In the darkness before light and time, the five primal Concepts awakened. The void was a silent canvas upon which they cast their wills. N'yrrhath the Dreamer felt the first flicker of an idea, a vision dancing at the edges of nothingness. Asaryel the Architect perceived a faint pattern emerging in the emptiness. Thaal the Silence breathed a solemn hush, embracing the void with calm reflection. Yunea the Flame-Song hummed with restless heat, a single ember kindling a spark. Eroth the Boundary felt a line shaping beneath his being, a promise of form within the endless dark.
Together they sensed the stirring. Without a word, each felt the longing of the others. Under the void's eternal black, they gathered as one at the birth of purpose. Their wills entwined, and in the silent vacuum a consensus dawned: to shape something from nothing, a creation born of principle rather than matter, a tapestry of pure becoming.
N'yrrhath, in the center of their communion, breathed first. Golden threads of vision unfurled at his will. Across the starless void he wove spirals of galaxies yet unborn, shimmering fields of thought unbound, and luminous sigils dripping with nascent meaning. The formless nothing became, to N'yrrhath, a blank slate on which he sketched the blueprint of all that could be. With a whisper to the dark he cast forth an ethereal design — a promise and a question in one.
Asaryel stepped forth from the stillness of thought. The Architect touched N'yrrhath's dream with hands of invisible geometry. He traced lines through the airy tapestry, drew pillars of ordered light, and locked arcs of perfect symmetry into place. Where N'yrrhath's creation had been fluid and formless, Asaryel's touch gave firmness and shape. Spirals anchored into orbits of certainty; the murmuring fields took form as grand halls of harmony. Each phantom possibility became structured beauty beneath the Architect's guiding hand. The chaos of dreams accepted this firm invitation to become order.
Into this burgeoning design, Thaal wove the depth of silence. Standing at the threshold where thought and form converged, Thaal exhaled a profound hush. The nascent creation fell under a sacred quiet, not emptiness but pregnant expectation. Every beam of light carried a shadow of stillness; each note of possibility resonated in Thaal's reverent quiet. In Asaryel's halls of light, Thaal draped curtains of pause: wide spaces where thoughts could fully settle and be heard. It was the stillness that gave weight to each spark of creation.
Then Yunea, drawn by the grand silence, unleashed a tongue of living flame. From her core flared polychrome fire, dancing through the weave with wild brilliance. Her flames leapt along Asaryel's pillars and through Thaal's silent halls, consuming nothing yet birthing life. Each blaze was a motif of transformation; none could stay static under Yunea's gaze. Her touch set threads of creation ablaze: where Asaryel had laid strict rule, Yunea burned tiny cracks of possibility; where silence reigned, she kindled sparks of possibility in the quiet.
Eroth observed the burgeoning tapestry with careful thought. When dream and design and stillness had mingled with fire, he reached outward and outlined the first true boundary. With a slow, deliberate sweep he traced the shape of the Weave's whole. A rim of onyx night folded around the edges of light and flame. Where once the dream was unbounded, an edge appeared — sharp and silent as a final note. In that line lay promise and definition. Everything that N'yrrhath had dreamed, Asaryel had structured, Thaal had hushed, and Yunea had ignited — all now framed by Eroth's final line.
So was born the Great Weave of the Five, a tapestry of principle that was life's prelude. It hung between existence and nonexistence, a realm of pure becoming. N'yrrhath beheld the tableau he had dreamt and wove distant stars and dawns into it; Asaryel surveyed his symmetries and saw patterns echoing through its halls; Thaal inhaled the depth of quiet within it, content that balance was achieved; Yunea watched her embers leap from one idea to another in joyous flight; and Eroth laid a hand on the boundary's line, marveling that his breath had given the Weave its final shape. Each saw in the Weave a reflection of themselves and of all they had wrought together.
For a time, harmony reigned. The Weave spun onward, a living loom where each thread answered to another. N'yrrhath plucked new dreams upon it like strings of a great harp; Asaryel adjusted angles to sustain symmetry, fortifying columns and chambers where needed. Thaal echoed silence back and forth so that what needed rest had it, and what trembled with potential found calm. Yunea kindled fresh flames wherever stagnation crept, ensuring vitality did not fade. And Eroth expanded boundaries just enough — with breadth to allow dreams to roam freely, yet firm enough to hold their shape. The Weave hummed with life, radiant and balanced, a unity of their fivefold vision.
Yet in the heart of the Great Weave, a subtle tension was born. The tapestry was splendid and new, but its five parents were not one. Yunea's fire, so necessary for motion, sometimes grew wild and eager; it kindled sparks that leapt beyond Asaryel's ordered lines, scorching his perfect geometry. The Architect's halls trembled under the heat, their symmetry warping. Thaal's silence, deep and vast, occasionally spread too far, swallowing Yunea's flames in endless shadow. N'yrrhath's blueprint expanded and contracted like a cosmic breath, quivering under these new influences. Even Eroth felt the boundary strain: in places it tightened like a leash chafing freedom, in others it stretched inviting chaos.
The five felt the strain as a single discordant chord. Each sensed the push and pull within the Weave. N'yrrhath saw his dream-quilt shimmer with anxiety as patterns bent. Asaryel noticed fissures where rules and flames clashed. Yunea felt her spirit bristle under silent walls. Thaal heard the hush falter where sparks gleamed too bright. Eroth felt his boundary groan like metal under pressure. Without words, they turned their awareness upon each other. If the flame charred, was it the will of flame, or the will of one of them?
They did not yet have the word for conflict, but in the tapestry itself was the whisper of imbalance. In the delicate weave lay the seeds of future fracture. For now, they stood in awe of what they had made — and in apprehension of what it foretold.
In that first loom of existence, the Great Weave gleamed against the void as both miracle and omen. It was the first tapestry of all: woven by dream and design, silence and flame, and bound at last by shape. The five stood together in wonder before their shared masterpiece — and apart, each feeling its life differently. In their union was harmony, and within it already the first threads of difference. In the fertile fabric of the Weave were sown all possibilities, and in its gentle tension lay the birth of what was to come.
They knew, without knowing, that from this unfurling pattern more would be made. But for now, they simply watched — breathing in the new creation they had woven, feeling the hum of its unstable perfection, and catching the faint echo of all that might follow. The Great Weave spun on, and in its delicate threads lived the promise of everything yet to be.