The Creator had created Impthus out of the very essence of light itself. And so do all of his fellow followers. The Athlran glow endlessly, no matter where they are. They have a pair of white wings and their form radiates bright light, as the High Heaven itself.
At the beginning of life, before the Living World was created, the Creator had created only Felenthur and Impthus, that he made them both as brothers. One with the heart of darkness and one with the heart of light. Impthus was given the High Heaven with the Orb of Light. While, Felenthur was given the scorching plains, where soon, he transformed the plains into the Burning Hell as soon as he managed to made a plea to the Creator. A plea which he asked to create an ally for him. Thus, the Demon Princess and Princesses were born into the Burning Hell.
They have no souls, but they live. They are formless, but they walked. They are unseen, but they reveals. They walk the dark plains, but they show the lights. And they were given a chance to choose side. And yet, they chose righteous. And that's the Farons. Creature that walks the void realm.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.