[ti]solo[/ti]The Call of Kyogre

The High Priestess has nurtured the egg from the very day it had been given to her by the Oracle of the Ceaseless Downpour himself (Finnegan Fjord), she has told it dozens upon dozens of stories and tales of power and death. She has recited poems of tempest, terror, and destruction. She has shown it courage and strength in battle.

The High Priestess' voice has been as if a lullaby to the young Kyogre that still slumbers. Her actions have rocked it into its dreams. She has shaped the world in which it exists. Yet, of all the stories she has told, the one she recites in that solemn tone and delightful diction when at this spring's shallows is the only one that has yet to reach completion:

"...They worshipped, so they said, the Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any men, and who came to the young world out of the sky. Those Old Ones were gone now, inside the earth and under the sea; but their dead bodies had told their secrets in dreams to the first men, who formed a cult which had never died..."

The book looks old, tattered, and waterlogged, as do so many found in the church's library. She hadn't been searching for it when she found it, but it had not been an unexpected find indeed, for is it not the perfect reading material to belong in the library of a cult of the deep? An easy addition to the curriculum she had prepared for this young Kyogre, right alongside Edgar Allan Poe, Grimm fairy tales, and a dark collection of poems.

With the book in her grasp, the tale comes to life, words spoken into this cavern for an audience of only two to hear: her dragon and the egg he holds these shallows. They hear her, her voice rising over the symphony of droplets that fall off stalactites.

"...This was that cult, and the prisoners said it had always existed and always would exist, hidden in distant wastes and dark places all over the world until the time when the great priest Cthulhu, from his dark house in the mighty city of R’lyeh under the waters, should rise and bring the earth again beneath his sway. Some day he would call, when the stars were ready, and the secret cult would always be waiting to liberate him."

Pause.

The egg shuffles only once, but the movement is caught by alert and mismatched eyes. Sharp like a knife's edge, a smirk tugs at rosy lips, and returning her attention the the waterlogged tome, Tuesday continues telling the story from the rock that is as if her high seat.