Chapter 1
Time of Origin - 3000 - 2500 B.R.
With the first Ma'arq the bargain was struck. With its divine light, the first oath was sealed...
Long ago, we were but slaves. Chattel serfs to serve cold-blooded masters. Some of us proved more useful than others. Left to our own devices to war amongst ourselves in conflicts of avarice, useless debate, and sycophantic bouts in an attempt to convince our lords to toss us their scraps and scant favours as advantage to be put to use against the brothers and sisters we should have fought alongside. Instead of wasting what gifts and energy we had in useless squabbles…
The rest of us served as little more than expendable fodder in their inter-house wars of skirmish and renown
But then there was one man. Oh what an exemplary source of sheer will and singular drive he was. The very best of humanity in a time when we had forgotten our potential. Where previous attempts to rebel had failed, his crusade was an unstoppable wildfire even Vultiri rage could not quench. City after city. Station after station he carved a path of righteous carnage and rebellion. Until his fall…
No one knows the origin of his defeat, not truly. Some say it was his arrogance, that he had spread his righteous flame too far and too thin with not nearly enough manpower to ensure its endurance. That such a mismanaged campaign had left his followers vulnerable to the scaled fist whose might would shatter their resolve and mighty host upon the anvil of a joint counterattack by the collective forces of all Vultiri [Houses]. Others say it was a betrayal most dire to his heart. A spurned lover. Men whose faith in his cause had been lost once their defeats and failures had begun to mount and multiply. Greedy turncoats whose lust and selfishness poisoned the hearts and minds of his inner circles. The Tales passed down to us fail to pin down an accurate account.
Once he had been captured by elite Vultiri warriors, the news was spread. Piercing the heart of his army's momentum as the unshakable resolve and morale the troops held vanished like smoke in a strong wind. Half-mad tactical gambits devolved into suicidal charges. Brave holdouts who had held nearly impenetrable bastions fought ignoble ends against the auxiliary forces of blood traitors seeking approval from their saursan masters.
And Jostu - the man who had managed to make an empire bleed with nothing more than a cunning mind, a fire held in his heart and the strength of his hands - the Vultiri lords had special plans for this impetuous terrorist warlord.
Beneath the Obsidian Spires, down in the laboratories of the brightest and most twisted minds of the Vultiri, Jostu was subjected to horrors few knew of. Tried and true tools of torture were applied liberally alongside esoteric and creative artifice of pain infliction designed specifically for Vultiri anatomy which was hardier than that of human physiology. Combined with advances Vultiri had made in the fields of medicine and life-enhancement, Jostu existed in a state of torment and agony designed especially for him in a kind of warped respect the cold-blooded saurans had for his skill and affinity for war.
His mind was broken over and over and over again as his cries and pleas for mercy were broadcasted at public forums all over the empire. To serve as a warning to those who would rebel against the rule of La'lhoan's anointed.
And it is within the dark recesses of torture chambers and bio-labs where Jostu languished in his endless punishment that his salvation was borne. For deep within the earth, away from all but those who tended to Jostu's lamentations, Pomac'car returned.
Long had his journey been beyond the Periphery, deep within the Void which lay beyond the edges of the system. Tired of the wars waged by his brothers and sister, he had disappeared with a handful of close friends and followers, believed to never to be seen again once his absence had been noted. His return went unnoticed as he wished to known whether his kin had grown beyond their petulant passions of the moment. To see whether time had tempered them as it had him. Instead he returned to find his brother had secluded himself in his own form of self-exile amongst savages and a sister whose children ruled the very people they had been meant to raise beneath an iron boot. So he kept his silence, secluding himself as he sequestered amongst those enslaved people. Watching. Waiting. Seeking his moments of opportunity as he sowed seeds to blossom in future machinations.
Centuries passed as he continued to observe and plant what seeds he could as he wondered if this latest rebellion was the catalyst he had been awaiting. That was until Jostu's Crusade. Now there was a man who could rally the chained and the broken to his banner. There was one who struck at an empire and managed to draw blood.
Coming to his cell, Pomac'car offered the captive warlord a bargain; serve as his sword, and Pomac'car would never rest until the chains which bound his people were broken. Jostu, pain-maddened with a hunger for Vultiri blood indescribably more vast than the simple hatred which began this chain of events, accepted the bargain. As proof of each man's fidelity, Pomac'car branded the both of them with the First Ma'arq; the Lo A'al. And it is in remembrance of this pact and what came next that all Kin are given the Lo A'al at birth. Both to remember the past, and those who gave them their future back.
