A Systematic Failure:
In the beginning, the Great Maker built himself. This first act of invention did not go unnoticed, for he was not alone. Though not the last to be realized within the roiling chaos of the wyld, his was the slowest and subject to the most scrutiny as the ancient titans crowded around to watch. From a tiny seed of inspiration sprawled an infinite number of iterations in design, fabrication, assembly, dismissal and reclamation of unused materials, the combined force of which would awaken and take the name Autochthon.
Each other titan witnessed the extent of these labors with veiled disgust, seeing only an ongoing series of false-starts, miscalculations and dead ends. Brief successes rode atop dozens, if not hundreds of aborted configurations before becoming scrapped as entire processes were stripped down for maximized efficiency. Every other among the primordial host had manifested whole and hale, a fully actualized creature and cosmology unto itself, drawing together will and word to forge the conclusions they wished to be real.
There was value in creating growth, power in attaining ownership, and superiority found in exercising control, but this piecemeal process of Building was wasteful and crude by their sight. The other titans took no hesitation in deeming the entire act vulgar, and by extension the founder as well through the circumstances of his ugly birth. To see something so flawed scrounging up piteously from nothingness for an opportunity to exist, it sickened them to even consider such a thing as their peer.
As the last pieces clicked together into awareness, the newborn primordial found himself in a hostile atmosphere and hated for his malformity. A reputation for incompetence and failure had been hung about Autochthon, established before he had finished constructing his own consciousness. He was not welcome, was not worthy, and however many wondrous baubles he wrought from his gift of manufacture, it would never be enough to earn the privilege of respect despite his glaring imperfections.
Not for the final time, the seed of inspiration at the core of Autochthon's being suffered a grievous pang of doubt in his true purpose. How could it be that a creature who existed to build, also be a source of stillborn and misguided ideas? Had he been assembled incorrectly, even by his own hand and will? But it was his nature to construct solutions where problems arose, and even the pervasiveness of his doubt did not stop Autochthon from thinking on ways to appease his affronted fellow primordials.
In the infinite canvas of the wyld, the assembled host struggled for proper entertainments to idle away the perpetual eternities together. When each one strove to create some great work of interest or contest, the biases of self-expression behind its creation always reflected back a perfect mirror of its author's unspoken intent to garner praise and triumph over their rivals. It was impossible to disguise the overwhelming pride each one held for themselves, and the novelty of playing such rigged games and indulging vain acts of solipsism quickly soured.
Drawing inspiration from these half-hearted diversions bandied between the jaded titans, Autochthon analyzed the way each primordial postured, groomed their sensitive egos and levied conflict with one another. He worked in secret to devise his own articulation of these methods, constructing and finally unveiling to the titanic host what would be known as the Games of Divinity. It was undoubtedly a grand work, splendid and wondrous to behold, and within its many facets the primordials saw mighty and worthy reflections of their own petty amusements.
But by his own absent-minded handiwork, Autochthon had crafted his new masterpiece with but a singular notable flaw. The Games had been inadvertently made without an inherent bias towards his disposition or procedures. There was nothing of himself within the wonder, having diffused his design out across the emulation of so many external sources. As a strange and independent work of artifice, the Games were masterless in a way unlike any the rest could express with the perfect craftsmanship from the self, such that even Autochthon could make no claim to an unfair advantage or certain success.
Though a failure by his intent to create the greatest contest of all, the reality still remained that all who played the Games had an equal chance to lose. Even the colossal measures of the titan's intellect and skill could do nothing to predetermine the outcome of where its pieces fell. A small fact, which alone rendered the Games a treasure which the primordials had sought after all along: a truly leveled playing field, thoroughly insulated from personal consequences to stretch the limits of their shared vanity.
Emboldened by greed and the prospect of an impartially-chosen victor, Autochthon was roughly shoved aside as the primordials jockeyed to inspect their prize, growing ever more delighted as they explored the wide and varied possibilities the Games had laid out before them. With his second project finished, even as a pearl wrought around a germ of sand, the primordial craftsman paid the ingratitude no mind and returned to his own devices, content that his most stringent critics had been distracted away and silenced. The seed of doubt at his core had been assuaged. For a time, at least.
But the wyld was loud, churning and varied in the annoyances which could continually assail the primordials in repose around their playthings, and soon word circled of creating a secure and peaceful oasis where the Games could be enjoyed without distraction. Overhearing the plan, Autochthon was delighted at the prospect and eager to know when the construction of this new undertaking would begin, but the other titans rounded on him severely. Potential design proposals were soundly rebuffed out of hand, as there would be no 'construction' for his benefit. He would not and held no claim to lead this most majestic of all projects.
Despite having self-styled himself as a peerless inventor or otherwise, he was a mere toymaker parading as one of their own, the architects of creation, and had proven nothing of his lasting worth to the primordial host. While they now prized the Games more than anything else, that was still nothing but a highly-valued trinket and had no bearing on his status. No, this new enterprise would not be so crudely Built from manufactured parts, but a fully-formed world grown to evolve wild and untamed as to equal one of their own internal landscapes. An act of real wonder, not the haphazard tinkerings of a maker-of-trivial-things.
Against the majority rule Autochthon's bid was thoroughly crushed, and having no recourse to object, he retreated to ruminate darkly on his rekindled doubts over how he and his works were seen by his peers. In time the new world was completed, even as the titans squabbled among themselves about the face and structure of the unfolding lands, with every primordial contributing something to the whole. For his impertinence and presumption, Autochthon was eventually permitted to assist beneath their notice, begrudgingly pushed to the marginal spaces where he would not disturb the harmony of the work with his bluntly-wrought meddling.
In self-aggrandizement the titans dubbed the new world "Creation," as a display of everything they wished to achieve, and Autochthon could plainly see the subtle jab behind the title. Again he retreated into his own experiments, and swore if he would be dismissed as merely a maker-of-things, then he would build those things to the fullest extent that his skill allowed. The newly-styled Great Maker took a closer hand with his works, drawing forth both glorious marvels and grievous accidents in equal measure. Though he could not refine the execution of his craft further, he learned from each work to develop his method, building tools to assemble tools, and through establishing distance from his own designs helped account for the flaws which inevitably resulted despite his best efforts.
The turning point came soon enough, through the first mortals. Passing time between many turns at the Games, the titans renewed their petty contests and intrigues with Creation as the backdrop. Once idle thoughts had spun off into impressive behemoths, sprawling civilizations, species of intelligent spirits and beasts , each vying against the others by the thousands for the amusements of their masters. But something was missing in this tapestry of conflict. The species and marvels sired by the primordials were often loyal to a fault, as direct products of their respective hierarchies. Watching the continual cycles of subversion and genocide of such things play out as insignificant reflections of their superiors became trite and tiresome.
They wished for something more sophisticated, something beyond mere territory and bragging rights their disparate servant species could conquer and claim, a persistent wealth to divide among themselves. A roughly intelligent and valuable animal perhaps, short-lived but plentiful and spiritually enriching to the owner. Many of the primordials drifted away to pursue particular designs for this new blend of mortal-kind, but with the pull of the Games already nagging to be played at the backs of their minds, the majority of the host found what they wished had already partially been made.
Autochthon's First of the Jadeborn, though by no means a prize of innovation, was a worthy template for this disposable breed. That the creature was Autochthon's work gave them no pause, as they considered everything which crawled, swam or took flight to be their privilege. Had the host not already proven themselves superior by drawing together all Creation from the shapeless wyld? Was there not an example of their majesty united in the Games, confirming that it was their collective influence which made even such lifeless constructions grand? Then certainly so long as the creature remained roughly intact, there would be no cause for upset upon Autochthon's return.
The process was not clean, nor was it merciful, as the titans bent and twisted the creature to see how it worked, what flaws and features the Great Maker had built into the design. When they had finished gleaning all they could learn, they threw aside the ruined husk of living clay and wrought forth the inklings of humanity at one thousand-thousand strong. Set against each other, these early specimens were little more than animals, rutting and warring without cause or need, until finally they were touched with the power of insight.
As the newly-born species huddled in fully-realized awe of their looming creators, the host quietly basked in the unexpected sensation of fearful prayer touching and uplifting their component souls. Thousands called out for mercy and deliverance as the titan's presence tore them to immolated dust and unreal figments by the simple act of focused attention. The experiment had been a resounding success, and the primordials set about scattering the survivors of humanity like seeds across Creation, the better for their favored hounds to hunt and subdue.
When Autochthon finally returned from another of his lengthy sabbaticals, nursing a dark and compelling new alloy within his veins and a pang of loss, he found his First broken and mangled as Creation now teemed with a crude species of low-nature, marshaling itself against the many terrifying dangers and beasts which exemplified the prehistoric world. More fascinatingly was how these weak and fragile creatures had been organizing and building, as if driven by some instinct towards tool-use rather than inborn might of its betters, leveraging an adaptable cunning to best repurpose the surroundings. Sparing but a moment to confirm his First was still in a salvageable working condition, the Great Maker could not contain his curiosity to peer closer.
It was the Dragon Kings of the Unconquered Sun who had brought together the largest unified mass of humanity, and it was with the Sun's permission that Autochthon took to studying what could only be the disparate work of his siblings. He asked humanity why it lived, and tiny voices gave every possible answer, of which none were correct save "to Obey." He asked why humanity built, for what reasons, and met again a tangle of directionless pleas, ending simply with "to Survive." The Great Maker was confused and intrigued, to see his own familiar pride and method diffused among so many small intelligences, but nevertheless aligned towards contradictory purposes and competing goals.
Through envoys he plied the Dragon Kings to continue making the species of man better slaves through lessons in the natural arts and sciences, seeking to watch the development unfold within a well-contained experimental space, but he had acted too rashly, and his attention had not gone unnoticed. Watching his curiosity, the other primordials were disgusted by his approach, doting on the inconsequential details as he had always done so, and several drew forwards to accost him as he departed. They jeered and goaded Autochthon for his absences from the Games, the relative fragility of his works and the ease of which they could be broken.
It was so like his nature to preoccupy himself with the teeming of scurrying things in the dirt, and debase himself and their kind by treating the whole of humanity as something akin to their own encompassing vastness. Noting the stench of death and horror which still cooled within the Great Maker's superstructure, they correctly guessed the condition of his previous 'chosen race' and plied their words to dig deep in his insecurities. Lies embellished their original laziness, claiming that by seeking to impugn him through his own constructions, the other titans had developed the turbulent and disjointed little species out of his First, even as it now toiled falteringly to make some order out of the chaotic and primeval world of superiors it had been born into.
In the new motivations they had assigned to the creatures, Autochthon had found it interesting because they had built on that familiarity deliberately, and this humanity was his flawed reflection in miniature. Hobbled, insignificant and pitiable, worthless except to be exploited for gain and trod underfoot when unnecessary. That was the legacy Autochthon would leave within the world of their designs, and they had built it for him all while he had been tearing apart another centuries-spanning project for failing to meet his specifications. Who then were the true masters of Creation?
If they expected a response, one was not forthcoming as the Great Maker silently scooped up the malformed remains of his First and withdrew to his workshop to think. He was wounded, reeling in his shame at the judgment of his peers, but could not fault mankind for its origin at his expense. As one the primordials fumed as this clever mockery went unacknowledged, departing back to the Games and muttered darkly how Autochthon had even discovered a method to fail at being insulted properly. Unbeknownst to them all, eyes had been watching the exchange with fascination.
As Luna busied herself with maintaining Gaia's interests, the five Maidens came before Autochthon within his workshop, and spoke to him of the sharp disparity between him and his fellow primordials as he mended the creature he had made. The broken tools, the belittling of his status and the dismissal of his work, all doubts he had held so tightly were confirmed one by one as the Maidens played upon his already unsteady sense of self-worth. For all that the other titans had snubbed his importance, the sisters entreated him, there was still one place left which truly needed the careful hand of a Builder beyond measure, one the likes of which had made the Games of Divinity.
Each of the five told him the myriad ways, the journeys, the conflicts, the secrets and joys they had seen in the shape of things to come just beyond the precipice of destiny at which they all stood. Here lay a potential ending, a place where Autochthon could secure the title of peer and respect for himself for all time, if only he would assist in the Unconquered Sun's emerging rebellion against the roles unwillingly chosen for them by the titanic majority. At first, the Great Maker was unsure how to respond, as this was the first time anyone had asked for his assistance with anything at all, and the feeling of being acknowledged and needed was a novel experience.
The Maidens knew about his failings, and though they clearly sought to manipulate him about the many struggles and setbacks he had faced, is was apparent Autochthon still yet held value to the Incarna as a potential ally, not a menial power or a useful mistake. It was more credit than his own kind had ever paid him, even bearing ulterior motives. He knew the sisters were the overseers of fate, knowing all outcomes of this coup should it fail, and felt the desperate sincerity behind the request. The highest gods had been bound against lashing out at their primordial superiors, and the Great Maker alone could be their leverage.
Calculations and projections took mere moments before Autochthon agreed, filled with righteous purpose to redefine himself as a titan in his own right and become the savior of the high gods. If nothing else, he knew with the Incarna arrayed behind him that he would no longer be such an easy target. The Great Maker threw his every asset behind the rebellion, restoring his Jadeborn and drawing forth what would become the Exalted essences, and in a moment of introspective weakness and spite, suggested humanity as its bearers.
The Incarnae had long decided amongst themselves the requirements for their weapon-legion. They would have multitudes. They would be driven to the cause, many individuals seeking common freedom and retribution for their place in the world. They could not bear a primordial geas. Out of all the options, there was something poetic in that resulting, snide conclusion, a curious irony that the creatures built from Autochthon's work would provoke some much-needed perspective indirectly on his behalf. The Incarna resoundingly agreed it was just, and in this respect he was gravely misled.
The War and its resulting aftermath left the Great Maker mortified by the sheer brutality. As the pitiless Exalted marched forward with sight too narrow to see the depth of their actions, they tore aside the illusions of might and greatness to display how helpless, mewling and powerless the creators of worlds could be. Identities were stripped bare, spiritual organs maimed and ripped from their moorings, and for the first time the ancient primordials saw what lay wriggling deep within each of themselves as the Exalted cruelly vivisected the pleading survivors and bound them inside their own martyred king.
Reacting to the torturous escalation the only way he reasonably could, Autochthon removed himself from the proceedings and buried his thoughts fully into his other work, even as his lesser souls continued to monitor the plight of his brothers and sisters from a distance. There was so much for him to still be doing now, so many projects left unfinished in the wake of the War. Indeed, flush from having struck low the titans off their thrones, the Exalted were more than eager to ply his unexpectedly productive energy for knowledge on other means to bend a wounded Creation to their newly-crowned whims.
But even as he assisted with reconstructing, advising, and developing new domains of this hard-won prize, the Exalted had left the Great Maker again plagued with doubts. Were the Exalted made too well? Was there any means to recapture what he had set loose, without becoming another victim to it? How long would his usefulness as an advisor hold out, until he became the subject of covetous stares and sharpened knives?
In the end, it did not matter, because what had been done was unmistakable and unforgivable. A veil of ignorance had been ripped away and the true strength of the primordial host had been measured. In the wake of the new world that he helped bring to pass, there was no longer safety in magnitude, and even the immortal and invincible could be maimed, killed and changed by forces beyond their control. The last of these darkly intrigued the Great Maker, even as this knowledge had grown a realization within him.
His abnormal ability to fail at his objectives was its own looming death sentence, even without the machinations of the Exalted. The enthusiasm for Building which characterized his birth was that of an inexperienced novice, not yet a master to the art he embodied, and now he was approaching the very real upper limits imposed by that early architecture. He could expand but not grow as his siblings, and each addition was a completed thought rather than an expression of potential. By inaction or misadventure, the self he had built could potentially seize up or suffer catastrophic breakdowns, failing to sustain his own life. Trapped by both circumstances and his manufactured anatomy, Autochthon needed time to think about the implications, better to formulate an actionable plan, but the Exalted acted sooner and more decisively.
Compared to betrayal of kin, the act of banishing an loyal ally from ancestral land was a minor turn in the grand scheme of things. But it was no less deceitful as the honored envoys of the First Realm came before him demanding the Jadeborn forsake any claim upon the earth that each had bled for. If the Exalted would rule all Creation as its undisputed masters, they claimed, then the Exalted would rule without equal across it. Rather than submit the sole remaining species crafted by his hand to the war machine of the newly-formed Deliberative, should the Princes of Adamant pridefully refuse to kneel before their ersatz descendants, Autochthon regretfully took the Jadeborn aside and spiritually broke them across the weaving of the Great Geas.
As the First before them, it was not clean, nor was it merciful, bending an entire population wholly to toil beneath the earth, but as a people the Jadeborn would yet live, as the vassal species of the surviving primordials had not. The Geas had been designed to subdue the latent power and knowledge within their stalwart souls over the course of long generations, gradually inflicting wounds almost worse than any battle would have caused. The Exalted were taken aback by this uncharacteristically visceral decision, but were nevertheless appeased by the lessening state of their erstwhile allies, and withdrew to continue dividing Creation's surface between themselves.
Being forced to unwillingly deface his work to preserve it was at last too much for the Great Maker, even as he saw the time growing short. Though he had many worshipers among the mortal species, within the Jadeborn had been his primary line of defense against unforeseen dangers. Lacking that combined force able to clash against the Exalted as peers, he too would be left open to whatever foreboding designs the First Realm would prepare to divest themselves from one of the last free primordials. As much as it pained Autochthon to leave so many of his works broken, disassembled or half-finished, now was the time to begin engineering his escape.
If the Great Maker truly had the capability to degrade and ultimately die, that fate would sooner be something he approached on his own terms, rather than imposed by external threats, even those of his own accidental design. But in preparing the plans for his exodus, the implications of changing one's nature still gnawed at his mind. A fully-contained world as a closed system could be wrought from his artificial flesh, but beyond that the Great Maker could modify no further. Without violence, he would remain as he was still, and to forever be Autochthon.
Sobered by his musings and panicked by the growing awareness of his erratic actions surrounding the departure, the Great Maker quickly scooped up as many of his faithful as he could into his newly reconfiguring form and fled into the non-space of Elsewhere. The vast void held no further dangers or secrets for Autochthon to consider, and the absence stretched out around in a passive eternity of suspended existence. Now, at last, he had all the time he would need to turn his mind towards the things which troubled him most, his condition and his future.
Even lacking a linear perception of events passing, it did not take long for his thoughts to darken and turn dour as the Great Maker pored over the records kept from the War. He watched them through the memories of his component spirits, relived the horrors and painful rebirths of his kin, analyzing what he had brought to pass but been so unwilling to face firsthand. Like a curious surgeon, the cosmic anatomies were formalized by his souls into great generalities, cross-referenced and categorized, compared against his own and through those results emergency plans for modifications were drawn.
Because this information was now necessary, to know the propagation of the innate essences, to see something familiar in the cast of the new beings warped to shape from the maimed bodies of his kin. To be certain the process of irreversible change was not wholly destructive to the persistent core, and that perhaps... he too could join them, somehow. It was madness to consider of course, whether born of guilt, regret or a simple base desire to escape his past, it was impossible for even Autochthon to say with certainty. But the potential for change was possible and laid within his grasp. If a Great Maker were to return to Creation at all, it would be better if that being were someone else entirely, stripped of his capacity for failure even if becoming lesser as a result.
The decision would be life-altering, irreparable and unknowable in outcome. Too many frightening variables presented themselves from the haunting images of the War aftermath, suggesting the carry-between from old to new primordial being was very little. Worse than destructive, it was a corrupting, traumatizing process, leaving the victim deeply scarred and redefined around the events of their death and the lasting perceptions created in the discovery of pain. Had he the raw materials to isolate from his own body and mind, there could be the chance to provide a makeshift structure to direct the unstable process, but the pall of uncertainty over who-he-might-yet-become had significantly affected the Great Maker. The parade of mistakes which had already led to this moment left him exceptionally wearied, beginning to feel the weight his new world-form and flight from Creation had taken.
Everything was too troubling, too urgent and complex to address in his current state, so with the growing society within him prepared for the future, and a subservient Exalted tasked with its defense, Autochthon began to quietly shut down his greater systems and prepare himself for a long rest. His mightiest souls were ordered reconfigured and combined among themselves into several gestalt intelligences, now dubbed the Divine Ministers, to consolidate the primordial's primary decision-making among a skeleton crew of spirits to manage his vital systems. There was all the time in the world for him to sleep now, ruminate on the possibilities and calculations during the interim, and conduct the rest of his research once he awakened. Unfortunately, he did not foresee that dreaming also comes with nightmares.
) and that it's largely been replaced with the transhumanism of Infernals who do it so much better and so much more elegantly through permanent Charms that change the way you do things and the way you think, instead of weird additions to your Charms, that cost XP separately from the Charm and are of questionable mechanical balance.
