In times before the history, when the world was young and the people haven't gathered to build cities yet, a man was exiled from his band. Cause of his exile was lost to the fog of ages together with the people he belonged to. Was it crime? A broken taboo? Inauspicious omen? No one knows, maybe except the exile himself, but he does not care anymore. Exile for his people was death. Those who were severed from the family were left to fend for themselves and died quickly, alone in the cruel wilds of that age. Everyone exiled died, except that one man. He was the first exile to live, to endure the wilds, to survive alone. He was too skilled hunter to starve, too stubborn to surrender. His will to live drove him until he learned to appreciate the solitude, to enjoy it. No longer afraid of being alone, like his kin were, freed from the dependency on others he thrived where those before him dwindled.
His focus on survival and solitude slowly changed him. He lived longer than any member of his former tribe but living alone, without others to compare against he did noticed that for many turnings of the seasons. His senses grew sharper than any beast he was hunting for. His wounds mended faster and no illness ever touched him. He ascended past the boundaries mortality subtly and without witnesses. Forever alone, now of own choice, he grew into the deity of solitude.
The Lone God, the first exile, is a strange god. He has no servants, no followers, no temples, no priests and no worshipers. He enters no pacts and grants no magic. He is patron to no one because those who would be suited to worship solitude are those who require no patron and no companionship. Those who would turn to him for aid and protection he will reject; it is said that sometimes he hunts those who dare to disrupt his isolation with prayers — asking for help or providing it contradicts the very nature of his divinity, after all.