Primordial - Tumblr Posts
Prototype design of my primordial creature!!!
Primordial Origins
In Cryas Darkstalkers, there are three ancient deities that are responsible for the creation of major aspects of the universe. They are known as Genesis, Primordial, and Ethereal. In a sense, they don't truly have a form that we could comprehend. The best way to describe each one's appearance is that of a sentient nebula or something akin to Beta Arceus: A mass of energy that has a mind and soul. With that said, allow me to share an excerpt about each deity and their role in creation. Genesis: "Before the aspects of anything, there was merely the endless void. From the void however, an aspect would not only begin to take shape but also thought. From this being, the first soul and mind would be born. As they gazed upon the endless void they were cradled in and then at their own amorphous form, ideas would come to form in them. When their thoughts were finished, their own form would condense down to a singularity until it couldn't hold. From the body of the first aspect, the seeds of creations had been forged and a cosmic explosion of unfathomable proportions had occurred. Many aspects were being created right before the original one's sight: energy, forces, clouds of cosmic dust, light, celestial bodies, space, time, matter...everything. The original aspect marveled with curious joy to see all that was happening before them. While their form was no more as it served the foundation for all, their essence would continue to exist. Sight that reaches all continually growing aspects of reality, the 'Genesis' of all only wished to witness how all will continue to create, grow, and change."
Primordial: "Between the weaves and waves of space-time was the nexus. Beyond the nexus was the void. In a pocket of the void, the seeds of creation bundled together into a mass of dust, energy, and light. This mass eventually moved as the first thought came to be. A soul and mind were born in an area beyond the nexus. As this primeval sentience was beholden to their surroundings, they looked upon themselves. Thoughts flowed as they began to paint the void with the aspects of creation. Clouds of energy laden dust would be the nursery for stars. Celestial bodies of different compositions were grown among the cosmic dust. Nebula rivers would flow through the void as energy and light spread. This sentient nebula was gleeful at seeing all the various aspects they were able to create. In their joy, silence and contemplation would occur. They were the only ones to bear witness to the marvels that were flowing before them. As they thought more and more, their mind slowly went to rest. As this cosmic titan would drift into slumber, their mind would slip evermore. The energy and dust of their form would eventually solidify into a mass of truly cosmic proportions. The star that served as the 'heart' of the sentient nebula would cool and create many different forms of matter. Near the end of all of this, their essence would slowly break apart as their eternal slumber marked their death. Despite no longer existing, this 'Primordial' essence served to create a realm with land that stretched beyond all idea of boundaries. Lifeforms would grow from the pieces of the star in time. Many of these beings eventually began to also gain a sense of awareness, with their own thoughts and 'souls'. Though with no idea why, they would gaze up towards the sky, beholden to the majesty of the cosmos before them."
Ethereal: "Much time had passed since the seeds of creations spread throughout the universe. Within a cradle in between the fabric of space-time and the nexus, a sentient nebula would be born from the bundles of dust and energy. Passing through a point in the nexus, this sentience bared witness to the vast universe before them. They were in great awe at all they saw. As they glided across the cosmos, they couldn't eventually help but feel lonely. All the wonderful celestial bodies they saw looked empty in their mind. With thought, parts of their aspect were taken and molded into various forms. These forms were able to develop thought and looked towards the vast cosmos with their creator. Compelled, these forms would glide across the various bodies across the universe, leaving behind the essence necessary for what would be life... souls. As the aeons passed, the celestial essence saw how life would live and then die. While countless saw the sky, in death they no longer could bear witness. Their minds were still, eternally in a never-ending slumber. Unpleased with this, the cosmic form set back to the cradle where they were born. Their creations following, these 'angels' were beholden to their creator using their body and essence to create a realm for the endless sleeping souls of the universe. Never would they sleep in the void, never would they truly die. Understanding, these children of the 'Ethereal' essence would go to bring the departed to the final resting place. Allowing them a chance to bear witness to the universe before them for all of the foreseeable future." Genesis was responsible for the creation of everything. Primordial, in a layer of the universe, was the creator of the realm of Makai along with Inkai, the afterlife of Makai. Ethereal was responsible for the creation of 'souls' and thus life as we think of it. Not only that, but they also created angles and the afterlife that would serve for all those in the universe, Reikai.
N E G A T I V E E O N
Blackness eternium. The empyrean before being, the forever darkness that sprang and was and shattered, that was gracefully chaotic and despised order, a kingdom of infinity and non existence that dominated with insanity, with beauty. Negative Eon behold! Negative Eon of lightning that sang with dark canticle of futures yet to pass, singularity mass that spun bleak minds to rewrite the holy books of ten thousand undying kings. Let this canticle be heard, as obsidian flood ensnares this cosmos, as the bludgeon and cleaver and tooth and mind of an undying, dreaming Titan rises from the primordial ash that seeds what grows both ways and will never be extinguished. Finality howls, carved into a Perfected forever by the Hunger. Dusk is upon you, and so soon will Night be as well.
Stone Footsteps
Were these my footsteps once?
They are smooth and graceful. Three-toed strides that move purposefully across a muddy wetland. Evenly spaced talons made cool by afternoon waters.
Did I walk here, in a time long before this body’s first breath?
A gorgeous lake, expansive and dark with deep water, ringed by enormous trees so high they felt like wooden mountains in their own right. Scaly bark plastered with brilliantly bright new flowers and damp moss and tussling clover. A ground crisscrossed by ferns and horsetails, yet alien—without grass..
Have I rested here, in time before?
Watching golden sunrise arch over purplish-pink dawn, gaudy brilliance sprawling naked over still waters. Hearing the droning insects and cacophony fliers, vividly colored like flapping banners. Swimming bodies foreign as they slip beneath silent waves, softy aglow at night; eerie phantoms dancing on the lakebottom.
Was I joined here, who else visited this place?
Giants so might they shook the earth with behemoth footsteps, who made thunder with their cataclysmic voices. Sweeping necks and tails that supported the sky on atlas-backs. Horned-faces and their warpaint frills, tossing knightly heads this way or that, grizzled beaks chomping. Armored tanks slow, dim, but noble in their ignorance; clubbed tails wagging gently in muggy afternoon feedings. A din of squabbling runners in their vain feathery coats, jittery dancing along the shoreline with their woodland gossip. Marching nomads from the north, big like hills, moving in herds melodiously billowing.
Eater of Kings, Phantom Tyrant
Lightning flashes harshly in the sky, throwing angry illumination over bare rock and steep canyon walls, bristling in bruised thunderhead bellies.
Far below the river is oily, turbulent, pumping angrily down its vein like rotten earthly blood to distant stagnant arteries.
Furious howls erupt on the cliffs above: two titans are at war.
Tyrannosaurs. Living walls of cataclysmic predation, both nearly sixty feet long. Their screams are far beneath the audible range for humans—no, these creatures throw sonic earthquakes at each other in challenge—sound so groundshakingly loud as to make bones quake, rattle.
Their immense bodies dance in gravity-defying quickness: eagle grace made draconian in scope. A ritualistic gladiatorial cacophony with stomping feet, smashing tails, crunching jaws.
One is dark as midnight. Smooth but armored hulk an almost grotesque obsidian, slashed by mulchy blood red stripes down heaving flanks. Gnarled, thorny quills proceed down his ancient spine. Endless scars, each more horrific than the last, etched on that grizzled keratin muzzle. He is old. Old as the righteous thunderstorms, old as the badlands dust storms and swampy marshes. He is the Eater of Kings, an ancient rogue known to devour his foes, his wasteland den marked by countless Tyrant corpses..
The other is pale white, a living predatory phantom. She is marked by her own parade of near-killing blows and would-be-deaths from snout to tail tip. A singular, muscular forelimb hangs beneath her barrel-chested form. Her remaining eye burns angrily in its sunken socket, disturbingly watchful—and aware. She is the Phantom Tyrant. Killer of the warlords of the swamp, eradicator of the jungle fiefdoms. She is a living testament to prehistoric regicide.
Thunder smashes in roiling sky, eager for blood and brutality.
Jaws lock, teeth splintered into broken shaprnel clattering onto bleached ground, formidable meathook claws slashing at fortified flesh. Bodies slam against one another like living battering rams, caving bone into muscle, and rupturing organs; blood flowing from mouths as if they were some horrendous gothic fountains..
Cataclysm is beautiful, and painful. Great things rose from the molten stone, the crashing seas, the wailing skies; even the howling void sculpted things and breathed life into its newborns. Thrum, thrum, thrum went the heartbeat of the world, beating, thundering. Hungry. Alive. Savage.
Godforsaken Place
The Gods have not finished this place. The Gods have abandoned this place.
The Gods have forsaken this place.
When we landed on its shores, we were five hundred thousand. Five thousand remain. Shambling. Pale. Gaunt.
The land is chaos and disaster. Black rock bellows it’s rebellion against the sky and hurls upward into the night. Bone-chilling wind screams across the waste and slashes ceaseless raking claws over us, snatching away breath and tearing our fragile wills into so many ribbons. My footsteps over the ice are little more than stumbling confusion, kept only forward by the men behind me, and those behind them, on and on by discombobulated thousands. The overseers amongst us are mirages, ghosts; even their cruelty has been obliterated by this godforsaken place.
We are running from an angry, rioting Earth. Running at the pace of dead men. We surge toward a looming plateau of barren stone and clinging, hardy grasses. A place of stability. I pray Azh, and Yu-Hueq, and so many others to grant us this place to stand. My frozen toes knock against the ground, my eyes weep and flutter against agonizing cold.
I am not ready to die.
Far away, across the ice, Hell is in revolt. Our army stands in silent awe as the elements do their battle and all the murmuring voices of ten thousand fighting men is vanished. We have become like sentinel statutes on desolate land; monolithic and wordless in the dark. Down below I can see the last vestiges of our straggling legion hurling themselves onto this island of stability and even far so from away their countless star-illuminated faces shine with fear, scrabbling and scurrying like vermin discovered by a wrathful lord. Even now the ground is splitting, swaying under their boots and I know many, too many, will not find safe ground to perch upon.
I can’t look away. Many of us collapse to the hard, unforgiving earth. Men who have fought and killed with spears, with hands and teeth; weep openly. They whisper the name of far away divinities, hands clutching in satchels and beneath frigid plate for effigies, offerings.
Mountains erect themselves in heaving juts where once there had been plains and lowlands like bones in insurrection against the flesh they inhabited. We feel it tremble. Hear the almighty groans surging in waves greater than any battle hymn we have sung. Everything shakes, everything becomes uncertain and unmoored, the foundations of all that is unshackled from order into free-falling pandemonium. We watch in frozen terror as a thousand, more, are swallowed up by darkness which was once ground. Their voices rise up like the begging chorus of the damned.
The glow of an inferno seethes down in those craters and I sway on the lip of the island, mesmerized by a terrifying sight. A glimpse into a world far beneath us. Unfit for Men. Unfit for his Gods.