Once, gods were not whispered myths or painted relics — they were sovereigns of sun and storm, known by name and feared by nations. Before the Celestial Cataclysm — before the skies cracked, the seas boiled, and the divine tore itself apart — the gods of Saragossa walked beside mortals, their wills shaping empires, their tempers shifting history.
They did not demand belief. They demanded tribute, obedience, devotion — and in return, they offered power. Temples pulsed with radiant magic, the faithful bore miracles like birthrights, and whole cities were built beneath banners blessed by heaven.
That age has passed.
The gods are now silent, their voices lost to time or buried in ruin. Some are thought dead, others fled, and a few — perhaps — still watch through cracked symbols and half-remembered rites. Their once-glorious pantheon lies in ruins, scattered across the dreams of scholars and the nightmares of heretics.
This codex is no holy scripture. It is a gathering of what can be gathered: shards of hymns, broken murals, bone-framed scrolls, and the spoken fragments of fading oral traditions.
It is, like all sacred things, incomplete. And growing still.
Once a coalition of deities devoted to light, creation, wisdom, and protection, the Accord sought harmony across the planes. Their dominion inspired hope — and their fall inspired silence.
Where the Accord ruled, cities flourished, temples gleamed, and celestial courts dispensed justice. They were architects of civilization, mentors of mortals, and keepers of cosmic balance. Yet for all their wisdom, they were not without pride — and pride fractures even the stars.
They say the first fire was struck upon Bravuran’s anvil, and from that flame came the bones of the world. Known as The Ember-Forge, Bravuran is the forger of mountains, the shaper of steel, and the silent strength beneath every foundation. His followers toil with reverence, knowing that to build with care is to echo creation itself. When the Accord marched, it was Bravuran’s arms that fashioned the weapons, and his resolve that held the lines.
Wherever beauty blooms or magic stirs, Elarion’s touch lingers. Patron of artists, mages, and dreamers, Elarion is said to have painted the stars across the night sky. Their magic is wild and vibrant — never controlled, only channeled. Elarion’s temples are living murals, and their devotees weave spells like poets compose songs, knowing that every stroke of the arcane is a hymn to creation.
With every dawn, Solmire breathes new life into the world. Called The Dawnseed, he is the god of second chances, warm beginnings, and the endless cycle of renewal. Farmers whisper prayers to him with each planting, and warriors seeking redemption call upon his light. Solmire’s faith burns gently but persistently — like a sunrise you cannot ignore.
Eirun is the heart of the untamed world — the storm that nourishes and the vine that binds. She walks the wilds with bare feet and lightning in her hair, her laughter ringing like thunder across the hills. As fierce as she is nurturing, Eirun’s worshippers are shepherds of balance: druids, midwives, and storm-callers, who know that the wild both gives and takes.
Nymira is the soft light in the darkest hour, the stillness of the moon over troubled seas. Goddess of healing, dreams, and the eternal rhythm of time, her followers move gently through the world — menders of body and spirit alike. Temples to Nymira are places of silence and silver light, where tides are watched and the sick are soothed beneath her gaze. It is said she sees what others do not, and heals not only what is broken, but what is forgotten.
Kaelar is the rush of blood in battle, the roar of a name shouted across a field of war, and the thrill of glorious competition. He blesses both challenger and champion — not for their cause, but for their courage. Warriors invoke him not to survive, but to earn a tale worth remembering. Duels fought in his name must be fair, brutal, and unforgettable.
In dreams and mirrored reflections, Zal’Ruun whispers riddles that unravel the nature of time. Some say he sees all futures — others claim he is merely a memory of what could have been. His prophets speak in riddles, and oracles who serve him are both revered and feared. To know what’s coming is a burden only the mad or the divine can bear.
Seravelle speaks not through voice, but through stillness, memory, and revelation. She is worshipped by scholars, judges, and those who seek truth in silence. Her temples are libraries without windows, where the wind carries no echo. Her followers believe that some wisdom must never be spoken — only understood.
Aeloria stands watch at the gates of the righteous, the defender of cities and the guardian of the innocent. She is justice forged into unbreaking form, and her knights carry her will into battle. Her name is invoked in oaths and battle standards alike, and her shield is said to have turned back the first flame of the Cataclysm itself.
Calren walks between the stars and the crossroads. Patron of travelers, messengers, and exiles, he is never still, always moving with the wind or the stories of the road. Shrines to Calren are built at borders, crossroads, and the edges of cliffs — any place where a journey truly begins. Some say if you leave an offering and speak your destination, you’ll find the safest path.
Nemesis guards the veil between life and death. Stoic and impartial, she does not judge — only ensures balance. Her clerics serve as funeral keepers, soul guides, and death’s midwives. It is said she never looks back, and her veil hides the faces of those she carries across. Even the gods respected her silence.
The Enclave championed power, entropy, and control. Though maligned by most, these deities embraced darker truths — that pain instructs, desire governs, and ruin reveals.
They did not shun mortals — they offered clarity in cruelty, purpose in pain, and dominance over the weak. Theirs was a doctrine of strength, shadows, and unchecked ambition. Some scholars argue the Cataclysm was inevitable once their vision gained ground.
Velstraz seeps into the marrow of tyrants and plagues alike. He is not worshipped — he is endured, appeased, feared. In his name, chains are tightened, and sickrooms sealed. Yet there are those who invoke him willingly, for he teaches that only through affliction can one truly grow strong — that rot, too, is part of the cycle.
To swear fealty to Xerathia is to surrender freedom in exchange for brutal order. Her rule is relentless and her word unquestioned. Entire empires have flourished under her grip, only to collapse when her attention turned elsewhere. Her devotees wear red not for devotion, but for obedience — for blood spilled in her name sanctifies loyalty.
Zeraphel is the inferno of endings, the scream at the heart of chaos. He dances in the collapse of towers and the blaze of unchecked magic. His cults preach liberation through destruction — that only by razing the old can anything new emerge. Where he walks, ruin follows — not always uninvited.
Draven is the whisper before betrayal, the smile behind the dagger. His agents act unseen, their truths twisted and their loyalties fluid. He is beloved by spies and murderers, but also playwrights, illusionists, and diplomats who understand that masks reveal as much as they conceal.
Zelara kindles hunger — not of the flesh, but of the soul. She offers power to those who desire, promises to those who ache. She is not evil, her cultists claim, only honest — for what is ambition, if not divine? Her followers wear jewelry that bites the skin and speak in riddles of golden futures.
Vaelaria is the scream beneath the throne, the grief that poisons legacies. She rules despair as a monarch — draped in sorrow, adored by the broken. Her name is often uttered in mourning, yet her cults twist lament into power, raising queens who weep with joy as their kingdoms burn.
Nyssara was once said to be a goddess of wisdom — until her truths were caged and twisted by those who feared them. Now she speaks only in curses and compacts. Her clergy act as pact-keepers and secret-keepers, feared even by other gods. Every promise made in her name is a prison with velvet walls.
Malveron does not scream or rage. He waits. A stillness behind every omen, every unspoken dread. He represents the annihilation that follows when all other gods have fallen. His worshippers are nihilists, star-watchers, and those who believe the universe would be better asleep.
There is a hunger beneath reality, and it has a name. Nexaris is the abyss that remembers. Those who peer too deeply into ancient relics or speak forgotten syllables may hear him whisper. His devotees do not fear death — they fear forgetting. And so they devour stories, gods, and even memory itself, in his honor.
Some powers never aligned with either faction. They walked their own path — wild, primal, or wholly alien. Some say they were never gods at all, but ancient beings mistaken for divine. Yet their names persist.
In life, a tyrant who sought immortality not through worship, but through sacrifice. Upon his death, the line between mortal and divine blurred. His essence clings to relics of bone and ink — whispered among secret orders who believe death itself can be negotiated. He is not worshipped in temples, but feared in rituals.
They say before gods bore names, the world knew hunger. Vhorne is that hunger made flesh — not malevolent, simply primal. To him, the strong eat, the swift run, and the clever endure. He is worshipped by hunters, beast-kin, and savage tribes, though some druids claim he slumbers beneath the oldest roots.
No scripture binds Thalor, nor does any shrine hold his breath. He is the wind between sails, the storm upon the cliffs, and the freedom of a life unchained. Sailors carve his sigil into their keels, while outcasts invoke his name when casting off bonds. Some say Thalor is not a god at all, but a living idea — one that cannot be caged.