From across the vast and unknowable void of pre-existence, a spark of new life and purpose appeared among the stars. Seeking a canvas upon which to paint, the Progenitors came to settle upon a stagnant mass made of naught but ash. Numbering twelve, these beings of the cosmos began their work. In each, imbued with a portion of the Primeval Spark, they enacted their will in dust.
Time. Space. Change.
The precursors for reality to function.
Stone. Soil.
Inert, but the necessary ground on which to harbor new life and its offspring in perpetuity.
Light. Fire. Potential.
Energy organized into operable forms.
Blight. Decay. Antithesis.
An end to beginning.
Will.
Existence’s ability to control its own fate. The state of being.
For eons the children tended to their garden, cultivating their arcane machinations. Their strength, ungoverned by their own laws, grew exponentially. Their magics suffused the ground they walked, and hybridized, and birthed new magics. The Progenitors looked upon the world they had created with pride, a self-sustaining ecosystem no longer in need of careful guidance. Though what they created seemed a paradise, one reality rendered their achievement hollow; life in this state could not exist for long. The bearers of the Spark, as ancient as they were, did not feel death, and so they looked upon creation with pity, a fleeting facsimile of their true potential. In agreement, they began to create their magnum opus, a being shaped in their own image, unbound from death and ungoverned by reality.
It was to be their greatest mistake.
No comments:
Post a Comment