If the Age of Resplendence was a golden dawn, the Age of Conquest was the thunderhead that followed. For brilliance casts long shadows, and from those shadows strode Aldegar and Tyris, gods of War and Destruction, who bound themselves in a pact of blood and ambition. They discovered what all despots hunger to know: that the Divine Shard grows stronger not only through wisdom, but also through death and devotion. And so they chose the quickest path to both.

Thus began the Divine Civil War, a conflict not confined to battlefield or temple, but one that shook the very bones of Gaiaxia. Cities burned, rivers ran red, and mortals found themselves as pawns in the games of gods. Yet amidst the ruin came defiance. Sophos Tafari—a mere mortal of Sun Elven descent and a sword master whose name still rings like steel on steel—stood against Aldegar in single combat. He fell, yes, but not before drawing the war god’s blood. And in that drop of ichor was hope: proof that even gods can bleed. From that single act of valor and sacrifice rose a newfound vigor and determination to put an end to the war god's campaign.

Not all tales of defiance ended with such hope, however. Zatina, beloved goddess of Magic, lost her three Guardians to Aldegar’s fury. Filora, peerless master of blade and bow; Itzel, the mage turned indomitable shield; and Haldir, cunning trapper and saboteur—each cut down, their Divine Shards torn from them. To pause for explanation and the gravity of these losses, dear reader: Guardians are no mere priests. They are the pinnacle of a god’s temple, paragons chosen not by mortal hands but by the deity themselves. A Guardian bears not one, but two Shards: the first marking their devotion, the second bestowed directly by their patron. This double blessing grants them strength and sorcery far beyond common clergy, enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with heroes of myth and legend. And yet even they fell before Aldegar's might, a blow that shook both mortals and gods alike.
In remembrance, their names were etched upon the Realm itself. The city of Veyora was renamed in Filora's honor, that her valor might endure in its streets. The Aegis of Itzel was raised, a fortress of spell and stone where his shield once held the line. And Haldir’s Crossing, a perilous mountain pass where armies still tread warily and generals contend with its layered defenses. Thus were they honored, not in silence, but in lasting memorials befitting their sacrifice.

Sedros, having beheld the havoc wrought by Aldegar and Tyris, knew that to pit his Scions against them would be to waste them in a war they could not win. So he commanded them instead to walk unseen. With a blessing of shifting flesh, he gave his Scions the power to veil their true form and pass as mortal, to guide and shield rather than clash and die. From the secret unions of these hidden Scions and mortals came the Changelings. Children of many faces and forms, they inherited the mutable flesh of their Scion parent, along with a spark of quiet divinity that sharpened their wit, strengthened their limbs, and lengthened their lives. Many mistrusted them, whispering of spies and masks, yet it was often the Changelings who saved lives in silence, slipping between factions, carrying word, and easing suffering where swords could not. In their existence, dear reader, one sees that not every answer to tyranny is found upon the battlefield.

Hubris, the greatest folly of all, is a foe more fatal than any blade. When the tactician Vrothir Markaran challenged Aldegar for his title in a battle of wit and strategy, the war god scoffed and accepted. He lost—badly. But when pressed to surrender his mantle, Aldegar refused, so Ikozra forcibly stripped most of his divinity, transferring it to Vrothir. Aldegar desperately clung to that last, stubborn shred of his Spark — the Shard of Ikozra within us all, having been empowered by his divinity, still granted Aldegar terrifying power, which he used to wage one last desperate conflict.
That's something that you'll come to learn about ol' Aldegar, dear reader, the man's stubbornness is a legend unto itself. It is the catalyst for many great, and terrible, tales, but one must tread carefully in recounting them— for they should not be tales to aspire to, but should be cautionary, a warning of the folly of hubris and the endless, bloody pursuit of power.

In his final frenzy, Aldegar turned his fury upon the Veil itself. Why? I hear you asking, dear reader, because in his arrogance, Aldegar believed that he could somehow wound Ikozra itself and ascend beyond godhood. If mortals could draw blood from a god and rise to divinity, then why couldn't a god draw blood from that which is formless, the source of all Energy and rise to supremacy? Yet another cautionary tale of ambition gone awry, Aldegar clawed at the fabric of creation, the very thing separating the Realms and maintaining cosmic order— and actually managed to irreversibly wound it. Though he failed to completely shatter the Veil and reach Ikozra, his folly created a living nightmare for all following generations on Gaiaxia — Hollow's Veil.

From the wound in the Veil poured horrors beyond imagination for the people of this time: Hollowspawn, monstrous echoes of corrupted Souls clawing free of their prison in Luna’s Hollow. They were ravenous, twisted by dread, despair, and anger, they mercilessly hunted mortals for their Spirit Energy in a desperate bid to restore what was torn from them. But, as with anything in life, there were exceptions and oddities amongst them. Some formed unions with mortals, whether tragic or foul, giving rise to the Hollowborn: children marked with horns, claws, or stranger gifts, their very blood carrying echoes of the Hollow.

Luna was not the only moon to suffer that dreadful breach. Verdana, its emerald sister, also spilled its strangeness into Gaiaxia. Magnificent beasts wandered into our Realm, their forms like ours yet gloriously askew: stags with antlers like living crowns, wolves whose coats shimmered with green fire, lions cloaked in radiant manes that glowed as if dusted with starlight. To cross paths with such a creature was to gamble with fate itself. Some mortals walked away forever changed, their Spirit and bloodlines marked by Verdana’s touch, giving rise to the Verdani, or Animalfolk as tavern gossip would have it—folk with fur, fangs, tails, and digitigrade legs — half one world and half another. Others, less fortunate or perhaps more reckless, consumed the flesh of these beasts and found themselves cursed as Therianthropes, commonly shortened to Therians, who could no longer resist Verdana’s moon, their bodies twisting into monstrous forms beneath her brightest gaze. And then there were their children, the Oscari—born with a gentler burden, able to shift by will rather than frenzy, heirs to a power tempered rather than wild. In those days, dear reader, the very definition of “mortal” bent like a reed in the wind, and Gaiaxia’s tapestry grew stranger—and richer—for it.

In time, the war ended. Aldegar was broken and diminished, defeated at last. To prevent his return, Ikozra scattered his body across Gaiaxia, each piece hidden and guarded like the lock to a prison. Tyris was cast down and replaced by our current Storm God, Nyota. Ikozra, wearied of divine arrogance, bound the pantheon to Solis, their voices carried only through priests, champions, and the whispers of faith. A divisive decision to be certain, but a necessary one given the turmoil wrought through the centuries of this Age. And so, the Realm was left to its mortals, scarred but unbroken, to begin the long work of rebuilding.

The Age of Conquest was relatively brief by comparison—just over five centuries—but its echoes still thunder across the Realm. For from its fires were born new peoples, new scars, and new distrust between gods and mortals. But that, dear reader, is what makes history so irresistible. Even gods, it seems, cannot resist playing the great game of conquest. And next, we must turn to its aftermath: the Age of Arcana, when magic soared to new heights and the stage was set for triumph—and tragedy alike.

Written with wisdom and wanderlust,
Yours, ever truly,
— Tobias Elanor, Bard, Scholar, Explorer Extraordinaire