The time of gods was ending. Those entities that had once roamed the plains of tranquility and agony now faded into meaningless obscurity. At the last, only two remained.

They faced each other in a barren realm with the taste of ash in the air and the emptiness of infinity all around. The two clashed, bound by a blinding hatred. The heavens exploded as each tore at the other's flesh, their blows cracking the foundations of the sky.

In the end, both butchered by the other's hand, the two would-be rulers of the heavens plummeted from outer realms. Still locked in their grip of death, they plunged through the curtains of reality, filling the sky with their blood as they fell. The clouds, as if sickened by what they had ingested, vomited up their contents on the oceans below. Whipped into frenzy by the blood of the two stricken deities, the firmaments detonated into a maelstrom. The oceans boiled and lighting shot from the sky like rain. Out of the heavens and into the tempest the two ragged deities dropped, falling through the insanity of the storm only to slam into the ocean's surface. There they remained, unmoving and seemingly dead, their remaining blood filling the sea around them.

Yet to beings of such intensity, death is but an illusion. Gods never truly die—they merely change. Like the seasons of the year, they replace one form for another in an infinite cycle. In time the storm lost its fury and the oceans calmed. The sky above remained dark and angry, yet it no longer vented its rage on the water below.

The shells that had once been gods changed as well. Their lifeblood and flesh spawned new life of its own as it changed into a soil of a new continent. Vast plains and lush forests flourished across the face of the land, separated by mountain ranges whose peaks reached up into the clouds.

So it was that Belador the Dark Continent was born.