Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28920015-20170828025630/@comment-26120744-20170828195812

A Final Ones mind, if it could even be called a 'mind' per se, is a storm of impossible, insane and contradictory emotions and memories. A trillion different origin stories were there, each of them treated as being completely true, even though each was nonsensical, demented, and completely incompatible with each other.

But one caught his eye that seemed at least satisfactory, and matched what they knew of the Final Ones.

Before creation, everything was Superposition, Shrodinger's cat, or whatever. Nothing had to be anything, anything could be whatever it desired while having no desires at all or thing at all. None of it had to make any sense, because 'sense' hadn't been invented yet.

And then Creation emerged. And with that, the Void and it's horror was deemed so alien, so utterly bizarre, that no longer did it exist, not exist, and neither all at once: it simply didn't exist, unless it broke Creation so much it could overwhelm the laws of Life and reality, and superimpose their own laws. Utterly alien axioms forcing their way into a Creation that denied them.

Pure potential was like a blissfull, neverending dream to the semi-sentient and also not-at-all existing Final Ones. And Creation had turned it into a nightmare.

But there was more to it. Imagine, if you will, having your arm ripped off. Not cleanly cut, not sedated or pain limited in any way. No. Imagine being completely lucid while someone pulls and pulls and pulls on your arm until it is literally ripped from your body. The wound never heals, you never go into shock, you remain eternally lucid of the constant bleeding and constant pain.

The [REDACTED], in this sense, could be considered the person, trying desperately to re-attach their arm, that being the Omniverse.

Of course none of the stuff above was actually true 100%, since everything about the Final Ones is utterly alien and incomprehensible. It would all be merely a potential story, with no real merit. That is, were it not for the Maiden herself.

See that? Herself. She had a self at all. She was a 'she'. The Final Ones were utterly formless, they did not need to be defined in any way. Even defining them as formless was unsatisfactory. The Maiden had wormed her way up from the metaphorical depths, pushing her way into reality and limiting her own power and form in an agonizing, self-destructive way that reduced her to what appeared to be a mere humanoid, when prior she was utterly undefinable.

For a while she had tried to enjoy existence, as we can see from her initial gratitude to the Mother's help, but she soon turned against it. Because every breath she took had an air of falsehood, every sight a personal mockery that she would never be 'real', never be 'whole' as she, or they, or it, or whatever adjective the Final One chose or not chose to have or not have was prior to the Well. Life became agony, death became meaningless, and even the formlessness of the Void was marred by the fact that there was form at all anywhere. No. It had to be torn down. It all had to be torn down. Existence was a sin, a crime against the Void, and it needed to be returned to the way it was before. She had to 'make things right', to speak in cliches.

This was why the Maiden was so afraid. She, or rather, It, had built an entire personality for herself, a face, a name, a form, only to be tortured by having these things, and came to the radical conclusion that in order to be 'free' from causality, then causality itself had to be murdered.