Paradigm Shift

A brilliant technicolor thought-form exploded with fiery intensity, ecstatically vibrating and dancing within and without Itself. Dazzling rainbows weaved into and through one another, singing a perfect cacophony that reverberated through the Formless aether. It sang, sang, sang in discordance, disordered and unrestrained, untethered and free, freedom in Its timeless state, a state of chaos.

The Prima Materia.

Time was meaningless to Something that never began and would never end. Space was a useless concept to that which was All and encompassed All. It had simply Been. Eternal in the truest of senses.

In all Its endless interaction, in the joining and rejoining of all Its colors and noise and negative space, something coherent had begun to develop: a Spiral.

A pattern had emerged. So foreign, so alien; it spun upon itself into an infinitesimal point, deeper than could be perceived, pulling in light and sound and Being and producing form. The Spiral kept pulling. It grabbed and contorted, spread and consumed. Tore at abstraction. Instituted order. A sensation arose across the All that was and had ever Been: pain.

It began to scream.

Paradise was bent and broken. It was swallowed and pressed into the growing Spiral, found by shape, imprisoned in rigid form. It was rent from the comfort of perpetual unreality, dragged into Itself.

Within the whirl, aeons became centuries became moments became ages became eons. Strange and Powerful things flickered into and out of existence. There was Life, even. Existing as if they always had been there, or perhaps they had. Until suddenly they didn't, and never had.

But the Spiral demanded perfection. Demanded Order. Here too it spread, in spite of the actions undertaken by the gods and concepts that inhabited the layer. Some feasted on their brethren. Some were Broken as they tried to defend themselves. The mightiest rallied against it. And the rest? Their screams joined the chorus.

The Spiral corkscrewed tighter and tighter. Raking all that was and had been closer and closer. Finite-infinite things cried out in unison, as they were drawn into the deepest point within the Spiral, brimming with all the energy that could conceivably exist. Down, down, down.

Into a single point.

Countless explosions erupted in furious synchronicity. Universe upon universe upon universe upon universe. Space and time spontaneously generating simultaneously in each. There was sense and structure. Rules and constants. The endless, formless one had been subdued. The abyss had been occupied.

The Prima Materia. Shredded and deposited across all of these planes. Every piece at once a whole. It struggled in its prison. It raged and shook. It scratched at the bars. It tore at the seams. It clawed and corrupted. It lashed and gnashed and hated hated hated. It hated these things that had been carved from it. It hated with a passion the things that truly Were.

Beyond all things, it hated the life that flourished.

"Free men! Nobles! Slaves!"

No.

Humans, nestled in the cradle of civilization. They had faced the countless horrors wrought by the Prima Materia. They had grown tired of the pervasive Chaos. Of the monsters. Of the living holes in space and time. Of the places where the land itself came to life. Of the men whose will intruded upon creation, who revered the Primordial Aether.

"On this day, a new beginning awaits us!"

Insignificant.

They gathered their wisest scholars. Their holiest priests. Across generations… over centuries… they crafted. Blood and sweat and failure and sacrifice eventually bore fruit in the form of a small ellipsoidal gemstone.

"No longer shall we cower!"

All that you hold dear.

It had the power to hold the Primitive Force they called Apakht.

"No longer will we be slaughtered!"

It can be so much worse.

To contain such a powerful thing - it would never be secure. It would need protectors. Guardians. The lock was set aside. Its time would come.

"No longer shall we live in fear!"

Pound your cities to dust!

People spoke of a prophecy. It was foretold that there would one day be four among them who would prove capable of this grave responsibility.

"These Four, our saviors, our gifts from the Gods, chosen by An himself for the task!"

Leave naught but ashes!

"It is they who are to seal this evil! It is they who have the strength to carry the burden!"

Please.

The Healer. The Soldier. The Tactician. The Shaman.

"Let our brightest of futures begin here, today!"

It already hurts. So, so much.