Further and Further On; A Tale of Faerie: Part One: How They Left Home

Edit: 4 September 09, This is actually pretty outdated now. I've revised it quite a bit, for those of you who scroll down this far.

Once there were two brothers. Ingold and Ingram the sons of Ingame were their names, and they where proud to be called by them.
Together they lived a great many ages ago on their father’s farm, helping him with the plowing and the sowing and with the reaping at harvest time. Ingram loved this work.
He loved to see the empty fields slowly fill with shoots of green and ripen into golden heads of wheat. He loved to be in his village with its rambling gardens spilling out onto the dusty roads and to hear the chat of his neighbours gossiping about the swallows and where they where nesting or how Windlaf’s new bed of potatoes had been hit with grubs last night. And they always had a good word to say for his father’s crops, being widely pronounced to be the best in the village, if not in Kingsland.
Sometimes, as they gathered round the hearth after a good meal and a hard day’s work, they would speak of the old tales, or some grandfather would lean on his stick and hum out in his creaky voice a half-forgotten song of the olden days, when there were dragons and monsters in the world and heroes would rise up and slay them with bright swords.
At those times someone might tell of the Great Wars fought long, long ago or maybe of Eli: how he had made the world and loved it, and given so very much to save it from evil.
They were the times the brothers loved best. They would sit with eyes shining eagerly in the firelight loving each word they heard spoken.
As Ingram listened, for he liked best to listen and seldom joined in the talking, and heard of the high and mighty deeds and the fearsome monsters of the old wide world, he loved his village and its funny people all the more. Here was peace and quiet. He was glad the heroes had fought long ago so that now there was safety.
But as for Ingold, who was the eldest, when he heard the old tales, he longed for the wars and the excitement of those days. He wished he had lived then, so he could ride bravely off and fight back the shadows. Then the old men would sing about him around their fires.
He wanted to go to the City and fight for the King, like their father had done, and win the King’s praise. Or maybe he would rather be a bold traveller, and tread the long paths eastward, where no one ever went, until he would come at last to the shores of the Great Sea. But he would not stop there. He would find himself a ship, and set sail across the sea, until maybe he would come to the far off Dark Continent that folk spoke of as only a nursery tale.

And so one day, when Ingold had become a man, he took down his father’s old rusty sword from where it hung on the wall, kissed his mother and father goodbye, and set out into the world to see what adventures would fall in his way.
Their mother cried when he left, for, as all mothers do, she loved her son very much indeed, and it is always hard for mothers when their sons leave them, even if they must.
Their father, too, looked very solemn and was silent when he went out into the fields, when before he had used to sing, for he loved Ingold no less than his wife did.
So Ingram was glad that he was not yet old enough to have gone with Ingold, though Ingold had wanted him to. Instead he did what he could to help his mother and worked still harder for his father and each day hoped for Ingold’s return.
Every morning he would climb to the top of the hill near the village and peer off into the east, looking for the cloud of dust along the road that would announce Ingold’s homecoming. Maybe he would come with a glorious company of knights from the king, all clad in gleaming armour. They would tell of Ingold’s brave deeds and how he had fought gallantly in the king’s wars. Then there would be a feast such as never had been before in the village.
Maybe he would bring home a wife. That would make his mother glad again; gladder than she was before he had left. Maybe she would be one of the King’s own daughter’s whose love Ingold had won. And maybe they would have a family of their own. How father would laugh to see his grandchildren. He would sing them all his songs.
But Ingold did not return, not even alone. One year passed, two years, three, four. Mother didn’t cry anymore, at least, not so that Ingram could see it, and Father sung again as he worked, but often his songs were not as full of joy as they once were.
And so Ingram grew up and became a man, whether he wanted to or not; and he decided that there was only one thing to be done if his parents were to be happy again. He must go after Ingold and bring him back from wherever he was, or at least find out what had become of him.
But when he told his father and mother how he wished to follow Ingold, they at first would not let him leave, but he told them how it was not for himself that he must go, but for them. Then they blessed him, and said that although they loved him dearly, and even more so since Ingold had been lost, they saw that he must go whether they willed it or not, but that he must promise not to forget them and to come back one day to bring them news of Ingold and himself.
That, Ingram had said, was an easy thing to promise, because the small village had his heart, for it was home.

So thus it was that Ingram set out on the very same road that he had seen bear away his brother with nothing save a stout walking staff and a parcel of food and cooking things slung on his back. He had not even a sword, because the only one in the village had been his father’s and Ingold had taken that.
His mother and father watched from the village gate until he disappeared around the bend and was hidden from them by the woods. All that was left was the dust on the road stirred up by his feet.

Mythopoeia Ankáia Part 2: Of Áthru Balágnor 2/2

Yet the treachery of Balágnor was not bounded to this alone. For long ere he came to Úngothon he saw the maiden Silféinyn as she kindled her silver lamp Henrásilin in the cold dawn; and as the grey light of morning fell upon her face, he saw that she was indeed beautiful. So he took her, without the leave of Telúmono’s blessing, and she became his wife, and for a little while they were happy together. And many where the children she bore him, the Athrúfinen, as they were named.
But as Balágnor bent all his though upon his work and his lust for power grew as deceit and malice gnawed at the foundations of his heart, he came to forget Silféinyn and her silver lamp, for in Úngothon all light was forgot, until at last she was left to made the long passage of the heavens alone, the first to herald the dawn and first to mourn at day’s dying hues, even as she mourned at her own loneliness.
Yet his children he never forgot, for they soon followed him to Úngothon at his summons, and would gladly follow his leading along whichever path he took.
And thus it was that he sent them out into Nerethnimlo with lies on their tongues and guile in their hearts to win over, if they could, those who tended the Lamps, they who could see the very gate of Vinyoldë from the rail of their bright ships. And wherever they went, there always was some ear willing to listen.
Many of the nameless Ailósti fell into dark thought and abandoned their lamps so as to follow Balágnor. But even these were trapped, for they lost their fair, ethereal forms and were bound by their folly in hideous shapes of many kinds. Some became the mighty Draigángan, the dreaded demons of later tales; fire-breathing monsters with iron teeth and impenetrable hides. And so their lamps were put out and their ships strayed as lost ghosts through a darker Nerethnimlo.
But more terrible still was the fall of Tintwiel and of Ilún the Cold; for they knew Telúmono and saw through the lies of Balágnor even to the malice that lay in his heart. They were not deceived. They thought, maybe, to first ally themselves with him for a while and so throw down Telúmono with their untied strength, for in the vanity of their pride this was their thought and folly, and afterward overthrow the Black Hand and have the mastery to themselves. But how to divide up the world between them, they gave little thought, and if it could have come to pass, they would have fallen to warring against each other in the end. And so it was by their prideful desires that they fell into evil ways.
And so Áthru Balágnor the Overlord gathered to him followers of every kind, and the shades beneath Oralláigon grew dimmer and deeper. His black hands moved all things across the face of Ankáia to his will, and those who would not bow at his name he harried and waged war against until they were all destroyed or hid.
One such who withstood his wrath was from among his own people, Óchë of the Athrúfinen. Óchë the Faithful. Óchë Evertrue, alone of all his kin to gainsay their father and reproach him to his face; he would have thwarted much of his father’s malice if he could, but his brothers took him and gave him over to the Mimúthrioth and the fastness of their nets. There he was held in torment by the endless gnawing and worrying and cruelty of the Shadow Weavers.
But such treachery as that wrought by Balágnor could not remain forever hid from the light, and even as Tintwiel and Ilún fell swiftly into darkness, her brother Tastúplë and red Dindíol came to Vinyoldë and sought the audience of Víor to ask how it was that evil was allowed to prevail in Ankáia. Maybe it was that they too were tainted by the black lies, for they feared to go straight to Telúmono with news so ill, and so did not then learn the answer.
As it was, all that they learned was that at their coming Víor was roused in wrath beyond reckoning and that the hour was at last come to end the absolute rule of the Black Hand and cast him down from his dark throne.
As a thousand tempests Víor hurled himself from Vinyóldë, calling to his banner all who would still heed such a summons. And they broke upon Úngothon with might and fury, riving through the grey webs and driving the Mimúthrioth before them in a wild terror of their light; and thus was Óchë released from long torment. But Balágnor was not there.
For at the very moment that Víor flew to rage and ruin in Úngothon, Balágnor led forth his dark army with the sounding of many brazen throated horns against Vranos Sunskindler, even as he set west beyond the Ódan Echirímunt which girdled Ankáia. And Balágnor wielded Góthangon the Hellstooth, his great iron tipped spear that he made in the fires of Talquóro.
With the strong cords woven by the cunning of the Mimúthrioth, they caught Korcérason the Sunship and made it fast to the mountainside, and all that fell host clomb wildly over the rail, with shrieks and clamour and tumult. They broke the glass of Eilion, the lamp that Vranos kept, and would have put out the Great Flame, but ere they could quench its fire or be eaten up in its heat, there came two figures between them: Vranos himself and Rástmu, alone to stand at his lord’s side. And they defied their foes to come closer, and for a moment that host faltered in their purpose, even Balágnor with all his might. But taking up a shard of glass, Ilún sprang forward and drove it deep into Rástmu’s breast, so that Rástmu fell back into the flame, and was seen no more in Arí.
Then did Víor perceive his brother, and beheld the deed of Ilún, even from afar. And with all his following he raged toward Korcérason, even as Vrános was beaten down, with Góthangon pressed to his throat. But ere Góthangon could bite, it was smitten from the hand that wielded it, for Víor was come upon them, and battle was joined.
That war, the Great War of Brothers, devoured all the Worlds. From the bows of Korcérason it spilled over throughout the heavens, so it seemed all the sky was ablaze with fire. And Lirósto received a dreadful wound from Góthangon that he bore as a red scar in his side ever after.
From thence it raged across the face of Ankáia, and the Rilthilan were caught up in the turmoil. Many fought on the side of Víor, but still more fought in Balágnor’s name.
Elmó was slain as he led a host of his people against Ílo of the Cerastili. Those two met upon the wide fields of Ankáia and fought hand to hand; and Ílo wept as he felled Elmó beneath his stroke.
As for Nibbû, he took his two lesser osilan and clasped them against his breast and cast himself from a precipice, for he had lost the Osíltelo in the convulsions of the earth; for Ankáia was broken asunder, torn in two so that all the seas ran together into one place and the land was divided: Vuintalon in the west, and Eratalon in the East.
And as the seas rushed together, Oralláigon was surrounded, and stood far out in the middle of a vast ocean; but Dindiol drew his blade Draiglin and coming anigh the tree, he smote the great column of its bole so that an upwelling shiver ran all through it great length. From its deep root to its furthermost twig, it quaked as if it were some living thing raked with the pain of the blows. And though his blade was notched, Dindiol struck again and again; and Draiglin bit ever deeper, until with a crash that resounded far across Ankáia, Oralláigon fell into the depths, and it was swallowed up by wave and water and white spume rolled over its fruits.
And at the last Balágnor was taken and bound, for he had fled before Víor when he had first come with all his host behind him and his eyes bright with wrath and a light unfailing. He hid himself in a dark lair long prepared against such a chance; and he laughed, for there he thought he was secure, beyond the ken of his brother, but Óchë knew his father’s ways and had long sought to know all concealed doors and unseen paths of his father’s making. And so he delivered Balágnor over to Víor, and Víor named him blessed, and gave to him the place and ward of Rástmu who had passed away, by Vrános’ side.
Thus it was that Áthru Balágnor Overlord, the Accursed, was overthrown at the height of his power and was thrust from Ankáia into Lebtámos, beyond Vinyóldë, and into the prison of adamant prepared for him which is called Cúrleigon. There he sat in mouldering malice until the time when he would be loosed once more to his destruction.
But evil was already abroad in Ankáia, and the hour was not yet come for its mending. Though Víor and his folk hunted out or drove into hiding many of Balágnor’s servants, and the world was never again so wholly covered in evil for many ages, Ilún escaped their devices, and Tintwiel repented not her fall. And so evil endured, sleeping a little while still, yet ever present.
And as the Lady Mára Most Fair and Most Loved, looked down upon Ankáia from the Paroth and saw how tainted that fairest world had become, and how the greatest outrage of death was begun, she wept. In her grief she cast herself from the window of her home and strayed in the skies ever after, her tears shed in bitterness for the blighting of Ankáia oft wetting those very lands below. And she became wildered and was lost.

Mythopoeia Ankáia Part 2: Of Áthru Balágnor 1/2

When Telúmono gave over Ankáia to the dominion of the Rilthilan, as has been already told, Áthru was ill pleased, for he loved the new world dearly –dearer perhaps than he ought. And the hope of governing Ankáia himself as his own house had grown unbidden in his heart.
He thought at first to share the government with his brother and sister, and they would reign over the Rilthilan how it seemed best to them; but when he learned that this was never a part of Telumono’s purpose, Áthru forsook Vinyoldë and strayed homeless for a time ere he came to Úngothon, the craggy under-regions of Ankáia. He found that place lonesome and empty, unlit even by the Arlóserri and Ailósti, for as they passed beneath the world all save Vranos extinguished their lights and tended them as to be ready to rise once more in the East. But the flames of Vranos beat upon the rocks and deep pits and subterranean mountains of Úngothon without rest.
In those starless lands lived only the sightless, formless shadow-wraiths; and they feared and hated the light Vranos shed, for it stung their swollen eyes. Whence they first came is difficult to learn; many among the wise hold that they were fays who fled the light shed by the sky-barks when they first rose in the beginning days.
And as Áthru came across Úngothon, the Mimúthrioth (for that was their name), found him and held him, and would have done him ill. But Áthru was a master of words, and by fair speech he won them over and persuaded them to help him in the task of turning Úngothon into a paradise after the fashion of Ankáia, only cooler and dimmer; a land of cool shadows in which to hide from the scorching day; for that, he said, was his purpose in coming to Úngothon. And he fashioned them bodies to clothe themselves with in return for their service. But the bodies he gave them were terrible, like those of great spiders; and like spiders they wove thick grey meshes of web that shielded them from the rays of Éilion, the Great Lamp of Vranos. And they came to be bound by oath and a strange love to their new master.
In the midst of Úngothon Áthru set a mighty forge – Talquóro he named it, for upon its fires he smelted the metals from which he sought to fashion his realm. But the fires of Talquóro grew hot and burned fierce, and of a sudden they leapt forth and burned Áthru’s hands as he worked there, so that they pained him always and could not be healed and hindered him in everything. Thus was his own curse that he spoke in Vinyoldë worked out upon himself. And he was called ever after Balágnor, which is Black Handed.
Neither was anything he fashioned fair, but ever his designs would turn awry and result in forms of dismay – dark and twisted towers, blasted trees and poison lakes, dead cities of shriveled gardens and sightless windows; and over all the Mimúthrioth would hang their grey webs. And never could Áthru imitate the gift of life that was Telúmono’s alone to give, though he sought the secret unceasingly.
And so his shame and jealousy grew and he came to hate Ankáia with malice as strong as his former love, for he was neither permitted to rule it nor could he imitate it. And his cunning turned from how he could create life to how he could ensnare that which already was, and so come to rule it at last.
He sought out the purest of metals and gathered them together and brought them to Talquóro where he forged them long and hotly, thought his hands pained him sorely and his wounds opened up and wept blood upon his work. Yet his malice drove him on, and by his long toil he made the fairest and at the same time most fell of all his works: Oralláigon, the Iron Bough, a tree of vast measure. And he took Oralláigon and planted it in Ankáia that the eyes of all men, Ngóstili, Cerástili and fays might be turned towards it. For it was indeed a mighty edifice, its boughs spread far across the skies, league upon league, and they were hung with leaves of beaten silver in imitation of all the leaves of the trees that grew in Ankáia. They were set together so thickly that they veiled the land from the light of the lamps, so that it was cast into a shadow that even Vranos could pierce only as a half-remembered glimmer. And among the leaves were set many flowers, the wrought likenesses of the yellow drooping eilystin and the fiery blooms of quorordhon, and many others beside.
But its fruit was of the deadliest black; swollen berries of smooth stone, perfect and shapely, unlike anything else to come from the mind of Áthru Balágnor. Some were as large as a man’s clenched hand, and yet others as small as the worn pebbles of a riverbed. But all were most lovely, at times seeming to glow with a distant, inner luster.
And he treated with the Quendíli and the Ngóstili, appearing to them in a lesser guise than he was wont, more like an ailóstë of the heavens than his true form. And so they knew not who he was, nor whence he came, knowing only that he gave good gifts, as they thought them, and that he called himself Telúmanan, the Giver of Gifts; and that they saw no evil portend in this was indeed a wondrous thing.
But it may be that they knew nothing of evil, and that they were lulled by the goodness of his gifts and the willingness with which he gave them. And shortly he came to speak to them of different ways and other wisdom, as he said, a hidden knowledge that Telúmono had kept from them, for, he said, Telúmono considered them of small importance, mere playthings for his children’s amusement. If they would but heed him, and inquire into this better wisdom, he would show them a knowledge with which they might rival even the wisdom of the Vinyarni themselves.
And as a mark of his friendship Balágnor plucked seven fruits from Oralláigon, the osilan, and offered them to those that harkened to his words. And they took them and treasured them.
To Nibbû he gave three, one larger, two smaller, and the larger was called by Nimró Zrâmkâbbel, which is Desire in the speech of his people, but the Quendílli named it Osíltelo and Ngostheimë, which is Gift-fruit and Dwarvesbane. And Nibbû would suffer none save his own sons to touch or handle it, for he thought it the greatest of all the fruits given, as indeed it was. Therefore he counted himself deep in Telúmanan’s counsels.
To Elmó and his sons Áthru gave only two lesser fruits, and the remaining two he would have given to Ílo, but Ílo refused to take them, saying he would not treat with one who denied Ankáia the proper light of day and, with fair words albeit, sought to usurp the place of Telúmono.
And with his choice he saved his people from the deadly doom that fell upon the Quendíli and Ngóstili, for when they accepted his gifts and lorecaft, they gave themselves over to the dominion of Balágnor Black Hand, and took with along with the fruits his final gift and curse: that of death.
For the new wisdom that Áthru taught them was that of strife and envy, of greed and ambition and of a thousand other griefs and ills. And when their hearts were fully poisoned with shadow, they could no longer live, and so they died – slowly and still yet over many years, but the disease of death was loosed, and one by one they were laid cold in earthen mounds.
And yet some said still that it was better, now they knew fully. And they held to the lore of Balágnor and called him Master, for he freed them from their ignorance.

Mythopoeia Ankáia Part 1: Elmo Vranriman

Ere aught else was yet conceived there was Venaur, Lord of All, called Telúmono. And his thought went out thither into the Void, across the lonesome, unbounded regions of Nerethnimlo, and thence by his word sprung his beloved, the Vinyárni, his Holy Children. And they were three in number.

Foremost among them was Víor whose eyes shone bright with a holy fire, for his mind was most akin to Telúmono’s own. Second to him came Áthru, and his thought ran deep and so his brow was lined with the care of many mysteries. Last came the Lady Mára, the most fair and most dear to her brothers. Her voice went forth in the sweet music of song, and the halls of Vínyoldë which Telúmono shaped to house his children, was filled with joy at the sound.
Once more Telúmono extended his thought into the Great Barrenness; and by the word of that thought was shaped Ankáia, the Lower World, for this he hung without the Paroth Ankáia, the arched window which looked out from Vínyoldë into Nerethnimlo.
For this was the shape of Arí, the Whole Worlds: Lebtámos was first and lay beyond all else, and it was the Outermost Void and truly Nothing, final and endless, until the day when Telúmono ordains to work anew the Worlds. Within Lebtámos, and yet not a part of it, was Vinyóldë, the Hallows of Telúmono and the Halls of the Vinyárni. And Vinyóldë encircled Nerethnimlo, which for a little while was the Inner Void, until Telúmono’s works filled it with light and life. Last was Ankáia, fairest and midmost of the Worlds.
Now, Ankáia was in shape like as vast, flat disc; and Telúmono clothed the new born world in trees and grasses and raised the massy ranks of mountains and cut the trenches of the sea upon its face, and breathed the first winds to stir across the wide spaces of the land.
He placed the beasts upon the land, and filled the sea with fishes and made the birds to ride the untamed air. And he made the Ilmáran, the fays of wood and mount.
And that Nerethnimlo would be empty no more nor without light as it then was, Telúmono fashioned the Skybarks, and set burning in each a great lamp to shine on Ankáia. And every ship was given to be piloted and every lamp to be tended to single helmsman each. The Arlóserri and the Ailósti they were called, the Greater and the Lesser.
Of the Ailósti, who were the lesser, there were numbers uncounted, and though Telúmono gave to each their own name, scarce few are remembered in the histories. But of the Arlóserri there were but ten and their names are held dear by all who watched the heavens.
There was Vrános, Watchman of the Day, his very sails and hull seeming to be alight with a glorious flame, yet never burning up. His lamp was Eilion, the greatest of all lamps. And there was Quë, his gentle wife, Mistress of the Night, for her lamp shone silver only when Vrános had lowered his fiery sails and passed beyond the rim of the world.
After her came Rástmu who dared take his ship in closer than any other to Vrános his lord. And also there was Silfeínyn of the Morning, second in beauty only to the Lady Mára herself. And there was Dindíol the Red-headed with his pale blade Draiglin; and doughty Lirósto; and Kilmárë with her shining garlands hung about her; and Tastúplë and his sister Tíntwiel; and distant Ilún, the last and least Arlóserrë. Indeed, some held that he was no Arlóserrë at all, but an Ailóstë.
All these were by Telúmono’s command set in their courses across the sky. And his work was good, and it was fair, but it was yet incomplete.
For when the Vinyárni saw the beauty of Ankáia they were enamored and sang of its wonder. And they said to each other; if only they might join together with their father in his labour and each add something to his work.
This pleased Telúmono well, for it was he who had first placed the thought in their minds. Thus it was that together they gave shape to the Three Races of Ankáia, the Rilthilan; and Telúmono gave them will and intellect and kindled life beneath their unliving flesh.
But when the Vinyárni had completed their work and saw how the fathers of the Rilthilan walked in gladness in the glades and fields of Ankáia, Áthru felt suddenly ashamed. For although they shaped the Rilthilan together, each race was formed after the particular thought of one Arvánë.
Thus Nibbû, father of the Ngóstili, and his wife Krâlmim were the product of the chief of Áthru’s thought. They were a stunted, moody folk, oft quick to quarrel and swift to find fault; he fancied them harsh, unlovely and rude – ill matched with the grace of Ankaia. And he cursed his hands, that they had fashioned an ill favoured people.
In truth, they were not as he thought them – they were not ugly; yet nor were they passing fair, not as fair as were the other Rilthilan, but they were hardy, able to endure greater feats of strength than their kin. They knew best the crafts of masonry and steelwork, being able to raise soaring towers or – through a craftsmanship that they alone learned mastery – they could hollow entire mountains to be cities for their people.
Those people who were sprung form the designs of Víor were the Quendíli, and Elmo and Ulmí were the first. They were a noble, beauteous folk, with mastery of the birds and beasts of Ankáia, and able to tame them and keep them to add to their joy or to aid in their work. For this people learned the art of growing things and how to cultivate the earth as they pleased.
As for the folk of Mára, they were the Cerástili, and were most lithesome of the Rilthilan, and were oft times mistaken by the other races for Ilmáran as they danced in the woods or along the strands by the sea which they loved most. Therefore they made for themselves worthy ships to ride the heaving surf and they sailed wither they would in the world.
And to these races Telúmono gave dominion and judgment over all things with Ankáia, bounded only by the path of Quë, the closest of the Arlóserri which circled about Ankáia.

The End of the Beginning is Nigh

For those of you who care, it seems to me that I am only a few paragraphs - or even sentences- away from completing the rewrite of the first part of my Mythopoeia (one day I really should look that word up to make sure that it does mean what I think it means, I must find Tolkien's poem by that name) which will make it, I think, its fourth revision in just about as many years. I am excited about it, like no one else possibly can be, that is why I write this post. I will try to get it done tonight - that is, finish writing it. Then I have to put it together (it is on three different files on two different computers) print it out, check the names, have it proof read (thanks Mum) and then probably come up with a new concept that needs to be incorperated, and so start over again.
I warn you, it is the same story as here, only with new names, new concepts, and more words. To take one example, the cheifest, the world it no longer called Handaion, but Ankaia. That's An-keye-a (as in eye, which you have two of) not An-ka-ee-a.
I had best be getting on.....

A Synoptic History Part 1

Update 4/10/08: If you have not already read this, don't bother starting now. I have very nearly rewritten it all, replacing a lot of the names. I mean to post it in smaller portions next time, in a couple of weeks, perhaps.

I've called this Part One for a reason, however the other parts to come are still rather sketchy - even in "synoptic" form. (Of the Rise of the Quendilli; Of Ereston Irchamilon; Of Ingold and Ingram; Of Adinnir Drakesbane; Of Loquendon and Oedis; etc.) You'll just have to try your luck with the names. And please don't anyone mention "The Silmarillion" - those of you who know what that is.

Of the Creation of the Lower World and the Great Enmity

First there was Venaur, called Telúmono, Lord of All; and from the word of his thought sprung his beloved, the Arváni, named his Holy Children. Of these there were three. Foremost among them was Víor, the Lord of Light; second to him came Athrú, Lord of Darkness – for in those first days ere time was yet counted, darkness was pleasing and night held no fear, for fear had not then been conceived. Last came the Lady Mará, and most dear to her brothers. And they dwelt together with Telúmono in Vinyóldë.

Erelong, Telúmono fashioned that which he called Hándaion, the Lower World, for he hung it without Vinyóldë, in the Void, and made a window looking down upon it from his throne. This world he clothed with trees and grasses and raised mountains and cut seas upon its face. He placed beasts and birds on the land and fish in the waters; and he made the soulless fays of tree and mount.

And the Void he filled with the greater and lesser Seraphs, the Arlússindi and the Ailostí. The lesser seraphs were numberless, and none have learned all their names; but of the Greater were only a few, and their names are recounted in all the histories. There was Vrános the Watchman of Day, ablaze with a great flame and chief of all the Seraphs; and there was his wife Quë, gentle Mistress of the Night. Also there was Rastmú who dared to pilot his ship closer than any other to fiery Vrános; and also bright Silfeínyn of the Morning, fairest of all; and Díndiol the Red Headed; and doughty Lirósto; and Kilmárë with her shining garlands hung about her; and Tastúplë and his sister Tíntwiel, and distant Ilún, last and least among the Arlússindi. All these were set by Telúmono in their courses across the sky. And his work was good, and it was fair, but it was yet incomplete.

For when the Arváni saw the beauty of Hándaion, they were enamored and sang of its wonder. And they said to themselves that if only they might each add something to this work. Therefore they came to their father and asked that they might join in his labour together with him.

This pleased Telúmono, for it had been his own thought that he had placed in their minds. Thus he decreed that they three should each of them shape a man and from that man would come an entire race; and under the unliving flesh of these new men, he himself would kindle life.

But when the Arváni had fulfilled their task, and saw how glad were these fathers of men as they walked in the glades of Hándaion, Athrú felt suddenly ashamed. For though the men of his brother and sister were fair and oft merry, his was short and grim and quick in temper. He fancied them to be harsh, unlovely and rude; creatures ill matched with the beauty of Hándaion. And so he cursed his hands, that they had fashioned these malformed people.

In truth, they were not as him thought them – they were not ugly, but nor were they passing fair – but they were hardy, and skilled in craftsmanship. Yet they seldom cared to fashion small, delicate things, but would fainer raise soaring towers and fine cities. They were named by Telúmono the Ngóstili, the Stalwart Folk.

Mará's people he named the Merdili, for they loved the oceans of the world and its heaving surf, and the wide northern skies, therefore they took their homes beneath the seas.

To the last race, those of Víor, Telúmono gave the name Quendili and it is with them that this history is chiefly concerned.

Now, to these three races Telúmono gave dominion and judgment over all things within the spheres of Hándaion, bounded by the path of Quë, who sailed closest of all the Seraphs to Hándaion; but this pleased Athrú illy. He loved the new world dearly – dearer than he ought, nigh covetously – and desired that he and his brother and sister should govern it as their house. But this was never in Telúmono's purpose.

Therefore Athrú thought to make himself a new world to be his home; so he took himself to the underside of the disc of Hándaion – called Úngothon, the Nether-hells – were nothing lived, save the sightless, formless shadow-fays, to whom Athrú gave their visible shapes in return for their service.

But the bodies he gave them were terrible, like those of great spiders; and like spiders, they wove gloomy meshes of web that barred-out the daylight shed by Vrános. They were the Mim-Úthrioth, bound by oath and strange love to their master.

Neither was anything else he fashioned fair, but always his designs would go astray and result in forms of dismay – dark and twisted towers, blasted trees, and poison lakes, dead cities of shriveled gardens and empty windows. But never could he imitate the gift of life that was Telumono's alone to give, though he tried unceasingly.

In the midst of Úngothon, Athrú set a great forge – Talquóro he named it, for upon it he smelted the materials from which he sought to fashion his realm. But as the fires of Talquóro grew hot and burned fierce, of a sudden they leaped forth and burned Athrú's hands as he worked there, so that they pained him always and hindered him in everything. Thus was his own curse worked out.

And so his shame and jealousy grew and he came to hate Hándaion with malice as strong as his former love, because he could not copy it. Moreover, it came upon him to employ all his cunning to secretly turn the designs of Telúmono awry, for in the defeat of the work of his hands and fruit of his mind he greatly envied the power that his Father wielded.

Now, long ere his fall into darkness and jealousy Athrú had seen the beauty of Silfeínyn, Morning Star, and had wedded her, and had had many children by her. These children were, for the most part, of the same mind as their father, ready to follow his will. One alone among his off-spring still fainly sought Telúmono's favour; Óchë he was named. But he was scorned by his brothers and sisters, and because he oft spoke against their father and would have thwarted much of his malice, they bound him in the nets of the Mim-Úthrioth, and there left him to torment.

Athrú's first move to further his ambition against Telúmono was to send out into the world of Hándaion these children under the fair seeming guise of lords and ladies bearing gifts and teaching wisdom and knowledge to the Three Races. Some he sent even into the heavens to deceive the very stars that could see the gates of Vinyóldë from the rail of their bright ships.

And to all who would harken, Athrú's children whispered discontent and spoke of freedom from the fancied constraints of Telúmono, promising a new and better power would rise in his place; and everywhere they went they won over countless thousands by these lies and the trickery taught them by their father.

Of the Three Races, the Ngóstili were ever the readiest to listen and learn from the children of he who had shaped them, for they forgot that it was not Athrú who had given them life, but Telúmono, therefore they turned aside to worship Athrú, and with them many of the Quendili were also deceived; for both these races desired autonomy.

And among the Arlússindi they won over Tíntwiel and also Ilún, who was flung the furthest out in the heavens, and who desired most to take the place of Rastmú by Vrános' side. And many of the nameless Ailostí they won also; and thus were the heavens thrown into disarray.

But among the Merdili they found no welcome, for those people of the sea were content with their lot and they saw through the lies of Athrú's messengers.

Such black treachery as Athrú's could not long remain hidden, and when the darkened mind of Tíntwiel came to be known to Tastúplë her brother, he and and Díndiol, fearing to go to Telúmono with such evil tidings, came first to Víor as he sat in Vinyóldë and told him of all that was passing in Hándaion by Athrú's design.

And at the telling of their tale, Víor waxed mighty in wrath; and he threw himself down upon Hándaion in the dreadful fury of a thousand tempests to see himself how things went. And as he came he gathered to him all the scattered Seraphs who would still heed his summons.

But even as they came Vrános set in the West of Hándaion, and as he passed beyond the Odán Echirímunt – the mountains which encircle the world – Athrú led forth his dark army in tumultuous clamour to overturn Vrános in his fire-ship and to put out his light. And thinking to usurp his place, Ilún, captain of Athrú, drew his sword and slew Rastmú as he sought to defend Vrános his lord; the first and most terrible of all deaths in Hándaion.

But this deed was beheld from afar by Víor, and he perceived in that moment all the evil his brother had wrought in the world; and he hurled himself with all his following into the battle. Thus the first of the great wars to rend Hándaion – the War of Brothers – was joined.

In that battle Úngothon was destroyed, the fires of Talquóro were quenched, and the webs of the Mim-Úthrioth were torn asunder, and Óchë the Faithful was freed from his bondage. Hándaion was riven in two and all the seas ran together into one place, severing that world into two great continents. And Athrú was utterly defeated, though in the fight he dealt Lirósto a grievous wound in his side. But he was finally taken; and bound in the same webs that had held Óchë fast, was thrust into Cûrleigon in the outer void, his prison of unyielding adamant, there to remain until the ending of the age.

And Telúmono gave this judgment also: that Athrú was banished forthwith from Vinyóldë and fated to one day lose all he sought and whatever he gained, and in the end to be finally destroyed along with all who served him. And the Ngóstili and the Quendili were cursed with mortality for choosing to follow the lies of Athrú. Yet Telúmono swore also an oath that he would not forever abandon them to their doom, but that they would one day be saved, and whosoever trusted in that oath would regain their immortality in the end. But ere that day's dawning, he turned the world over to the servants of Athrú to do with as they pleased.

At the uttering of this doom, Mará, who had alone sued Telúmono for her brother's forgiveness, cast herself in grief from the doors of Vinyóldë and ever after strayed in the skies above Hándaion, her tears shed for the lost world oft wetting those very lands below.

But to faithful Óchë was given the place of Rastmú by Vrános' side. And for a little while their was peace.

And so an age past, and a thousand years of captive malice lay dormant in Athrú's heart; and he escaped from out of Cûrleigon, even as Telúmono had foreseen. And as the gates of Vinyóldë were forever barred to him, he came to Hándaion thinking to regain his power there and once more take up his dark sceptre over all the lands. But he found things little to his liking, for although in his stead Ilún had rebuilt Úngothon and rekindled the fires of Talquóro, and many of his former servants had gathered there to await his return – or had found darksome holes and hideaways in Hándaion, safe from the wrath of Víor – Athrú found that Tíntwiel had abandoned him, and in contention had raised herself up a mountain in the midst of the great sea and had enthralled there under her power two of the kings of Hándaion and all their people with them. These kings were Nímro of the Ngóstili and Khúro of the Quendili; Thrall and Bondage; and by their hands she had fashioned herself a false paradise named Torodíor Găth, a snare to unwary mariners who ventured too near her realm. For although the land seemed fair, upon the mountain top was built a tall tower and a gold dome – a heathen temple to herself, within which was daily offered a sacrifice of mortal blood. She was the queen of sorcery and witchcraft and necromancery.

And so Athrú hated her, as he hated Telúmono and the three Races, and plotted her destruction and the destruction of all the world.

By this time many of the Ngóstili and the Quendili had lost all remembrance of his former evils, for in their mortality they had many of them become weak-minded and ignoble, and this Athrú worked to his gain.

He issued a summons to all the Ngóstili, calling them to Ilábtoron – the easternmost continent of the two in Hándaion– and claimed their fidelity by saying he was their sovereign lord and maker, and as such they were bound to serve him. As of old, many Ngóstili heeded his words and those that followed him to Ilábtoron were named the Chorochán, for he fed them upon his hate, and they became truly foul and grotesque, even as he had first thought them.

But a few still recalled the tales of his ways and refused to again listen to his lies; and so they remained in the west, in Vuintoron; and they were the Úlethoch, for they were separated from their kin.

And He set the Chorochán to work making great engines and armories as to ready them for battle against the Quendili and Úlethoch, and so destroy or enslave all the peoples of the world and cling to his mastery of Hándaion, defying even the final curse of Telúmono.