Chapter Three
In secrecy, he sought out Lahmzu—the First-Born of Terfelial, eldest of the Hyrelim, forged in the earliest dawn of creation. And there, in hushed tones and shadowed counsel, Th’ Eamon spoke words steeped in venom and deceit. He turned his voice against the Great Mother Hen and cast doubt upon her love.
He whispered of the new world… of the eggs she had brought forth in countless numbers.
And into Lahmzu’s mind, he planted a seed of betrayal:
“Surely, Terfelial no longer loves the Hyrelim as she once did… for if she did, why would she create those who would come after you?”
And the seed was sown.
The words of Th’ Eamon were not spoken as mere counsel, but as a poison cloaked in honey. They fell upon Lahmzu like a sacred truth long denied—heavy with meaning, yet sweet upon the spirit. And in his heart, the First-Born wavered… and then believed.
Thus did Lahmzu align himself with the whisper of treachery.
Then Th’ Eamon, seeing the seed had taken root, unveiled the fullness of his design. He spoke of the fall of Terfelial—not as an impossibility, but as an inevitability. With the strength of the Hyrelim at his side, he declared, even the Queen of Araboth could be cast down.
Lahmzu hesitated, for though doubt had entered him, fear still lingered. Could even they stand against the gathered might of the Gods?
But Th’ Eamon, ever cunning, cast aside this fear with calculated assurance.
They would not face the Gods.
They would face her—alone.
“She will be taken unaware,” he swore. “And when she stands without her court, we shall demand her throne. And if she refuses…” his voice darkened, “then she shall be cast down, bound in chains, and broken before all.”
He spoke then of what would follow—that the sight of Terfelial, the Great Mother Hen, brought low and shackled, would shatter the will of the other Gods. They would not resist. They would kneel. They would swear allegiance to a new sovereign.
To him.
And with those words, the last light of doubt within Lahmzu was extinguished.
Fully ensnared by the promise of power and the sting of imagined betrayal, Lahmzu gathered the Hyrelim and brought them before the halls of Th’ Eamon. There, within the shadowed grandeur of the god’s domain, the plan was spoken aloud in full.
And the Hyrelim listened.
They felt the weight of the accusation… the wound of a love they were told had been forsaken. And though many wavered, the seed of doubt spread among them, growing into something far more dangerous.
Yet Th’ Eamon knew this would not be enough.
And so, in defiance of the sacred order, he turned to forbidden craft.
With the aid of those among the Hyrelim who bent most easily toward the arcane, he wrought creatures not of harmony, but of distortion—beings twisted by dark magiks, born not of creation, but of corruption. Their forms were vile, their essence unstable, their purpose singular: to serve his rise.
And he named them D’ Eamons… after himself.
Thus was the first blasphemy given shape.
Beneath his palace, deep within the foundations of Araboth, Th’ Eamon commanded the forging of a vast and terrible prison—a chamber without light, without mercy, wrought to contain even a goddess.
There, in chains unbroken and shadow unending, Terfelial would be cast… should she refuse to yield.
And so the snare was set, the forces gathered, and the first great betrayal of Araboth drew near.