“Gather round, ye children and learn the saga of your true lord, the Fickle. 'Fsck:' His birth cry. Thus begins the story of Mothma, born of a wooly womb wall and randomly vomited through the strata of heaven and hell until landing painfully and awkwardly atop an unremarkable oven, his powdery wings barely dry. Drawn through time and space without merit or reason, this nascent god was called by the scent of bacon grease as though it were sweetest nepenthe. Newly born, his powers had not yet been dreamed into being, and an instrument of his worship might have destroyed this young god of chaos as he flapped dangerously close to one of the eyes of the stove. With all the strength he could manage, Mothma reached out with his divine senses and found vessels that were willing to do his bidding- to embody the spirit of the (hungry) fool. It sounded kind of like "Rrrrp fzzzt fzzt" (See fig 1.1, The Importance of Flatulence During Mothma), and his first followers found their faith.

Each worked in perfect coordination to save their newborn god, one moving the food aside while another scooped him up to deliver him back into the night, while yet another, purportedly the first ecstatic mystic of the tradition, had already received a drunken vision from the god and began chanting "Mothma! Mothma!" With this faith, Mothma began to sculpt his powers and to bestow them upon his followers with idiot-savant wisdom, presenting seemingly random trials and rewards to test his first priests/prophets. They gradually became aware of the divinely ordained laws of their god... In an endeavor to become closer to our god, to embody his spirit, we must mimic the grace of the moth. To this end, vast quantities of intoxicants must be consumed. Those that induce manic excitement and impaired coordination are favored most. Fire is sacred to Mothma. He will only suffer the illusion of death since he was saved and restored to divine status during the initial Trials, but ritual barbeque is required of his servants to remind them of the holy transmogrification of the flesh of all animals. Mothma demands it. Mothma is also the god of forgetfulness, continually rediscovering his joy as he forgets the source of it from second to second. Again, drinking heavily is the sacrament that will bring us closer to our idiot-savant lord. Mothma hates bad art. Burn it. It is an affront to his moth sensibilities. He also likes to change these rules. All hail Mothma! ” - As told by Jack Carcosa, High Priest of Scripture and Mothma cultist.