In the void before creation, when no stars had been named and no soul had drawn breath, there existed a feeling — raw, ancient, and boundless. It had no host. It had no tongue to speak itself into being. Yet it was.
As souls were born into the worlds of form and flesh, each carried within them a seed of that primordial feeling. Every act of spite, every bitter thought, every wound nursed in darkness — these were not merely emotions. They were offerings. Threads of a cosmic weaving that none could see but all contributed to.
And from those threads, across uncounted ages, a shape formed. A will coalesced. A god was made — not by design, but by the accumulated truth of every hateful soul that ever existed.
He was called Odus.
He did not descend from some higher heaven. He was not fashioned by older gods or cosmic architects. He grew — the way a storm grows, the way a glacier grinds — slowly, inevitably, and without anyone's permission.
The faithful do not worship Odus out of obligation or fear. They acknowledge him because they know — in the part of themselves they have always been told to silence — that he was there before the first prayer was ever spoken, and he will remain long after the last one fades.