Mourning in the Morning [The Primeval]

[Boethiah]

Imperial Palace, Ravelin, Bastion.

Within the deep halls, hidden behind thick walls, is a sanctuary for the Primeval. As zealous as they were, many had doubts and uncertainties, thus it was the purpose of this sanctuary to allow healing and tranquility so that all persons can find comfort in their beliefs. Anja mediated in front of a faceless statue representing Sargon, elsewhere within the room were three other statues depicting the remaining deities of the Primeval.

The woman lowered her head, "I believe in Sargon, the Tongueless Speaker. The one who separates shadows from darkness. I believe in Nogras, first of Sargon, the Starmaker. The light from which all other light was made. I believe in Balagoth, second of Sargon, the Dead One. In his shadow, that which is corruptible shall be reclaimed. I believe in Halrormalenth, Third of Sargon, the Broken Creator. His voice is the evidence of things seen and unseen. I believe in the Primeval, the Host Lord, and the words of the Prophet. I wait for the Reclamation, when the stars shall give up their dead and all things will be remade." Her prayers were spoken in a soft, low voice that sounded little more than loud whisper.

After she had finished speaking, Anja opened her eyes and looked up to the faceless visage, seeing in its empty gaze only herself and the tasks set forth for her to accomplish. So much to do, so little time to do it. This Host had been the greatest ever seen, and Anja would be remembered as their most successful Host Lord. However; would that be enough? Would they achieve what they've set out to do?

[member="Orkamaat"] | The Primeval

 

[Orkamaat]

It didn't take much effort to get up early, these days; well, these centuries, really. His perception of time had long become skewered by the sheer amount of experience he'd been subject to in his long, long life, and now whole generations could pass him by without notice. He'd get around to publishing his thoughts on the matter, eventually. Once this measuring of genitalia size was over, and when people realized war really wasn't the best way to achieve order, or peace, or anything else, really.

He'd tried explaining that simple truth a few times in the past, but people never listened; they needed to learn it for themselves, and they usually learned it right before someone else stabbed them in the name of order, or peace, or whatever excuse they were using that time around.

Rinse, repeat.

Orkamaat had long lost count of how many cycles exactly like it the Galaxy had gone through in its bloody history, but the practice predated even his existence, and he had not a shred of doubt that it would persist long after he perished and finally embraced Balagoth.

A keen smile curled his lips at thought, and his eyes finally opened to meet the gaze of the Host Lord.

"[member="Anja Aj'Rou"]. Your heart seeks true."

His voice carried easily across the chamber, a perk of the fine acoustics employed in its construction. The ornate purple cloak fell from his shoulders with a familiar weight, covering a disfigured physique borne of a near-fatal mistake many revolutions of the Galaxy ago.

The Shaper had left him alive, at any rate, with a daily reminder of his tethers to Balagoth as a souvenir. It had given him a new appreciation for what he had, instead of trying to find all that which he didn't possess. There was something profoundly calming to having that knowledge, simple as it was, and made carrying the burden of existence an infinitely lighter a task.

"Do you desire guidance on your Walkabout today, Host Lord?"

 

[Auswyn Nothrael]

Religion, it could be said, was the air she breathed. Without a suitable candidate which she could fix her soul upon and to which she could parallel the thrum of her heart, she was nothing more than a lithe beast sought the viscous fluid that gave life to an organic system, and was keen to spill it like it was water for the earth. The thirst, however, was for the gamut of emotion that poured from the subjects of those workings, and the release she gained from the process.

In this way, religion saved some lives by giving her a focus, and endangered others. It did not, however, curb the absence of a line that should not be crossed, but that was a tangent for another time. This new day saw her within the walls of the sanctuary, not to engage in the worship of the local deities, but to make good on an invitation from the high priest [member="Orkamaat"]... an invitation she had received a small measure of time after her entrance into the fold of the Primeval. There were no doubts in her mind - no, the Old Morossi Gods still held the chalice of her faith - but that did not dissuade her more academic interest in the faiths that drove the many to act as seculars might not. It was fascinating what drove the hearts, minds, and souls of sapient life. Thus, she waited. She had heard it to be ill-advised to disturb the High priest in the midst of his morning prayers...

...not to say that the temptation to such chaotic movements did not exist; still, they were quelled by the proximity of the Host Lord, [member="Anja Aj'Rou"], to the priest in question. As such, she would wait. Waiting she could do. Patience, she could most assuredly do.

 

[Boethiah]

Prayers in many religion were a private matter, communication between the faithful and their Gods. Only those Gods could judge one's soul in matters of truth...Some thought. The Host Lord's existence was a complicated matter that deserved an essay all in its own. She was the leader of the Primeval's Host, a military order established to conquer territory and harvest resources for the nigh impossible task of finding a way through the fabric of our galaxy and the one in which the Gods inhabit; whatever realm that may be.

Yet there was more to being Host Lord as well. She had to decide right from wrong, pass laws and enforce them, she is an adjudicator and an executioner. More so Anja is also a prophet, one who communicates with the Gods behind mere prayers. In her dreams Anja is able to witness the truths in ways that none can, to see vividly the past and the future; to know what may be and what shall come.

The witch stood slowly, turning to meet the gaze of [member="Orkamaat"], a member of the priestly order. Unlike the Host Lord his position was more about upholding tradition and supporting the more philosophical notions of the Primeval. That is at least what a priest should be, but she'd not assume Orkamaat was not without his own views, even if he'd never dare express them in the company of those who may have distaste for anything heretical. Anja exhaled lightly, "you may accompany me if you wish." She replied to his offer, not accepting it outright but nor did she deny him the opportunity to do so.

Just as she was about to move onto the next area, the Host Lord's eyes met a familiar, yet distant figure standing further off. [member="Auswyn Nothrael"]

 

[Orkamaat]

He acquiesced to the subtle insinuation that the tone of her words carried across the small space separating the two of them with a small nod, content to remain in his kneeling position even as the Host Lord rose to her feet. His curious orange eyes followed her as she made to leave, wrinkling at the corners in a genuine smile as he watched her realize they weren't alone.

It was common for the believer to get so entranced by their prayer that they forgot to pay attention to the world around them, and it seemed that [member="Anja Aj'Rou"] was no exception. It made his heart swell with love for the forgotten gods, for few were those that could inspire such feats in the people of today; self-centered, self-serving, and selfish.

When they were done with this Galaxy, naught would be left of it but a smoldering ruin. All the beauty, all the undiscovered gems, all the hidden treasures; gone, and for what? To fuel another century of unchecked expansion? Of mindless, avaricious wars for emphemeral possessions.

It sickened him, the seed of greed that so often found fertile soil in the soul of man, and it was the thought set aside for his missing gods in the morning that helped calm the vicious beast of sorrow and anger borne of this sentiment.

"Madam," the priest called out to the woman lingering in the back and extended a hand towards her.

"Would you honor me with your company in the Walkabout?" he inquired with a soft, melodious voice, gesturing towards the verdant garden just outside the sanctuary gates. He remembered the wild-eyed [member="Auswyn Nothrael"], the curious quirk of her lip, the flame in her gaze. She was a believer, though he knew not for whom her heart burned.

It mattered little, in the end; it was the devotion, not the name, that carried the true weight of faith.

 

[Auswyn Nothrael]

The eyes of the Host Lord met, her head tipped forward in deference, raised again by the words of the High Priest; the words and gesture of invitation pulled a smile onto her lips that rippled nigh-imperceptibly from the fervour that burned underneath the surface of her.

"I will," she replied, a breathy voice carrying the words, "and gladly."

She took the one step, followed by subsequent steps that would move her into their orbit. Accepting this invitation would in turn fulfill her intentions for this morning quite well, and could be a stepping stone to more. Opportunity, as she had once learned in lessons buried and only resurfacing in new times, was everywhere.

[member="Orkamaat"] | [member="Anja Aj'Rou"]

 

[Orkamaat]

"Come, then," he uttered softly and watched her draw near, silent steps making nary a sound on the carved stone floor. Curious.

Without another word, the priest turned on his heel and led the small procession out through the arch and into the gardens beyond. The doorway itself was painted meticulously and with loving attention to detail, from the many stars and planets representing the reach of the Primeval to the abstract depictions of their Lost Gods clinging to the stone in positions that boggled the mind. If one stared too long at the reliefs, their eyes usually started hurting, mind incapable of comprehending what exactly was going on in the sculpture.

Orkamaat had learned that the best way to marvel at the work was to peek at it at the corner of one's vision, in that small space where the ethereal and the imagined often intertwined and crossed over. Especially in the half-light of an early dawn.

He averted his gaze at last, neck cracking as his skull popped back in place on top of atlas, and with a beckoning hand, the anzat urged them deeper into the sprawling gardens. The path was well-worn, but unpaved, grass and underbrush infringing upon its trod demarcations. Vines and thorns of all kinds snagged at their clothing, but Orkamaat continued undeterred towards the sounds of a distant waterfall, immersed in his surroundings far more than his companions.

Such was the Walkabout.

[member="Auswyn Nothrael"] | [member="Anja Aj'Rou"]​

 

[Boethiah]

Anja had walked these very halls many times before.

In every memory she had of the place, nothing has changed, the temple to her Gods was a timeless place hidden away from a troubled galaxy. It was a place where all the faithful could go and forget themselves, to be one with their Gods and blind to the viewpoints of their colleagues. It was customary for everyone in the room to wear the same style of robe, but for the Host Lord she was required to wear his colours whenever not in her chambers or in battle. Of course she had the 'authority' to make changes to such tradition, but the whole idea of tradition is that it must be maintained.

In fact, that made the Primeval sort of an oddity. They were both very traditional, and very radical at the same time. Many saw what they did as a new idea because the concept of such religious idolatry was a concept so far in the past that even scholars had lost interest int he subject. To see a return in recent times only solidified the motives for people who sought a higher power, to be part of something grander than themselves.

The witch continued her walk, almost ignorant of her guests.

[member="Auswyn Nothrael"] | [member="Orkamaat"]