One Century Setting

A new worldbuilding project is a balm on many wounds. Here is a truth: in worldbuilding, the smallest timelines are the most virtuous. Here is a prompt: a setting that is only 100 years old.

In the beginning, the giant Worol is struck in the head by a projectile and killed. Molga, Valki, and Getal tumble out of his skull, trembling and fully formed. They wail over his corpse. Then, they each take a sharp piece of his skull as a weapon, and depart to hunt their father's killer.

Next, Woros is born from the weeping wound of Worol. They try to save him, but too many pieces are missing to patch the hole. However, thru their labors, they deliver three more siblings from their father's corpse: Herde, Pilor, and Dwrna.

The orphans of Worol bicker over his body and divide him into seven realms. The head, chest, and guts are claimed by the four younger siblings. The itinerant elder siblings are left with the fingers, toes, and hair.

 

Molga, Valki, and Getal track down the assassin, a giant named Nefyrkalang, in parts unseen. Scheming, they bring her the headblood of Worol in a tremendous bathtub. She drinks, and becomes intoxicated; they cut her sleeping form into Nef, Yr, Ka, and Lang, the four despoilers.

The world is carefully ordered and always more complex, but its edges are scarred and decayed. These are the marks of the despoilers, who continue to assault the body of Worol from parts unseen. Each major impact—fleshmade meteor, bilious rain—marks the passage of a year.

Woros, the mourning child, creates a titanium idol in Worol's image. Mischievous Valki pricks one statue with his nail, and it screams "ouch!" and springs to life. The child is named Walan, and the siblings dote on him and give him many gifts, and come to desire their own children as well. Born in Worol's image themselves, they excel at creating.

[However, none of them can create life alone. Dwrna, in her experiments in solitude, only succeeds in creating empty, hungry husks: vampires.]

Many more children are born: Wodnol, Worgael, Wacha, Modwyn, Morfael, Melfed, Velde, Gaewyn, Geled, Grita, Hedest, Panic, Polrod, Dwalde, Dwenki, and Dworga. They are pocket-sized beside their parents, and constructed of metal and stone. And they too are craftsmen, born ready to make their mark upon the world: Dwalde creates the iron trees. Geled builds his palace on the cold outer sea. Panic blows the clouds from glass. Polrod manufactures lightning bolts.

Vengeful Getal still nurses a grudge. Fearful Molga tries to kill Getal before he can act, but fails. The siblings are splintered by the fallout, and their territories and children are divided.

Imagine you are the first of the third generation: a child of Polrod or Hedest or Dworga, and grandchild of Woros or Molga or Getal. You were carved of metal or stone, with notable defects: you are (relatively) small, soft, and susceptible to the taint of flesh and blood.

Your uncles own the caves and mountains. The world is a factory, ticking to your forefathers' ends, but rusting and rotting from the outside.

It's not too late. The world is only 100 years old.

This post is not about Seveneves.