The gods watched their creations unfold like petals in sunlight. Aether spun quietly at the center of their domain, untouched yet radiant—a canvas they reserved for a purpose still unnamed. Around it, Aer, Hudor, Pur, and Ge breathed life into the Larkins and Zodiacs, blossoming with culture, resilience, and song.
Theadomma drifted with the winds of Aer, shaping skies with delicate intention. Pallamay was often seen wading through Hudor’s tidepools of memory, listening to waves that whispered the past. Nyxsis danced across Pur’s volcanic plains, igniting festivals and roaring fires that celebrated emotion in its fullest flare.
And Ravannah... observed.
His world, Ge, was ancient and slow-moving. Its hills grew moss as thick as memories, and its valleys echoed only when thunder called. Yet the people thrived: mining, building, cultivating legacies of strength. The Watchers of Ge—Taurus, Capricorn, Virgo—each governed their city with grace and dedication. Bull Run grunted with industry, Goatora Valley hummed with strategy, and Maiden Cove bloomed in reflective beauty.
Ravannah watched as his planet grew rich beneath their care. But over time, a quiet truth settled on his shoulders like dust from forgotten stones: they praised the Watchers. They sang to the land. They gave thanks to the elements.
But not to him.
He had given them soil that yielded endless bounty. He had sculpted the very foundation of Ge with intention and reverence. Yet they did not know his name. They did not recognize the force behind their stability. And as centuries passed, Ravannah—God of Earth—was slowly forgotten.
His sisters were ever-present. Theadomma flew among her people like gentle wind. Pallamay walked in dreams. Nyxsis set hearts ablaze with divine appearances and ecstatic rites. But Ravannah had stayed in the gods’ realm. He had remained distant. Not out of arrogance, nor neglect, but out of belief that strength did not demand spectacle.
He told himself it did not matter. But it did.