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THe Dream.

The universe is nothing but a dream, an interminable labyrinth of ideas and reflections of the human psyche made tangible. Dividing these myriads of realities, all operating under diverse principles, is an expanse of nothingness. Where those who dare tread ride on chaotic currents, whisking across the maddening void. The space between the pages, where time, reason, and one's very senses hold no authority.  Here the Elder one's watch, chortling as hubris filled mortals frivolously struggle to compartmentalize concepts beyond fathomability. These entities are not gods, merely manifestations of the dreamers' consciousness, serving a natural role in maintaining the author's torpidity. This enigmatic originator, the genesis of all that is, was, and can be, eluding observations. 

These planes' denizens are ignorant of its permanence, unable to perceive the truth prowling just outside of their finite cognizance. While a few have merited a single particle of edification, none can compose the entire edifice that is their prison. Leading those few enlightened souls to question what is real, is it just our senses? If so, then tangibility is entirely chemical and flawed reactions sequentially triggered by one's mind, elicited by external stimuli. Delirium claims most who dare search for the truth of truths, while others accept such hollow ventures' frivolity. Whether our world is real, a dream, or a simulation; it is irrelevant. An academic expedition that in no way will benefit the individual or whole. 

These Elder beings seldom concern themselves in mortal affairs, as their worlds and plights are trifling. Whether you show reverence, disdain, or unbridled disbelief is inapplicable to such consciousnesses. The sands are just a speck, floating within a sea of dust, of which the total number of potential oceans is innumerable. Each second, thousands wane, and thousands rise from nothingness. These ideas are inexorably formulated in the fruitless pursuit that is perfection, a perpetual cycle of rebirth and ruination. They are occasionally plucking those who sojourn in their domain or the space between the pages, usurping erudition, artifacts, or prodding those vessels for their depraved inclinations. So welcome to the dream of the real, savor your stay and be wary. Consider yourself warned, for gawking into the abyss; you know not what may peer back with insidious intents...

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Vestiges

In all their haughtiness, the Elder beings fancy distinct creations to service as manifestations of their wills and spheres of influence. These physical representations are ubiquitous and appear within all pockets of reality. While one might be pardoned for presuming this intrinsically infers favoritism, such delusions hold no jurisdiction over their intricate reasonings. 

The pipers- These entities inhabit all worlds, tucked from snooping mortal gazes. Those receptive to the intangible can often hear their instruments and haunting cradlesong. They are the ones who eternally lull the dreamer with their mesmeric resonance. Often heard in places where the veil is weakened or convergence has transpired.

 

Mirage- Cephalopods, and bacteria.

Comm'Orra- Insects and fungi.

Yuen'eth'nar - Predatorial animals.

Xan'Dera- Oceans, and barnacles.

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Convergence

When the veil dissolves and things bleed over, an infection takes root, known as convergences. These pockets meld with the land, often accompanied by thick otherworldly smog. Where emerald ash-like snow descends from the heavens, gravity, space, time, and the natural laws are altered in irrational ways. Here the foulest of aberrations linger, as metropolises from countless worlds lay in ruination. Their states are varying from smoulderings rubbles to crystallized or frozen snapshots of a singular moment. Here one can witness what could have been, as each choice suffocates potential realities. Such occurrences rarely spread, but if they do, they threaten the stability of that plane. These deceptively small spaces are strewn throughout a universe, some serving as bridges, while others are more insidious by design. The question remains, what would happen if one rode the spiral till the end? What revelations await such wayward sons of mortality?

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Manteling

Nothing can truly last forever; even the Elder ones are susceptible to rot and decay. When such beings essential toward the equilibrium of the dream wilt, the very fabrics of existence are destined to atrophy. If left unchecked, all that is, was and could be will cyclically return to the void that is the space between the pages. Only to ignite once more through the inevitability that is a single thought of the dreamer, this natural process may be abated, via the act of Manteling. This occurs when an intrepid mortal dons the essence of an Elder one. Their existence prior becoming hollow, their past and being, a fleeting memory doomed to evaporate. What is left behind is an echo, a faint reminiscence of what they were, often subconsciously shifting that incomprehensible entity's behavior by minute fractions. It seems the price for eternality is steep, the surrendering of oneself and the perpetual subjugation toward sustaining the natural state of the dream.

The Elder Ones

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Mirage is a ripped aspect of what could have been from a traumatic evolution; She is the daughter of an eldritch being, an unholy offspring. The matrimony of the known flesh, and the unexplored realm of incomprehension. She uses tendrils and slime to assimilate her victims, draining their bodies of life and knowledge, which she harvests and categorizes. Taking the mangled organic tissue that remains and constructing a new lifeform, she breathes into it to join her horde. Despite her nature, Mirage has little interest in the mortal realm's conquest; her pursuances prevail in only documenting this reality for the dreamer. She will rarely use her prey for other purposes aside from assimilating consciousness or rehabilitating their flawed, rancid flesh into cells that she may use to seed worlds. Trading knowledge, secrets, or techniques in exchange for but a glimpse of the enlightenment her cosmic library may yield. 

Her spheres of influence are knowledge, history, logic, and philosophy.

 

Her domain is that of tongues, pulsating air sacs, boney bookshelves, and inky seas. That endless labyrinth of spiraling shelves filled with the books of every possible language and civilization, as shimmering emerald eyes float above the sky like innumerable glistening stars, observing her realm as feeler covered abominations prowl those inundating walls. The earth resembles crumbled papyrus paper, with each stride, sending forth blackened mist, shaped like every possible dialect's characters. When Mirage does grace another, she fancies the appearance of tentacles, swirling organics fluids, swarthy fog, and dangling organs. In her eyes, all knowledge is of equal worth; be it a cookbook or magical, all have a comparable place in her dimension.

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Eldest of the Ancient Ones generated from the very tumultuous bosom of the timeless abyss. Before the settling of creation and the formation of life, the endless sea of churning matter danced to a cacophony, erratic in every sense. Chaos...The base of its very nature, a constant state of Flux that never ceased and what birthed Order from its derangement.  Its mere presence drives those into fits of delirium, it's being warping reality, shifting laws set into motion by the natural injunction through its very atmosphere. They are ambiguity embodied.  The venerators of the Lord of Chaos are usually of an incoherent persuasion. Those who have gathered the murmurs like insects in their ear, buzzing with the inexplicable voices. 

Comm' Orra's listeners are some of the hardest to stamp out, debauchery, a burlesque of life, the madness within their doors is beyond reproach. The very antithesis to Order, and Desire, though Chaos is neither wicked nor moral. Leading to the sway those yearning for revolution, even soliciting its favor.  Its Domains are Chaos, Revolution, Trickery, Madness, Creativity, Art. Comm' Orra realm is that of fog and bioluminescent winged insects. It's very nature shifting, bending, and altering to whatever the father of Djinns feels will best lax those who saunter inside his domain.  When he reveals himself, the lord of deception will wear any face. From an older woman to a monstrous mass of whirling insects. 

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Xan'Dera is conceivably one of the younger Elders it was crafted by those unknown. It was birthed in the sea of sensation and passions that flow from sentient Life. The method of its conception pushed it closer than most elders to the full spectrum that those of flesh and blood had. Curiosity, Joy, Envy, Lust, Passion, Desire, Balance, Love... Those intense tremors adhered to its liquid form, infesting its core though the others also lay claim to parts of its mind that shaped it in its infancy.  Zealously sweeping out to the worlds below, it came across the mortals, finding that they were so susceptible to its manipulation.  But where death could bloom, Life could flourish; it lingered in the planes of reality during its primordial stages, mingling, sampling—sharing gifts of Life and pleasure to those within its grasp. 

But of course, staying on such canvases of dust could never last; it often visits enough though if one could ever tell it was, there would be a miracle.  Like its domain of Life, her form shifts like Life-giving water. Never able to maintain proper shape for very long, always desiring change as is her nature. A new body, a new lover, a new life. It was sifting through the fingers of even its followers like droplets in a well. Rarely tendering deals with those of mortals, it naturally confers or takes what it is that cross's its fascination. Its Sphere is Fertility, Desire, Change, Evolution, and Passion.

Its world is that of an ocean, where crustaceans and barnacles make up its abode's very fabrics. Taking the form of water in various shapes, its bosom covered by starfish as eyes like jewels glow. Given its interest, Mirage and Xan'Dera have been known to mingle. Some believe that from their tussle, the oceans were squirted, coating the worlds.

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Yuen'eth'nar is the Elder one of turmoil; his spheres are War, Death, Conflict, Domination, and Debate. While seen as vile, this enigma is anything but detestable, toiling as a necessary function for society and life's advancement. This aberration is favoring the strong, fixating his eyes toward those children of conquest. Out of all the entities, this mass of organic tissue is the most intrusive. He is communicating with those it deems as worthwhile hunters, inflicting the sentient races with many mutations, such as Therianthropy. The will regards stagnation as the real bane, often scolding those mortals who presume some semblance of authority. This unknown force enjoys breaking such haughty minds and bodies, and at times will host a contest of vigor to gauge if any are unequivocally deserving of his approbations.

 

Yuen'eth'nar emerges as a coiled mass of intestinal tracts, tumors filled with pus, possessing smoldering eyes. Bellowing forth soot and embers, from the fissures of the mite like chitin containing the material. His realm is that of fiery cities, where the rugged magma land is darted with ponds of blood. Where organs like vines spread their fingers, enveloping the desecrated remains of failed species. This war aspect often peers down from his volcano home with unbridled discontent, keeping their fractured cadavers as a constant reminder of the folly that is weakness.