Chapter 14: Elder gods and great old ones

The Elder Gods were beings beyond comprehension, existing outside the limits of mortal understanding. "They" were not bound by the constraints of form, essence, or individuality—no singular soul, no definitive voice, no fixed gender. To perceive "them" was to invite madness, for "their" very presence shattered the minds of those who dared to look. Some mortals, those unfortunate enough to glimpse even a fraction of an Elder God's true form, were driven to utter insanity, unable to reconcile their limited perceptions with the overwhelming reality of a higher-dimensional existence.

And yet, despite this, "they" were not all malevolent. The Elder Gods were beings of power beyond measure, capable of shaping the fabric of reality itself. A mere thought from "them" could elevate a lower-dimensional world into a higher state of existence—a simple three-dimensional plane could be warped and stretched into a five-dimensional construct, its very laws rewritten in an instant. The infinite hierarchies of space and time were accessible to "them," and "they" resided in the unreachable, unfathomable 11th dimension, a place where concepts like time, distance, and matter ceased to hold meaning. To exist at such heights meant absolute dominion over anything lesser.

Through the creation of vast, indescribable gates, the Elder Gods descended into lower worlds, appearing only when "they" willed it. Some came as benefactors, others as calamities. The Elder God Nyxthara, the Veil of Euphoria, was among those who spread joy and harmony across entire galaxies, reshaping existence into something beautiful and infinite. To those who received "their" blessing, Nyxthara was a deity of kindness, a force of pure benevolence. Universes touched by "their" presence became realms of wonder and bliss, where suffering ceased and eternal joy reigned.

But there were others, like the Wheel of Misfortune, an Elder God whose mere existence brought despair. "They" were a monarch of entropy, a harbinger of ruin. Where "they" turned "their" gaze, suffering followed. Fate itself unraveled under "their" will, turning prosperity into decay, triumph into failure, and order into chaos. To worship such an entity was to embrace inevitable disaster.

Despite the incomprehensible gulf that separated the Elder Gods from lower beings, "they" could still bestow power upon the lesser, warping minds, granting abilities, twisting the very nature of those "they" touched. A mortal blessed—or cursed—by an Elder God could transcend natural laws, gaining insight beyond reason, strength beyond limit, and wisdom beyond time.

But to be noticed by an Elder God was not always a gift. For those unworthy, the weight of knowledge could be too much to bear. In the end, the Elder Gods were neither good nor evil. "They" were simply beyond.

The Elder Gods were beings of paradox, contradictions given form yet beyond all definition. "They" were all things and nothing, dark and light, presence and void, creation and annihilation. "They" did not simply exist within the fabric of reality—"they" were reality, capable of manipulating all that was, all that is, and all that could ever be. Matter, energy, time, space, thought, concept, and even the abstract—nothing was beyond "their" dominion. If "they" willed it, entire civilizations could be erased from memory, leaving behind only a hollow absence where history itself forgot they had ever existed.

But it was not only destruction that lay within "their" grasp. The Elder Gods could just as easily create as "they" could unmake. Where "they" turned "their" attention, entire universes blossomed into existence, their structures woven from the very essence of the impossible. A mere thought from "them" could generate infinite realities, spiraling outward into the unknown, each one distinct yet part of a grander whole. But "their" power was not bound to the mere physical or metaphysical; "they" could shape the very pataphysical—the realm of narratives, concepts, and stories, where fiction itself could become real at "their" behest.

Among "them," one of the most feared and revered was Ikarion, the Ever-Burning Maw. "Their" form was beyond mortal comprehension, yet if a lesser being were forced to witness "them," they might perceive a sun—a star of impossible magnitude, burning in the infinite dimensions. But this was not an ordinary celestial body. Ikarion's heat was not merely thermal—it was all-consuming, an inferno that melted reality itself.

Even the most abstract of concepts were not safe from Ikarion's flames. Time itself could burn, turning the flow of past, present, and future into indistinguishable cinders. Space could be melted away, erasing the very notion of distance, leaving nothing but an endless singularity. Thought, memory, identity—everything that made something something—could be reduced to smoldering remnants before finally ceasing to exist entirely. Even absolute zero, the point at which all motion should theoretically cease, held no meaning to Ikarion, for "their" heat existed beyond the rules of thermodynamics, beyond science, beyond magic, beyond reason.

For the Elder Gods, even the concept of infinity was irrelevant. There were those among "them" who resided in the 11th dimension, watching over the lesser realms, occasionally descending into the lower strata of existence. But others, the true ones, the unknowable ones, existed beyond that, beyond the countable dimensions, beyond what could be conceived. "They" resided within a space that contained **an infinite "amount" of dimensions—**an existence so vast that it rendered the idea of limits meaningless.

In this boundless domain, "they" were absolute. Infinite parallel universes unfolded like fractals, spiraling outward in endless permutations, yet each one was insignificant before "them." The sum total of all possibilities, of all that had ever happened and all that never would, existed within "their" grasp. "They" could manipulate entire multiverses as easily as a child sculpted sand, shaping and reshaping reality itself, discarding entire timelines, rewriting the fate of existence, breaking and mending the very laws that governed all things.

But for an Elder God, such concepts were not power—they were simply nature. "They" did not manipulate reality; "they" were reality itself. The breath of existence, the foundation of all things, the ultimate force that dictated the fate of the omniverse. For those fortunate enough to escape "their" notice, there was only relief. For those caught within "their" gaze, there was no hope. To be known by an Elder God was to be subject to the whims of forces beyond all logic, beyond all sanity, beyond all hope of comprehension.

In the end, there was no resisting the Elder Gods. "They" were the beginning, the end, and everything in between.

The Great Old Ones were entities of incomprehensible power and presence, beings that existed not just in the physical sense but across the very concepts that made reality what it was. Unlike the Elder Gods, who inhabited the infinite dimensions and shaped existence through sheer force of will, the Great Old Ones were tied to the essence of the multiverse itself. Their existence was tied not to a realm but to the very laws and principles that governed the multiversal tapestry. These beings were not constrained by the limitations of biology, and their forms defied any physical understanding. They were not made of flesh and bone but rather of concepts—timeless, abstract, and immovable.

One of the most revered and terrifying of these entities was the Great Old Miracle of Death, an ancient being who represented death itself. However, its connection to death was not as a harbinger or destroyer, but rather as the final, inevitable cycle of existence. The Great Old Miracle of Death was unyielding, unable to die in any conventional sense. Its death could only be obliterated if the very concept of death was erased from existence—a task so monumentally impossible that it bordered on the absurd. This was because the Great Old Miracle of Death was not merely a figure of mortality—it was the living embodiment of the cycle that governed all things that came and went, an eternal paradox that could never truly cease to exist.

Where the Great Old Miracle of Death was rooted in the cycle of existence and decay, other Great Old Ones were far more chaotic and destructive. Some of the most powerful among them were not bound by time or space—their existence transcended the very foundations of reality. They could return after being erased, as though their very essence was impossible to remove. These Great Old Ones could tear through the multiversal fabric, crushing timelines and shredding universes without so much as a thought. Their touch brought with it nightmarish visions, driving the inhabitants of entire worlds mad with the weight of their presence. Sanity itself was a fragile concept before these beings, and those who encountered them were often left with a lingering madness that seeped into the fabric of their minds, a constant reminder of the eternal chaos they represented.

However, not all Great Old Ones were malevolent or destructive. Some, like the Great Old Miracle of Death, upheld certain principles of honor and truth. These beings, while incredibly powerful, did not seek to annihilate for the sake of power. Their existence was more of a guiding force—an unrelenting reminder of the inevitability of death, not as an enemy but as a natural conclusion to the cycle. The Great Old Miracle of Death was honorable and honest, a being who respected the flow of life and death and sought to maintain the balance of both. These beings were known for their unwavering resolve and their respect for the structures that governed the multiverse.

Yet, for every being of honor, there were many others who had much darker intentions. Some Great Old Ones craved to tear apart history itself, to rewrite the past and reimagine the future as they saw fit. These beings could manipulate the very fabric of time, altering events that had once happened, shifting the flow of causality, and obliterating entire histories in an attempt to control the narratives of entire worlds. Their actions were often unpredictable, their motives shrouded in mystery, and their presence an ever-looming threat to the stability of reality itself. These entities lived to warp and distort, creating chaos wherever they went, leaving behind nothing but destruction and madness.

The Great Old Ones did not live by the laws of mortals. They were creatures of a different order, woven from the very fabric of existence itself. They were not composed of biological matter as mortals understood it, but rather were expressions of forces far beyond comprehension. They were beings of thought, of concepts, of unfathomable depth. Time and space meant little to them, for they were not constrained by such limitations. The multiverse was their playground, a vast, infinite space in which they could wage battles, reshape reality, and leave their mark on the very structure of existence. And in this vast, unending multiverse, they knew nearly everything that happened—their awareness stretched across the infinite realms, seeing all and knowing all, even the most secret thoughts of the most distant beings.

Some Great Old Ones, however, chose to remain hidden, observing the multiverse from afar, waiting for the right moment to intervene. These beings were quiet, calculating, and their actions were often deliberate and far-reaching. They played the long game, pulling strings across entire timelines and universes, their ultimate intentions often unclear. They were the true puppet masters, and those who found themselves under their gaze were often left with little understanding of the forces working against them.

In the end, the Great Old Ones were the keepers of the multiverse, the timeless entities who ruled over the very concepts that shaped existence. Some ruled with wisdom and restraint, while others reveled in destruction, but all were beyond the understanding of any mortal. Their presence shaped the very fabric of reality, and those who crossed paths with them were forced to reckon with the immense power they wielded. To encounter a Great Old One was to come face to face with the unimaginable, to glimpse the forces that held the multiverse together and the terrifying realization that in their presence, even reality itself could unravel.

The Great Old Miracle of Death was a being like no other—a living, breathing paradox in the vast expanse of the multiverse. Unlike the other Great Old Ones, whose desires ranged from destruction to manipulation, the Great Old Miracle of Death stood as a timeless guardian of the most natural and inescapable concept: death itself. But this entity did not represent death in the usual sense of finality or darkness; it was the ever-present cycle—a force of nature that had always been, and would always be. To encounter the Great Old Miracle of Death was to confront the ultimate truth: death was not a foe, but a necessary end to the story of existence.

In the infinite expanse of time, space, and concepts, the Great Old Miracle of Death did not exist as a singular entity bound to a specific realm or physical dimension. Instead, it was woven into the very fabric of the multiverse, existing beyond time, in a place where the beginning and end were mere reflections of each other. It was not confined to any one universe or timeline; its influence spanned across all realities, transcending the boundaries of what mortals understood as life and death. The Great Old Miracle of Death's form could not be described in any concrete way. Its essence was far too vast, too elusive for any one being to comprehend. It existed as a force—a concept incarnate, woven into the very laws that governed the creation and dissolution of all things.

The Great Old Miracle of Death was eternal. It could not die in the way that mortals did, nor could it ever truly be erased. The only way for this being to cease to exist was for the concept of death itself to be obliterated, a feat that was unimaginable, even for the most powerful beings in the multiverse. If the idea of death were to be eradicated entirely, then the multiverse itself would cease to be. For as long as life exists, so too will death, and the Great Old Miracle of Death was its manifestation.

However, the nature of this entity was not one of malice or despair. Despite its terrifying and unyielding presence, the Great Old Miracle of Death was benevolent—not in the sense that it sought to protect life, but in the sense that it understood the necessity of death for the natural flow of existence. The Great Old Miracle of Death was, in its own way, a protector—preserving the cycle of existence by ensuring that all things came to their inevitable end, making way for what would come next. It brought balance, and in doing so, it ensured that no being, no concept, no creation, would exist forever. All things must die—this was the truth that the Great Old Miracle of Death embodied, and in this truth, there was both beauty and horror.

The entity's role was not to destroy or erase but to enforce the inevitable. It was said that when a being was near the end of its journey, the Great Old Miracle of Death would appear—not as a harbinger of doom, but as a guide. Its presence was not one of terror, but one of acceptance. It showed no favoritism, and it did not judge. When the Great Old Miracle of Death chose to make its appearance, it did so as a silent figure, a calm force that gently escorted those whose time had come to the end of their paths.

The Great Old Miracle of Death was not a being that killed—it simply ushered the end. To die in its presence was not to be destroyed but to be freed from the endless cycle of life. Those who encountered the Great Old Miracle of Death experienced a sense of peace, as though they were coming to terms with the most natural conclusion of their existence. It was not an enemy, but a reminder of the inevitable return to the void from which all things had once sprung.

Its influence extended beyond individual beings. Entire civilizations, galaxies, and even universes came to know the touch of the Great Old Miracle of Death. When the time for an end had arrived, the Great Old Miracle of Death was there. Not to destroy, but to oversee, to ensure that the end did not disrupt the natural order. Whether it was the collapse of a dying world or the final moment of a civilization teetering on the edge of oblivion, the Great Old Miracle of Death ensured that every end was accounted for and that the natural cycle of life and death continued without interruption.

In a way, it was the most noble of the Great Old Ones, for it understood the importance of closure. Without death, life would lose its meaning, its urgency. The Great Old Miracle of Death maintained that sacred truth, holding it above all else. Its very existence spoke to the fragility and beauty of life—that all things, no matter how grand or small, were bound by the same law. The endless march of time, the rise and fall of stars, the birth and death of civilizations—all were the result of this immutable law that the Great Old Miracle of Death embodied. It did not seek to accelerate or delay the process but simply to preserve it. It was the unseen hand that guided the flow of existence from one moment to the next, ensuring that every being, every reality, came to its inevitable end in due course.

For those who opposed it, the Great Old Miracle of Death's influence could be overwhelming. It was a force beyond comprehension, a being that was so deeply tied to the very foundation of reality that no matter how much one resisted, they could not escape the inevitable conclusion. And yet, this was not a force that inflicted suffering or agony—it was the simple, undeniable truth of existence. To fight against it was to fight against the very nature of reality itself. But for those who embraced its presence, who accepted its role in the grand scheme of things, the Great Old Miracle of Death brought a sense of peace, a calm reassurance that the end was not an enemy to be feared but a transition to something greater, the eternal cycle continuing without end.

The Great Old Miracle of Death was thus both feared and revered. Some saw it as a tyrant, a relentless force of fate that could not be bargained with or defeated. But for those who understood its true purpose, it was seen as a necessary guardian, one who protected the delicate balance of existence itself. It was the embodiment of finality, and through its gaze, through its actions, the universe continued to turn—always towards the inevitable end, where all things must die, and in their death, make way for what was to come next.