Prost – Origin of the Dark mystic
From beyond the Bronze Doors, beyond a dangerous stone labyrinth, we are told, . . . races came long ago. . .
Formless and void, made of shadows from memories of the many lives it had known over eons of time… of the many lives it had been… swirling around again and again the cries of anguish from the souls it had devoured… musing and joyfully taunting the tortured…twisting their words back upon them… such fools who’s egos were beyond common sense to conjure such an ancient entity…
It’s calm and inner peace were being pulled and stretched in one direction, as a call came across and echoed against the dark and back again. It was being summoned.
As it awakened to the call, an old and familiar desire for amusement rose within. What wicked scheme had some mortal imagined this time? What selfish plan had been devised? It loved games, and it loved to play at the hearts and desires of fools, and it loved to break them upon the vain rocks of their own wicked shores.
It rose… above it could see a demorian, in a kingdom of demorians, chanting in the middle of a circle, facing a candle lit altar, with some meaningless rune engraved upon the wall. Peering at the elf, it assumed a similar form, and voice, carefully choosing a language and pose for its appearance. The altar seemed like a dramatic place to show… and so , it pressed against the fabric of the plane and pushed through…
For dramatic purpose, it created a pillar of sparkling violet within a blood red cloud. Gathering its form into one similar to the elf, it faded in from nothing and stood in shroud of radiant darkness.
The wide eyed demorian male stood with his hands still in the position that had been used to conjure… and he paused breathless as he gazed at the appearing form.
It peered into the mind of the elf, seeing an entire life, sensing the greed and lust for power, seeing through the heart of his deceptions and knew him to the core. It waited.
The elf swallowed hard and put his hands down. The two stared at each other for some time in the silence of the ornate room. Finally the elf spoke.
“I am Lord Grekkor, I seek to become the High Father ruler of Etonia… I have called you because….“
The entity already knew well, and instead of listening , it was picking a name for itself… it settled on one from an ancient language that was used as a curse that could be translated as “ endless death “… it’s name, for now, was ‘Prost’.
