All the power of creation exists within a single tiny seed. [Prime - Lore RP]

[Blackthorne]

Host Lord. I am ... lost.

What troubles your thoughts?

"Troubles ... there is little that troubles me. I am content here among your people, but I wonder if I do not fulfill a purpose, a role. I have always had a purpose, even if it was not of my own making or choice, and this I do not resent, but I find great difficulty in this here. I wonder if it is that I do not understand...do not belong."

"Sometimes our purpose is unclear, but to say that you don't belong? That is the product of doubt... When we fought together on Ziost, I saw someone with a strong will, someone who need not doubt their place in this galaxy. Do you doubt yourself, or your choices?"

"...if doubt is the distant call of my path, maybe. Always I have known this path to take. Sometimes it is near and sometimes far - like a voice I know is there but I cannot hear.
...forgive me, Host Lord, many times it is hard, knowing the right words to speak. ...before I come to the worlds of the Primeval I am a Priestess of Moross. Before that I am a Spellweaver of the Nightsisters. Always I have followed, always has my path been near. The words of the Gods have been clear to me ... but now, never has my path been so far. I cannot hear the Gods, Host Lord."

"You wish to hear their voices? I remember when we fought side by side on Ziost, to survive a battle is a reminder that we are favored. To die valiantly is to be chosen. The words of the Gods are always changing, they're a shift in the sand, a change of wind.
To find your path again you must learn to walk blindly."

Silence.

"Host Lord ... I wish to know more about your Gods."

"The three and the one are our source of faith. Sargon, Nogras, Balagoth, Halrormalenth... There is power in their names, but also great uncertainty. What would you like to know?"

"What symbols are they of you and I? What powers of the realms do they keep?"

"Nogras is the source of light and truth, hers is the power of wisdom, guidance, and energy. Those who know her well and trust in her see the truth even when lies and doubts cloud our judgement," Anja spoke quite highly of this particular God.
"Then there is Balagoth, he who represents change and renewal... But also death and lost knowledge. Only a few sects follow Balagoth, but all respect his nature for it is the nature of rebirth as well.

Halrormalenth is perhaps the most well-regarded. It is said he gave meaning to the others and he is the one who brought life to us. But we are imperfect, whether a limit to his power or a purpose beyond our comprehension, he sees that all his creations have weakness but provides us with voice and reasoning.

Lastly... The one who binds them all together, the One, Sargon. It is the void itself, nothingness and everything. Perhaps Sargon is entirely unaware of our existence or that of others, but it is the source of all things, and where magick flows from."

Silence again for consideration.

"In Moross there were 12 Gods and at all times 3 resided in the realm of the mortals to guide us on our path. Many people choose to follow only some Gods and resent the others - it is also like this here for some as I have seen. But if I am to be faithful and devout, should I not learn and follow all? I did so and I became a Steward to the Pantheon. I became the Voice of all the Gods and I lead those who could not hear their call.

...I still feel their presence within me, Host Lord, and I still know their names. They are part of me, like my heart and my lungs and the blood in my veins. I ask only for forgiveness if a heretic this creates in me - I wish only to know your Gods as well as I knew theirs. What must I do?"

"Everytime we take a world, their people fear us. Why would anyone fear enlightenment, to be uplifted and transformed? It is because no matter how powerful our belief system is, there are others with powerful beliefs as well. They will conflict.
I remember when I was a child, still learning how to fight, my father gave me a sword and told me that no matter how hard I swung, a dull blade would never peirce his armour. And indeed it did not, my own arms were bruised.

Conviction is our sword, but faith our armour. If what they believe in is stronger than our own beliefs we cannot defeat them with wisdom. So should we slaughter them, do we burn their worlds and raze their cities? What example does that set?

I have witnessed death, I have inflicted it many times myself, but I do so because it is my conviction. Whatever choices I make, I make them only in the name of the Gods. Anything less is sin. If you wish to know our gods, you must sharpen your blade and know why you live."

"To walk blindly, Host Lord."

----

Wayland

In a valley with no name where the jungles grew sparse the once Steward of Moross waited in silence. She'd been here for many days now, acclimating to the dark aura of the planet, resting in the silence of seclusion. Wayland had great history with the tenuous powers of the Darkside - an arcane presence that was not wholly unfamiliar to Loxa Visl. In the far reaches of her consciousness, as happened on Ziost and many other places before, she felt a prickling of deja vu.

Of a deep and curious connection.

I have walked these lands before, she thought, but not as I am now.

A previous life, perhaps, long long ago.

But knowing these lands in some distant memory would be of little use to her now. Whoever she had been before was not a being that would make this journey into the faith of the Primeval any easier, any clearer, any louder.

Walk blind.



The Gods have smiled upon us as we pass from star to star. They grant us favor in the form of strength, ferocity, and the clarity of mind to smite our foes. It is time for those of the faith to gather and join in worship and awe.

Three volunteers have stepped forth for the ultimate honor. Join us now at Wayland in the unnamed valley to bear witness to the birth of a new power in the image of the Gods.

------
+Colored dialogue written between Anja and Loxa over Skype.+

 

[Boethiah]

There was a smell in the air of Wayland, the first whiff was always a pleasant one, the second had a sweeter aftertaste. Yet the more you breathed in its air the more you sensed something had changed inside of you. There was a darkness on this world, and although it had yet to seep deep within the planet's core, it still gripped at your throat. Even for someone like Anja who once embraced the spiritual embodiment of Ziost, Wayland felt different--it felt wild.

Anja arrived here after receiving word of a ritual, a ceremony of sorts dedicated to the Gods of the Primeval. What this event entailed she did not know, but her curiosity was roused nonetheless. Light footsteps lead the Umbaran to her destination, the ambiance of birds, insects, and animals could be heard from every angle, the life here was abundant and fruitful; something worthy of being conserved and maintained.

So what rituals did the witch have in store? What would the Host Lord witness that she had never before?

Anja would surely find out, and be amused by that which the sorceress summons.

Until then, she waited, watched, and listened for whatever came next.

[member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Zambrano the Starweird]

A mist of green ambivalence shaped the darkness present between the tall trees of Wayland... the ones not burned down to their roots in hell fire. Similar to the Host Lord, a gripping presence of the dark side constricted around the massive form of the Bokan of L'ans Zodou... but his own twisted up soul wrestled the force itself, pushing back against the presence freed into the wilderness by the Primeval occupation. The uniquely perceptive Prophet visualized the all encompassing presence of Sargon in the faery like presences of the L'ans... those departed but now bound to him in service for favours. Face paint, chalky and white, carved a skull across the already tattooed face of the beastly self-anointed pontiff. Feline golden eyes clashed against the darkness he held next to him, as friend and as foe. Around his neck, an assortment of human bones posed as pendants of unearthly magicks. Within his hand, a staff composed of an Amphistaff's spine, and the rotting head of Captain Slika bound by his own leathered flesh in stringy cords, infused with the darkness of his new Witchcraft... the ichor of spirits and the L'ans.

The Black Prophet of Balagoth glided across the forest floor, causing the transition from life to death wherever his shadow rested, in the undying glow of the mists that propelled him forward. Once living animals that had fallen victim to the grace of his shadow slumped almost imperceptibly under the fog of the warlord, bound by the blood magicks the Warlord was so used to employing, combined with the influence of the L'ans beyond the Unseen Rift... necromancy. This was no procession of combat however, merely a ritualistic display of his elegance, to which the truth of Sargon might be bestowed to the unbelievers. It was in his intrinsic nature as a Riftborne to lead any procession with some show of blood and force. The Zambrano inside of him would wish for [member="Mishk"] to be proud... if his L'ans would simply appear to him.

The mists stopped suddenly at the very edge of the forest nearest to the Host Lord and any assembled to make witness to whatever ritual would be performed today. If any would make observation to a ritual, it would be him. After all, his journey would not have made it this far if not for an occult ritual of centuries prior. The Warlord of the Rift held an uncertainty within him that he was welcomed, certainly a new facet of his personality... but this was merely to disguise his intentions... also a new facet. Similar to the tales of Vampires of old, this particular monster would not entire this house unless requested... but once he was... Nogras help you.

That eerie phantom-esque blob of midnight and viridescent fog coalesced at the edge of the forest, staring deeply into an observer's eyes with those death ridden gold-shining orbs, with the noises of unnatural changes and haunting abominations providing the backdrop for the silent sillouhuette...

[member="Anja Aj'Rou"], [member="Loxa Visl"]

 

[Orkamaat]

Like a ghoul, the frail, broken figure walked across the war-torn fields, spidery fingers splayed at unnatural angles as they brushed along the scorched blades of grass. Black as sot, as tar, as the souls of men and women who had ravaged the land he now walked. The soil beneath his feet was cold, like the metal they had brandished in their conquest, cold like their eyes as they smote enemy after enemy. And it was red; red like the blood they had shed in the name of the only God that did not care for gifts.

Balagoth.

His — for it seemed to be a he — arm fell limp to his side again, and his gaze left the earth below to stare straight ahead. The twin orbs of orange were the only source of fire and warmth in the colorless landscape, bled white by those of the Primeval with steel in their hands and steel in their hearts.

Now, in their smoldering, gaping wake, the others had come. Like beacons in the midst of a dark, murky sea, their presences shone through despite the howling tempest raging all around. Not for the light they carried, but for the surety they projected even when surrounded by something as primal and as wild as the unfathomable beast whose claws had sunk through the crust of Wayland and straight to its core.

I... know you.

The realization was abrupt, and Orkamaat closed his eyes as his senses honed in on one such presence, pale lips quirking up into a smile.

The expression was like a cheerful tone against a the background of a slow, morose dirge, and the anzat nearly shuddered for it. Nonetheless, his eyes stayed closed even as feet moved again cross the field of blades, his step certain and his direction set.

Curious, that I should meet you here, Inhix. I have thought you dead, all these years.

You are alive, correct?

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Anja Aj'Rou"] | [member="Zambrano the Hutt"]​

 

[Blackthorne]

Pale, baleful golden eyes flickered open at the emergence of a presence along the Force. Loxa could feel the prickling of familiarity in her bones despite the fact that she knew nothing of this creature, not even in passing from her short tenure thus far with the Primeval. A great curiosity briefly distracted her from the arrival of two others.

This one knows of whom you speak, her thoughts said back to the enigmatic presence, but this one is not She - for she perished many years ago.

Inhix. A name Loxa did not think she would ever hear again. The seclusion of the clans on Aaris III had lead her to believe that their secrets were strongly kept. Not even the Witches of Dathomir knew the name Inhix - as well they shouldn't. It was one planet she had never stepped foot upon. The memory of the Shadow Mother brought mixed feelings to the Priestess though time had seen to make their resurgences far ...less.

How does one know the name of She?

Her eyes fell upon those already gathered. It had taken days to amass this great commune, but already there were dozens - if not one hundred at least - of curious believers here to witness what great conjuration might take place. They were joined, finally, by those of great prestige.

From her seated position Loxa rose to look out over the congregation settled in meditation and prayer.

"The Host Lord and Dark Prophet have come," she spoke, voice quiet but carrying clearly over the Force, "it is time."

Before her the white of countless eyes appeared, swiftly seeking out [member="Anja Aj'Rou"] by following her line of sight. Surely the Prophet and Host Lord's presence were a sign. Somewhere in the far beyond, in the Nethers, the Gods were curious ... watching.

"Bring out the tributes."

[member="Orkamaat"] [member="Zambrano the Hutt"]

 

[Arage Bao]

[SIZE=10.6667px]Khal was not religious, he wasn’t a zealot and didn’t have any particular thoughts for or against the belief systems of other people. It wasn’t that he didn’t [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]care[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px], it was simply that he had so many things on his mind on any particular day that… esoteric terms like [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]faith[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px] were not as important to him as other things might be.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]And yet the Underlord was there, leaning against the bark of a large tree - farther away from the mass of people - he simply looked on as the zealots did their [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]thang[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]If he closed his eyes he would have been able to see the tendrils of power that were being constructed right now. It was sheer belief and faith, concentrated into a mass of inertia, all moving along for a single, unadulterated purpose. What this purpose was… Khal did not know, and some part of him told him that he did not [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]want[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px] to know either.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]There was a reason why he was here, of course. After so many years working in Wild Space, alongside and against [member=”Anja Aj'Rou”], the Lady Host, Khal had some measure of respect for the thing she had built here. It was for this reason that he had offered his services to her, which she had accepted. The Spymaster of the Host Lord, the whispering voice in the dark that kept her aware of all that transpired in and outside her little Empire. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]It was a role that was familiar to Khal. He had always been a strict believer in keeping a low-profile during all his dealings, it was why few people knew his face, name and title - and were in a position to tie them all together.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]And so he was here. Invited by the Host Lord to watch upon the might of [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]faith[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]: she knew he wasn’t much of a believer, and perhaps she wanted to show him how wrong he was.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]The thing she didn’t realize was the [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]reason[/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px] of his lack of belief… how can one believe, when one already [/SIZE][SIZE=10.6667px]knows?[/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px]At first glance they seemed to only feed upon one and another, but the longer you watched the more you realized that one could not exist with the other. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=10.6667px][member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Zambrano the Hutt"][/SIZE]​

 

[Orkamaat]

He hummed, warm and soft tones coloring his earthly timbre as marred vocal chords struggled to produce a clear sound. How many times had he felt the grip of that which they called the Force around his throat? How many times had the cold line of a wire cut into the pale flesh? Or the edge of a blade? Or fingers?

Orkamaat cocked his head like a curious animal as he happened upon the throat, and his step faltered mid-air, eyes still closed. He contemplated peeling off the skin and pulling until he could count the demarcations still etched into the wiry, old meat clinging to his bones, but thought better of it.

It was hardly good manners to dissect oneself while engaged in conversation, after all.

Ah, a pity, that.

You… taste …feel like Her, my child. Tell me, how did you come to bear Inhix within you?

How many was 'many years ago' to that which cannot die? He was hesitant to ask, for fear of learning that what had been an era to them passed him by in the blink of an orange eye. Like the light that he'd stolen from a star in times long lost to memory, that gaze would continue to uncover the darkest corners of the Galaxy even after everything that now surrounded him was gone.

It was a lesson that ran deeper than any of the scars left on this mortal vessel of his, taught to him by the immutable revolution of the suns, and moreso by the darkness staring back from those spaces in-between. A lesson to carry with him always.

A lesson to outlast death itself, even.

Orkamaat smiled with the ease of someone who walks hand-in-hand with aeons and stopped again atop a the swell of a small hill, bare feet sinking into the cool soil. It was a soothing sensation, accompanied by a chill breeze that sought to play with his robes even as it spurred the grass to sway with its pull, great waves washing over the priest where he stood.

One would nearly think he was intent on taking root there, but then the man moved again, ever forward in space and time both.

She and I enjoyed many a curious conversation over a glass of good wine.

Well, I enjoyed it, at least. I wouldn't dare claim I know what Inhix felt, though logic would seem to suggest at least some degree of tolerance towards my presence.

She made a habit of eviscerating those she didn't like, after all.

Then the frozen fields gave way to trampled earth, turned into near-clay under the pressure of a thousand feet, and Orkamaat smiled still as he picked his way towards the circle amid a crowd of humanoid obstacles. They were like speckles of color dancing in the darkness of his closed eyelids, some vivid, some dim, in varying shapes and sizes as they hovered above the ground, still and vibrating.

Praying.

He smacked his lips as a particular flavor stained them, heavy and pungent in the air around him. It would have made his hair stand on and, if he had any still. Ha!

The anzat gathered up his expensive purple cloak before kneeling in the dirt with the rest, careful not to tarnish the heavy fabric with the half-dried mud as he closed his eyes again and joined the faithful in their chant.

The time was now.

[member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Anja Aj'Rou"] | [member="Zambrano the Hutt"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"]​

 

[Boethiah]

It was interesting for the Host Lord to be in a place where she was the observer, a change of atmosphere that she honestly rather liked. Standing there quietly, the Umbaran witch watched as the ritual proceeded, listening to the woven words of [member="Loxa Visl"] and breathing in harmony with her melody. She felt power in every syllable, the calling of Gods in the mere tone of her voice. Who is this witch? Anja wondered but did not ask aloud. There was an air of primeval about her, someone who has been around longer than she looked.

Perhaps like Anja, Loxa was a harbinger of the Gods--an Avatar of their will, granted the experiences of and knowledge they desire to pass on to the most faithful. To find out for sure, she had to continue observing the rite taking place and make mental notes of the woman in all that she did.

Others around her were hardly a distraction, although the presence of [member="Zambrano the Hutt"], [member="Orkamaat"], and even [member="Khaleel Malvern"] had stirred long-resting memories of different times. Today would be a turning point not only for the Primeval, but for the galaxy at large...

 

[Blackthorne]

Ah, a pity, that.

You… taste …feel like Her, my child. Tell me, how did you come to bear Inhix within you?

Was it a pity? Loxa could not say. Her feelings towards her once Master were and had always been at great odds with one another. How does one feel pity for the demon who brought upon your mind, flesh, and soul the same amount of pain and darkness that it had saved you from? How does one hate that which raised you, taught you, honed you to be the creature you were today.

Was there not some evidence of... love there?

Who could truly say where one drew the line between compassion and devotion.

She and I enjoyed many a curious conversation over a glass of good wine.

Well, I enjoyed it, at least. I wouldn't dare claim I know what Inhix felt, though logic would seem to suggest at least some degree of tolerance towards my presence.

She made a habit of eviscerating those she didn't like, after all.

Yes, the Priestess could recall the metallic taste of blood quite easily. How many times had she stood witness to the malice of her Shadow Mother...

Expression pulling taught at the remembrance of what fire Inhix raised within her veins, Loxa Visl could offer the disembodied voice no answer. She was not aware of carrying the essence of her Master nor that there remained in this galaxy any who knew the name she had never been allowed to speak. Hearing it within her own thoughts brought a strange chill to her bones.

Ghosts.

Three tributes arrived from deep within the wood, their bodies naked and painted with the symbols of the Gods. They walked without shame, exposed as they were, but with great pride and honor in their eyes for they had been chosen as the ultimate gifts to the ones beyond the nethers.

"Balagoth calls upon you who will give all that you are in his name," Loxa spoke, voice strong and carrying easily through the clearing.

"We give all that we are in his name," the three replied in unison.

They approached the high rise upon which the Priestess stood, following the slope through the wending roots of ancient trees to join her. Standing in a line before the gathering each one in turn slowly lowered themselves to their knees. Loxa turned and pulled from within her robes a small satchel, the contents of which were much the mystery to all.

"All the power of creation exists within a single tiny seed," she said, lifting her free hand and spreading her fingers wide over the mouth of the bag. From within a single seed rose into the air, hovering by the touch of unseen forces, "and within you it is his will that you shall be born anew."

One by one Loxa fed each tribute a single seed from her bag. They each swallowed them whole.

She turned then and lead the congregation in a short prayer to Balagoth, voices steady and monotonous - lines learned upon induction and practiced in worship. Balagoth may not have been the main deity of many but his words were well known regardless. As the voices died down Loxa drew from her side a large yet simple dagger.

"Let The Giving begin. Who here will draw first blood of our tributes?"

[member="Anja Aj'Rou"] @Orkaamat [member="Khaleel Malvern"] [member="Zambrano the Hutt"]

 

[Orkamaat]

His lips quirked at the corners when only hollow silence resounded within him in reply, but there was no pang of regret or sorrow following in its wake. Orkamaat had ample time to work through the pesky burden of sentiment throughout the long, long time he'd spent roaming the Galaxy, and situations that most people found issue with merely brought a smile to his face.

Why get angry? Or sad? Or… anything else, really? All that is… is eventually not.

Why try?

Because we are alive, Balagoth. We are, so that you can't be.

The priest murmured his own prayer like an undertone to the others, a soft, whispered undercurrent running deep and ancient below the powerful voices of the circle that rose ever higher as the trio in the centre repeated word for word after [member="Loxa Visl"]. There was a power in their unforgiving, unrelenting unity, like there is power in the flow of a river, in the waves of the sea. Alone, they were but droplets in the vast ocean of the Galaxy, but together, the Primeval could erode even whole planets in their way.

And like water, they would spill across the Universe, until a current somewhere, someday, washed them upon the shores of their Gods.

"I will."

Blood, water… they all flowed indiscriminately.

Orkamaat was standing again, seemingly having skipped the phase of getting up from his kneeling position altogether, and with a few long strides, he was flush with the first of the tributes. Where some would believe the Primeval to be ravenous maniacs who shed blood without thought or respect, the reality was far removed from the slanderous rumours. All that ever volunteered their liquid life for the Gods did so out of love, not compulsion or duress.

And as the High priest drew the ornate dagger from his robes, there was nothing but love in his burning eyes when he rested the edge against willing flesh.

"To Balagoth, we give ourselves each day," he spoke slowly as the cold metal bit into the skin.

"From the moment we draw our first breath, to the moment when we exhale the last one."

"We are each but a single tiny seed, and it is Balagoth whence we grow, and Balagoth whither we return."

[member="Anja Aj'Rou"] | [member="Khaleel Malvern"] | [member="Zambrano the Hutt"]​

 

[Boethiah]

Although a harbinger, Anja had always remained cautious around worshipers of Balagoth. There were many who interpreted the texts differently, and taught a far grimmer truth than the one Anja knew from where she was born. An interesting factor indeed--that the Primeval would allow so many sects and consider neither heresy; this was because they sought the truth. If the truth was obscured by false proclamation, than the Primeval have failed in their duties.

Still, rather than say anything Anja continued to remain silent and watch as a follower of Nogras.

The presence of Khaleel was rather shocking, he was hardly the religious type as Anja recalled from past conversations with her spymaster.

Of course, she immediately knew he was here for his own reasons... Whatever they were.

[member="Khaleel Malvern"] | [member="Zambrano the Hutt"] | [member="Loxa Visl"] | [member="Orkamaat"]