Before the days of rocket ships, automobiles, and even before our kind shoddily roped together branch and string to construct the first bow, our world was shrouded in darkness. Trees of ash grasped toward a black, empty sky, standing ever-still against an unmoving necrotic fog. Vast fields of grey, brittle grass spanned for thousands of miles, with not even a hint of colour to relieve the senses of such a dismal land. Oricá was but a husk, where only empty humanoid silhouettes drifted upon its surface, holding as much substance as the world they roam. Even the strongest of minds would falter in a land such as this, where desolation requires new meaning.
It is said that even the concept of time was lost upon this place. Such a sordid, inhuman expanse would deny us of even our most fundamental understandings of science and reality. But even in this time of blindness and depravity (if indeed one could be unknowingly deprived) there was a glimmer of hope. Hope walked among the fragile trees of dust, and across the colossal bowls of rock, drifting past the soulless entities that glided above the colourless plains, hope walked in the form of a man. Where he came from still remains a mystery. Could he have come from the stars? Did he cross the Vale? Maybe he even came before this great shadow loomed over our world. He is not defined by his origins, but rather his supreme acts of benevolence that followed.
When one thinks of fire, one might associate it with a number of Human qualities; Passion, ambition, destruction, chaos, but to this man, the flame meant rebirth. It is said that this dark stranger stood upon the highest peak of the Ashlands and engulfed the world in a divine inferno. A blinding white-orange flame spread across every corner of our world, and in the burning light, the ashes swept away, the soulless beings faded into the air, and the stranger basked in the glow as colour filled his being, saved from his bleak existence. This is the greatest miracle in the universe.
For how long the inferno lasted, I cannot say, but when at last the blaze turned to embers, what remained was the most beautiful image ever to grace the multiverse. Luscious fields of emerald, sapphire, crystal, and amber coated the warm earth, with gargantuan expanses of trees dotted from coast-to-coast, boasting hues of brown, red, and white as the newborn sun glowed radiantly against the leaves, smiling back with scorching reds, mellow oranges, and wholesome yellows. Oricá's season of birth was Autumn, and such a time will always be celebrated as such.
This very moment, as the all-powerful stranger gazed upon his impossible work, this is the moment where Humanity deems him worthy of the title, 'Lord of Oricá'. He guided the sun and moon from one horizon to the other and spent an immeasurable time roaming the lands, frolicking in every bit of beauty and light his new world had to offer. Some would say that perhaps this was Oricá at its peak, and that our Lord was mistaken to continue. There is much controversy among Druids and Humanitarians alike, and a myriad of opinions and beliefs on where our Lord should have halted in his grand project, but who are we really to judge such divine matters?
He orchestrated the first winter. A chill swept over the land and the once-smiling leaves shrivelled and fell to the frosted dirt. The world appeared much like the it did before the flame, but in yet another act of defiance, the Lord ventured across the world in pilgrimage. He travelled to every corner of the lands, sowing the seeds of life everywhere he walked, from the deepest sea to the highest mountain. His goal; to add to his wondrous creation. To create a living, breathing world that's forever evolving, and changing, the perfect sculpture. The Architect put together the food chain piece-by-piece, designing each and every animal that we would come to know, from the minuscule, but efficient Fire Ant to the carnal, dominant Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Winter will forever be marked for celebration, for despite the similarities to the bleak apocalyptic mass Oricá once was, the beauty of the modern world will endure always, and because of this, we, as receivers of his immense gifts, will always have a reason to be happy. Oricá today is almost unrecognisable compared to the prehistoric beauty of the untouched world, but even still, we cannot be negligent in our gratitude to our Lord, for without him, there would be no Humanity.
Winter, as all winters shall, faded into spring. Primordial Oricá shedded it's ivory coat, and under a battalion of raindrops, a new world burst into bloom. A storm of colour swept across field and forest, pompously brash flowers looked to the sky, eager for the sun's kiss and the cloud's bounty. According to the Lord himself, "No words, not one word, could do such beauty justice." This particular spring's lusciousness was not only due to the magical sights and scents, but also because of its importance in Oricá's infancy, for this was the dawn of beings.
There are many analogies to explain what our Lord had constructed, but I believe the best is that he had put together the perfect machine. The food-chain, habitats, evolution, life, death, reproduction, all meant nothing until this very spring. Our Lord's sculpture was complete, without blemish, forever moulding to exceed its own beauty. The pride hunted the mammoth, and the deer fled from the wolf, all was as it should be, as most Druids would argue, but, as I put pen to this very paper, I act as inscrutable evidence that it would not remain this way.
This, instead, was the very world we crawled toward. The footprints of man disturbed the sand, and flattened the grass. From the ocean we came, our unbelonging apparent from the very beginning, for we were small in the grand plan, and unexpected. The Architect stood before us, and smiled upon our arrival, we were welcomed to his land, and Humanity would never know kindness like it again.
He has so many names; The One, Ronasáváiir, Emburo Kalona, The Architect, The Scourge of Shadow, but we, of the great continent of Irilis, call him Lord Oricál, Lord of Oricá, and Host of the Divine Flame. In every way, he represents the natural world, and in lesser ways, Humanity. In every dark tale, there is a glimmer of light, of hope, a chance that whilst today may bring nothing but despair, there may be unmatched joy to come. Our Lord is the personification of that hope, in every story, and in every legend. We must never forget this, even in these harrowing times, we cannot allow the flame within us to burn-out, for if we do, the darkness will conquer us once again, and there may not be such a kind soul to reach out to us this time.
