In the beginning, in the ancient land of Virelmora, the people lived in humble villages, their lives intricately woven into the fabric of nature. They dwelled in simple wooden houses, nestled among the trees, and their days were spent hunting in the forest and gathering from the land. By the river, they washed their clothes and shared stories, living a life of simplicity and harmony. It was a time before the gods descended, when the land knew only peace and the gentle rhythms of nature.
As the gods watched from above, two deities in particular felt their hearts stirred by the people's simplicity. Virella, the goddess of war and fertility, descended with long, flowing red hair, black eyes with crimson pupils, and glowing pale yellow skin, embodying her divine presence. With her arrival, the land began to flourish, and the villages blossomed under her guidance. In contrast, Mireldis, the god of healing and protection, came with light blue hair, green eyes with golden pupils, and a similarly glowing, pale yellow skin. He extended his protective barriers and healed the wounded, ensuring the people's well-being.
Together, their divine influence transformed Virelmora, creating a land of prosperity and growth. Yet, as the land flourished, so too did the seeds of discord…
As divine beings, Virella and Mireldis were mindful not to interfere too directly with the humans, who were still considered inferior to the more ancient and advanced races such as elves, dwarves, and vampires. Yet, in their kindness, they bestowed blessings upon the humans. While Virella could grant her blessings only on the red moon, Mireldis could bestow his blessings at will.
In her wisdom, Virella created mystical dungeons, realms where humans could grow stronger by facing various challenges. This not only allowed humans to level up but also encouraged collaboration with other races. Over time, dwarves contributed their masterful craftsmanship and weaponry, elves shared their elegant infrastructure and combat skills, and vampires, in a rare gesture, agreed to a ceasefire, offering protection and a new form of alliance.
In this way, the humans, dwarves, elves, and vampires forged a unique bond. Humans granted access to the dungeons, while dwarves provided superior weaponry, elves offered their enchanted forests and wisdom, and vampires added their own protective influence. Together, these alliances helped the kingdom thrive and grow stronger.
Yet harmony, once fractured, does not heal on its own.
As the world prospered, devotion followed power and power followed visibility. Virella's name was spoken in battle cries, etched into dungeon stone, whispered in awe by adventurers who rose from nothing into legends. Her influence was undeniable, her creations ever-present. And though Mireldis was revered within the safety of temples and city walls, his praise was quieter, contained, and conditional.
Jealousy took root not as rage, but as calculation.
Where Virella shaped the world through struggle and growth, Mireldis learned to shape belief. He walked among priests and kings, offering blessings freely—healing without cost, barriers without sacrifice. To the faithful, his gifts were immediate, comforting, and safe. In return, he asked only for reverence…and obedience.
It was within these sanctuaries that history began to change.
Mireldis granted the churches power beyond mortal reach and allowed them to speak in his name. Scriptures were revised. Songs were softened. The Blood Moon, once a sacred convergence of war and fertility was recast as an omen of corruption. Children born beneath its glow were no longer blessed, but cursed. What Virella gave rarely and with purpose, Mireldis condemned loudly and without nuance.
And slowly, deliberately, her legacy was buried.
As the dungeons spread and adventurers returned stronger, few noticed what was left behind in their wake. Blood soaked into stone. Mana lingered in the air. Fragments of magic, flesh, and will were devoured by the creatures within. Most monsters remained what they were—feral, mindless, bound to instinct. But a rare few endured.
Those creatures that survived long enough began to change.
Through battle, consumption, and exposure to lingering divine power, some beasts grew sentient. Wolves learned strategy. Clawed hunters learned speech. Hulking creatures once made only for slaughter learned restraint, memory, and thought. These beings, born not of wombs but of struggle, leveled beyond their origins and emerged as something new.
They would come to be known as beast-kin.
In the earliest ages, they were not welcomed. They were hunted, enslaved, or driven back into the depths from which they had crawled. The people feared them, not only for their strength, but for what they represented. For the truth, long whispered and later forbidden, was that the beast-kin were touched by Virella herself. Creations born of her dungeons. Proof that her power did not merely destroy, but created.
When Virella's name was stricken from history, so too was the truth of the beast-kin's origin.
No longer openly slaughtered, they were instead tolerated, classified beneath humans, elves, dwarves, and vampires alike. Second-class citizens, barred from temples, watched by the Church, and quietly reminded that their existence was an accident best forgotten. The irony was not lost on the gods, though it was carefully buried among mortals.
For even as the world prospered, it was built upon the bones of monsters, and the erasure of the goddess who gave them form.
Thus, as the world prospered, its foundations were quietly rewritten. Virella's name was struck from stone and scripture alike, her temples sealed, her statues shattered or hidden where light could not reach. In their place, the Church spoke of a curse — a Blood Moon no longer blessed, but damned — its meaning shifting with each telling, until fear itself became doctrine. Children born beneath its crimson light were said to invite calamity, to blur the line between man and monster, to carry the taint of a forgotten god.
And so, when the moon next rose red and full, mercy became heresy.
No hymns marked the night. No gods answered the cries that followed. Only stone, and darkness, and the slow closing of a dungeon gate — where one child, forsaken by history before they ever drew breath, was left behind.