When the waters finally receded and the Ark came to rest upon the slopes of Mount Ararat, a quiet fell over the land. Not peace, not joy, just a strange, trembling silence. The world was new, yet full of ghosts. Valleys lay empty, the bones of drowned cities buried deep beneath restless seas. The monstrous voices of the Nephilim no longer echoed in the forests. The Watchers, those once-proud beings who had defiled creation, were bound in shadowed pits beyond mortal reach.
For a while, there was calm. Noah, worn from trials of survival and solitude, planted vineyards in the fertile valleys. His sons — Shem, Ham, and Japheth — took wives and raised children, the first of this new age. The beasts multiplied. Birds filled the skies. Rivers ran clear, free from blood rites and dark sorceries.
Noah spoke to his descendants of the old world — of the rebellion of the Watchers, the rise of the Nephilim, the blasphemies of Atlantis and Lemuria, the pride of Eridu, and the Shards of the Word, scattered in the earth's deep places. His grandsons listened, wide-eyed, fearful and amazed. But mortal hearts hunger always, and the shadows of old ambition stirred even among the children of the Flood.
The Covenant and the Scattering of Bloodlines
Before his death, Noah gathered his sons. On a stone of covenant he blessed them.
To Shem, he gave the mantle of the Architect's favor — a line to carry the promise of deliverance, from which priests, kings, and keepers of wisdom would rise. To Japheth, he gave the northern and western lands, fathers of nations, of warriors, seafarers. To Ham, fertile valleys of the south — but with a warning: "From your blood, a shadow shall rise — a cunning one whose pride will wound the heavens again."
The sons scattered. Shem's line moved eastward, preserving sacred songs, the tongue of the Beginning, and the ancient rites of the Architect. Japheth wandered into mountains and forests, building cities, mastering fire and iron. Ham's children flourished in southern rivers and deserts, but old secrets stirred again. The corruption of the old world whispered once more in their midst.
The Birth and Rise of Nimrod
From Ham's house, in the line of Cush, a child was born beneath a red sky. Midwives whispered in fear. His eyes gleamed like pale moons. The beasts of the fields grew restless at his passing. The wind carried a chill of warning. They named him Nimrod.
From the start, he was strong-willed, fearless, cunning. He hunted not to survive, but for sport. He bent men to his will with words sharper than swords. He sought relics in the ruins of drowned cities — remnants of Atlantis, Lemuria, and Eridu. Some said a hidden Nephilim taught him, revealing names and runes, secrets of spirits bound between worlds.
By the time he became a man, Nimrod had gathered the scattered tribes under his banner. He forged weapons of war anew. He declared himself King of Earth and Sky. His domain stretched across Shinar, a fertile plain untouched by the Flood. He built walled cities, vast fields, and temples to beings older than the stars.
Yet Nimrod's ambition burned higher still.
The Tower of Babel
In his heart smoldered a desire like none before: to storm the heavens, to pierce the veil, to claim dominion over both mortal and celestial. He decreed the building of a tower, not just a monument, but a structure that might reach the sky.
Stone quarried from ancient mountains. Bricks fired with pitch, blood, and oil. Thousands labored, men, women, even children, bent to the making. Beneath the tower, Nimrod gathered forbidden relics — fragments of Watcher weapons, bones of fallen Nephilim, scrolls with names mortal tongues must not speak. Priests in black and crimson chanted dead languages, calling upon imprisoned names.
Old corruption bled back into the world. Cain's scattered descendants whispered in Nimrod's ear. The Shards of the Word, long buried, stirred beneath the stones.
Heaven's Judgment
The higher realms noticed. The celestial choirs mourned fallen brethren and readied themselves. The Architect, seeing all, decreed no flood this time — but a severing.
One morning, as the masons laid stone upon stone, their tongues failed. Brother could not speak to brother. Words of power turned to meaningless sound. Priests faltered mid-chant. The upper tiers of the tower cracked. The Shards, sensing disruption, withdrew deeper into the earth.
The terrified people scattered. Some fled north to become lords of stone cities. Others vanished into forests. Some crossed deserts, carrying fragments of Nimrod's blasphemies. The Tower of Babel was abandoned. Nimrod himself fell — some say by fire from the Architect's hand, others by madness of followers who could no longer understand each other.
Yet his bloodline endured. Knowledge of the old rites survived in secret, waiting.
The First Fracture
The judgment of Babel left a deeper scar than stone or speech. The One Tongue splintered, and with it, reality itself. A multiverse of reflections and echoes was born, realms untethered, some strange, some terrible, some beautiful. In these distant worlds, new cities and pantheons would rise, sometimes mirroring the rebellion of the old world. The ancient darkness would return, always.
I moved through it all. I watched the Nexus stir. The shadows of Atlantis, Lemuria, and Eridu whispered still.
The war is not over.
Not yet.