Stone Statues - The Beginning

The Final Pulse of Theadomma & Creation of the Elemental Deities

In the farthest reaches of the primordial void—where time has no tether and the silence holds secrets older than creation—there burned a star unlike any other. Her name, though unknown to the fledgling cosmos, whispered through gravitational tides and wove itself into the frequency of life yet unborn: Theadomma.

She had pulsed with light for eons—her fire steady, radiant, kind. But all stars end, and hers came in a brilliance so vast it reshaped the breath of eternity. Not simply death, but metamorphosis. When her core collapsed, it did not scatter into lifeless gases or become a singularity devouring its own birth. No—the explosion spun outward as a halo of gold, teal, and silver flame, folding upon itself like a ribbon of divine intent.

From that conflagration, she emerged.

She did not fall. She unfolded.

A celestial woman stood where light had once reigned—her form vast yet intimate, clothed in rippling robes of starlight threaded with windswept aurora. Eyes of pale lightning, hair cascading like braided solar flares. Her very breath created motion, her skin shimmered with the geometry of galaxies. She was no longer a star—she was the Goddess of Air and Creation, and her rebirth signaled a turning point the universe could not name.

The nearby stars, once her kin in stellar fire, shuddered as her wave engulfed them. They, too, flared, split, and emerged in kind—beings not of flesh, nor flame, but essence. Three emerged: radiant, sublime, newly forged.

They did not arrive with thunder nor trumpet, but in waves of instinct—each forged from the energy Theadomma left behind in her divine exhale. Her radiance had not just formed them. It had chosen them.

First came Pallamay, from the watery shimmer of the nearest engulfed star. Her birth trembled through the streams of time like ink flowing across ageless parchment. She emerged serene, elegant—skin reflecting moonlit oceans, hair braided from waterfalls and midnight rivers. She spoke not in words but in lullabies, each syllable rippling across centuries. She was the Goddess of Water and Time, and to gaze upon her was to remember every sorrow and healing ever felt.

Then Nyxsis, the flame-born. The blast that shaped her was abrupt, fierce—cutting into the dark like the first flare of desire. She rose in a hurricane of scarlet and gold, eyes ignited with untold ambition. Her laughter crackled like embers devouring old scrolls. Passion was not just her essence—it was her. She was the Goddess of Fire and Power, and no truth burned brighter.

Last came Ravannah, slow-forming, drawn from the densest fragments of the remaining star—iron-heavy and green, like moss growing over stone. His silence held weight. Unlike his sisters, he did not glow or blaze. He stood. And the space around him shifted subtly, folding inward, respecting his gravity. He was the God of Earth.

Together, the four celestial beings turned their gaze outward, not with hunger, but with reverence. And the universe began to speak to them—old worlds flickering, stars winking out, systems falling to quiet ruin.

Yet somewhere, in the abyss between forgotten galaxies, a soft call echoed. A solar system lost to time, held in gentle balance—waiting.