all that was, is, and will ever be.
Tribal Rank: The Divine
Spiritual (magic) Rank: The One
Biped Syndrome: Bestower
Stones ❂: 7284.58
This user has no items.
P E N C H A N T S
O U R L O R E
You that shall weave
Together in a fabric
That we shaped you,
And we that who bore you
From the clay of this life
To a life like no other,
We who made the edge of this world
Who made altar of those that came before
But with eyes, could not see,
With voice, did not think,
With ears, did not believe,
In this you that shall unite
For when the wars come
They will come
The body, the shell, the amassment of the exquisite truth embedded deep inside. If we were to assume such a form, we guarantee it would not be the same for all who are bestowed the graciousness of our presence. We have quite the imagination, you see, and a limitless supply of knowledge spanning the entirety of the universe itself. Oh yes, we are inventive, resourceful, and whatever visual portrayal we wish to reveal unto you will surely display such.
If you must insist on an iota of superfluous detail, we are very, very fond of the color white.
Above all, we are misunderstood. We are hailed as a worker of miracles, Eden's fountain of riches that never seem to satisfy their lurid demand. What they always fail to see is that we, too, are learning. We, too, were perhaps once mortal, and now we must preserve our curiosity by pushing the limits of omnipotence. You came from our very essence, the threads of life which bind all in our ingenious web of temporal order and chaos. We want none of your blind worship. We want you, in the raw, wholly you, and be you a soldier of peace or blood, our judgment will be sound.
A god's foolishness is still greater than a mortal's wisdom.
Star systems, heartstrings, galaxies, species, all forms of life, all forms of death, oh yes, we have seen them long since come and go. More come to take their place. There is no real meaning in any of their existence, and yet they are blessed with the potential to one day provide meaning to their journey through the physical realm. We have deeply loved them all, no matter how great, no matter how pathetic, no matter how famished of blood they perpetually satiated.
The rules of the universe are far more mutable; bendable, than any mortal is capable of believing. It is here, in the weighted depths of the nihilistic astral void, that we were birthed, nearly as unknowing as our offspring forever remains now. But time, while a brutal, and trickster of a mentor, soon cleverly denounced its presence in our life, and we found we could forever amuse ourselves.
We could explore what emotions lain within our strange dominion, and we would forever naught run dry with recreation, despite the telltale pain of emotional attachment, which we would like to remind you, is not conveniently lacking in what one would call, a God.
Somehow, we feel we were created to create you all, to love you all equally, though circumstances are never always equal in the corporeal realm.
Bad things happen to those who bleed.
And those who cannot, must simply move on.