A cold smile stretched across the Hutts face as Ostanes spoke, forgetting for a moment the mysterious stranger. He could sense the apprehension and disgust. It was to be expect from one who used the force as the Sith and Jedi did. They both, to him, where one in the same. They believed in a mystic binding Force, that is known for only two of its facets of light, and dark. They often pronounce the darkness as unnatural, yet they ignore that the source of what they perceive as darkness is based in emotion, an unavoidably natural phenomenon. The Jedi in particular are blinded by their reliance on the selflessness of the rare individual, to see they are rarely different from the emotional turmoil of their ancient enemy in the Sith. There is a secret facet of the force however, a second duality that even the darkness abhors... forbidden not by rules but by nature, for it is itself unnatural and separate from the force, beyond mortal understanding. This is the source of his knowledge, and why he is pronounced as a witch, for the wicked eldritch horrors he unleashes unto reality.
"That which is dead does not survive, but in strange aeons may yet come alive..." The Black Prophet announced before all those still present within his Cathedral of Abhorrent Mass. Droplets of blood fell from above as a babbling brook, a thin stream of red alien liquid pouring downward from the womb of the ceiling into the green sea of living ambivalence. Something seemed to consolidate in the gaseous liquid into a strange oddly humanoid figure... miniature in size, but clearly meant to be symbolic in some measure. It wasn't wholly formed yet, and constantly changed with the dripping blood and the easily disrupted mists. Spindly spider like hands fell into the mists with its acid and rose it upwards towards the midnight and grey face, framing those sickly green glowing orbs upon its horrendous face.
"This is the purpose, young sacrificers... who slay what shall be Borne of the Rift... and now, to open the womb to the life blood of our collective perception!" All around the planet, wherever a tunnel had opened up into some helpless village or city, unleashing upon the sacrificial arbiters with their fangs of Balagoth, blood ran like a river soaking into the ground... and if there was anything this Hutt had ever been truly attached to... it was the flesh. With flesh intermingling with the surface of this world, slowly drowning in the bleak darkness he imposed upon it each passing moment, the Eldritch Witch became more and more physically grounded to this world in his blood magicks. So many dead and dying Mirialan were now connected as one within this primordial pot of ritualized union. The dead were as the living, and the living were dying. Now was the time to initiate the final stages of the ritual... this was the knowledge that he wished to share... to demonstrate. This was the secret twisted power that he had whispered of... very nearly his magnum opus. In some Other voice, the black serpent began to speak, and the unliving flesh trembled within the Cathedral... the womb above dilating in how it distributed the blood, as it responded with orgasmic reverence to the words of the Prophet.
Ś͠l͏al̶͜e̸s̸ k͡l͟͝͏a̕͘va҉m͠ ͏̀͞b͢͝l̨in̨a͝ ̴͜ţąg̛͝o̸̸u͟ ̀͏͟L'̡͡a̸̧ń͟ ̕͞͡d͟e̷̕͡n̕͘͟ni̵.̷̴͘ ̨̕V̀a̛d̵҉̵ȩ̴͝ès̕ ͡҉v͏e҉̧͠d̷͢͢ì͞ ͢͝vi͟͢k͞͏o̸̵o̸s ͝͡fu̵͜͝c̕u̶ ̷̨L͡͞'͜͏á͢͞n̡ d̸͜ęn̢͜ń̸͞i͢.̸ Z̛ǫ̀d͠҉o̶̧u͡͏ ͏̷l͢ą̧k̡̕҉eń͟͝o̕ c̸̡h̛o͏u҉͟n̴̶o ͘͟u҉̢l̡e̴͡͞e̡͏͢ỳ ̨̨͟v̨l͠҉e͜m̵o͘n͞ ͘͝Ļ͡'̧̕a͜n̨.̡ ̡̡L̸̶̛'̵̶ąnl̵̢ ͜͡ķ͜͜o͡r̡a̶͢m͜҉ ą̨͢ý'̷͟l͏͟a̡ni͘͝.̡ Sus͘͜o̷͠ ́̕N̷̨a̧l̢̕'a̵n!̸̴ ͏N͢҉҉á͠l͜͝'an̨ ͠҉̷d̴͜e͘n҉͝ņ͡i̴͘ k̷̕la̵̕v͟l͟͢an̢̕͟à̷̕ĺę͜n̛̕a̛y ҉̧͟Zo̢d̴҉̀o̴̷̢u̕͟!͜
On the last word, a great disturbance could be felt in the force, as it vehemently reared away from this unnatural aversion to nature the Black Prophet had performed. Blood rained down upon them all... the blood of all of the Mirialans that were dying or dead... it overfloweth from the boiling pot which now rose up with that strange human figure in the center of it all... red as the liquid that poured down from above, but polished like wax, and emanating a cold presence throughout the room. Throughout the entire planet, the dead rose, the dying died only to live again... and only their blood held them together. Golems of flesh, and hosts to nothing... yet.
A single black hand reached up to the unholy artifact, and beckoned its coming forth to it. The black tendrils of that hand unfurled as like a flower, one of sickness, disease, and death... and unleashed its godless fruit, the skeletal hand of the Black Prophet itself. It held the figurine with a gentle grace, as a gift from descended from heaven... or perhaps ascended from hell. It was a Totem to every Mirialan slaughter this day... bound to their blood, and their blood bound to it. A graceful stroke graced the faceless head of the figurine from his other skeletal hand, also unfurled as a delicate dying flower.
"What a welcome being you are... yet, like the faithless Primeval... I sense you are still hungered... still empty. But I am a doctor, and it is my duty to ensure that you are filled with the breath of life... thus, I give you my own." The Staff of L'ans Zodou found itself within the Prophet's hand, and the viridian mists swirled at its base.
"I make this sacrifice in the name of Balagoth!" The serpentine structure suddenly became animated, and the skull chattered with the hungered its master held, and the teeth reached out and tore into the flesh that remained of his arm not replaced by his tendriled appendages. After a few moments of biting, the animated staff tore a great gash from the Hutts arm, who then brought the bleeding limb upwards above the figurine, and then with those blood red eyes... breathed what can only be described as his very spirit into the artifact... black malevolence pouring outwards from his very breathing, reaching outwards in every direction, but ultimately falling upon this abhorrent...
thing.
The consequences of this action were incredibly dire... as now this twisted darkness filled the unbeating hearts of the dead, and like a hundred tentacled beast, poured out of the mouths of these newly departed things... all those near to these things would see a great rift in the sky above their settlement, as this eldritch ritual neared its completion. It appeared as ephemeral spirits fell from the sky, as demonic beings to possess these empty hosts filled with the Unbreathe of Balagoth and his Prophet. Quickly these portals closed, but the disturbance they caused enhanced the mayhem and paranoia of those still present on the world... as the Genocide approached its final stages as the slain become the slayers.
The Black Prophet's hands dropped from the figurine, which remained in the air, and fell backwards into a pillar of the green mists... and the Cathedral began to fall apart in on itself... roaring in pain and pleasure as its Master fell into unconsciousness... hardly living, barely dead. It felt as if the very force had been torn from the Hutt... yet the dying Cathedral no longer maintained by its master... pushed away its occupants in its death throws, collapsing around its master as the entire world bled with undying hearts.
The Darkness... had become Wild...
~FIN?~
