In the time before the many puerile endaevours of man scarred it and left it broken, the world was new and hale. Unblemished by the vulgar excretions of life and aglow with the lingering heat of creation, it stretched outward in all directions in sterile magnificence. In time it cooled and took rigid shape, and though it knew not creatures of flesh, it was nonetheless despoiled by life. They were called the Morr, and they were the first beings in creation.
Sluggish and cold and ponderous were the Morr, with leviathan minds and bodies not of flesh but patterns of angular geometry. In the queer shapes of solidified magma they were born and beheld the world through alien senses and contemplated it with indescribable minds, each thought spanning a year. They could not move, for they were solely expressions of inert rock, basalt and granite but their minds were strong, thus they could with time and herculean effort exert some miniscule force upon the crude matter that expressed them. So it was in time that the world was reshaped to express the geometry of the Morr. Each of the Morr expanded to fill a continent, growing stronger, larger and smarter, until all the world was Morr. Consumed with a desire to expand eternally, and feeling no kinship or fondness for their kin, they turned upon themselves, and so began the First War.
For aeons the war ground on, Morr fighting morr, gaining inches of terrain in centuries. So it that when hot, quick life came upon the world, the Morr took no notice. In the span of one sluggish, ponderous battle life spread to cover the world. At first the Morr ignored this new, ephermal, hot life, so different was it from themselves, so weak and fleeting and small. All this changed when man emerged from its perch above the trees and set foot upon the nubile plains of the world. Though man’s existence was as fleeting as other hot life, in time it learned make tools that could shape stone and metal, and gradually, over the centuries, the Morr began to notice their works. Some ignored them, fully focused on geometrical propagation. But others, the most cunning among them, took great notice indeed. For though the Morr could shape crude inert matter but slowly, the minds and thoughts of men were soft and malleable. And so, over generations, the Morr shaped man’s thoughts and dreams. No longer did they shape stone, instead they shaped man so man would shape stone. And man called these heaps of shaped stone cities and inhabited them.
And so, in time, man was compelled to the lands inhabited by those Morr that took no notice of them and did tore into their shapes with pickaxe and chisel, dismantling them so rapidly they could barely perceive it. And this stone was also piled up and chiseled and became Morr. So did Morr learn to harness mankind and use it to commit fratricide and expand more rapidly then ever before. And man called this civilisation, and for a time, it was good.
But man, who perceived not his chains but wondered at the cause of its suffering nevertheless, made up things to explain why the sands were littered with the spilled blood of its brothers and the bones of its cousins. And it called these things gods, and placating them became its obsession. For a time, not much changed, man’s body was ruled by Morr as its spirit was ruled by Gods. It was when man began to deface the structures that were the bones of the Morr with carven images of idols that the Morr began to die. In vain they reached out to mould man’s mind, only to find that a mind slaved to the divine was proof against the subtle siren call of the Morr. Sybarra, greatest of all Morr, who covered the world and had all but exterminated its siblings, screamed its decade-long dirge as it was dismantled by the very servants that had made it great.
And so the Morr, diminished and tiny and with but a handful of thralls, huddled in the dark and forgotten places of the world and thought bitter thoughts of vengeance and hatred as the world moved on without them. Patiently they bided their time until they observed the rise of a city-state of petty conjurers who spurned the worship of deities in favour of the pursuit of arcane mastery. Into these hungry minds they poured their dreams of vengeance, plans and shapes and geometries that they could not have shaped themselves in a billion years. Had the Morr been capable of worship or veneration, it would be accurate to state that they gave unto these petty sorcerers, who called themselves Tzyanese, a blueprint of their god. And it would feed on gods and burn the world to glass and pour its sickening geometry into stone, steel, flesh and soul. It would etch the heavens with its name and carve its shape into the fabric of sorcery itself with jagged, gaping hews. The day its construction was completed the heavens wept and the ground trembled and the Gods shivered within their Highest Citadel, for they knew then their Age had passed. It heralded in the Age of Dusk by devouring its builders, splintering pantheons like kindling and giving birth to suns. Its servants are the re-animated corpses of its prey, re-shaped to become extensions of its flesh. Like a cancer upon creation it spreads and devours in all directions. It is death, disease and Final Night.
The Morr had no spoken language and therefore had no name for the thing that would be their vengeance and doom combined. In the clipped and gutteral language of Tzyan it was given a simple descriptive name, utterly unable to convey the blasphemous horror of its very existence. They called it the Weapon.