Chronicle of the Isola - Volume I

On the Age of the Old World- called also The Age of Wonders

Before the counting of years, before flame was named and tide was measured, the world was whole. In that elder dawn — now remembered as the Age of the Old World — land, sea, and sky lay unbroken beneath a single law, and abundance flowed as freely as breath. The hills were young and unscarred, the rivers shone as if lit from within, and the earth itself was said to remember every footstep that crossed it. This was a time when the veil between mortal and divine lay thin as mist at sunrise.

The gods did not yet rule from afar. They walked the fields and forges, stood upon the cliffs, and listened to the songs of mortals as one listens to kin. Their presence lingered in wind and soil alike — in every harvest, every spark struck from iron, every dream dreamt beneath the stars. To live in that age was to know the gods not as distant powers, but as living forces woven into the world’s breath.

Five great divinities shaped the order of existence, and through them the nature of all things was set. Together, these powers held the world in living balance. Fire gave purpose and renewal; Water brought change and memory; Air carried freedom and thought; Earth granted endurance and law; and Shadow bestowed understanding of endings and truths unseen. Under their gaze, mortals flourished. Kingdoms rose in harmony with the land itself, and magic moved through the world as naturally as rain or flame.

In those days, to speak a god’s name was not prayer, but invocation. To build in their likeness was to anchor eternity in stone. Cities were raised not in defiance of nature, but as extensions of it — forge-cities glowing like embers at dusk, tide-temples that sank and rose with the moon, high halls where wind sang through living spires of stone.

Now, the works of that age lie broken and half-buried. The forges stand cold beneath drifting sand. Temples sleep beneath the eastern seas. Mountain crowns lie hollow where laughter once echoed on the wind. Yet even in ruin, the Old World endures. Its relics whisper, its stones remember, and the land itself mourns — for it was once young, and it once walked beside gods.

The Flamebearer

Pyrion, called the Flamebearer, was lord of fire in all its forms — the forge-fire and the wildfire, the hearth’s warmth and the battlefield’s blaze. He taught that destruction and renewal were not enemies, but twins born of the same spark. From him mortals learned that strength is not given, but forged.

His lands lay in the southern reaches, where sun-scorched plains met iron-rich hills. There, cities of brass and blackened stone rose beneath his sign: a burning sun crowned over an anvil. His people honored him through trial — contests of craft and combat alike — believing that only through struggle could worth be proven.

Pyrion was fierce, proud, and fiercely protective. To stand beneath his banner was to accept hardship as sacred. Those who endured were tempered; those who broke were reforged, or cast aside. His creed was simple and unforgiving: to live is to burn, and to burn is to become.

The Lady of the Tides

Thalyra, the Lady of the Tides, ruled the ever-moving waters and the slow, unyielding truth of change. She was the calm current and the breaking storm, the healer’s touch and the drowning wave. Where Pyrion taught endurance through fire, Thalyra taught survival through yielding.

Her temples rose along coasts, estuaries, and river-mouths — places where land and water met and neither could claim dominion. Her symbol, a silver crescent rising over a wave, marked the cycles of moon and tide, birth and decay.

Her faithful learned patience above all things. They listened for omens in foam and current, trusting that all things pass when the moment is right. To resist change was folly; to flow with it was wisdom. When the tide turned, however, Thalyra’s servants struck swiftly — for water remembers every wound it ever carved.

The Keeper of the Gale

Vaelith, Keeper of the Gale, ruled the open sky and the restless breath of the world. He was patron of freedom, inspiration, and thought unbound — the voice that whispers new ideas and the storm that tears down walls.

His worshippers made their homes in high places: wind-scoured peaks, floating towers, and cliff-citadels tethered by rope and spell alone. They rejected crowns and chains alike, believing that obedience was a kind of death. To them, choice was sacred, and stagnation the greatest sin.

His emblem, a feather caught within a spiraling gust, flew upon banners that bowed to no lord. Chroniclers describe Vaelith as brilliant and mercurial — laughing one moment, distant the next — the breath that kindles creation and scatters it to chaos.

The Stone-Mother

Morghain, the Stone-Mother, was the earth’s enduring heart. She embodied foundation, memory, tradition, and the slow justice of time. Where others changed and burned, she remained.

Her people built to last: fortresses carved into mountains, halls sunk deep into the bedrock, roads laid to endure centuries of footfall. Her sigil, a mountain split by a single shaft of light, spoke of strength that does not bend, yet allows growth where it must.

Morghain was patient beyond measure, but her wrath, once stirred, was unstoppable. Her followers learned to honor vows as stone honors its shape — unyielding, honest, and heavy with consequence.

The Veil of Twilight

Nytheris, the Veil of Twilight, ruled the spaces between — dreams and secrets, death and remembrance, the boundary where knowledge becomes peril. Of all the gods, she was the least worshipped and the most feared.

Her temples stood apart, built in silence and shadow. Her rites were whispered, her truths paid for dearly. Her symbol, a dark veil drawn across a half-lit mask, marked the threshold between what is known and what should never be forgotten.

To Nytheris, ignorance was the greatest sin. Her faithful sought understanding at any cost, believing that truth — even terrible truth — was the only path to transcendence. Through her, mortals learned that endings are not enemies, but passages.

Across the Old World, these divine domains wove together into living harmony. Fire’s passion was tempered by water’s calm; air’s freedom was anchored by earth’s strength; and all were bound by the unseen hand of twilight. Cities thrived. Magic sang. Mortals believed themselves eternal beneath their gods’ gaze.

It was an age when miracles were not wonders, but daily truths — when faith was not hope, but proof. Though its songs are broken and its names half-lost, the world still remembers.

And when wind stirs the ash of fallen temples, it whispers still:

"We walked with gods.