In the beginning, they say, there was a line, suspended in space, going on forever and ever, never ceasing and never beginning. The great deities of the universe could stretch the line and form it as they wished. Some caused massive craters, became gods of destruction, drew together massive torrents of fire and flame; others, they were more merciful, left the worlds be.
Some gods, however, were those of greatness and of creation. They molded the line in beautiful harmonies with oneanother, grew massive civilizations and inspired knowledge in the many populants of them.
For a moment, let's zoom in a little bit. One mountain in particular, comparable to Olympus itself, wherein a human civilization sprawled. The top of the mountain was rocky, tough, and damn stubborn, but in the end they survived and thrived.
The gods of creation were delighted by what they had set in effect; for so long they had grown bored of just molding everything, as out of clay. They saw something that had come out of their control, that now they could stand back and watch, and they had made it. Some of them manipulated themselves to human form, descended from their watching place, and walked among the many humans they had created.
Some had children, which were born with sprawling birthmarks, vivid and glowing. As gods' children, they were faster, stronger, smarter, and more adept than the average person. Some even possessed a fraction of the magical powers their predecessors had.
But the Marked, as they would come to be known, were difficult to grasp. Many lived out hermetic lives and never came in contact with the humans, creatures below them, and were satisfied with their own company. Still, they lived on the same mountain as the humans, and as is with humans, that which they cannot understand is that which they fear. And also as is with humans, what they fear, they hate. So the Marked were rounded up and thrown down from the mountain, down into the Badlands, where the creatures of Dante's nightmares roamed, where the sandy plains and grassy dunes of the barren landscape where dotted with ruins of the great, castle-like monsters were buried, waiting to awaken with a single misstep.
But those are just legends. It's been so long since the two parties were seperated, nobody really remembers why the Marked are in the Badlands, the humans in the mountains. Nobody really remembers why they still hate eachother, why they are still warring after so long, but they keep on.
Still, there are more important things to remember at the moment.
Who's this douchebag?