This is how it started...

from The Annals of the Unsullied

It all started when Dwynen joined the merrymaking of a strange island folk. Looking on, the saffron-haired goddess could feel a distinct sense of inspiration come over her. Their lithe movements, and Dwynen's elegant aerial dance, inspired such excitement to rise up in her that her hair seemed to truly be aflame. Watching intently, she reached for her hair and pulled away a handful of burning strands which she began to fashion into the shape of a faery – yet larger by far than any of Dwynen’s pixie kind; indeed, what she shaped was easily three feet tall, and the span of each of its wings twice that. Her skin was blue and her eyes gold, and she looked at the goddess with clear animosity.

The goddess frowned. “Well, that came out wro-” but before she could wipe the angry thing away, the blue-skinned fae spread her wings and rose, and in her wake there scattered a thousand smaller fae of complexions blue and green and yellow and purple, turning their heads frantically here and there with clear mischief in mind. “There's no taking Asula back!” Said the mother-fae. A few of her children attacked poor Dwynen, and others yet pulled at the hair the the island folk, who cried out in shock and distress – for they had never been subjected to this kind of treatment and had not thought it possible.

Irritated, the saffron-haired goddess caught one of the fae and shook it till it was dust, then pounced upon another and did the same. But the air all around was swarming with them, and many had flown far away – that Asula was long gone and was leaving newborns in her wake.

Gathering the dust of all those she had slain, and throwing in her crimson hair, the goddess created once more. There arose another, of similar height but powerfully built and wingless, a clear warrior. He was horribly pale and his hair was all wrong – devoid of life and colour. And above him, yet another rose – a woman winged -, and another.

“Brentylwith arises!” Declared the pale wingless male.

“Eirgwyn takes flight!” The first female announced.

“Dichdorka ascends!” The second female proclaimed.

And as with Asula, in the wake of these latter two erupted more fae, seemingly more benign than Asula's, and they immediately set about tugging their blue- and green- and purple-skinned kin off the island folk, and freed poor Dwynen. But these new fae had not the strength or martial prowess of their firstborn cousins and were immediately set upon. Only the intervention of the larger three tipped the balance, and even then only slightly. And so the goddess fashioned a blade and summoned the wingless warrior to her (who, though wingless, flew just as easily as the rest) and she handed it to him. And immediately he was filled with its power and was made mighty. For in his grasp was the First Warsword; Seihdhos Sword of Victory.

And the Sullied fae scattered, and the wingless warrior gathered his Unsullied kin and gave chase. Wherever Asula and the Sullied went, they spread mayhem and chaos, ranging from the slightly mischievous to the downright cruel, and wherever the Unsullied came they spread seeds and great forests grew all over the world, and streams exploded from the earth and gushed forth to the sea. And the fae clashed and battled – in the skies and in the deep dark forests, in streams and in lakes and atop the mountains and the hills. They burst across the world, warring and fighting as they went, and the terrifying power of the First Warsword was made manifest again and again. Even now it struck down one unfortunate Sullied or another, cleaving them in twain and causing them to burst into a great cloud of magick and dust.

The saffron-haired goddess looked on this penitently and with great contriteness, and she was majorly conscious-stricken and guilt-ridden. “Whoops.” She woefully said.

Now as the saffron-haired goddess stood there, a sudden nausea took her. She called her precious Dwynen to her and splashed into the sea, leaving the singing island behind her and sinking beneath the waves. Dwynen fluttered above the water, trying to keep the Flame-haired goddess in sight. But it was no use, and her efforts were swiftly cut short as a Sullied suddenly swooped upon her, caught her, and flew away laughing and cackling.

The goddess noticed Dwynen's plight, distantly, and thought to help. But her body felt heavy and the feeling of being afloat in the water, being carried away and cushioned without any effort and without any part of her body being overburdened, was serene. She could feel it now – the reason for her heaviness. Her bloating belly. She laughed inwardly – it was only natural that a such a worthy sword should make her bloom. But with what – residue? Too tame! And yet here she was with a life growing within her. A boy, she knew, and smiled as she whispered his name in the water. “Brahun Dan.”