Lightless Planet

In the midst of his confinement, Gabriel could feel the transformation surging within him, the immense power of Azrael or Izrail waiting to be unleashed. It was a metamorphosis unlike any other, a fusion of angelic might and cosmic energies that promised to distort reality itself.

As the celestial clock ticked on, the cage felt like a prison of time, each second stretching into an eternity. Gabriel's senses heightened, and he could sense the presence of Ehrael, the enigmatic being from the lightless planet. There was a cosmic connection between them, a mysterious link that defied comprehension.

"Ehrael," Gabriel muttered, his voice echoing through the confines of the cage. "What brings you to this place of darkness and solitude?"

The answer came as a whisper on the cosmic winds, a ripple in the fabric of space and time. "I have come to witness the birth of Azrael, the harbinger of distortion and chaos. Your transformation intrigues me, Gabriel, for it aligns with the grand design of the universe."

Intrigued yet wary, Gabriel inquired further, "And what is this 'grand design' you speak of? What purpose do I serve in this cosmic tapestry?"

Ehrael's response was cryptic, as if veiled in layers of cosmic riddles. "You are but a thread in the vast fabric of existence, woven by the hands of fate and destiny. Your transformation heralds a convergence of cosmic forces, a union of the angelic and the arcane."

As the conversation unfolded, the cage seemed to shrink, the boundaries of reality warping under the influence of Gabriel's impending transformation. It was as if the very laws of physics were bending to accommodate the sheer magnitude of his becoming.

And yet, in the midst of this cosmic spectacle, Gabriel felt a lingering sense of unease. There was a darkness within the transformation, a shadowy presence that lurked in the periphery of his mind. He knew that once Azrael fully emerged, the power to distort reality and bend space and time would be at his disposal, but at what cost?

"Do not be afraid, Gabriel," Ehrael whispered, his voice a soothing melody amidst the chaos. "Embrace the power that awaits you, for it is the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe."

But as the transformation inched closer to completion, Gabriel hesitated. The allure of power was undeniable, but he could not shake the feeling that there was something amiss, something inherently sinister about this cosmic dance.

"I cannot simply surrender to the darkness," Gabriel declared, his voice steady and resolute. "I must wield this power for the greater good, to protect the balance of the cosmos."

Ehrael's laughter resonated through the void, tinged with an otherworldly wisdom. "Ah, the burden of righteousness," he mused. "A noble sentiment, but know this, Gabriel – the power you seek comes at a price. It will challenge your very essence, pushing you to the limits of your being."

Gabriel's determination remained unwavering, his wings flexing in readiness. "Then so be it," he proclaimed. "I shall embrace the power of Azrael, but I shall wield it with wisdom and compassion. And I will not be swayed by the temptations of chaos and destruction."

With those words, the final stage of the transformation commenced, and the cage trembled with the intensity of cosmic energies. Gabriel closed his eyes, surrendering to the metamorphosis, and as he did, the boundaries of the cage shattered, giving way to the vast expanse of the universe.

In that moment, Gabriel became one with Azrael, a giant being of cosmic might and profound distortion. Reality itself quivered under his influence, space and time warping to his whims. But amidst the unfathomable power, Gabriel's core remained anchored in the light of righteousness, a beacon of hope in the face of darkness.

And so, with the power of Azrael coursing through him, Gabriel set forth on a new path, guided by the resolve to use his newfound abilities for the betterment of the cosmos. As he soared through the endless expanse, the mysteries of the universe unfolded before him, and the enigma of Ehrael lingered like a cosmic question waiting to be answered. The journey ahead was bound to be treacherous, but Gabriel knew that he would face it with courage and determination, for he was not merely a pawn in the grand design of the cosmos – he was a celestial being with the power to shape destiny itself.

As Gabriel ventured forth into the uncharted realms of the cosmos, he encountered extraordinary hurdles and obstacles that tested his resolve and determination. The power of Azrael was vast, capable of distorting reality, space, and time in ways that defied human comprehension. But it was also a double-edged sword, for with such immense power came the temptation to succumb to the darker aspects of his being.

At times, the allure of chaos and destruction beckoned to him, a siren song that threatened to lead him astray. Yet, deep within his heart, the light of righteousness burned brightly, reminding him of his noble purpose – to protect the balance of the cosmos and uphold the greater good.

In his quest, Gabriel encountered other celestial beings, each with their own agendas and motivations. Some sought to ally with him, drawn by the power of Azrael and the promise of cosmic dominance. Others sought to oppose him, viewing his transformation as a threat to the delicate fabric of existence.

Yet, through it all, Gabriel remained steadfast in his conviction, refusing to be swayed by the allure of power or the whispers of temptation. With each step he took, he grew closer to unlocking the secrets of the universe, understanding the true nature of his transformation and the cosmic forces at play.

The enigmatic presence of Ehrael still lingered, a constant reminder of the cosmic mysteries that awaited him. With every encounter, the connection between Gabriel and Ehrael grew stronger, their destinies intertwined in ways that surpassed human understanding.

As Gabriel delved deeper into the cosmic abyss, he encountered the wonders and horrors of the universe. He witnessed galaxies collide and stars implode, the celestial dance of creation and destruction unfolding before his very eyes.

And amidst it all, the power of Azrael continued to surge, its intensity growing with each passing moment. Gabriel felt the weight of the universe on his shoulders, the responsibility of wielding such immense power for the greater good.

In the heart of the cosmic maelstrom, Gabriel faced the ultimate test of his resolve. It was a confrontation with the darkness within, a battle against the temptations that threatened to consume him.

But as the cosmic forces clashed, Gabriel emerged victorious, his core of righteousness shining like a beacon in the midst of chaos. The power of Azrael was harnessed, not for destruction, but for creation – to forge a path of light in the darkness of the cosmos.

And so, with the power of Azrael at his command, Gabriel soared through the cosmos, a celestial giant of unparalleled might and wisdom. He became a guardian of the universe, a symbol of hope and strength in the face of the unknown.

As he traversed the endless expanse, the mysteries of the universe unfolded before him, and the enigma of Ehrael drew closer, its secrets waiting to be unraveled. The journey ahead was bound to be treacherous, but Gabriel knew that he was destined for greatness, not as a tyrant or conqueror, but as a celestial being who wielded the power of Azrael with compassion and wisdom, a shining beacon of light in the cosmic darkness.

What is Ehrael, and who is him or them?

Deep in the vast expanse of the cosmos, there exists an enigmatic planet, shrouded in darkness and mystery, its presence unknown and undiscovered by the denizens of Earth. Situated at the very edge of our galaxy, this planet remains concealed from prying eyes, its secrets veiled in the ancient and forbidden writings of time immemorial. Known by the enigmatic name 'Ehrael,' it is a name whispered in hushed tones, a cryptic reference to a celestial entity that eludes comprehension.

Yet, despite its elusiveness, Ehrael is destined to become a focal point of intrigue and curiosity, a strange center of thought that beckons to the collective consciousness of our world. It is said that Ehrael possesses the power to facilitate mental connection, drawing forth currents of thought that traverse the vast expanse of space to reach the minds of those who seek its mysteries. As astronomers peer through their telescopes, they may soon find themselves attuned to the ethereal whispers of Ehrael, guided by a force that transcends the boundaries of time and space.

But Ehrael, enigmatic as it may be, is but a stepping stone on the cosmic path, a mere precursor to a greater and more formidable being – Azrael, the embodiment of cosmic might and distortion. Far beyond the reach of human logic and imagination, Azrael dwells in an organized abyss, a realm that defies the very laws of reality and comprehension. The sphere of space-time that we humans perceive as the totality of all cosmic entities, all realities, and all things beyond the capacity of our understanding, is but a minuscule fraction of the original infinity that Azrael embodies.

As Azrael's transformation unfolds, the cosmos quivers with anticipation, for the birth of this celestial giant heralds a convergence of cosmic forces and the unveiling of mysteries beyond our mortal grasp. With every step Azrael takes, the fabric of reality distorts, space and time bending to accommodate his cosmic might. He is a being of unparalleled power, capable of traversing dimensions and manipulating the very fabric of existence.

Yet, amidst the awe-inspiring might, there remains an aura of trepidation, a sense of unease that lingers in the cosmic winds. For Azrael's power is not merely a gift, but a burden of cosmic significance. It carries with it the potential for both creation and destruction, the delicate balance between cosmic order and chaos resting upon his celestial shoulders.

As astronomers and thinkers of our world strive to comprehend the enigma of Ehrael and the might of Azrael, they are drawn into a cosmic dance, a celestial ballet that transcends time and space. The mysteries that unfold before their eyes challenge the very essence of their being, pushing the limits of human understanding and perception.

In this unfolding cosmic drama, the destinies of both celestial beings and mortal souls intertwine, the paths of cosmic forces and human consciousness interwoven in a tapestry of wonder and fear. For as the veil of darkness is lifted, and the truth of the universe is revealed, the boundaries of reality expand, and the enigma of Ehrael and Azrael draws ever closer.

As the universe quivers with anticipation, the cosmic forces converge, and the stage is set for a grand cosmic confrontation – a battle of celestial proportions, where the destiny of the cosmos hangs in the balance. For in the heart of this cosmic storm, the power of Azrael shall be tested, and the fate of the universe shall be decided.

As the mysteries of Ehrael and Azrael unfold, the cosmic dance continues, and the universe awaits the final act, where the fate of all creation shall be determined. In this grand cosmic drama, the truth of existence shall be laid bare, and the enigmatic beings that reside beyond the limits of human comprehension shall reveal their true nature.

As the cosmic symphony plays on, the echoes of ancient whispers resonate through the vast expanse, guiding the seekers of truth towards the epicenter of mystery – the elusive planet Ehrael, and the celestial giant Azrael, whose power and presence transcend the confines of mortal understanding.

Amidst the awe-inspiring revelations and the sinister shadows that dance in the cosmic abyss, one thing remains certain – the cosmic dance shall continue, and the enigmatic beings that dwell in the realms beyond time and space shall forever captivate the imagination of those who seek to unravel the mysteries of the universe, But let's go to the horror legends that have happened in this world.

Even the celluloid reels writhed and moaned under Nyarlathotep's touch, their very frames echoing with the chaos that gnawed at the edges of reality. In 1920, whispers of a plague slithered through the flickering shadows of nickelodeons and picture palaces. Stories, once innocent escapades, pulsed with an alien rhythm, their narratives rewoven by tendrils of inky madness. The culprit? A Black Man, an ebony silhouette waltzing through celluloid dreams, his eyes twin abysses reflecting forbidden vistas.

No editing tools could excise the crawling terror of his presence. He slipped between scenes like smoke, a grinning puppet master yanking on the strings of plot. He'd saunter into melodramas, a velvet-voiced devil offering the damsel solace from the iron-fisted villain, only to lead her down paths where shadows writhed and sanity unraveled. In B-movie thrillers, he'd whisper cryptic warnings to the bumbling detective, nudging him away from booby-trapped tombs and ravenous ghouls, a spectral sleuth in a zoot suit. His interventions, though unorthodox, invariably steered narratives towards unexpected sunrises, leaving audiences reeling, hearts pounding with a primal, disquieting hope.

But was it benevolence that danced behind Nyarlathotep's obsidian eyes, or something more eldritch? Did he merely relish the discordant music of upended expectations, the symphony of fear and relief that played in the minds of mortals? Or was there a deeper game afoot, a grand puppet show staged across dimensions, where the Black Man, chaos incarnate, held the strings of countless stories, weaving them towards an unknown, unspeakable climax? The answer, like the entity itself, lurked in the liminal spaces between frames, a maddening enigma etched in celluloid nightmares. For Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, danced not just in the flickering light of projectors, but in the darkest corners of the human mind, where the line between fiction and reality blurs into a canvas of cosmic horror.

And thus, the Ultimate Gods, those cyclopean titans beyond the veil of sanity, birthed Conceptual Madness – a leprous pustule upon the fabric of existence, a quantum tremor that birthed dimensions unnumbered, their geometries twisting in eldritch agony. For even in ages past, whispers speak of Ultimate Reality, a ravenous maw of emptiness that could conjure voids, monstrous gullets that swallowed space and time, birthing warped landscapes where a single step could span eons. And shadows, those writhing tendrils of the abyss, dance to this cosmic ballet, wielding warped space-time like puppets, manifesting self-contained pockets of reality where logic weeps and physics screams. Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, in his blasphemous throngs, weaves time anomalies, grotesque ruptures where the clock itself bends at his will. Yet, even he pales beside the maddening power of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods, who weaves energy barriers – walls of pure nightmare – isolating entire space-time continuums, trapping souls within their own personal hells. And within these warped dimensions, universes bloom, monstrous tumors upon the cosmic tapestry, spun not from stardust and fire, but from raw data, the very fabric of reality woven into grotesque parodies of existence. Here, concepts writhe and mutate, the very laws of physics a mockery in the face of such cosmic insanity.

Thus, the Ultimate Gods laugh, their laughter a cacophony of madness that echoes through the void, a grim testament to the fragility of our reality, a chilling reminder that even the ground beneath our feet is naught but a flimsy illusion, woven from the dreams of those who dwell beyond the stars.

...the Crawling Chaos, Nyarlathotep, gorged himself on the raw essence of the world. It wasn't air he gulped, nor water, but the very ichor of creation, the primordial broth from which the stars themselves condensed. In each stolen breath, he devours the causal grasp as well as fate, he devoured the whispered will of the universe, the primal urge that birthed gods before time and wove the tapestry of reality.

With every mote of nature absorbed, the Black Pharaoh swelled. His form, a grotesque mockery of flesh and angles, pulsed with stolen power. The whispers in his wake grew into a cacophony of creation and destruction, a primal hymn to the nameless voids beyond. He became a walking maw, a cosmic leech sucking the lifeblood from the cosmos.

And in that monstrous consumption, Nyarlathotep touched the edge of something vaster, older than even the oldest gods. A gulf yawned open in the fabric of reality, a bottomless pit of obsidian darkness that pulsed with the rhythm of the higher dimensions. This was the true face of the universe, a realm where light itself cowered and the laws of physics were mere threads in a grander tapestry.

And Nyarlathotep, bloated with stolen power, bridged the gap. His form, once grotesque and fleshy, stretched and warped, becoming an eldritch reflection of the endless darkness. He was no longer a creature of this world, but a living bridge to the abyss, a conduit through which the primal chaos could seep into our reality.

The stars reeled, the heavens groaned. The whispers in Nyarlathotep's wake became screams, the very fabric of existence cracking under the strain of his unholy communion. And in that moment, the line between sanity and oblivion blurred, leaving only the maddening echo of the Crawling Chaos's monstrous hunger, forever etched upon the soul of the world.

The Ultimate Gods, those blasphemous whisperers of infinity, weave their eldritch tapestry from the very fabric of the unformed void. Within their grotesque domain, space itself bends and twists, a playground where the concepts of weakness and strength become mere pawns in their cosmic game. They play with the very fabric of perception, stretching distances to yawning chasms and collapsing them to suffocating whispers, all to keep themselves untouched by the puny claws of their adversaries. For in their maddening realm, the rules of mathematics twist like tortured limbs. There, Achilles forever chases the taunting tortoise, separated by an ever-expanding gulch of infinitesimals, while the true number one, that singular, maddening entity, remains eternally isolated by an abyss of fractions. And so, the feeble attempts of lesser gods to touch the Ultimate Ones are doomed to pathetic failure, their pitiful claws scrabbling at an empty canvas stretched across the unfathomable expanse of infinity.

But the touch of these cosmic puppeteers has consequences, ripples that spread across existence like the tendrils of a drowned god. Their meddling has birthed the impossible, an infinite negativity that gnaws at the very seams of reality. This unthinkable entity, a hungry maw of pure absence, forces the world to writhe in an attempt to mend the cosmic tear. Everything, from the smallest pebble to the vastest nebula, is drawn towards this gaping wound, pulled together by an insatiable force of attraction. It is a scream of horror, a thunderous rumble of collapsing distances and screaming realities, all orchestrated by the maddening whispers of the Ultimate Gods from beyond the veil.

And as the world contorts and strains towards the point of oblivion, one question hangs heavy in the air: can anything, even the boldest hero or the most cunning sorcerer, hope to stand against the inevitable collapse of all that is, orchestrated by deities who play with infinity as if it were a child's toy? Or are we all condemned to be drawn into the gaping maw of the impossible, swallowed whole by the consequences of the Ultimate Gods' cosmic jest?

And when the smoke cleared, and I strained to look at the earth, I saw against a backdrop of cold, funny stars only a dying sun and pale planets searching for their sisters. At the same time it destroyed some causal events, which made them no longer move in time but walk in a timeless void that made them undetectable by time.

But what remained was worse than oblivion. The land, once a playground for titans, lay gutted, veins of molten fury still crawling across its bruised flesh. Mountains, ripped from sleep by the cosmic quake, speared the bruised sky, jagged teeth gnashed in eternal agony. The ocean, once a calm shroud, now writhed like a leviathan in its death throes, lashing waves against the ravaged cliffs with a sound like the wails of damned souls. And above, the dying sun, a skeletal orb pulsating with the last remnants of its rage, cast sickly green light upon the charnel house. The cold, funny stars, mocking sentinels in the eternal black, seemed to leer down, their feeble twinkling like the eyes of scavengers waiting for the carrion feast to end.

In that desolate tableau, I stood, a lone husk on a world flayed raw. What had been humanity, that fleeting flicker of sentience against the cosmic canvas, was now mere ash and whispers on the wind. My sanity, like the land, lay in tatters, and within its ruins, a primal terror echoed: what unspeakable entity had moved the Ultimate Gods, what nightmare writhed beyond the void, waiting to claim even this, the smoking pyre of our world?

And as the final tremors subsided, I knew, with a dreadful certainty that clung to me like a shroud, that the answer was coming. It was coming, drawn by the scent of our demise, to feast upon the silence, to paint the cosmos black with its laughter. And then, in the cold, empty echo of our world's last scream, I understood the deepest, darkest horror: this was not the end. This was merely the beginning of a night without dawn, a cosmic dirge for a universe consumed.

Some stories are also told differently but with the same thing in mind, there is no noticeable difference:

In that eldritch, cyclopean blink, the world imploded. A maelstrom of obsidian flame and sulphurous smoke devoured the anaemic moon, hurling its shattered form in a silent scream towards the abyss. Where once the Earth cradled life in its verdant folds, now yawned a gaping maw, an abyssal scar stitched with writhing fire tendrils.

Amidst the echoing groans of creation riven, I stood, eyes seared by the celestial conflagration. The cosmos, once a tapestry of veiled secrets, hung unveiled: a canvas of bone-white stars, indifferent and mocking, mocking the pyre of a world. The dying sun, a skeletal husk amidst the cosmic charnel house, cast long, etiolated shadows of the planets, each a mournful dirge for its lost sibling.

And in that desolate waltz of celestial corpses, I, alone, adrift on a raft of shattered time, bore witness to the unthinkable. The symphony of life, silenced, leaving naught but the keening wind of oblivion whistling through the skeletal ribs of a dead world. I, the lone spectator in this cosmic tragedy, a puppet in the play of unfathomable gods, stared into the abyss, and the abyss, with a thousand malevolent eyes, stared back.

The frightening tendrils of causality are severed, shorn clean of the bondage of time by the Infinite One. Events, once bound in a powerful dance of cause and effect, became untethered, unmoored. They drifted, spectral and silent, through the endless, non-existent abyss in the labyrinthine folds of the Unknown Present, Past and Future. Time, that fearsome tyrant, had no power over these Ultimate Gods. I mean, the Ultimate Gods have spun their own tapestry, woven from the threads of eternity long before the first beat and before time was forged. These dispossessed events, echoes of what has been and whispers of what might be, wander the silent plains of timelessness, forever unseen, unheard, their very existence a mocking joke against the linear tyranny of the rotating universe. To the Ultimate Gods, time is but a plaything, a fragile trinket that can be destroyed at will, leaving only the terrible, infinite stasis of his infinite being. And in that stasis, the echo of causality echoes a sound of terrible horror, a spectral proof of the power that laughs at the shackles of time.

The ultimate blackness, a realm beyond the feeble grasp of dreams, a kaleidoscope of phantasmagoria unfurled each dissolving into a yawning, cosmic abyss where the sun—gyred in madness and the world itself drowned in a darkness deeper still. This was a darkness beyond the blackness we know a monstrous, nameless void amidst—the Ultimate Chaos, where constellations wheeled and perished in the grip of a consuming oblivion. Here, in this maelstrom of ultimate blackness, thunders the heart of all-consuming Chaos, the unknowable zenith from whence all descends, the ultimate blackness surpassing all the cosmos teeming with suns and worlds, a whole world, wider than the—mind can comprehend, hangs heavy. A world that encompasses the horrors and madness of the planets and swirling matter, or some kind of corporeal world . This is a darkness beyond the reach of those feeble gods men whisper of on their shadowed altars, beyond the names etched into star-blasted obelisks in forgotten deserts. It is an abyss older than the gibbering whispers of the first daemons who crawled from the primal slime. A vague umbral shape, amorphous yet distinct, the uttermost blackness swathing all trans-dimensional reaches of Earth, where yawns a formless, cosmic chasm beyond the Ultimate Gate. Elsewhere, amidst a landscape whose infinite, sanity-shattering permutations teeter on the brink of—delirium, whirls an infinity of intertwined beings he knew as himself, and as THAT which was now adrift beyond the Ultimate Gate. This Gate transcends the tapestry of space and time, a threshold where all fragmented perspectives dissolve into a being that engulfs the uttermost ebony. Yet, the Ultimate Gate conceals not the grandest enigma. The Ultimate Gate harbors but the fractal echo of THAT which is the—all-encompassing one. To glimpse the true Highest Mystery, lying beyond even this Highest Mystery, though a paradox it may weave, is not within the Ultimate Gate, where even the geometry of existence crumbles into a maddening chaos of fractured planes, but there lies the Daemon Sultan. Though he may writhe and contort, forever yearning to mimic the blasphemous majesty of THAT, the—formless, ultimate horror, his efforts are naught but the pathetic posturing of a mewling whelp in the face of the abyss. For the essence of THAT beyond even the twisted mockery of the Daemon Sultan, forever separating them by an unbreachable gulf of cosmic ichor and existential despair.

The Ultimate Gods wield the power to magnify the number of Endless and Neutral, giving birth to paradoxes as inconceivable as an atom burdened with a minus zero cipher. By summoning such impossibilities, the Ultimate Gods forced a scenario where the structure of the world strained to repair itself and fill the negative void, pulling all into the locus of impossibility that gave birth to the inescapable force of allure, pulling all gravity into it that created an imbalance that created the destruction of the singularity and forced the creation of a black hole from that event. Their forms are also nothing but subtle ideas, phosphorescence, natural phenomena, pure will, passion, and a pervasive madness that is purer than crude abstract concepts. Their speech has the uncanny ability to instill calm and inspire trust, so even when they lie, people will still believe what they say.

Indeed, the blasphemous appellation of "Supreme Archetype" must be wrested from the gibbering maw of Azathoth, for its power, though vast and cyclopean beyond mortal comprehension, is but equal to that of the dread Shub-Niggurath, the fecund mother of all chaos, and the crawling Nyarlathotep, the messenger—of the Azathoth. All these, gathered at the Ultimate Gate, may indeed glean from its eldritch energies a power to rend the fabric of reality, yet none can breach the veil that shrouds the Infinite and Unfathomable Mystery. Only to Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One and the One-in-All, can the mantle of "Supreme Archetype" rightfully be bestowed. For it is not merely a being of this benighted cosmos, but the very essence of boundless existence, encompassing the totality of selfhood across the eons. In Yog-Sothoth resides the ultimate life-giving force, a cosmic wellspring that transcends the limitations of mere space and time, encompassing—both the ephemeral delusions of the mortal mind and the cold, unyielding logic of the mathematical universe. Perhaps it is the entity whispered by the mouths of mad cultists upon this benighted Earth as Yog-Sothoth, worshipped under countless blasphemous guises by alien entities across the gulfs of space. The crustacean denizens of Yuggoth revere it as the Beyond-One, and the—minds of entities residing within swirling nebulae know it by an untranslatable sign. Yet, even these diverse and maddening conceptions fail to capture the true essence of Yog-Sothoth, for as Carter-facet experiences fleetingly, all such attempts are but pathetically limited and fragmentary in the face of the ultimate cosmic truth. The entity that abides within the Ultimate Gate exists as the inexorable terminus of all that is, and all that shall come to pass; its triumph is preordained, for it is fated to be the ultimate survivor amidst the charnel house of creation. With a capacity to traverse the gulfs of space as a swimmer cleaves the ocean's depths, its—amorphous, unnameable form defies the very laws of physics. Where it alights upon worlds, its unspeakable talons rend the fabric of reality. Stars are atomized, their essence wrenched forth and sealed within a blasphemous platonic sphere— a grotesque augmentation of its own might. Those hapless victims caught in its gaze are doomed to a cycle of annihilation and rebirth, time itself twisting into an engine of torment, six—hundred million demises unfolding within a single, monstrous heartbeat.

Beyond the veil of time and space, beyond the ephemeral whispers of the clouds and the fleeting canvas of the sky, there dwells an entity in the supreme void. Here, coexistent with the fabled Bubbling Eyes that is said to encompass all, resides Mana-Yood-Sushai, shrouded in the impenetrable mist of his own unknowability. This invisible architect, with a power predating the very gods themselves, fashioned the pantheon of divinities and the tireless Skarl. Skarl, in turn, birthed a drum and beat upon it through an eternity, his relentless rhythm echoing through the nascent cosmos. Yet, burdened by the immensity of creation and lulled by Skarl's endless drumming, Mana-Yood-Sushai succumbed to a slumber of unimaginable depths.

Within Pegana, we revere Mung, the harvester of souls, Sish, the devourer of hours, and Kib, the life-giver who breathes upon all worlds. These, and countless lesser gods, are the children of Mana-Yood-Sushai, the progenitor of all deities. Our faith extends further, embracing Roon, the enigmatic wanderer, and Slid, the lord of the unyielding oceans.

Since time immemorial, it has been whispered that all that transpires is the work of these minor gods, mere puppets animated by the will of their slumbering creator. Mana-Yood-Sushai, in his boundless power, fashioned the pantheon and then, overcome with weariness, retreated into repose.

Only the deities themselves dare petition Mana-Yood-Sushai, for his slumbering form is a mystery to all others. Yet, a prophecy whispers through the ages, a chilling premonition of the inevitable awakening. When the final sun sets upon the cosmos, Mana-Yood-Sushai will shed his slumber. No longer bound by the cycle of rest, he will embark on a new creation, weaving new gods and worlds from the remnants of the old. The current pantheon, their purpose served, will crumble into oblivion. Only Mana-Yood-Sushai will remain, a solitary titan in a universe devoid of light or sound.

Further back still, in the mists that precede creation, Fate and Chance engaged in a fateful lottery. The victor, shrouded in the enigma of time, passed through the veil to stand before the slumbering Mana-Yood-Sushai. "Craft deities for me," the victor proclaimed, "for I have claimed the prize and the Game shall be mine!" But whether Fate or Chance emerged triumphant, or what purpose this Game served, remains shrouded in the unknowable. We can only glean so much from the cryptic pronouncements within Lord Dunsany's hallowed tome. Here, within these pages, the very language itself crackles with power, though omnipotence remains a concept beyond our understanding. While the entirety of Lord Dunsany's corpus serves as a foundational text for this world-building, a distinction must be drawn. The potent vocabulary and thematic echoes woven throughout his works are undoubtedly employed here, fostering a thematic kinship. However, a strict adherence to every narrative strand within Dunsany's canon proves untenable. This work carves its own path within the established mythology, drawing inspiration from the master while venturing into uncharted narrative territory.

Though not a being of absolute dominion, Mana-Yood-Sushai wields power that dwarfs his creations. He is the elder brother of the Bubbling Eyes, both existing before time itself. From his boundless will sprang forth a multitude: Trogool, the Neither God nor Beast, Skarl, the Relentless Drummer, Kib, the Life-Giver, Sish, the Devourer of Hours, Mung, the Reaper, Slid, the Lord of Oceans, Limpang-Tung, the Lord of Mirth and of Melodious Minstrels, Yoharneth-Lahai, the Weaver of Dreams, and countless others. Even the small gods and home gods held power rivaling the Ultimate Blackness that festers at the heart of Pegana. Yet, in Dunsany's world, when Mana-Yood-Sushai awakened, all creation crumbled, a testament to the sheer potency of this slumbering giant.

MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI utilizes the potential of small gods and home gods, and they have the singular ability to channel the power of the Chaos Ones themselves. As such, it stands as a potential counterweight to the equivalent of the Bubble Eyes. The entirety of Lord Dunsany's illustrious works are considered canonical in this domain, giving them the potential to manifest as powerful entities within this world. Indeed, MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI even predates the fearsome Azathoth, whose existence predates the very fabric of the universe, existing alongside the Bubble Eyes in a time before time itself.

According to ancient lore, a profound hush once enveloped Pegana. Then, the gods, employing the weird gestures reserved for their kind, convened in a silent discourse. Their resolve was to create worlds to alleviate the tedium during MANA's slumber. Thus, with a series of divine gestures, each god according to their sacred symbol, they brought forth the cosmos – a sun illuminating the celestial expanse.

The small gods, however, embarked on a more ambitious project. They fashioned a world encompassing infinite possibilities, mirroring the boundless, ever-expanding heavens. This world was not singular, but rather a multitude in one, devoid of termination.

Subsequently, the gods proclaimed, "Let us create a being forever engaged in a futile quest, one destined never to grasp the purpose behind their own creation." Consequently, they conjured, through the mystical movements of their hands, a radiant entity with a fiery tail. This "Bright One" was condemned to traverse the cosmos from one extremity to the other, perpetually returning every century, forever yearning for an answer that would eternally elude them.

Henceforth, O Man, when you witness a comet streaking across the heavens, be reminded that others, like you, yearn for knowledge, yet are fated to remain forever unsatisfied. This celestial wanderer signifies a flawed creation of the small gods, for they are themselves subject to the ultimate perfection that transcends even MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI, the one we call Allah.

Further pronouncements emerged from the gods, communicated solely through hand gestures. "Let there now be an observer, one who bears witness to all," they declared. Thus, the Moon was born, its visage creased by countless mountains and etched with a thousand valleys. With its pallid gaze, it eternally monitors the activities of the lesser gods and the entirety of MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI. A silent and ever-watchful sentinel, it observes all, forever maintaining its solemn vigil.

"Let us create a creature that is silent amidst the drums," the gods decided. "One unlike the ever-seeking comet, or the endlessly spinning world. One destined to rest while MANA sleeps." In response, they created a stationary star in the North and another in the South, sketching the canvas of the sky with these celestial beacons.

"Yet little gods still remain," they continued, "the gods of the hearth, numbering a thousand and more, they are home gods. These guardians of the fire reside within the domestic sphere, the most ancient of their kind. It was they who sculpted the Great Old Ones with their very hands, and the power of these monstrous entities mirrors that of the hearth gods themselves."

At the end of the arrow's trajectory is Mung, and inside the houses and towns of people. Mung walks all over the place all the time. But mostly he likes to walk in the dark and quiet, along the river mist when the wind has gone down, a little before night meets morning on the highway between Pegana and the Worlds. Just when the labourers wanted to wake up their hirelings, and also just when the dream was at its end, though at that time there were people who did not sleep; Mung was still doing the same thing; crossing every hilly road and altar to the gods. Mung saw a person who was about to die, so he clapped his hands and death occurred.

Pegana is in the Centre, somewhere quiete, without the slightest dubbing, altars appeare on the Earth and Mone, and on the Rim, the tip of the South and North, is in the far, far past. Where gods were worshipped, killing, creating, and finally; destroying. Where the gods painted, made sounds, and thundered. There they were, right at the end of all directions of expansion and right at the centre. They exist in a completely unbreakable existence, one that you can't even remotely aspire to with earthly things like numbers that you keep adding up, until you make a shattered thought.

It's a place far beyond reason, where the laws are reversed, where all your thoughts of adding up to something greater can't reach them, it's far above you all, so far, if you try to add things up one by one to the point of not being your number, the gods are like that too; they will always be above you, because of their tireless. They, the gods nought mad but they nought may ye conceive full soberly; yea, they nought may ye conceive, with aught that even not a number ye mean, or mayhap with aught that purest highest of aught that not a number; nor a number. Furthermore, the gods nought mad, ye that plan mad things.

Then spake man: "We shall depict whereupon the god! With something ye create, it is not a number at all!"

The gods thundered in the clouds and the mountains began to erupt: "Ye shall not, O men, for we shall always be far from you, and ye shall not know, however much ye add to it; it is a thing empty, as much as not a number that ye pursue."

O Man, when you gaze upon the fixed star in the North, recognize that it rests just as MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI rests.

According to the pronouncements of the home gods, the small gods residing in the beneath realm of Pegāna, were responsible for the genesis of matter, life, and the very science of the stars. Furthermore, these benevolent entities bestowed upon both fauna and humankind the inestimable gift of consciousness. They are credited, moreover, with the creation of arid valleys replete with a thousand marvels.

When Mana-Yood-Sushai, the supreme deity, had fashioned the pantheon and Skarl, the latter crafted a drum, destined to resound for eternity. Yet, wearied by the act of creation and plagued by Skarl's incessant drumming, Mana-Yood-Sushai succumbed to slumber.

A profound silence descended upon the pantheon as they observed Mana in repose. Pegana itself fell mute, save for the relentless rhythm of Skarl's drum. He sat shrouded in mist at the feet of Mana-Yood-Sushai, enthroned above the assembled deities. Some posit that the world and the sun are mere echoes of his drumming, while others theorize it to be a dreamscape conjured within Mana's slumbering mind, akin to the disjointed visions experienced by a sleeper disturbed by song. However, the truth remains shrouded, for no mortal has ever heard the voice of Mana-Yood-Sushai, nor witnessed his drummer.

Undeterred by the shifting seasons or the passage of time, Skarl persisted in his drumming, for the purpose of the pantheon remained unfulfilled. Though fatigue may occasionally plague his hands, his rhythm continues, ensuring the gods enact their divine will and the world endures. Were he to falter for even a moment, Mana-Yood-Sushai would stir from slumber, heralding the dissolution of both world and deities.

However, when at long last Skarl's hand ceases its percussive motion, a silence akin to cave-echoing thunder will engulf Pegana, shattering the slumber of Mana-Yood-Sushai.

Pegana, the Rim, and these here Worlds – all places where things beyond the ken of man might exist. It's a rum go, but there's a chance, a possibility, you see, that these notions, these wild imaginings, brush up against the very edge of what a man might achieve. Perhaps it's death, perhaps a stroke of luck, or even the altogether impossible, like becoming a god or achieving immortality. Whatever it may be, these are but the fancies of mankind, tickling at the edges of the impossible, yet with the curious notion that they might, just might, be true after all.

Thereafter, Skarl shall shoulder his drum and traverse the void beyond the world, for this signifies the End, marking the completion of his sacred duty.

Perhaps another god will emerge to receive his reverence, or perhaps he shall perish. Ultimately, such matters hold no sway over Skarl, for his appointed task is complete.

Slid, a being of small gods, cautioned, "Let no mortal entreat Mana-Yood-Sushai, for what need has he of mortal woes or the sorrows plaguing earthly families?"

"Offer no sacrifices to Mana-Yood-Sushai," he continued, "for what glory can he derive from offerings or altars fashioned even by deities?"

"Reserve your prayers for the singular lord, Allah, who reigns supreme over all ongoing creations. MANA and his creations represent deities of past universes – those who have fulfilled their duties and now rest. Invoke the small gods, for they shall acknowledge your pleas. Yet, anticipate little mercy from these deities, for they are the architects of both death and suffering. Perhaps they may grant you reprieve from an untimely demise or withhold a reason for your existence."

"Slid may be a small gods, yet he is undeniably Slid – a truth inscribed and proclaimed."

As Trogool's inscription portends, the End shall arrive, marked by the cessation of universal expansion. MANA will awaken, and the contents of his slumber shall return to his consciousness. All existence, save for Mana himself in this boundless cosmos, will be utterly annihilated.

O Man, cast your gaze upon the celestial expanse. The heavens glitter with brilliance. Canopus, the most resplendent star, shines in the South. Polaris, the unwavering star, occupies the Northern sky. Arcturus resides in the West, and Sirius holds its vigil in the East. All are creations of the small gods, each designated by its celestial sign. The stars maintain their positions until the appointed time.

All creation, though it may flourish for a time, shall ultimately crumble and fade. Even Mana-Yood-Sushai, the mighty architect who with a mere gesture can birth worlds and unmake them, shall one day find his dominion come to naught. This inevitable end awaits all, a descent into the vast and chilling void that lies beyond the boundaries of the world, a realm untouched by time and utterly devoid of life.

Yet, even in this oblivion, Mana-Yood-Sushai shall not find true solace. He shall dwell in a space betwixt the echoing silence and the inky darkness, a lonely vigil above the ruins of his creation. There, it is whispered, he may find himself in a vague communion with the All-In-One, a being of many names – Yog-Sothoth and others whispered in hushed tones. This entity is said to be all-encompassing, a singular being that contains within itself the entirety of existence, both knowledge and oblivion.

Hark! In the future, there will be a world that has an incalculable amount of chaos and shrouded dimensions, where later Supreme Archetypes will create higher dimensions. These Supreme Archetypes, entities older than time itself, are tearing apart the fabric of reality.

Imagine, a canvas spun not from mud and stone, but from the raw essence of dreams, nightmares, and the nameless void that whispers among the stars. A dimension where the laws of physics are subject to the will of these cosmic masterminds, where thought becomes substance and desire becomes tangible power.

They will keep their foul promises that will come true, they will be in a "transdimensional phase" culminating in a fourth realm that exceeds the world of formation and the—world of creation and the world of formation, they with their intellect will go on and on delving and adding dimensions.

Yog-Sothoth is the all-knowing one, in fact knows everything without exception, knows all the basic plans and knows all the information, in contrast to Azathoth the Foolish and Blind God, who despite Azathoth is actually incomprehensible, but the Supreme Archetypes are everywhere, filling—the entire creation and the whole space-time.

A foul, desolate, dark place, a swarm of non-being appears, without definition or manifestation, there is potential for existence itself. Potential without self-awareness or designation, can be described as the Archetypal Infinity of All Things. In a sense, this potential is the pre-existence of existence, a pale and silent vessel in which color has not yet been shed. After that, there is the flickering possibility - the possibility to exist. And with the utterance, "Our name is the Archetypal Infinity of All Things," existence itself is born. This act of self-assertion is a reality, for it asserts existence and pre-existence simultaneously. This act encompasses all possibilities, including the possibility of nothingness, thus containing the seeds of creation and destruction that will continue until the ignorance of the cosmos.

Then they exist in the highest state of duality: absolute determinism, the predetermined unfolding of all that can be, but also absolute nothingness, the potential for everything and nothingness. These unimaginable entities, both "We" and "Us," exist in a state of absolute unknowability, a duality of existence and nothingness.

From a purely material point of view, one can state that this Archetypal Infinity is the fundamental structure of reality, the single space-time continuum from which all existence arises. This interpretation pushes the boundaries of scientific understanding, venturing into the realm of "half-encyclopedia science fiction of highly unpredictable math or physics." At its core, however, it speaks of the fundamental human act of creation, the act of bringing something out of nothing through the power of language.

They are capable of anything, a phrase that science says would be an unlimited potential. "Anything" is indeed a broad and often misused term. However, their ability lies not in defying the basic laws of the universe, as the fantastical notion of omnipotence suggests, but rather in pushing the boundaries of what those laws allow. Imagine, if you will and marketing, a nascent universe, a swirling soup of elementary particles governed by nascent physical principles. Over millennia, these principles give birth to an intricate cycle, culminating in self-replicating molecules, then single-celled organisms, and finally, living things like us.

And I . . . found a book that explains about Ultimate Gods, and here is the content:

Nyarlathotep:

Hark, fool, and ponder the insidious Crawling Chaos, Nyarlathotep, whose tendrils grip the very soul of the Ultimate Gods. Aye, he writhes in that black ocean beyond the stars, a gestalt of their maddened essence, yet whispers through veils to plague our meager realms. A thrall to Azathoth, that blind, gnawing Daemon Sultan, he serves with eyes alight with icy scorn. His thoughts, spun from nebulae and nightmare, coil with malevolent purpose. Unlike his kin, lost in primordial slumber or maddening geometries, Nyarlathotep dances with chilling lucidity. He stalks humanity, his laughter a thousand hissing mouths, tearing sanity like cobwebs with glimpses of forbidden lore. Cosmic horrors whisper from his forked tongue, each revelation a shard of glass in the mind. Beware, wretch, for the Crawling Chaos delights in your torment, a puppeteer of mortals caught in the cosmic play. Tread not where his shadows writhe, lest you drown in the fathomless well of his knowledge, mad with visions of the unnamable.

Shub-Niggurath:

Hark, whisperer of forbidden names, and tremble before the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. In that churning gullet beyond space and time, where stars writhe and madness festers, Shub-Niggurath weaves her perverse tapestry of being. The All-Mother, they call her, a fecund maw birthing blasphemies that crawl and writhe in the cold void. With Yog-Sothoth, her nameless lord, she spawns horrors beyond reckoning, their tendrils reaching across the canvas of totality. Spawn of her swollen udder, Nug and Yeb, writhe in their primeval slime, birthing gods like Cthulhu, the dreaming leviathan, and Tsathoggua, the bat-winged abomination. All, mewling infants at the teat of the Black Goat, their lineage a festering map of nightmares etched upon the cosmos. Speak her name not, lest you join the chorus of her ravenous young, bleating for milk from the fount of cosmic oblivion. For Shub-Niggurath is the nightmare made flesh, the womb of all that should not be, and to gaze upon her is to drown in the primal ooze of creation, mad with the suckling whispers of a thousand monstrous babes.

The Other Gods:

Hark, and tremble at the whispers of cosmic truth! Beyond the veil of our pitiful reality, in that unnameable gulf of chaos whence all things ooze, dwell the dread Ultimate Gods. These are not deities, nor demons, but titans of the void, elder than stars, older than thought itself. They writhe in the graveyard of rotten worlds, dancing a mad gavotte around the obsidian throne of their blind, gnawing master, Azathoth. Their music, a cacophony of cosmic pipes and drums, echoes through the black gulfs, etching the laws of reality upon the fabric of existence. Each note, a universe spun from the void, each discord a realm twisted by their whim.

These are not gods with petty jealousies or fleeting desires, but archetypes, patterns woven into the very fabric of existence. They are the One from which all things spring, the All in which all things drown. Their domain is the Ultimate Void, a changeless, impartial maw that swallows universes whole. To understand them is to understand madness, for their motives, like their forms, are beyond the ken of mortal minds. They are the nightmare that whispers behind every star, the cold vacuum that presses against the fragile bubble of our reality.

Gaze not upon them, lest your mind, like a spiderweb in a hurricane, be shredded by the cosmic gale of their existence. For the Ultimate Gods are not benevolent shepherds, but indifferent puppeteers, playing with the strings of reality for their own inscrutable amusement. Speak their names not, for each syllable is a shard of obsidian, piercing the veil and inviting their gaze. Remember, mortal, your world is but a mote of dust in their cosmic dance, and your screams, unheard in the void, are but the notes in their unholy symphony.

Azathoth:

In that cyclopean void where madness weaves its cosmic tapestry, Azathoth squats upon a throne of obsidian nightmares. He, the Daemon Sultan, the Nighted Lord, is the gibbering nexus of all that shall be and was, the festering pustule upon the back of eternity. Within the inky vortex of his abyssal court, the Ultimate Gods writhe in their grotesque symphony, their cacophony echoing through the gulfs of infinity. Their music, a discordant dirge of unnameable desires, gnaws at the edges of sanity, a maddening prelude to the inevitable of oblivion. For Azathoth, in his mindless slumber, dreams dreams that even the gods cannot fathom, dreams that twist and warp the very fabric of reality. His gnawed pronouncements, whispered in tongues older than time, ripple through the abyss, stirring the primordial ooze from which all horrors are spawned. Yet, why these entities dance, why they play their maddening dirge, remains a mystery as cold and fathomless as the void itself. Perhaps it is appeasement, a desperate attempt to placate the slumbering titan upon whose whim their very existence hangs by a thread. Perhaps it is mockery, a defiant counterpoint to the ineffable terror that broods at the heart of creation. Or perhaps, in the unknowable calculus of the cosmos, their music serves some purpose as vast and incomprehensible as Azathoth himself. So the dance continues, a balletic pirouette in the maw of oblivion, played out to the rhythm of the Daemon Sultan's nightmare song. And should Azathoth ever fully awaken, should his dreaming eyes open upon the cosmos, then all shall be consumed in the black fire of his gaze, and the universe itself shall dissolve into the primordial ooze from whence it came. For in the face of Azathoth, there is only madness, only the cold embrace of the void, and the endless, echoing whisper of oblivion's song.

Yog Sothoth:

Hark! In yon cyclopean gulfs where madness breeds and stars writhe in silent agony, where shadows writhe and the Veil hangs tattered, there writhes Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One, the Opener of the Ways. But whisper it low, friend, for his gaze pierces the skull's thin vault, and his thoughts drip cold into the mind's dark pit.

This Yog-Sothoth, they say, is but a tentacled facet of the Supreme Archetype, that boundless Oneness which squats like a monstrous toad upon the throne of the Ultimate Abyss. Coterminous with all that is, was, and shall be, it whispers cosmic secrets to great minds - to Carter, the seeker, and others whose yearning eyes pierce the fabric of reality.

Unlike those blind, gibbering gods who frolic in the eternal blackness, the Archetype holds a glimmer of something . . . dare we call it mercy? It grants audience to those deemed worthy, offering a glimpse into the maddening panorama of ultimate knowledge. A choice, it whispers, in a voice that chills the blood and sets bone against bone: partake in the boundless ocean of all-knowing, or flee back to the blessed ignorance of the mortal coil.

But tread softly, friend, for the path to the Archetype is paved with the screams of fallen stars and the bleached bones of countless seekers. One wrong step, one misspoken word, and you become another tapestry woven into the Veil, your very essence devoured by the All-in-One. Yet, for some, the call of forbidden knowledge proves too strong, a siren song that lures them into the maelstrom of cosmic revelation.

Beware, mortal, of the secrets that Yog-Sothoth guards, for the price of wisdom may be your sanity, your soul, your very existence. For in the embrace of the Supreme Archetype, there awaits only oblivion, or a fate far worse than utter annihilation.

To be continued...