The Valar

Herein lies the names of the Valar. They are led by the Council of Four, the Eldest created by Ilúvatar.

Manwë

He is the Elder King, first among the Four, crowned not by ambition, but by the will of Ilúvatar, who sang his name into the highest wind. Manwë does not walk the earth—he drifts above it, wrapped in cloud and light, his voice carried on the breath between thunder and silence. He is the Sky Unending, the Keeper of the Sun’s fire, and all that stirs beneath the firmament bends, if not in fear, then in reverence.

His joy is found in the song of the wind—how it dances in the mountain passes and weeps across the empty plains. He listens still, from the edge of the world to the breath of the smallest leaf, and where he watches, the shadow recoils—not because it is struck, but because it remembers him.

In the moments before war, in the stillness before boldness, the brave whisper his name. Not to beg, but to breathe—for it is said his courage comes not as fire, but as wind behind your step, unseen and inescapable.

Varda

She is the Star-Woven Queen, the Silent Light, the one who walks the edge of night and weaves starlight into the dark. Varda, beloved of Manwë, rose from the depths beyond memory, and placed the stars in the heavens not to conquer the dark—but to tame it. Her light does not burn. It remembers. And in her face, it is said, the first gleam of creation still flickers—too vast, too gentle, and too old to be borne by mortal eyes.

Before the first note of the Song, she knew Melkor—knew the hollow in his heart where beauty ought to be—and turned from him. For this, he feared her above all others, for her light could not be twisted, only refused.

To the Elves, she is more than goddess—she is the sky’s whisper at midnight, the comfort between breaths, the mother of all peaceful silence. The weary call to her when the world grows too loud. And though she does not always answer, when she does, it is said the soul quiets—not with forgetfulness, but with clarity.

Nienna

She is the Veiled Sister, last of the Four, and keeper of the Quiet Beyond. Nienna does not weep for weakness—she weeps because she remembers everything. She stood beside Manwë and Varda when Melkor sang discord into the world, and her eyes were the first to fill with tears—not of despair, but of knowing. Where others turned from sorrow, she embraced it, and found in it not ruin, but courage.

She is the guardian of the Silent Gate, where the souls of the dead pass beyond the world. There, she keeps watch with Ilúvatar, whose face none may see, and together they cradle what remains of the fallen. It is said even Morgath does not approach that threshold, for the dead are hers, and she does not yield.

Her name is spoken softly, in times of mourning or pleading—by those who carry unbearable grief, or those who pray that the ones they’ve lost find peace. She does not promise healing, only understanding—and in her presence, even sorrow becomes sacred.

Ulmo

He is the Deep-King, the Sleeper Beneath the Waves, the Lord of Storm and Salt. Ulmo does not dwell in court or hall, but rides the undercurrents of Arda itself, clad in foam and shadow. His voice is the call of distant thunder, his crown the crest of the breaking tide. Beautiful and fearsome is he, for the sea knows no master, and he alone among the Valar keeps his own counsel.

Where Melekor sought to bind the world in order and dominion, Ulmo answered with chaos and change, reminding all that the oldest truths are fluid, and not even gods may grasp water in their fist. His hatred for the Hollow Flame runs deep—not born of pride, but of refusal. Ulmo will not yield. Not to song, not to stone, and not to shadow.

When sailors whisper to him before a voyage, it is not for favor, but for mercy. And should he rise from the deeps in answer, it is said that those who see him fall to their knees—for he comes like a wave taller than sky, with mail of pearl and kelp-shadow, and his gaze is older than stars.

Melekor, Morgath

Before the first stars were kindled, Melekor walked among the divine as brother to light and shaper of harmony. But where Ilúvatar breathed life, Melekor could only mimic. He grew envious of that which he could not birth—the soul—and in his envy, he sang a second song beneath the first: a discord, slow and sweet, that wormed through creation like rot beneath bark. From this poison came ruin, and thus was he unmade among the gods, and given a new name: Morgath, the Devourer of Meaning.

He sought not only to rule, but to unwrite—to take the beauty of the world and reshape it in his void-born image. But in the end, the Song rejected him. In the War of Sundering, he was cast beyond the Doors of Night, into the void beyond time, where even stars fear to gaze. Yet his echoes remain—twisting beasts in the dark, dreams gone wrong, and the temptations of power whispered sweetly in the soul’s soft places.

Few dare pray to him. Fewer still hear his answer. For Morgath offers no blessings, only hunger—and the promise that if all things fall to ash, he will still be waiting to gather the cinders.

Mandos

He waits beyond the veil, in a hall where no fire burns and no lie can live. Mandos, first named Námo, is the silent witness to all endings, the Keeper of the Houses of the Dead, where the spirits of the slain drift like starlight upon still water. He forgets nothing. He forgives nothing. His gaze pierces time like a blade—he sees all that shall be, save for what dwells yet in the mind of Ilúvatar alone.

He does not speak often, for when Mandos speaks, fates are sealed. His is not the voice of mercy, but of balance, and when he pronounces doom, it is not cruelty, but order, falling into place like the last stone in a tomb. Though feared, he is revered—for even the wrath of gods must answer to his judgment.

He is the patron of law and vengeance, the unseen judge whose hand guides the just blade and holds back the unrighteous tide. When oaths are broken, it is his name the vengeful whisper. And in the silence after justice has passed, Mandos remains.

Loriean

Brother to Mandos and no less grave, Loriean is the god of Knowledge and Dream, the silent architect of memory and the master of all that was. He walks not in the waking world, but drifts through the Veins of Time, weaving its threads into great, glimmering tapestries that cloak the Halls of Varda like drifting starsilk. Each thread is a life, a thought, a moment—forgotten by the world, but never by him.

He does not speak as mortals do. His voice comes as dreams wrapped in shadow, visions wrapped in light, half-remembered truths and riddles that echo long after waking. It is said he knows the names of all things that have been, and holds in his web even the first breath of creation—kept not as a weapon, but as a story yet unfinished.

To scholars and seekers, Loriean is the unseen lantern. Prayers to him are made in candlelit chambers and in the silent spaces between pages, and those he favors wake with answers they do not understand—until the hour they are needed. He is the patron of loremasters, wise women, and mad prophets alike.

Aulë

In the deep fire beneath the roots of the world, Aulë sings to stone and speaks to metal. He is the Craftsman of the Valar, the first to shape, the first to teach—the one who taught the children of Ilúvatar how to pull treasure from the bones of Arda and give it form. He delights in creation not for glory, but for joy, finding as much wonder in a well-fitted hinge as in the forging of mountains. To him, making is sacred, no matter how small.

The jewels hidden deep in the earth—gold, adamant, iron, and crystal—are said to be his laughter made still. The Dwarves call him Shaper Father, and revere him not as a distant deity, but as the first craftsman, the one whose echo still rings in the strike of every hammer and the hiss of every quenched blade.

Shrines to Aulë are found in forges, in shipyards, in the corners of workshops behind tools worn smooth with use. Those who whisper to him do so with hands blackened and brows furrowed—not for miracles, but for guidance. And it is said that when a work is truly worthy, Aulë himself leans close to listen—not with words, but with firelight.

Yavanaa

Where Aulë hammers, Yavanna plants. She is the Breath of Spring, the Shaper of Bloom, whose hands weave life into soil and seed alike. In her heart are held all things that grow—from the towering trees that once whispered to the stars, to the secret mosses that sleep beneath forgotten stones, and the unseen flowers that bloom only once, and only when no eyes watch.

She is birth and rebirth, not merely of flesh, but of hope—each seed a quiet promise, each root a memory reaching deeper than the oldest stone. The fields sing her name in the wind. The forest hushes in her passing. And in the silence before the first breath of a newborn child, it is said her spirit watches with joy and ache alike.

To her the harvest is sacred, but so too is the decay that feeds it. She is the patron of spring, mothers, and every cycle that turns again toward life. Prayers to her are whispered in furrowed fields, beneath blooming branches, and at the bedsides of the soon-to-be-born.

She does not command. She nurtures. And even in the deepest winter, it is her name that stirs in the hearts of those waiting for light to return.

Tulkus

Strongest beneath the stars, Tulkas is the golden fury of joy unshackled—whose laughter rings louder than drums, and whose stride makes mountains shudder. He wears no crown, bears no blade; his weapons are his hands, and with them he has broken monsters and hurled warlords into dust. His beard shines like sunfire, and his blood runs hot with the pulse of the world’s youth.

He loves no thing more than contest—not for conquest, but for delight. Wrestling storms, racing winds, uprooting trees not in wrath but in play, he is the purest flame of exultant strength. The past he forgets. The future he ignores. But in the now, none stand firmer.

He is no lorekeeper, nor sage, but when he calls you friend, it is with the whole of his soul. And when he fights, he fights not for glory, but because the shadow must be mocked, and joy must strike back.

Oromë

Though Tulkas is strength in joy, Oromë is strength in wrath—a fury slow to rise, but terrible when stirred. He is the Hunter of the Ancient Hills, the one who walked the green lands when they were first born, and wept when they were marred. He came last to Varda, for he loved Arda too deeply to leave it undefended—and ever since, he rides back and forth across the world, where shadows breed, and monsters dare breathe.

His horn is called Alatáriel, and when its call echoes through the forests, even the eldest beasts tremble. He rides a steed born of storm and thunder, and behind him come his hounds—not beasts of fur, but of howl and fang, shaped of the wind between trees. Fell spirits, twisted wyrms, ancient terrors of the deep earth—all have known his pursuit, and few have known his mercy.

Oromë is the patron of wild hunters, lone rangers, and those who guard the borderlands of the world. To him, the chase is sacred not for sport, but for balance—for when nightmare takes form, someone must give it fear.

Mía

The Mía are lesser divine spirits, born of the Song of Creation alongside the Valar, but of gentler power and more varied form. Some walk the world in secret, guiding fate with unseen hands, while others bind themselves to mortal causes, becoming guardians, muses, or monsters. Though lesser in might, they are no less sacred, for each Mía carries a single thread of Ilúvatar’s harmony—woven into beast, storm, flame, or dream. Some serve the light of the Valar, others the shadow of Morgath, and a rare few walk the world alone.

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