Necrae Creation Myth Being from the record kept of secret prophecies, compiled one hundred years ago.
[sblock]" Deep within the chasm, the ancestors had disturbed something, something not meant for this world.
It had crashed long ago, a relic of a war between planes of existance older than our own, born of an aspect of the God of Death, severed, and bound into a device intended to turn a city into a hive, to kill and weaponize a population. A single glyph in the spell mispronounced, and it crashed here, before the races, before the current pantheon, before the world had fully formed. It should have ended there, it should have remained burried beneath layers and layers, farther than we could ever hope to dig in our age.
It did not. That thing, it thrummed, it moved. Ever so slightly, subtly, it moved. It was alive, yet it was death. It would not stay beneath the rock, would not stay hidden, could not abide eternity alone. It would wait for life, seperate from the forces of our world, unable to shape, or to corrept save for the physical plane, for a long time all it could to was to move subtly, ever resisting the efforts of the earth to seal it among the fossils and sediment layers.
Then, there was life. This was good, this was what it had been waiting for, and yet, still, it was not at the surface, and it sensed no souls within creation. No souls, no meaning for death. It was burried, for eons it slumbered till it could sense it. It could sense souls.
The gods had made their creation, breathed truelife upon a world barren of it, and this was good. The thing thrummed, resonated, called out to those had it within their hearts to hear it whispers. It promised power, it promised them its fell power, might beyond their dreams, weapons never before dreamed of on this world. It gave but one command, 'start digging.'
Dig they did, they dug and dug, but alas, their tools were not adequate for the excavation. The promise of power was so real, so tangible these beings could taste it in the air. They scraped stone with stone so desperate were they to posess such power. Some went mad and scraped at the stone with their bare hands, wearing their fingers to stumps. Some however saw their fellow beings with weakened minds, torn spirits, fractured wills, and in the clutch of despair and saw opportunity.
The excavation became a city ever burrowing downward, invading neighbors for slaves to labor, food to eat, and converts to their creed. Technology and innovation abounded, tools and techniques improved, and with every passing year they were closer and closer to their goal, this Empire.
When finally they had reached it, there was jubilation, a ritual celebration preformed in which they all joined in. Their chants and rythmic dancing could be felt and heard for miles, 'We've found it, we've found it, and now you all shall die.'
The thing had witnessed the birth of an empire, it had witnessed the triumphs of these lives as they grew, adapted, innovated, and created toward a single purpose. Now even as its goal was within reach, the corruption and reshaping of beings into undead weaponry to scour this world dry of life, it had...a change of heart, of sorts.
These souls, they would not rest while still they drew breath, till the thing did as it had promised, and then all would be lost. So it stopped their breathing. All the souls whom would use the power of this profane thing were drawn into it, their bodies falling to the floor of their city like so many snuffed out and discarded candles.
The soulstuff of this multitude taken in, it began the process of creation itself, preserving the corpses of the fallen, pallid and shiftless, yet not rotted. More than slumbering, less than dead it kept these vessels. For the thing saw a use for them.
None would enter the ruined city, not one sould dared, the reputation of the dwellers, and the story of their demise passed down from generation to generation. All the while the thing worked.
One day a man will brave the city, will venture deep within the pit, to the heart, and he shall meet the thing. The man shall feel its presence, and hail it. To this inquiry, the hearald shall rise, born of death, a soul crafted by that thing shall flow into a vessel host, bind to it, and twist the body, crafting it in its creator's image. The first of many. "
~Teilla Evervask, Prophet, Madwoman and Outcast
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[sblock]" Deep within the chasm, the ancestors had disturbed something, something not meant for this world.
It had crashed long ago, a relic of a war between planes of existance older than our own, born of an aspect of the God of Death, severed, and bound into a device intended to turn a city into a hive, to kill and weaponize a population. A single glyph in the spell mispronounced, and it crashed here, before the races, before the current pantheon, before the world had fully formed. It should have ended there, it should have remained burried beneath layers and layers, farther than we could ever hope to dig in our age.
It did not. That thing, it thrummed, it moved. Ever so slightly, subtly, it moved. It was alive, yet it was death. It would not stay beneath the rock, would not stay hidden, could not abide eternity alone. It would wait for life, seperate from the forces of our world, unable to shape, or to corrept save for the physical plane, for a long time all it could to was to move subtly, ever resisting the efforts of the earth to seal it among the fossils and sediment layers.
Then, there was life. This was good, this was what it had been waiting for, and yet, still, it was not at the surface, and it sensed no souls within creation. No souls, no meaning for death. It was burried, for eons it slumbered till it could sense it. It could sense souls.
The gods had made their creation, breathed truelife upon a world barren of it, and this was good. The thing thrummed, resonated, called out to those had it within their hearts to hear it whispers. It promised power, it promised them its fell power, might beyond their dreams, weapons never before dreamed of on this world. It gave but one command, 'start digging.'
Dig they did, they dug and dug, but alas, their tools were not adequate for the excavation. The promise of power was so real, so tangible these beings could taste it in the air. They scraped stone with stone so desperate were they to posess such power. Some went mad and scraped at the stone with their bare hands, wearing their fingers to stumps. Some however saw their fellow beings with weakened minds, torn spirits, fractured wills, and in the clutch of despair and saw opportunity.
The excavation became a city ever burrowing downward, invading neighbors for slaves to labor, food to eat, and converts to their creed. Technology and innovation abounded, tools and techniques improved, and with every passing year they were closer and closer to their goal, this Empire.
When finally they had reached it, there was jubilation, a ritual celebration preformed in which they all joined in. Their chants and rythmic dancing could be felt and heard for miles, 'We've found it, we've found it, and now you all shall die.'
The thing had witnessed the birth of an empire, it had witnessed the triumphs of these lives as they grew, adapted, innovated, and created toward a single purpose. Now even as its goal was within reach, the corruption and reshaping of beings into undead weaponry to scour this world dry of life, it had...a change of heart, of sorts.
These souls, they would not rest while still they drew breath, till the thing did as it had promised, and then all would be lost. So it stopped their breathing. All the souls whom would use the power of this profane thing were drawn into it, their bodies falling to the floor of their city like so many snuffed out and discarded candles.
The soulstuff of this multitude taken in, it began the process of creation itself, preserving the corpses of the fallen, pallid and shiftless, yet not rotted. More than slumbering, less than dead it kept these vessels. For the thing saw a use for them.
None would enter the ruined city, not one sould dared, the reputation of the dwellers, and the story of their demise passed down from generation to generation. All the while the thing worked.
One day a man will brave the city, will venture deep within the pit, to the heart, and he shall meet the thing. The man shall feel its presence, and hail it. To this inquiry, the hearald shall rise, born of death, a soul crafted by that thing shall flow into a vessel host, bind to it, and twist the body, crafting it in its creator's image. The first of many. "
~Teilla Evervask, Prophet, Madwoman and Outcast
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