Creation myth for my setting - PEACH

[VoxRationis]

This is some background material I'm writing for a campaign I'm running, and I was hoping people might look it over and provide feedback before I show it to the players. This is an in-universe tale; it presents the events as filtered through the prejudice of storytellers and the deceptions or omissions of some of the parties involved. Edit: The sort of feedback I'm looking for are mostly either errors in writing, the sort that stand out easily to a first-time reader but not to the writer, or inconsistencies in the narrative, though I'm happy to receive feedback of other sorts if something pops into your head.

Spoiler: The Creation of the Heavens

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In the beginning, there was the Sun, and to find his birth would be as to find the edge of the world. The Sun was passionate and bright, possessed of a burning ardor.

To have self is to define the other, so no sooner did the Sun exist than did he create the Dark. The Sun and the Dark hated each other and in a million battles strove for supremacy. The Sun was mightier by far, but the Dark was vast, and whenever the Sun moved to attack, the Dark moved behind him like the sea behind a ship. Mighty and clever was the Sun, and he saw this, and brooked no more the Dark’s evasions, and laid his light upon light until he made walls of radiant crystal. In these walls he hemmed the Dark, dividing it in pieces until he found its heart, which he bound in a celestial orb. Then he raised threefold walls above him, and forced out the rest of the Dark, and found peace and beauty once more in the space between the empty heavens and the prison of the heart of darkness.

Yet the Sun grew disquieted in his victory. He knew but one other being, and that he had torn asunder and imprisoned. His light shone unopposed, yet all it could illuminate were the unmarred orbs o’er head and under foot. Displeased was he, and to salve his restlessness, he made another orb and bound in it a fraction of his light. In this perfect, gleaming sphere he set not his unyielding will nor unmatched pride, but instead his desire to create. This was the Moon, and she became his bride, dancing with him about the imprisoned heart of the Dark. The union of the Sun and Moon made beings of lesser light, gods possessed of power but also the weaknesses of flesh. These, their children, the Sun and Moon set to continue their parents’ creation, to bring intricacy to the inescapable order of the Sun’s devising.
Yet the Sun was wary and jealous, and remembered always that his first creation turned against him, and feared that these things, born of not only his will but another’s, could be suborned to betray him. So he took another portion of himself and set the heavens with lights that were his alone, beings a fraction of his power, and bound them about the sky, that they might never move against him, but could always see what happened on all sides of the world. These were the stars that shine yet over us today.

Spoiler: The Primeval Age

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Beneath the ever-watching radiance of the heavens, the gods set forth to complete creation. Earth they made, and water, and all living things. Œparac made metal and earth, cladding the innermost sphere in stone. Udil filled the basins of the world with water, and Asylec and Ceilesyl set about raising living things to continue the creation in perpetuity, making all the beasts of the fields and fish of the sea. All the while, the countless stars heard the will of the Sun, and made known all his desires, and ensured that all that was done upon Iaru would be in harmony.

But Œparac, in his task, stood too long against the prison of the Dark, and looked too long upon it. It infected his heart and lit in him a treacherous flame. Œparac wrought hidden spaces in the earth, where dark things might breed and dwell, and made each metal with strength and weakness unknown to any but him. He clad himself in crimson armor, and his brothers and sisters were perplexed, for they had never known battle, but the form of Iaru was made to their liking, and they said nothing.

Ceilseyl loved dearly the beasts and fish she had made, but they were dumb and mute, and could not comprehend the glory of the Sun nor embark upon their own creations. So she made a form after the fashion of the goddesses and begged the Sun to endow it with a soul. The Sun was wary of this, for he knew that this creature, being of Ceilesyl’s shaping, might be as Œparac’s Iaru and set with hidden treachery. “Why,” he asked, “might I divide myself again to create another who might turn against me?” “O Lord,” the all-loving replied, “all my creatures cannot raise their voices in your praise, nor light incense for you, nor make temples for you, and though you might speak law, they can know no law but that which you bade me tell them when I made them.”

This pleased the Sun, who desired lordship above all things, and he assented, and put a glimmer of his light in the vessel which Ceilesyl had made. This, the first woman, the goddess named Macsutlitle and set on an island where dwelt no beasts of prey. Asylec then blessed her with many children, and there they grew numerous. The gods descended and gave humans many gifts, and the Sun came upon them in his glory and spake his law, and man and woman fell upon their knees and praised his light. The Sun was pleased.

Œparac then saw that this creation of Ceilesyl’s would come to cover the world, and that his hopes of rebellion were growing more remote. In desperation, he called forth the demons and the dark gods of the deeps and assaulted the surface. He clad them in adamant and bronze, and gave them arms by which to slaughter man and defy the gods. In the night they came, always certain to retreat to the depths of the earth before the inexorable advance of dawn. The Sun, in wrath, set his fire within vessels possessed of all mighty virtue, and gave them wings to roam about the world and take his light to dark places, and fiery voices with which to praise him as they brought death to his enemies. So he made the first dragons, and as they fought alongside the loyal gods, the servants of the Dark withered and burned. Œparac was captured, and the Sun, in wrath, tore from him his thighs, and burned his eyes from his sockets, and said, “Know the embrace of the darkness you chose,” and set him beneath the earth in a lightless tomb.

Then came a thousand years of peace and plenty. Man raised cities in accordance with the Sun’s designs, and raised topless temples to his glory. The Sun set stars in their high towers and pronounced law upon the people, who knew no pain nor illness, and practiced every art as well as ever could be done. Upon the waves rode silver ships, a league each from stem to stern, and in the forges ringing hammers wrought gold and silver and bronze as fine as snowflakes and as great as the bones of the earth. Magics great and small were taught to men, and all then were as the mightiest of sorcerers today. The reach of the Sun’s law was without end, and rites of allegiance to him filled every day. At night, the kindly face of the Moon shone upon the world, and the myriad stars watched all things. The Sun forbade man to hide things from his sight, or to delve too deep into the earth or gaze beyond the stars, that none would ever be inspired to rebel against him again. A legion of dragons he kept about him in the sky, and a legion more he set forth upon the world, and they burned and devoured the guilty.

Spoiler: The Nine Days of Ruin

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Yet there grew discontent among men over time. The wise and learned spoke among themselves in hushed voices, “Is it justice that the Sun bears beyond men’s ability, or simply power? Were we to judge, and not he, would we be worse?” Too, they wondered if the bans on what they could study were in truth that none could ever challenge the knowledge of the Sun. Others said, “The Sun is great and terrible, and his light burns his creation, and we welcome the merciful Moon each night. Would we not prefer that she lead us with kindly judgment and guidance?” The stars spied these seditions, and made them known to the Sun, and his wrath was terrible. He laid wards upon the halls of the disaffected, that none might gaze upon them or enter and live, and gave thousands of dissenters to death and flame. Yet this, to some, was only cause to further doubt the Sun’s righteousness. The Outcast Against Heaven fell furthest from his worship. She spoke with silver tongue and led her city of Nore’ez to cast aside his law and spurn him. Their stars they covered with heavy cloth, and their homes and heads they shaded, as was forbidden, and their voices rang out in jubilant rebellion.

The Sun now knew wrath beyond any he had ever felt, and his voice rang out like ten thousand bells. “I am Lord of Heaven and Earth,” he said, “and my law is absolute. All creation is made in my name, and that which is not in my name is to be unmade.” He came over Nore’ez and ceased his journeys through heaven. All about the world, storms and waves wracked the homes of men, and the stars, in accordance with the Sun’s will, let it be known that this was the consequence of the sins of Nore’ez. For nine days of ruin, the Sun stayed over Nore’ez, his light unflinching, and he set upon the city a new calamity each day.

On the first day, the Sun said, “The plenty that you enjoy is of my making, so know the hardship that it is to renounce me.” With that, he closed their gates, and snuffed out all light but his own, and he made their stores wither in the granaries, that their bodies might starve as their spirits did. Yet the Outcast Against Heaven accused the Sun of injustice and led her city in mockery.

On the second day, he struck the city blind, and they saw no more their neighbors, nor any man his father in a far-flung place. The people of the city cried out in anguish, for they could not find their way to their wells or markets, nor read the musings of their sages, yet the Outcast Against Heaven spoke with calm voice, and led them through their hardships, and made sure all were cared for, and the people said, “Yea, though we suffer the wrath of the Most Glorious, with each other we are strong, and we survive.”

On the third day, the Sun cried, “The waters of the world were made by my will, and by my will do they run sweet or foul.” The waters of Nore’ez ran foul, and a plague came about the city. Those who drank were rent asunder, and their flesh made fire. The people of the city cried out, “What right have you? If the righteousness of your justice is explained at sword-point, how are we to know you from a bandit that falls upon the unwary?”

On the fourth day, the Sun said, “Though you blaspheme and think yourselves my better, see that your base treachery, which I suffer without injury, is to you utter ruin.” And the tools in the workshops and the furnishings of the homes were made alive, and fell upon their owners, and servants turned upon their masters, and the streets of the city ran red with blood.

On the fifth day, the Sun took the bodies of the dead and bade them rise, and the wrathful dead fell upon the living, and the unwary were set upon by slavering corpses, but many of these were destroyed by the servants, and the people of the city fortified their homes and beat back their fallen kin.

On the sixth day, the Sun said, “Lord am I of heaven and earth, and king absolute of life and death, and in life and death you are mine,” and the shades of the dead he took, which milled about the city like flies about a corpse, and bound them together into a spirit of earth and fire, which laid waste to the city. The god of the city broke free from the shackles he had been bound in, stood from his throne in the great hall, and rose up in defense of his charge, and raised shield and silver spear against the spirit, and slew it, though his body was turned to ash which blanketed the city.

On the seventh day, the Sun sent a great wind through Nore’ez, and in the wind were borne his furies, whose bodies were set about with blades and covered overall with gnashing teeth, and all who walked the sun-scoured streets would be devoured. The Outcast Against Heaven took up the mail of a loyal guardsman who had fought against her blasphemy, and walked about, and the Sun’s furies knew her not, and she found provisions for her kith and kin.

On the eighth day, the Sun let the city know his light without limit, and set fire to the withered trees and dried beams of Nore’ez. The city came ablaze, and so too did its fields. In halls of stone, however, the Outcast and her followers sheltered.

On the ninth day, the city yet sang its defiance, and boasted that they had suffered all the wrath of the Lord of Heaven and Earth and yet remained. In fury unthinking, the Sun screamed, “Foolish mortals! I am without limit in my power, and my wrath cannot be suffered!” He tore down a star from the sky and cast it upon Nore’ez, and it was slain, and the star of the city, which had been covered, was slain, and the city was no more.

Spoiler: The War of the Gods

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The stars recoiled in horror that two of their number had been so cruelly slain, and whispered among themselves, and knew that they could no longer serve their father. So they resolved to give him no more counsel, but to speak twice and against themselves of all things, and claim that the felling of their brothers had confused their senses.

The Sun was wroth against the stars, but he was beset, for his begotten children feared and hated him for this, and rose against him, and so too did men call out for justice for Nore’ez. All about did rebels rise, from gods and men and those races which the Sun had laid low for his people a thousand years before, and on all sides of Iaru they denied that the Sun could be king. Among them was the Outcast Against Heaven, who had led her followers from the city through peril and over desert to take refuge elsewhere, and in every city gate, her cry went up, and men rose to follow it.

Yet the Sun was not alone in his battle, for there were many that remained loyal to him. Some feared that they who meted out punishment in the Sun’s name would be likewise punished should he be overthrown. Others, who had known the Sun all their lives as the only true source of justice, could not bring themselves to betray him. Among these was Irant, foremost archer of men, and appointed leader of the Sun’s armies of the north.

All about Iaru, the rebels and the obedient, gods and men alike, fell upon each other, and the world burned. Gods’ voices rang, and cities shattered. The silver ships were filled with warriors, and with groaning cracks rammed each other. The magics which had raised stone and silver to the heavens now called them down, and the arts of men were unmade, and thousands of thousands of thousands died in battle, in raid, or in war-made want. In the day, the Sun streamed ruin upon the world he wrought, and in the night sky, the Moon wept for all the suffering she saw.

In the far north, the King of Winter, master of the ice-dwelling race, saw the weakness of the Sun, and plotted to take up arms in step with the rebels. Ṗelcoræn, all-seeing star of the north, knew this, yet delayed, and did not tell the Sun until the rising was already begun. Hastily was Irant sent with needed war-bands, a flight of dragons, and a fleet of silver ships to bring the Sun’s wrath upon the newest rebel. No force could stay this army, and Irant, with courage unmatched, faced down even three rebel gods when to the aid of Udil he came. Voices ringing, bows resounding, Irant’s men filled shore and strand and slew the ice-dwellers, and Irant threw down the King of Winter and called out that all the world was the Sun’s.

Yet while he did, the Sun and his followers, outnumbered, were brought to bay at Mount Medg’ol. On the fair and fertile slopes of that land, dragons laid waste to men, and the air, shot through with arrows, resounded with the screams of the dying and crackled with the spells of magicians. His light falling like burning blades, the Sun struck about on all sides, and his voice shattered will and shield alike, yet mighty and courageous were the rebels, and at last fell strokes split fiery breast. From the peak of Medg’ol rushed forth an eternity of fire and light, and the fertile lands were blackened, the earth turned to obsidian, and rebel and loyalist alike were burned, most to ash and some to coal, and few are the gods who can say they survived being present there.

Spoiler: The Final Sunset and the Twilight Unending

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The stars watching from above saw the death of their father, and his light they caught and passed about to one another, and each became as the Sun in miniature, adding his light to their own, that they might take up the charge of maintaining creation. Shone they upon all places at once, and no more was there day and night. Ends of Iaru long used to cold and darkness saw warmth and light, ice and snow melting, and the torrid realms grew chilled, their flowers wilting.

The Moon saw the death of her mate as a flash upon the horizon, and felt his absence as a grievous wound. In grief and rage, she tore her heart from her breast and hurled it to earth, and her light shone no more, but instead she hung, an ebon orb, in the sky and blocked out the light of the stars. And wherever she passed over Iaru, man and beast would know her anger, and madness would fall upon them.

Irant settled his people amid the melting ice of the north, and the Outcast worked for all her days to find Nore’ez and rebuild her home, but never again could she find it, for the gates of the cities were closed, and the ships of yore were broken, and no shipwright remained that knew how to make them whole again. And all over Iaru, men spoke no more to their kin across the seas, and they forgot the Old Speech, and every art of old passed from knowledge.

[Catullus64]

I like it very much! The language seems to me to strike the right balance between high, antiquated diction and clarity. It seems to me that you draw upon a deep reference pool of mythological, philosophical, and literary sources, (though I could be wrong about any one of them) and as such there's a powerful sense of verisimilitude to the whole affair.

The main thing I would suggest altering is that several key character introductions happen a bit swiftly; many characters are only introduced as they do the thing that they're there to do; this means that characters don't receive much personal description, and as such might be hard for players or readers to keep straight. I had to review some sections once or twice to be sure I wasn't mistaking some characters.

For one example, it might be worth giving individual descriptions of the gods of the Primeval Age before you get into what they did, particularly Ceparac (don't know how you did the formatting thing with his letters).

Same goes for mortal characters and places. For instance, the Outcast Against Heaven receives no introduction as a figure until she's already busy Outcast Against Heaven-ing.

For me, it would go a long way if there were little inserts describing people just before they do their thing. "There was, in that time, dwelling in the land of Nore'ez, a lady fair to look upon, and tall as the elder trees..." That sort of thing.

Since you mention that this is a biased and not entirely truthful account, I may have more to offer if you share what the agenda is of those who share this history, and in what respects they distort the truth. If you're not fearful of your players reading this, please share! It might also color my opinion to know whether this is a setting for an RPG, a book, or something else. EDIT: NVM, you said it's for a campaign.

[VoxRationis]

Some of that's intentional. I was attempting to evoke the feeling of certain real-world etiologies which similarly mention things out of nowhere or suddenly refer to people existing that shouldn't exist yet according to the narrative, as well as to imply that certain contextual elements might have been well-known at the time of the story's initial composition but become obscure to modern readers. I may have gone too far, though. I was also feeling that the story was running a bit long, and was therefore leery of making certain details (like Udil's peril from which Irant saved him) into longer digressions.

There are a couple of notable biases in the work. The first and most obvious, even to people in universe who would otherwise consider this story to be a literally true and complete account, is that it's told by the Irantlir, the descendants of Irant, and therefore accords him additional significance that the same basic tale, told by other ethnic groups, might not show him.

Another source of bias and/or error is that the story is being recounted by a culture that has fallen deeply from the heights its ancestors reached. I'm not sure how clearly this comes off in the story, but the Primeval culture used both what we would consider magic and what we would consider advanced technology in equal measure, and was, to boot, organized in a very different way from modern cultures in the setting, with an enormous, urbanized, globalized population under a rather direct central authority. The Irantlir therefore don't quite understand the context of some of the things that are said in these old tales. The simplest example would be the constant use of the word "silver" to describe things in the Primeval era; most present cultures do not know how to work iron, and know only two grey metals: silver and lead. Any grey metal object which isn't considered "base" and heavy therefore gets called "silver."

The other...

Spoiler: Spoilers upon spoilers

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...is that much of the tale of the creation of the heavens is straight-up lies. (Not all of it, mind you; this is not a sci-fi setting masquerading as fantasy, but a fantasy setting whose mythological elements are intertwined with modern or futuristic elements.) The Sun was not the sole font of creation and was one of many similar beings of light (a point that will become relevant during the campaign). He did create the gods, but they did not create humanity or most of the flora and fauna* of Iaru. They took humans and a number of domestic (or at least human-associated) plants and animals to a world that already existed, reshaping it and killing or driving away its native inhabitants as suited their purpose of creating a perfect little clockwork world of idealized human life and total pious flattery of the Sun. I took the name of the world, Iaru, from the Egyptological rendering, Aaru, of the Field of Reeds, and the name of the first woman, Macsutlitle, is likewise a mutation, based on the Irantlir phonology, of the name of Ra's barge. (I'm not sure I want to say authoritatively that the Sun was literally Ra, but the concept inspired my naming scheme.) The Sun and the lesser gods provided this creation narrative to the human population to justify their rule, and though the Sun was overthrown, the original myth was still useful to the new ruling faction.

Now, much of that is irrelevant, and even the explorations of the party in the campaign, which will otherwise delve into some things the gods would rather not be made known, is unlikely to uncover it. I like to do that in my campaigns, including details and secrets that the players will never see so that I can generate mysteries that are, in fact, logically consistent, but don't necessarily appear so from the viewer's perspective. But that's the font of some of the inconsistencies in the creation narrative as told above. All the universe is supposed to have stemmed from the Sun, but then there are these demons and things that he didn't create. They therefore are sort of ignored in the narrative until they need to actually do something, and then they show up, with the vague implication being that the Dark created them or mutated something into them.


*Well, the proportion of flora and fauna they are responsible for increased significantly after the War of the Gods, since the complete overhaul of all climate after the Sun died destroyed most of the biosphere and they had to rapidly engineer a bunch of species to fill in the gaps, but originally, almost none of the biosphere was of the gods' creation.

[Catullus64]

Things being intentionally vague to evoke the way real-world sources assume audience familiarity with many of the figures is all well and good, but it can be a problem if the player characters are supposed to be the intended audience with all that implied context. If the diegetic text is going to assume their familiarity with a lot of these figures, then the players need some other way of actually catching up with what their characters would already know from cultural context.

This is a problem I've run into many times before when I do vast, cosmos-spanning stories that the players will only ever view from small angles. It's jolly great for you that the mysteries are internally consistent if you view the whole picture, but the fact is nothing in this world really exists outside of the actual play experience (leaving aside, of course, that none of it exists at all), so inconsistency in the eyes of players is true inconsistency. I make this criticism as someone who frequently gets caught up in the thematic and creative project of campaign world-building with insufficient regard for the experience of the people who actually have to play the darn thing.

As for the length, if your players aren't put off by background text of this length, I somehow don't think a few more paragraphs' worth of character introductions is going to make them quail.

And if you've got any Souls players at the table, you're going to get Gwyn jokes, because your Sun is very much following his playbook. Any DM should be prepared for the inevitable pop-culture reference points his work will draw.

Really, though, this is good work, and if you ignore every one of my suggestions, I think this'll still serve its purpose just fine.

[Mechalich]

Things being intentionally vague to evoke the way real-world sources assume audience familiarity with many of the figures is all well and good, but it can be a problem if the player characters are supposed to be the intended audience with all that implied context. If the diegetic text is going to assume their familiarity with a lot of these figures, then the players need some other way of actually catching up with what their characters would already know from cultural context.

This is a problem I've run into many times before when I do vast, cosmos-spanning stories that the players will only ever view from small angles. It's jolly great for you that the mysteries are internally consistent if you view the whole picture, but the fact is nothing in this world really exists outside of the actual play experience (leaving aside, of course, that none of it exists at all), so inconsistency in the eyes of players is true inconsistency. I make this criticism as someone who frequently gets caught up in the thematic and creative project of campaign world-building with insufficient regard for the experience of the people who actually have to play the darn thing.

I feel it's important to echo this. The audience only knows what they are told. If there is only one source, and that source lies to them, they have no way of discerning the truth, because there is no other information.

Also, the myth as related seems pretty grimdark as is, since even the source of virtue Sun god is clearly a vengeful and jealous jerk, and if the world is grimdark hellscape the specifics of the lies and half-truths of the gods don't really matter because nothing can be done about it anyway. This may be perfectly acceptable for the campaign intended, I don't know, but it feels worth mentioning.

[VoxRationis]

Things being intentionally vague to evoke the way real-world sources assume audience familiarity with many of the figures is all well and good, but it can be a problem if the player characters are supposed to be the intended audience with all that implied context. If the diegetic text is going to assume their familiarity with a lot of these figures, then the players need some other way of actually catching up with what their characters would already know from cultural context.

I think I didn't make myself clear. When I said that the context of certain details would be lost to modern readers, I meant modern in-universe readers. I try and give the players as much in-universe context as I am able and they would be willing to listen to; indeed, it is in the service of that end that I'm writing this in the first place. However, much has been lost, and so in-universe readers are going to look at elements from these old stories and see references whose context they do not understand.

This is a problem I've run into many times before when I do vast, cosmos-spanning stories that the players will only ever view from small angles. It's jolly great for you that the mysteries are internally consistent if you view the whole picture, but the fact is nothing in this world really exists outside of the actual play experience (leaving aside, of course, that none of it exists at all), so inconsistency in the eyes of players is true inconsistency. I make this criticism as someone who frequently gets caught up in the thematic and creative project of campaign world-building with insufficient regard for the experience of the people who actually have to play the darn thing.

There is truth in what you say. It would do me well to try to keep the players' perspective more in mind.

As for the length, if your players aren't put off by background text of this length, I somehow don't think a few more paragraphs' worth of character introductions is going to make them quail.

This is a fair point.

And if you've got any Souls players at the table, you're going to get Gwyn jokes, because your Sun is very much following his playbook. Any DM should be prepared for the inevitable pop-culture reference points his work will draw.

What part follows the playbook? I've never played Souls (nor do I intend to; from what little I've seen of it, it seems to be based on the mechanic of abusing the stilted, counterintuitive, and verisimilitude-breaking hitboxes of attack animations in a way similar to 2000s-era children's games, but with an excessively grim layer of paint over it, which seems like the video game equivalent of publishing a version of Candyland based on the film Warriors, but I digress), so I'm not familiar with the character.

(As an aside, however, the seventh calamity is a deliberate pop-culture reference; it's Sharknado as interpreted by a culture that has never seen either sharks or tornadoes.)

[gnomish dwelf]

1.The story of the creation of heaven seems at first that darkness was created not by the sun but as a epiphenomenal consequence of the sun existing... However later on darkness seems to be mentioned as the sun's willful creation.

2a.There is a mismatch between the names Macsutlitle and Œparac, the former seems to take phonetics from mesoamerican religion and the later from old English...

2b.is this the metaphysical start of everthing or just one version by one religion of the gameworld?

3.no comment here, I am tired

4.ditto

5.ok I will get back on these three, but all seems ok, although I wish this were just one reckoning and there were another with a different wording.

I will get back on you on the other points and posts in these next few days

[VoxRationis]

1.The story of the creation of heaven seems at first that darkness was created not by the sun but as a epiphenomenal consequence of the sun existing... However later on darkness seems to be mentioned as the sun's willful creation.

I think you're referring to the part where it says the Sun knew his first creation turned against him; that sentence doesn't say "wilful," and I hadn't meant to imply it. Maybe I could make that clearer.

2a.There is a mismatch between the names Macsutlitle and Œparac, the former seems to take phonetics from mesoamerican religion and the later from old English...

The phonetics don't strictly come from either. The OE ligature in "Œparac" has the same value it does in the International Phonetic Alphabet, that of "e" made with rounded lips. The "tl" in "Macsutlitle" is a characteristic feature of the Irantlir languages, which mutated Primeval's aspirated t to "tl" when it came before front vowels (particularly front close vowels such as i). It's a phoneme present in Nahuatl (and I intentionally borrowed it so as to underscore the non-Indo-European, non-Tolkienesque nature of the cultures and languages present), but the broader phonology and morphology of that language aren't present. In particular, the aforementioned manner in which "tl" came about means that in Petligo, it will never end a word, which stands in very obvious contrast to Nahuatl!
That said, there is a linguistic contrast between those names, in that Macsutlitle shows very obvious traces of Irantlir phonology, while "Œparac" uses only phonemes present in both Primeval and Irantlir languages. This hints at the fact that one is an actual figure from the Primeval era, while the other is a character created much later by Irantlir storytellers through misinterpretation of Primeval references.

2b.is this the metaphysical start of everthing or just one version by one religion of the gameworld?

This is an in-universe story that tells things from the perspective of one culture. A significant portion of it is broadly true and is corroborated by other cultures' myths, but it is not an omniscient narrative.

[gnomish dwelf]

oh ok, I am going slowly 'cause English aint my mother tongue and that makes the cadence you've chosen a little heavy...

[Catullus64]

What part follows the playbook? I've never played Souls (nor do I intend to; from what little I've seen of it, it seems to be based on the mechanic of abusing the stilted, counterintuitive, and verisimilitude-breaking hitboxes of attack animations in a way similar to 2000s-era children's games, but with an excessively grim layer of paint over it, which seems like the video game equivalent of publishing a version of Candyland based on the film Warriors, but I digress), so I'm not familiar with the character.

(As an aside, however, the seventh calamity is a deliberate pop-culture reference; it's Sharknado as interpreted by a culture that has never seen either sharks or tornadoes.)

Gwyn is a sun deity and benevolent father-king to the human race. He is also really not a fan of the dark, also had a firstborn son who rebelled against him, also reacts very poorly when humanity's development veers from the course he had charted, and also gets a large chunk of the world burnt to cinders and lava in his efforts to avert this.

Dark Souls gameplay may not be for you, but its narrative is one of the gold standard examples of the kind of storytelling you're attempting: the decay and fall of civilizations, glimpsed through half-remembered fragments and the stories of people with dubious agendas.

[VoxRationis]

Gwyn is a sun deity and benevolent father-king to the human race. He is also really not a fan of the dark, also had a firstborn son who rebelled against him, also reacts very poorly when humanity's development veers from the course he had charted, and also gets a large chunk of the world burnt to cinders and lava in his efforts to avert this.

Dark Souls gameplay may not be for you, but its narrative is one of the gold standard examples of the kind of storytelling you're attempting: the decay and fall of civilizations, glimpsed through half-remembered fragments and the stories of people with dubious agendas.

Huh. Well, though little of the story is truly original (as you noted, it draws heavy inspiration from a variety of literary and mythological references), these many similarities to Dark Souls are coincidental.

My players, when I showed them the story, either didn't note such coincidences or did not comment on them. Several also, somewhat perplexingly and more than a little disturbingly, seemed to think the Sun was a sympathetic figure in the story, missing the fact that his golden world was a totalitarian nightmare created purely to satisfy his urge to rule something.