In the beginning
What is curiosity? Is it a beginning or is it an ending? Should you embrace it or do you shut your eyes and pray for the love of whatever God you hold close, that it disappears? It is a thing without limitations and restraints; for it carries no conscience, other than what its bearer holds. So I ask, should it be valued or feared? For it begs to be heard and it never, ever, no matter how much you should wish it, offers even the smallest measure of mercies.
Even the Gods feel the tug, tug… of its call, its alluring charm. All except for one. He believed that he alone held its secrets, and valued curiosity as a favorite trinket to be kept close until such time as it was needed.
So, be warned friend, for to answer its call - curiosity’s enticing song - it must be done with wide eyes and a steady heart, for trouble - almost always - follows.
Loud squabbling and turbulent bickering echoed throughout Father’s Halls, raised voices excited by the argument filtered into the vast expanse. The conversation, furious in its zeal, drew him on. He slipped among them as a thread of darkness; a thin tentacle of spite, and with natural ease the God burrowed and twisted this atrophied shape into a shadowed corner. Hiding quietly as the banter roiled and teased the air around them, Drakite smiled.
He had sent a whisper; a teasing suggestion and the immortals, his brothers and sisters responded with such fervor that even he felt the tug… of curiosity’s pull. Ten of the eleven sat together, embodied in their chosen forms. Changing every so often, depending on the flow of mood or the turn of a conversation. One or two threw out blinding colours, while others chose to hold physical forms, taking on the guise of their devoted followers. Each reveled in the transformation, each impatient to get on with it.
The other one, believed by the rest to be craven and void of consciousness, was not at the table - a marble thing of reflective darkness, fashioned and loved by Father. To one side, rippling ever so slightly, the sliver of blackness rose a little higher, never leaving the shadows for it did not wish to be noticed. The twisted tentacle remained silent, and listened to the argument as it rose and fell, while outside time slept.
Sharing was the basis of their argument. Could they exist together on a single world? Could they each subsist, not interfering with the race of their choosing or those of their siblings? Could it be done? Should it be done? So much Wild Magic in one place, at one time, still who were they if not Gods? Selfish and untamed children of a higher being and refusing to be thwarted in this whim, they invoked a recipe like none other.
Each rose, and delving deep within themselves, they took from their essence a pinch of Wild Magic. Calling it into existence, Tarkeenia fell favoured to the following gifts.
First came a fistful of dust, thus bringing forth land.
A single glistening tear from another, this gave the new world water and a bounty of salty oceans.
A breath, torrid but yet still sweet enough to cool the heat its giver offered, brought forth the wind.
A trickle of blood and this gave the gift of life.
A bright spark, a single flame full of purpose brought forth fire.
An ice shard, already dripping onto the ground below, gave Tarkeenia a wondrous gift, the changing of seasons.
A lump of coal was cast to the mix, bringing with it night.
A petal from a budding flower, an embodiment of scent, brought forth a world’s worth of fragrance.
A single note, perfect pitch and harmony offered Tarkeenia sound and music.
A diamond, rough and brilliant reflected the light bringing colour to the new world.
Each was a God’s gift, each tainted in Wild Magic. It boiled and bubbled forming the foundation of their new world, and then Father spoke. Even Drakite cringed in his hiding place.
‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’ His words resounded in their minds and each recoiled from the asking. Father entered the chamber wearing a suit of brilliant light. It burnt their eyes just to look upon it, but to turn aside would have meant his wrath and Gods though they might be - he was their Father, their creator. Reluctantly they raised their eyes, not enough to look into his, for that would have meant death, even for immortals such as these.
‘A NEW WORLD! A WORLD OF WILD MAGIC! HOW CAN THIS BE?’ He demanded, the light from his immense form shimmered, partly in anger and partly in amusement, for he doted on his children nonetheless.
It was Atheria, who ventured forth with an answer. ‘Father I beg you, indulge us this fancy. Do not be angered by our indiscretion, for although we acted without acquiescence we did so in the belief that we could achieve a more perfect world.’
She was a favorite; this child born of light and love and despite his misgivings about such a venture, the Father of all Gods gave his consent. He laughed, a rumbling of mountains, the shaking of a billion stars shivered in the sounding of Father’s mirth. With a lazy toss of his head a violet sphere appeared, it pulsed and spun in full view of them all.
‘SHE WILL BE CALLED - PATA BATU; IT WILL BE THE MOON OF YOUR NEW WORLD. A KEY TO HOLD IN ALL THIS WILD MAGIC YOU SO FOOLISHLY UNLEASHED.’ With a flick of a finger the sphere cracked, not perfectly, but if fell apart into two oscillating halves. The separate halves of this disjointed moon were colored rose and blue. It was the sign of approval, but in the giving of such a gift, it carried with it a warning. There could be no interference, no excuse. Each would have their own children, their heart of inventive hearts but they could not ever walk Tarkeenia’s surface, to influence or indulge. Only through prayer and worship could his children play.
Now he left them, and the chamber at once felt diminished by the leaving of such brilliance. Inside the cauldron, Tarkeenia’s forming was left to harden and the sibling Gods, bored once again, drifted away, back to their worlds and whatever it was that in the moment pleased them.
He was alone, in the shadows, full of loathing and odious contempt and as the room emptied Drakite stepped up to the cauldron and spat. A gleaming shard of hate crept across his face; he had given up his gift in that spitting. It was a well-loved deposit of curiosity and chaos, a glob of ruination for this world of theirs. He threw back his head and laughed.
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