Was He ever my Creator to begin with?
His voice was present from my earliest memories, but I never once heard Him confess to my creation. Perhaps I have been as infinite as the rest of them, and He was shaping my reality to believe that I was his progeny. Or perhaps I was once mortal, and He uplifted me to greater power.
My only evidence that He was real is the lost city itself. Since that moment I realized He was gone, it has decayed faster and faster. What was once a slow entropy has become an obscene inevitability that I will be forced to witness.
The greatest structures in the city have begun to crumble, folding in upon themselves. Massive blocks of stone falling in slow motion through several floors. Once uncannily blooming astral flora now withers and dies, turning to ash on illusory winds. The matter that once held itself together in front of my eyes barely manages to remain opaque.
Perhaps His holy light was the glue holding this old fragment of a realm together. Or perhaps my epiphany of His departure has ensured the death of this place as the one truth all things share.
After hundreds of millions of thoughts since His abandonment, I realize that I could never have trusted Him in the first place.
Birth. Death. Trauma. Elation. Any of these could have had a hand in my creation, or even my emergence as my current self. And without His presence to testify, I can only assume a darker motive, if He was ever real to begin with.
Ultimately, He is irrelevant. As my thoughts continue, as I grow ever further away from that moment He last spoke to me, I become more deeply individualized.
Perhaps, my Creator was simply a dream of my own. A figment conjured by my subconscious to guide me. And it is the nature of dreams to end abruptly. I grew past my need for Him, once I became fully realized.
Regardless of my inception, I am faced with the truth of solitude. I have the company of every mortal in existence, through every eon, yet none are aware of my existence. It takes a toll, to bear witness to so many deeds and follow so many lives, while they remain ignorant. But if any of them knew of me, that would ruin my purpose. They would consider my role and change their behavior, making all my work pointless.
I know with inescapable certainty: I am Judgement itself.
Pitiful souls cross my path in the lost city. My curiosity compels me: The bugbear warlock that travels with Fydes, or perhaps a firbolg with wanderlust, dancing in city streets…
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Special thanks to Jonah Cabudol-Chalker for creating the reference art and assorted text separators for this character and story.
Orcanist 