Awakening the Lost Histories

Work in Progress

Blood of the Wild Gods:
The Lost Histories

Six forgotten tales of divine tragedy and mortal resilience, preserved by one who chose truth over treasure, memory over myth.

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Tanneus G'Raja

The Historian

Born among the ash and ruin of the Godscarred Wastes, Tanneus chose ink over treasure, dedicating his life to preserving truths others would see forgotten.

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The Collection

Within these pages lie stories that shaped our world, though few now remember their truth. Each tale stands alone as a window into the divine heart—beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

From eternal love cursed by jealousy to mercy that damns its giver, from philosophical quests that span millennia to wars that silence the heavens themselves, these are the histories that were meant to be lost.

From the Historian's Pen

"I was not born with ink-stained hands or reverent eyes for scrolls. I was born in ash. But where my people search for fragments to trade like coin, I chose a different pursuit—to record what remains, without softening cruelty or gilding virtue. Let the reader see them as they are. Let the gods answer for themselves."

The Six Tales

Each story reveals a different facet of divine nature and mortal courage. Choose where your journey through these lost histories begins.

First Tale

Seven Days of Sun

Love eternal, death inevitable

A god cursed to watch his beloved die through endless incarnations. Each lifetime brings seven perfect days before fate claims its due.

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Second Tale

The Weaver of Sorrows

Jealousy woven into fate

The origin of the curse that binds eternal lovers—a lunar seer's jealousy transformed into cosmic vengeance that even gods cannot undo.

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Third Tale

The God Who Wept

A millennium searching for purity

A philosophical journey of a god who walked among mortals for a thousand years, searching for one human untouched by cruelty.

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Fourth Tale

The Sin of Mercy

When compassion becomes damnation

A god cast from heaven for choosing mercy over divine law. This tale explores the price of compassion in a world that calls it weakness.

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Fifth Tale

The Song of Blood and Stone

How wealth rewrites history

When a goddess walks as a healer, her murder becomes mythology. A tale of how gold can transform villainy into heroism.

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Final Tale

The Divine War

Why the gods fell silent

The cataclysmic conflict that shattered heaven and earth, revealing why divine silence might be the greatest mercy of all.

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Seven Days of Sun

Love eternal, death inevitable, hope unquenchable

Elodias, the Sun-Touched God, bears a curse unlike any other—to find his beloved Senia in every incarnation, to love her for seven perfect days, and to lose her when the sun sets on the seventh night. Yet neither divine decree nor mortal death can extinguish the flame they carry for each other across the ages.

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Elodias

The Sun-Touched God

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Senia

The Beloved

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"Why would I look at the stars," he said, his voice dropping to a softer timbre, rich and warm as honey in sunlight, "when I have always loved the sun?"

"She felt like something was beginning. Something real. Something strange. Something that tasted like love and danger all at once—a flavor both new and hauntingly familiar."

Author's Note

This story reached me first as a song—fragmented, mournful, carried in the voices of ocean-bound bards who still sing to the dusk...

They claimed it was older than the city of Atheria itself—passed down from the time when the land was still called Quenos, a quiet village by the sea where gods once walked beside mortals. The melody shifts from coast to coast, but the names never change.

Years later, on a windswept coast north of old Quenos, I found a weather-beaten shack nearly swallowed by sand and time. Inside, buried beneath a thick coat of dust and rotted canvas, was a journal. The pages, brittle and translucent, shimmered faintly—crystallized by salt and age. Most of the writing had long since vanished, devoured by moisture and silence. But the illustrations endured.

Dozens of women. Each different. Each the same.

One with sunlit curls. One veiled in market cloth. One crowned in blossoms. Faces drawn in reverent detail—captured as if remembered from dreams. No names remained, but whoever drew them knew her. All of her.

Pressed between two pages, I found sun daisies. Their color had nearly faded, but not completely. I cannot say with certainty whose hand once held that book. But I have not shaken the feeling since: that I touched something sacred. That I held the grief of a god who remembers every life she lived, and every time she loved him—before the end came again.

If that is true—if I have held the grief of a god—then no myth in this collection is more tender. Or more tragic. I write this account not for glory or acclaim, but because truth, however painful, deserves witness.

The Weaver of Sorrows

Divine jealousy spun into eternal tragedy

Before Elodias and Senia were bound by their curse, there was Malritha—the lunar seer whose jealous heart wove fate itself into a weapon. Born during eclipse, raised in shadow, she crafted a curse so perfect that even the gods could not unmake it. This is the story of how divine emotion becomes cosmic law.

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Malritha

The Weaver of Sorrows

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"Malritha was born during the deepest moment of lunar eclipse, when the moon hung like an open wound in the night sky. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, caught between anticipation and dread."

"Her loom required no ordinary material. Malritha would wait until the full moon hung heavy in the night sky, then climb to the highest spire of the temple. There, with a spindle carved from driftwood and fingers dipped in saltwater, she would gather moonlight itself, pulling it from the air like silver silk."

Preface to the Sixth Account

I discovered this account sealed in a blackwood box, half-buried in a sea cave beneath the cliffs of old Quenos—where modern Atheria now gleams above, unaware...

The cave mouth opens only at low tide, and even then, only long enough for the brave or the reckless to slip inside. I was both.

The scroll was wrapped in oilskin and bound with silver thread. Its script was mirrored—illegible by torchlight, but revealed in full beneath the rising moon. No title. No signature. Only the sharp, deliberate hand of someone who poured their sorrow into ink, never daring to speak it aloud.

Not far from where I found it lay a skeleton, folded as if the tide itself had tucked it into rest. I did not linger. The bones were old, almost hollow with time. A ring of silver thread still clung to one wrist. I have my theories, but none I'll speak aloud in a place like that.

This is not a tale you'll hear sung. Not in the markets of Atheria, nor in the sanctified halls that now bless its name.

But the wind remembers.
The sea remembers.
And some griefs are woven too deeply to ever stay buried.

The God Who Wept

The search for goodness becomes the discovery of complexity

Thainos descended from heaven with a simple quest: find one human untouched by cruelty. For a thousand years he walked among mortals, witnessing every shade of human nature. What he discovered challenged everything the divine believed about creation, morality, and the nature of goodness itself.

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Thainos

The God Who Wept

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Leika

Mother of Mountains

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Archadeus

The War God

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"He gave them softer skin than made sense, bodies that would bruise at a touch, hearts that could break from mere words. He gave them minds that would never be satisfied, always reaching beyond their grasp. He gave them souls that could contain infinities but would be housed in flesh that lasted mere moments. He made them absurd. He made them glorious. He made them human."

"They love precisely because they know loss. They create beauty because they understand decay. They choose hope not from ignorance of despair, but in full knowledge of it—and that makes their hope infinitely more precious than the easy certainty of those who have never faced darkness."

Scholar's Reflection

The story of Thainos is not merely a theological oddity or an unusually persistent myth. It is a lens—one that reshapes how we think about divinity, about hope, about the very nature of what it means to try to be good in a world so shaped by failure...

Most gods demand reverence, fear, submission. This one demands something far more difficult: reflection.

What undoes me is not the idea that he failed. It's the idea that no one could rise to meet him. He became everything he was searching for—and we could not match him. Not once. Not in a thousand years.

I don't think it was our sins that broke him. Perhaps it was the way we excused them.

Do you think he left us because he, too, became afraid of what he had created? Or do you think—as I have sometimes dared to hope—that he scattered himself like seeds, that some fragment of his light remains, waiting for the day when we might finally prove worthy of his faith?

I do not know if he truly failed. I only know that he tried longer than anyone else would have. And perhaps—perhaps that is enough.

The Sin of Mercy

When divine justice meets human compassion

Azrael was the God of Guardian Angels until the day he chose mercy over divine law. Cast from heaven for killing his corrupted brother, he walks the earth bearing the weight of necessary sin. In a small forest village, he discovers that redemption comes not from divine forgiveness, but from the stubborn love of those who see past the monster to the man.

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Azrael

The Fallen Guardian

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Rynn

The Stubborn Heart

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Hope

The Impossible Child

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"The creature that emerged from the shadows was no natural beast—too tall, too wrong, with matted black fur and pale green eyes that burned in the dying light. This stranger—this dark figure who had appeared like salvation from the night itself—moved with a grace that seemed almost inhuman."

"She stared back at him from where she lay among the leaves, her arm throbbing with pain but her fear temporarily forgotten. This close, she could see that his green eyes held depths of sorrow that seemed older than the forest itself."

Found in Blood

I found this story in blood. Not metaphorically—though there is blood enough in the telling. I mean literally, in the rusted stains that still mark the floorboards of a cabin deep in what locals call the Dark Forest...

The pattern of it troubles me even now. Too much for violence alone. Too deliberate for accident. As if something profound and terrible had occurred in that small space, leaving its signature in crimson.

The trail began with a children's rhyme in Oakhaven, sung with the casual cruelty of those who've forgotten fear can have a source:

"The demon dwells in darkest wood
Where light fears to fall
He feasts on those who trust too much
And darkness takes them all"

What I discovered challenged everything we think we know about demons and angels, about mercy and judgment, about the price of choosing compassion in a world that calls it weakness. This is not a tale of simple good conquering evil, nor of darkness consuming light. It asks harder questions: What does it mean to show mercy to those who seem undeserving? How do we judge actions taken in impossible circumstances? And when the divine walks among us, scarred by choices we cannot fathom, do we have the wisdom to recognize grace beneath the guilt?

I publish this account not because I've found all the answers, but because the questions themselves deserve better than children's rhymes and comfortable lies. Because blood on floorboards might tell a different story than the one we've inherited. Because sometimes what we name as demons are simply those who choose mercy in a world that counts it as sin.

And sometimes, the greatest mercy is the one that damns us.

The Song of Blood and Stone

Truth dies when gold speaks louder than justice

Khali, the ancient Dream Shepherd, chose to walk among mortals as a simple healer. When she caught the eye of both a foreign prince and a jealous princess, divine love became the catalyst for mortal tragedy. This tale reveals how wealth can rewrite history, transforming murder into mythology and villains into heroes.

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Khali

The Dream Shepherd

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Prince Eshuah

The Displaced Heir

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Princess Jade

The Gilded Serpent

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"The river knew her name, though she had never told it."

"Perhaps the greatest power lay not in mighty demonstrations but in small acts of compassion, in being present when fear threatened to drown hope entirely. Perhaps this was why she had chosen this form, this place, this quiet work among mortals who would never truly know what walked among them."

"Oh, your cottage is absolutely enchanting! It's exactly how I've always imagined a fairy tale dwelling should look—you know, the sort where the wise woman is secretly lovely and the woodland creatures all adore her."

"There was something oddly endearing about Jade's complete inability to take even her own nightmares entirely seriously... 'At this point, I'd let you paint me blue and dance naked under the moon if it would give me one decent night's sleep.'"

Carved in Stone, Written in Gold

I first encountered this tale not in scrolls or songs, but carved into stone. Deep within the stone sanctuary near what was once High Pass, I found a mural that took my breath away...

Ancient beyond reckoning, its lines worn soft by countless years, it depicted a story I thought I knew: a radiant Vaelari wielding a blade of pure light, striking down a shadowed figure who glowed with ethereal darkness. Below them, a human figure reached toward the fallen god. The standard tale—Light conquering Dark, balance restored through sacrifice.

For years, I accepted this version. It aligned perfectly with every official record, every teaching about the dangers of unchecked darkness and the necessity of the Light's dominion.

Then I found Captain Morris's journal, buried deep within his family's private archives and sealed away as if it contained a disgrace too dangerous to confront—its weathered pages revealing a story entirely different from the one the world had been told.

His private account of the deaths at High Pass. Blood patterns that didn't match testimonies. Defensive wounds on the wrong person. The precision of a blade between ribs that spoke not of desperate struggle, but of calculated murder.

The official investigation records, when I finally unearthed them from a magistrate's sealed files, confirmed my growing suspicion. The reports had been... edited. Revised. Purchased. A hefty donation to the High Pass Widows and Orphans Fund had transformed murder into mythology.

The mural I had studied with such reverence was not a record of divine justice, but a monument to mortal lies. The "corrupted Vaelari" and the "dark witch" were simply two people who had loved each other, killed by a jealous princess whose family had enough gold to rewrite history.

Let those who read this remember: the stones we carve our stories into are no more truthful than the hands that wield the chisel.

The Divine War

The price of divine love, the cost of mortal prayer

The final tale reveals the cataclysmic truth: a civil war between gods that nearly unmade reality itself. When the Wild Gods chose to love mortals without restraint, their compassion became catastrophe. Now we understand why divine silence might be the greatest gift—and the heaviest burden—the gods could bear.

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Astrid Ravenscroft

The First Bloodmarked

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Natalia DreamingOwl

The Lost Light

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Silas

The Trickster God

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"The sun remembered when mortals weren't afraid of the dark."

"'The Wild Gods are just stories, Astrid. Fairy tales we tell ourselves to make the darkness bearable. No one's coming to save us. No divine champion will descend from the heavens to protect the innocent. We're alone.' But their prayers had not gone unheard. In halls beyond mortal sight, in realms where stars were born and died like candle flames, something stirred. The Wild Gods had heard every desperate plea, every anguished cry. And they were coming."

Final Testament

I am seventy-three years old, and I am dying of truth. Not the gentle death of age, but the death of those who learn too late that their greatest enemy was their own heart...

When every conviction you held sacred turns to poison in your hands. When truth itself becomes the enemy of everything you once called good.

I have spent fifty-one years asking why the gods don't speak to us.

Fifty-one years cataloguing our desperate prayers, our reaching hands, our broken hearts crying out to a heaven that seemed deaf to our suffering. I raged against their silence. I condemned their absence. I built my entire scholarly identity on the foundation of one burning question: Why don't they answer?

Now I know.

And the knowing has murdered everything I was.

The gods are not absent. They are not deaf. They are not indifferent to our suffering. They are right here—closer than our own breath, nearer than our heartbeat—holding themselves back with a restraint so absolute it looks like abandonment. Every moment of every day, they love us enough to remain silent. To stand at the very edge of intervention and choose, again and again and again, not to speak.

Because they learned—through apocalypse, through the unmaking of stars, through watching reality itself crack beneath the weight of their good intentions—that divine words reshape existence. That every blessing becomes a curse in time. That every gift, no matter how lovingly given, becomes a weapon in mortal hands. That love expressed directly from the infinite to the finite doesn't elevate; it incinerates.

The Wild Gods were everything I believed divinity should be. Compassionate. Present. Active in mortal affairs. They walked among us, loved us, protected us with fierce devotion. They gave us everything I spent my life insisting we deserved.

And they destroyed the world with their kindness.

I have seen the records—not the sanitized versions, but the raw testimonies written in blood and madness. I have traced the cascade of consequences that began with a single act of divine mercy and ended with reality itself coming undone. The Wild Gods loved us the way I always said gods should love. Without restraint. Without distance. Without the cold wisdom that keeps the infinite from overwhelming the finite.

The First Gods—those distant, hierarchical beings I spent decades condemning—were right. Their cruelty was kindness. Their distance was love. They understood what I, in my progressive arrogance, could not: that some chasms are not meant to be bridged. That some silences are not meant to be broken. That some loves are too vast to be safely expressed.

Do you understand what it means to discover this? To realize that every prayer you've documented, every plea for divine presence you've preserved, was a request for catastrophe? To be a truth-seeker who has discovered that truth can be more evil than any lie?

The generations before us, the ones after—they all cry out the same question: Why don't you answer? And the gods, in their terrible mercy, continue their silence. Not because they don't care. But because they care too much to risk speaking. Because they learned, through losses that would break mortal minds to contemplate, that true love sometimes means letting the beloved believe themselves abandoned rather than destroying them with presence.

What remains of them now speaks only in sacred spaces—those few sanctuaries where divine words can be contained, where the infinite can whisper without shattering the finite. Even there, their voices are muffled, careful, wrapped in so many layers of restraint that hearing them requires a lifetime of preparation. The rest? Dead or in hiding. But here's the question that haunts me: do they hide because they love us, or because they've learned to fear what they created?

For we are no longer the helpless mortals of ancient days. The Bloodmarked walk among us now, carrying within them the power to kill gods. Divine blood spills as readily as mortal when the right blade finds its mark.

Perhaps they hide to protect the world from the catastrophe of their love unleashed. Or perhaps—and this thought chills me more than any other—they hide because they've discovered that their greatest creation has become capable of their destruction. Love and fear, intertwined like lovers in the dark, each feeding the other until even gods cannot say where one ends and the other begins.

The Wild Gods who survived the war didn't ascend to some distant plane. They buried themselves in the deep places of the world, in caves that echo with unspoken words, in forests where no mortal foot has trod for millennia. They made themselves into living tombs, conscious and aware but forever separate, forever silent save for those rare moments in those rarer places where communication won't crack the cosmos.

And I—fool that I am, romantic that I was—I spent my life trying to make them speak. To draw them out. To end their isolation.

I sit here in the ruins of my convictions, surrounded by scrolls that document divine atrocities committed in the name of love, and still—still—some treacherous part of my heart whispers: Maybe it didn't have to be this way. The scholar's curse is not just seeing patterns across time. It's seeing those patterns and still believing, against all evidence, that the next iteration might be different. That knowledge might transform us. That understanding might redeem us. That if we just knew why, we could somehow make it right.

But I know why now. And the knowing has made nothing right. It has only revealed that what I called wrong was the only right we could survive.

The Wild Gods are still here, scattered and broken, maintaining their distance not out of indifference but out of a love so profound it accepts being reviled rather than risk our destruction. They endure our curses, our accusations of abandonment, our bitter prayers—because explaining their silence would require speaking. And speaking would begin the cascade again.

Tomorrow, if tomorrow comes, someone will find these notes. But should they? Should I burn these pages before my strength fails, let this terrible understanding die with me? For fifty-one years I sought this answer. I raged at heaven for it. I would have given anything to know why.

Now I wonder if ignorance wasn't its own blessing. If the question that burns in every mortal heart—Why don't the gods answer?—is bearable only because we don't know. The not-knowing lets us hope. Lets us believe in eventual reunion, in divine intervention just beyond the horizon, in a love that might someday speak our names again.

But I am a scholar. Even dying, even broken, I cannot bring myself to destroy truth. So these words will remain, and someone will read them, and they will carry this poison I've carried. They will know what I know. They will understand what I understand.

And perhaps, like me, they will wish they had never asked.

Now, at least, one man knows why the gods don't answer.

And the knowing has killed everything he was, leaving only enough life to write this warning:

Some questions should never be answered.
Some silences should never be broken.
Some loves are too vast for the beloved to survive.

The gods' silence is their greatest gift.
Pray they never love us enough to speak again.

—Tanneus G'Raja
Scholar of Lost Histories
Seeker of Buried Truths
Dying of what he found