Once upon a time, on a world far away, lived a king.
He ruled with an iron fist as the saying goes, and looked to conquer in the way of men with too much power. So his armies went forth and laid waste to his enemies and those who dared to defy him.
Within his ranks rose a warrior of unimaginable skill in combat. His origins were unknown. No one survived an encounter with him and soon his prowess was brought to the king’s attention. Thinking to woo his subjects as well as his armies by raising up this common man, the king summoned him to the palace. The warrior was over six feet in height and although not handsome, had a strong cruel face accented by dark fierce eyes and long black hair. The king sent him on the most dangerous assignments and the warrior was successful. Time after time he returned triumphant and the king showered him with honors and wealth.
Soon the day arrived when the king’s armies faced a foe so formidable it was whispered they were aligned with powerful magic. For the first time the people doubted their destiny and feared the future. The king called forth his right hand and gathered the people to witness his promise to deliver them from defeat. He designated his favorite fighter as his successor, if only he would win once more. The warrior went to his knees before the king and gazed at him with tear filled eyes.
"You have honored me as if I were your true son, so I swear to not fail thee...father."
Long black hair brushed the floor and the warrior used it to wipe his tears from the ruler’s feet. Never in the whole of his life had the king witnessed such humility. He raised the warrior to stand at his side and held his crown over the man’s head.
"I have spoken and it will be my will. Let all acknowledge, Buthus my son!"
And the masses screamed their approval. The name of the warrior echoed through the streets. Voices raised in tavern or temple did naught but extol his name.
In the darkest hour of the night, the warrior traveled to the lowest levels of his house deep beneath the streets. At his back went five of his most loyal lieutenants great of muscle, skilled in stealth and assassination. These five spied for him, killed for him and shared the wealth which his prowess had brought. They were young. He had trained each one, loved each one and to them he was the culmination of every dream ever dreamt. When the six arrived at the sacred room, the five men prepared the altar for worship. They washed the warrior’s body and cleansed his hair then arrayed him in the finest of white silk. One by one they took their turn upon the altar and accepted his seed into their bodies. One by one they accepted the blade in their vitals spilling their blood for Buthus, the embodiment of the crystal’s will.
He drank from them and bathed in their sacrifice.
Before dawn crept over the distant mountains, Buthus dressed in armor, stepped into his chariot and went forth to defeat his enemies. The soldier’s were stunned at his appearance and it took little time to understand what had occurred. His chosen lieutenants were not in attendance. Word spread and many were frightened witless. He was a demon, a devil, accursed. But, with the enemy nearing the city they followed him onto the plain into battle. He fought as if posessed by the strength of a hundred men. No matter human endurance, he extolled the army to greater, ever greater effort until the enemy was swept away.
When word came of the rout, the warrior fell to the ground and wept. Many heard his tale of death. How he found them sacrificed upon some strange orb to help him win the day. How with dying breath the last and greatest among them begged him not to let their sacrifice go in vain. He cried and slashed his body with blades and cut the hair from his head. When it appeared he would fall on his sword, the soldiers overwelmed and bound him. A message went swiftly to the king of success and the tale his warrior told. Elated, yet concerned, the king went out from the city to the army’s camp to see for himself. Truly his warrior was insensible with grief and begged the king to end his life. After all what was life without those he loved. Finally the king escorted his right hand back to the city and called the finest healers in the land to save his "son". Another country had been conquered and the spoil were beyond imagining. The number of slaves taken would ensure leisure for his people for years to come.
This is how the cult of blood came to the kingdom. This is how the crystal of the moon became the focus of worship.