Across countless worlds, there are forty-two originators of existence. The deity who watches over our world is like a quiet mentor who never enforces curfew, allowing us to roam free, to make our own choices without stern retribution. The others view this leniency as weakness, a failure of proper “Godding.”
The forty-two founders rarely agreed on anything. Delivered by the same cosmic anomaly, they emerged like orphans in a silent universe—no guidance, no laws, no answers—forced, as all are, to forge their own heritage and carve meaning from the emptiness.
The Wyrd Interlude:
In a universe governed by forty-two founders, purpose and power twist through the fabric of reality like roots through a forest floor. Immortal beings enter existence as orphans, carving out meaning in a void. Here, fear and love become currency, and wagers chart destinies. This—is wyrd fiction.
They had toyed with one another and with life itself, moving freely throughout all existence. Their very essence comprised all forms of matter, binding them to every element of creation. Through these bonds, they extended their consciousness, shaping and manipulating reality at will.
“She doesn’t know the meaning of Godhood,” Dev said. He was the most engaging of the forty-two, his charisma captivating the others. He was in the higher tier of the forty-two.
“Didn’t you try to help her once, after she banned you?” Lago asked.
As a hierarchy emerged amongst the Gods, dividing the truly powerful with the lesser connected, Lago had become a groveler among them, and was among the lower tier of the forty-two.
“I did!” Dev laughed and drank his favorite black star wine. They had all adopted a humanoid form, as they found it the easiest to repair and alter. Dev stood six foot five, his beard was long and black and he ran his fingers through it constantly.
He glared down at the Earth like the long-lost lover it was to him.
Of all his creations across the vast, swirling nebulae and countless galaxies of the Universe, Earth, with its vibrant ecosystems and teeming life, was his favorite. He derived great pleasure from guiding the creatures of Earth, basking in their adoration as their humble God.
To the Mesopotamians, he was Marduk. To the Akkadians, Sargon. Among the Egyptians, Pharaoh. To the Greeks, Zeus. Hindus, Brahma. Romans, Jupiter.
He wore each name like a carefully chosen mask, savoring the reverence and fear they inspired. And in the Vedic traditions, they knew him as Yama—the God of Death—whose worshipers trembled at the very thought of his judgment.
That granted Dev the purest existence he’d ever known, and so being Yama gave him his most joyous era.
It wasn’t mass destruction he lusted after—no, he rarely indulged in destruction at all.
It was the fear. The way the creatures moved and acted around him. The obedience. How they treat those they fear is superior to any sensation Dev had felt.
“I tried to help,” Dev said. “After she—The Goddess of Love and Compassion, the one they always prayed to in their darkest hours—beat me in that foolish wager. We’d challenged each other: I wagered that fear would bind them closer to us, while she insisted love would guide them better. I lost, so she banned me from interacting with her creations. HER CREATIONS! Pah!”
He stood and drank.
Lago smiled deviously. Over the years they sat and watched this dull blue planet Lago had dreamed of being elsewhere, but in his subservience to Dev’s obsession with the insignificant world, they silently observed for millennia.
“I created all of them! Then she comes along, wins some ridiculous wager, and now she gets to control them! They call her God,” Dev laughed.
“She is a weak God,” Lago said.
“She is not a God! She spectates and lets them roam freely! Doing whatever they please! Free will! Pah!” Dev was mounting rage. “The world is in ruin. The creatures drive themselves into chaos and despair while she observes, idle!” He drank more. “They deserve a God worth kneeling to.”
“She should not have this planet,” Lago said. “She should not even be one of the forty-two.”
“Watch your words.” Dev’s tone returned to decorum.
“My Lord, she lets them breed freely! Look at their population!”
“I tried to help that,” Dev said.
“The plague was a very kind thing to do, my Lord.”
“I thought so.”
“And did she thank you? No! She reported your breach to the forty-two.”
“They can do nothing to me.”
“Then why sit back and watch her neglect your most beloved creation?”
“It maintains order among the forty-two,” Dev repeated, voice softer now. He remembered walking as Yama among the mortals, feeding off their awe, delighting in the fear that sharpened their prayers. How he loved their whispered pleas, their trembling reverence.
Now, for centuries, he had watched them stumble and falter without proper guidance. His heart—if a God’s heart could ache—longed for the old days.
“Do you think they will risk inner conflict over the fate of one world?” Lago asked.
Dev pondered a moment, his gaze drifting among the swirling cosmic filaments that tied the Gods’ realms together. They rarely agreed on anything, and no one would risk another schism. Earth, after all, was just one world among countless.
“No,” he smiled, eager now, “I don’t believe they would.”
The Wyrd Curtain:
When Gods quarrel and humans tremble, what remains is a hush where faith and doubt share whispered questions. Within the twilight of uncertainty, the web of wyrd tangles, ensnaring both those who shape worlds and those who walk them. Uncertain and searching, they journey onward, never seeing the weavers who spin their fate beyond unseen threads and shifting horizons—and Wyrd Worlds yet await.