This is the true history of the world, as I have learned it from my father, now deceased. He told this tale to me on his deathbed, and bade me remember until I could pass it down, as he was doing to me. It begins long before man appeared in this realm, revealed to my father by Devos himself during their many conversations. However, most of what he recounted were the events and conversations of men and gods of his time, before the Sundering that shaped the future of humankind, but after the great Family. Now, I lie here, frail and dying, without anyone to complete my promise with. My last act upon this world that I protect will be to attempt to transcribe its history; so later generations may understand why their world is what is it, and how all history comes to pass.

It was tired. It had been working for as long as it could remember, even though it had no concept of time. When it stopped to think about how long it had toiled, it couldn't divide its infinite existence into periods of work and idleness, and merely went back to work, puzzled over the incident. Finally, it decided, after once again determining that it's infinite lifespan would keep it a slave to endless tasks, it realized how tired it truly was.

It was a young god, though one would have to label its agelessness in terms of experience and maturity instead of years to reach that conclusion. The others it worked wouldn't understand it's problem, so it did what all gods do to solve an issue on their own. It created.

A tree, majestic and broad, sprang forth from its hand, rooted on a patch of soil, surrounded by lush green grass and flowers whose varieties only existed in it's mind.

The god sat, though it had no body to do so with, and rested its back against the trunk, though nothing physical ever touched the tree.

It sighed. To rest felt good. The grass was soft and the tree's blossoms filled its mind with a friendly and soothing scent. Only one small detail was missing.

Closing its eyes, it imagined a line, as perfectly straight, in the distance, and a crimson ball that rose and fell over it.

Sunset. It held up a hand that didn't exist and cast a long shadow, falling off the edge of its plot of relaxation. It smiled.

The god came back again, after another portion of infinity, to sit and sigh and smell the air. Respite, it came to refer to the place as, though it did not communicate the idea of the tree and sun to it's peers.

The god returned to Respite often, expanding on the tree's surroundings until it had created an entire world, rocks and soil and sky and clouds. Gentle oceans lapped at sandy shores, snowy mountains fed winding rivers, which nourished lush valleys. It was all beautiful, but it still preferred the view from Respite, from its tree.

The world was missing life- its beauty was being wasted, it figured, because it was only making occasional stops in, as timelessness allowed. So it created again, putting fish in the sea, birds in the sky, and beasts on the ground.

It smiled. Now, Respite was perfect.