In the beginning was Atar Lionatar, and His Name was Celd m Riored Nossangar, He Who Weaves with Light and Song, and He wove unto Himself a world.

For the warp He gave them light and song, and this was the first and last thread.
For the weft He gave them five threads to go between the others, and these were the threads of weather, of green, of fire, of flight and of beast.

And He gave them the clouds above and the seas below; He gave them the green of the small herb and the green of the towering tree; He gave them the fire of the sun and the fire of a kindled heart; He gave them flight over land and flight over sea; and He gave them the beast of the forest and beast of the field.

And the beasts he made with mortal bodies, but the ethereals He made with immortal spirits. But to mankind He gave both mortal body and immortal spirit, for mankind was neither beast nor ethereal, but the children of Atar Lionatar Himself. And their body and spirit he joined with a soul of light and of song, so that they might be guardians of Anossi, that is, His Weaving.

But the Firstmade forsook the Weaving and He Who had woven them; the world they took for their own and renamed Ionossi. They killed the Eldest of their own and in so doing in the Weaving a great rift was formed. What was given began to be unravelled and if not quickly grasped, would be lost. And many of the First ways were lost from memory and time, never to be understood again.

Light was lost; song was lost; life itself was lost. The children of the Firstmade grew in number and in wickedness and struck at their brethren with the dark hand of war. And the ethereal who sided with them fell prey to their unravelling and became the Unmade, creatures of darkness and deceit who tread the paths that mankind has beaten out for them.

And Nossangar wept at the Weaving and those He had made, for they took His gifts and twisted them beyond recognition - not to nurture or restore but to torture and destroy - their power far too great to belong to any single being.

So He took the threads of His Weaving and rent them asunder, and the Second Rift was formed. Their light and song He split into seven, that no person might master more than one thread and wield it so viciously against his brethren ever again.

And the children of the Firstmade dispersed into the rest of the world, and its name became Nossi, for it no more belonged to them nor Atar Lionatar and only ragged threads remained of what was once its beauty. To the north they went, and to the south; to the east and to the west they made their journeys. Of peoples they were seven: Jaos and his people, Arwani and her people, Hal and his brethren and Naligeini and his brethren, Umta and her people, Kaiyin with her people and Alshan also with his tribe.

And the last of the First ways, though nearly forgotten, were again discovered, though they were but a shadow and a whisper of what once they had been. Some called them the gifts of the gods; some called them arcane powers; some still called them magic.

But no matter its name, magic was the remnant of the soul of light and song given by Atar Lionatar to His children. It is said that if one looks with unveiled eyes one can see the glim of a man’s soul on his skin and in his eyes, and that if one listens with unstoppered ears one can hear the hum of his very thoughts.

And the soul is not bound in such a limited form as is the body. He can be focused on the threads of the world around him and take hold of them, move them, change them, weave them anew. For a soul coloured by fire, the threads of fire in this world are easily rewoven according to his knowledge and his will. For a soul attuned to flight, the threads of movement itself.

Light, a soul uses; light and song are his tools for of light and song is he made. As long as they may be cast with purpose and with meaning, magic may be woven. For some this is a voice cast into the wind; for some it is a pattern of light cast with the hands. For some still it is the two in tandem.

But a senseless chant can have no effect on the Weaving; a locked tome of knowledge must be opened to be of any use. Without understanding, without direction, there is no magic, no casting of the soul. Magic must have meaning to its caster, and magic must be sent.

Whether it be through light or song, through voice or dance, magic sent will expose for one brief moment the very soul - a gleam of light in the eyes, a resonant hum in the air. Mankind has named this the flash, and though it is truly brief, increased use of such magic will brighten the lingering glow around the caster, and this glow mankind has called glim.