeat the lurking dark entity. Among the ranks of the Fae, many were endowed with great strength and intellect, yet only a select few embodied the untamed spirit and keen wit necessary to track down this elusive shadow. They resolved to embark on a quest to find this exceptional being, one who would receive the bestowed powers essential for triumphing over their adversary. With this victory, their enchanted Realm would be restored to its former state of harmonious splendor.

    This was their creation of a champion.