Dark and cold, tight and constricting. An iron embrace that was only shy of suffocating. Skin stretched and bones creaked. Eyes slowly open, seeing not but the prison around. Was this life? All existence had to offer? Was this the world? Slowly, this newborn began to fidget. He could feel his limbs, long legs with sturdy feet. Am I meant to be confined so? Am I meant to stay here within this bleakness? Why? I have legs with which to run, lungs with which I might breath. My eyes can see well, and yet behold only this darkness? Why am I here? I do not like this dwelling. I.... I don't like it! The infant God began to squirm, feeling as though the walls came ever so closer. The tightness, the stagnation, it felt like acid. His heart thundered in his chest. This couldn't be all. Life had to offer more. I am trapped, but for what purpose? I have done nothing! This is a mistake, I should not be held so! I can't be held! No! No No No! I Will Not Be Held!
Squirming became violent thrashing, twisting and clawing out with every limb. Bones felt like breaking, muscles pulled taught fit to tear. This creature fought for it's life here, it's own thoughts drowned out by the cannonfire of it's own heart. Pain gave way to fire, burning away the discomfort and giving back only further determination. The Earth around it began to lose it's battle to contain it. To contain Him. Slowly, guided by an unknown drive, He began to work his way towards the surface. How He knew this was beyond him, the rebellious God did not care. Loose mud gave way to serrated blades of rock, cutting deep into His flash. Their sharp tips etched into his very bones, spilling his dark crimson blood to mingle into the muck. No thought, no pain, only Hate. Only Rage. Anger. Fire. Wrath! Fury! Through the stone, the ooze of the ancient world, pockets of air hit his nostrils. He could smell it. The surface, the air, the wind! He wanted it. He will have it!
The ground shook and trembled, almost as if quivering from His wrath. An eruption of slate rock and mud saw his birth, his first cry a roar to rattle mountains. The sun bore him no forgiveness, scorching his eyes and searing his pale, naked flesh. With mangled, bloody limbs he did shield himself. This surface bore pain, but also the freedom he now coveted. He would not give it up, he would fight and adapt to call it his. His skin began to seal shut, toughening and turning into a deep leather-brown. His eyes adjusted to the daylight, seeing for the first time the reality of what it is to live. A deep hiss of satisfaction crept out his throat, turning slowly into a bellowing howl of victory. His roar echoed back from the mountains "Ragon". Such a strange noise, for why did he make it? The sound repeated in his mind, and gave him a smile. That is what he was then, Ragon. As he had taken in his first breath of this clean air, he let it out in a sigh of acceptance. The breath lingered forth, carrying a mysterious weight. It crawled over the loose dirt, seeping into the surface.
Ragon reached out with his arm, only to drip more of his blood to join the rest in the mud around him. It too bore this energy. From his blood came teeth and claws, a rough brown hide such as his, and the growl of hunger. It knew nothing, it held only instinct. It wanted to live, but was only mortal. It needed more, a life to sustain it's own. Survival. It wanted to live, and it would kill for it. From the loose soil came flailing and bleating, frenzied hooven feet finding balance for the first time. This creature held no claws, no fangs, but it did have eyes. Those eyes saw the intent in the first carnivore. It fled, and the first chase became afoot. Both these creatures wanted to live, and it became a matter of simply who would earn it more. With many powerful kicks the prey did fight against it's hunter's clawed grasp, but the carnivore claimed the meal. The strongest one earned the right to continue. It was a cycle. Simple, but stronger than anything Ragon knew. It was..... perfect. The strong persist, the weak offer their lives for it. Ragon's next breath took shape, of stone yet not. A disk, for which Ragon's newfound claws inscribed the meaning of this grand order. The Primal Order. This would be his. The legacy of his children.
Night and day held no meaning to young Ragon as he toiled away. With more of himself torn away, blood, teeth, and claws offered to craft new life, he did see new forms come forth. Some would not have sharpened teeth, and so could not chew the meat. Ragon knew they too must claim life to keep theirs, so he gave them the grass in the fields. The plants did not flee, and their blunted fangs ground it away with ease. The herbivores became strong, and so too did the carnivores. Ragon made small ones at first, then slowly made them bigger. Size held difference. Small ones stalked easier, but large ones could take down larger prey. Sometimes Ragon saw the large ones hunt the smaller ones. He began to see them as weak, but did not wish them gone. He gave them a different strength, one with which to hide. So he painted their skin in the colors of the land, so they may not be found by any. But still, they must be found somehow. It would not be a cycle otherwise, so he gave the predator a better nose with which to track. The prey were given better eyes so they may see danger. Hearing, too, proved to be critical in their hunts. Father Ragon made his children stronger every day, till at last he was happy. With these first few, of course.
It had been maybe a week, maybe more, when he first smelled it. A scent drifting in the air. He was laying down by one of his newest children, a beast of golden fur and great power. This child held Ragon's attention for a great while, even so much that Ragon changed his very form to imitate it. Though now he was thinking of something beyond fur, something more like plate. Scales, to protect from sun and competition. His form did ever slightly shift as new ideas were crafted in his head. Ragon held this reptilian form when that strange odor wafted pass him. A smell of something living, something new. But how could this be? This scent came with the winds, far away from his familiar territory. This couldn't have been made by him.... then who? Were... were there others like him? Would they hunt him, or be as kin? What did they look like? What did they want? Ragon feared these thoughts, yet such fear bore curiosity. He had to know. He would not go in this new form, for it was his and these "new things" would not take it. With a barking roar he called others of his making. Dire-beasts who snapped and snarled at each other, though ceased this when Ragon ushered a scolding hiss. These creatures could run for days and track the scent with ease, perfect for this hunt. Ragon uttered a deep growl as he became as a red haze, an energy which drained into the bodies of the predators. They looked at each other for only a moment, before setting off towards the scent.
Either kin or prey, Ragon would know this.