Beyond the uttermost borders of Creation, there is madness. It is formless and with all forms. It is shapeless and with all shapes. Perhaps the Primordials arose from this, or predated it, or perhaps they traveled to it from far away. On its formless face, they scrawled form and built a great house for themselves that they might rest safely within and play between themselves the Games of Divinity.
But there were shapes within the chaos, forms of existence native to it. Faceless storms and vortices of Essence, these are the unshaped Fair Folk. These being resented the house of the Primordials and made war on it ceaselessly.
Yet, first the Primordials, then the gods and finally even the inhabitants of Creation expanded on its borders and increased thedimensions of the Primordials' house, adding countless additions hacked from the twisting ur-space outside their world. It seemed as if the Fair Folk could do nothing to combat this strange fortress of alien invaders or stop its incessant raids and encroachments. Its very operation draw in the Essence of the world around it and spun it into pattern and event. It was an ineradicable insult, and intolerable.
And then, opportunity dawned. Petty, angry servants of Creation came to the Primordials and said, "We seek to lay our lords' house to waste with pestilence, for we would rather die than live within it. We beg you to burn the remains."
The Fair Folk heard this and tested what the emissaries of the insurrectionists attested and said, "This is as you say it is. On the appointed day, our armies march." And the armies of the Fair Folk rallied, and the unshaped drew themselves up, and many legions of them took form that they might sew discord and death in Creation, while the others prepared to destroy the fabric of Creation itself.
Their armies marched, triumphant, across the face of Creation, slaughtering the few wide-eyed victims who remained after the Great Contagion. And then, the unthinkable happened. The defenses of Creation became active and scourged the Fair Folk from the face of the world.
Now, Creation lies half-sundered, and countless exiles of the Wyld live in the penumbra of ruined matter on the fringes of Creation. Some are survivors of the initial, uncompleted war of annihilation. Others are exiles who were unable or unwilling to compete in the brutal world of the Wyld. Still others sprang into existence in the Wyld-scarred hinterland of Creation or were created by their fellows. Regardless of their origin, they are the subjects of this theme.
(From Exalted: The Fair Folk)
