The Myst

It is the aether, and the weave.

It is the threat upon which all of existence is sewn. Its hazy nebulous waves linger in space, spewing forth from the Maelstrom, and bleeding through the mixture of powers from both Negative and Positive Planes. It is chaos, but it contains the makings of law.
It is pure, raw, and yet incalculably tangled. It is a storm distilled, a catastrophe from concentrate. From it, all of the gods’ powers of reality weaving and creation are forged.

It is likely that this is also from where the gods were born.

The Beast who was born of this, finds the raw power to be its cradle, vehemently jarring it into violent slumber when its wounds and taxing are too great to bear. In every breath, the creature consumes the essence of eternity, and when it releases its furious exhale, all in its path are forever changed.

The Myst

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