Jorani was already there when the universe learned how to press against itself.

Before form had language, before memory learned how to stack, before purpose leaned its weight into choice, there was movement. Not direction. Not intention. Pressure meeting pressure.

That pressure was Jorani.

The elders say he is not mass, but what mass feels like when it moves. Not shape, but the ache that tells shape it must hold. When structures collide and do not shatter, when forces meet and decide to stay together, it is Jorani’s outline they unknowingly trace.

He is the echo left behind when motion realizes it has a body.

Where Arunai taught the Lesser Ones how to meet without destroying one another, and Hanu recorded what endured, Jorani arrived with no patience for abstraction. He pressed himself into the dark and demanded resistance.

The universe answered.

Matter thickened. Surfaces formed. Weight learned how to lean. Boundaries appeared not as rules, but as sensations. Something began to hurt when it was pushed too far.

Jorani laughed.

Not with joy, but with recognition.

For the first time, the universe could feel itself.

The elders tell that when the Lesser Ones began to gather into the Children, when possibility condensed into living attempts, Jorani walked among them constantly. He did not speak. He taught through impulse.

Hunger.

Fear.

Desire.

The reflex to pull away from pain and lean toward warmth.

The urge to move, to grasp, to strike, to flee, to return.

He gave bodies their grammar.

To stone, he gave fracture and compression.
To water, flow and pressure.
To flesh, instinct.

And when two living forms pressed together and did not recoil, when heat met heat and rhythm found rhythm, Jorani was there as well. Not as indulgence, not as spectacle, but as recognition, the knowledge that connection can be carved into matter itself.

The elders speak carefully of this part, for it is often misunderstood.

Jorani’s gift was not excess.
It was intimacy.

The joining of surfaces.
The trust of exposure.
The vulnerability of touch.
The creation of something that carries both histories in its bones.

They say his seed was not substance, but instruction. A memory of how to take shape, passed from form to form. This is why children resemble their ancestors. This is why beasts know how to run without being taught. This is why pain teaches faster than words.

Jorani did not care for destiny, morality, or meaning. Those would come later. His concern was simpler and heavier.

Live.

Hold.

Endure.

And feel it while you do.

Where bodies fail, Jorani withdraws.
Where bodies persist, he remains.

This is why the elders say:

The body is not a prison.
It is the first truth.

And every time you flinch, every time you hunger, every time you reach for another being not with thought but with need,

Jorani is already there.