In the gardens of mortals, one truth rang supreme before all others.  Long before they bled ink to paper and began the chronicles of their kind...an act of divine kindness seeded all they would come to walk upon, fight upon, and bury their dead upon.  Across all thirty-six of their spoken tongues, this act held the same name.

Creation.

And in its very center, a bud.  A bud from which life sprang to become a garden in the apex of creation.  Primordial.  Foolish.  But pure.  From the astral sea that caressed it, to the asteroid isles that ringed it...through the stratus plains and cumulus highlands of the aether which cloaked it...the verdant coils of its surface and the oceans who were sibling to the dry...and the smoldering crags, the weeping chasms and echoing caverns of its stony bones; this garden of mortals.

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A realm all to them, their own, and lived upon from generation to generation.

But I?

I shall call this Eden...mine.

Ha. Ha. Ha.