In the fourth age of Tel, after the Dragons were placed in slumber, Ator, God of Justice, did call forth Men, Alvi, and Nani to learn of his law. But the Nani, a stubborn folk, retreated to their hidden halls, heeding not his summons. And the Alvi, dweller in ancient woods, did likewise stay within the green embraces of their forests. So it fell upon Men, ever fearful of Ator's sightless gaze, to heed his call.
As the light of Aelos ascendeth over Mount Ourana, casting golden beams upon its snow-crowned peak, ten figures stood cloaked in twilight grey, steadfast against the biting wind. These were the Conclave of Ten: Iskrates, Seleukos, Xenokles, Theokritos, Gelon, Akrisios, Zenas, Pentheos, Ambrotos, and Dexanides. Ten men chosen by Gerdia herself to recieve the law of this dawning era. Yet uncertainty gnawed at their hearts, and their path lay shrouded in mist.
Lo, from the mountain’s heart, a tremor did rumble, echoing through the vales, and the heavens themselves did cleave asunder, not with fire, but with blinding light. Within that radiance stood Ator, the blind God of Justice, his empty sockets seeing all yet naught, his voice thundering from his lips, carving wisdom upon the Conclave’s souls.
He spake of ages past, where the law was but a cold instrument of the Dragons' wrath, wielded by wyrm-kings drunk on power and deaf to mercy’s pleas. He spaketh of peoples shattered beneath the iron weight of unyielding pronouncements, and the cries of the innocent drowned in the din of vengeful roars.
But within the darkness, Judge Ator spaketh of hope – a new dawn rising from the ashes of the Dragon-War. He unveiled the tapestry of justice, woven by Gerdia from the threads of Maya's compassion, the healing touch of Lamus, Bira's relentless pursuit of balance, and Nexra's sobering whispers of mortality. He instructed them to hearken to the wind carrying the pleas of the wronged, to discern truth veiled in the shadows of Esperus, and to temper righteous anger in the forge of Edius, transforming it from a weapon of destruction into a tool of vengeance.
"Swift be your judgments," He boomed, His voice echoing through the canyons, "but not rash. Firm they must be."
He spoke of scales, not of the marketplace, but of the human heart, forever teetering between light and darkness. He urged the Ten to judge not merely deeds, but the intentions that birthed them, to seek atonement as well as punishment, and to remember that every soul stands beneath the shadow of Nexra’s obsidian blade.
As Aelos painted the summit with his golden brush, Ator faded, His voice still echoing through the valleys. The Ten stood transfixed, their hearts heavy with the weight of their charge, yet ablaze with newfound understanding. They descended, no longer cloaked in twilight grey, but bathed in the radiance of justice, each carrying the legal maxims of Ator etched upon their souls to all of the nations of Men.
Thus unfurled the saga of the Conclave of Ten, their pronouncements echoed by whispers from Ourana's high vault. Their judgements, righteous and pure, unfurled a banner of justice that kissed the very skies. Each Judge, his tongue sharpened by Ator's wisdom, reached forth to a distinct tribe of Men: the Selnoi, whose lineage traced back to stars unseen; the Rexae, of iron will and ebon hair; the Khemians, builders of stone monuments that touched the clouds; the Ishemites, whose sails danced upon Naeia's head; the Neshians, their skin kissed by Aelos; the Adbians, whose hearts beat with the rhythm of the moving sands; the Arahanians, swift as mountain hawks and fierce as their winds; the Bori from the ancient forests; the Rhenians, stout warriors whose voices boomed like the rushing river they hailed from; and the Lykenians, eyes keen as wolves and courage like tempered steel.
Yet, alas, not all bowed to Ator's righteous law. The Selnoi, first to hear the Judges' words, received a blessing in return: reborn as the Eknoi, "Firstborn" in the ancient tongue of Men, they stood as living exemplars to their acceptance of divine order. Likewise, the bronze-skinned folk of Nesh, their laughter echoing in their sun-drenched lands, embraced the lex Atoris and found solace in its embrace. Then came the Rexae, their faces etched with the wisdom of countless moons, who yielded to Ator's judgement, completing the triumvirate of obedience.
But the others, their hearts shrouded in shadows, turned away from the Conclave's outstretched hand. Their fate, woven in the loom of Gerdia, remains yet to be revealed, a tangled skein waiting to be unraveled by the hand of destiny.
