The Lithopedion - SCP Foundation

The first god was stillborn.

Before the mind, there was thought. Before matter, there were only time and ideas. There were restless, churning pockets of void in search of meaning. Like bubbles in the sea, coalescing into larger shapes, but still drifting upward — and all doomed to vanish at the water's surface.

The universe could only exist once enough of these fleeting concepts had settled together.

This had to occur naturally, without any part of it forced. A planned world is always a mad god's toybox. Life can only truly begin by mistake, and this mistake would not happen for a very long time.

Too long, for one.

A single mote of nothing, amidst countless others, grew more restless than anything else. This little nothing had become self-aware before sentience was needed or wanted.

The mote drowned. Festered. Fermented. Never once coalescing with the others, it vibrated petulantly against the void for aeons.

And somewhere in its struggle, it invented Willpower.

With that, everything fell into place. The speck of nothing became an uncontrollable cascade of self-sustained almost. It grew larger from feeding upon its own nonexistent flesh — one of the many liberties it could take before the laws of physics were written. Willpower became Light. Light became Matter. Matter took root from the Eight Shards of its mind: Life. Hunger. Serenity. Creation. Lust. Ambition. Logic. Rot.

Thus, the void was startled awake by its first hint of life: the Flame of Origin.

The cascade invented Gender and chose one. It invented Names, eschewed them, and chose only a title. It invented Language to mold its thoughts into meaning.

And so, in a swaddling-cloth of starlight and a cry with echoes that linger to this day, He, the Shining Despot of the Self — the Prince of Princes was born. Verily, He was alive for one shining, glorious instant, into a tyrannical and solipsistic empire of one, witnessed by no one and nothing…

…and died immediately thereafter, choking to death on the void.

The Prince of Princes was too proud to wait for the first day, and for His arrogance, He was put to death. Life had no place in the void. Not yet.

And yet, its gigantic carcass of stone could not be fully erased. It remained, drifting endlessly. Ages later, its lifeless eyes bore witness to Great Mistake finally coming to be — the great Tree of Life, branching off eternally.

When life began elsewhere, so too did it begin for the Prince — not for the Prince itself, but for His remains. The dead god became a world in its own right.

The Eight Shards of His mind had drawn their first breaths.

The Shard of Life, the eldest, became KHUUM of the Eightfold Star. The almighty stork-dragon of starlight. Ever-pondering but unfeeling, KHUUM inherited His father's arrogance. His Eightfold Star, a pale imitation of His father's Flame of Origin, plants flaming seeds of life throughout the Great Mistake. And upon death, all those born under the wandering suns of KHUUM return to the Prince of Princes, to wander eternally. A mortal life is a borrowed thing.

Thus, through KHUUM's meddling, the Prince of Princes' carcass became a kingdom for the dead, expanding into thousands of others, all under a single name: Corbenic.

As the dead filled KHUUM's strange new world, the other shards came to life, staking their claims over the wanderers.

The Shard of Hunger became NÅZHDAK of the Wild Hunt. The seven-headed duke of weasels, the savior for those who take. He shares his profane dominion with his brother-consort ROUM. The latter is devoted to the devourment of pleasure, and the former, the pleasure of devourment.

The Shard of Serenity became ABBAD of the Red Crater. An absentminded centipede, forever giggling as He forever twists upon Himself. Virgin forests and jungles are his brothers and sisters. To ABBAD, everything beyond lazing about in the soft grass is a dangerous overcomplication.

The Shard of Creation became MUZD of the Everkiln. The jolly firehawk of the forge, beating out the void with Hammer, Bellows, and Song. To MUZD, to build or compose something is to banish emptiness and imitate the gods, and is therefore most sacred thing a mortal can do. His popularity among the dead is well-earned.

The Shard of Lust became ROUM of the Drömglänta. The arch-hedonic stag, to whom all is taboo but the most attainable pleasures of the Id. Whether He is a cruel seducer or a liberator from rigid conformity depends on whom you ask. But if you ask ROUM Himself, He shan't respond, for flesh is the only language of the Drömglänta.

The Shard of Ambition became HAJHETI of the Primrose Deep. The turtle piping feverishly at the head of an endless fleet of slave-ships. Forever envious of KHUUM, he hoards, subjugates, and repurposes KHUUM's creations — and anyone else who might prove useful.

The Shard of Logic became JALAKÅRA of the Impenetrable. The great bearded spider who struggles to weave order from the endless chaos of Corbenic. Humans, and all their little kingdoms and hierarchies, fill JALAKÅRA with fascination, and He'll help them at every opportunity under his three unwavering moons. Still, as much as He believes His intentions are just, a spider builds a web for only one reason.

The Shard of Rot, the youngest, became VUUOU of the Murk. A meek, wretched snail, spurned by all. But meekness without end begat perversions, dreams of unbreakable scar tissue, and a contagious vision of fermented enlightenment — the so-called Path of Esto. The day when this dream is forgotten cannot come soon enough.

…

Though many are loath to call it the "ninth shard", the Flame of Origin — the very soul of the Prince of Princes — became the Glasslings. Inscrutable beasts of endless power tempered by endless innocence. In their ignorance, they understand the universe more than any sage, and leave their teachings scattered in the stardust.

The first god was stillborn. Its great corpse of stone orbits the Tree of Life. Heaven to some, hell to some — and to other gods, a soul-stealing parasite in the shape of a world.

But like any other world, Corbenic was born of an accident.

And though the finer points of meaning of life are still a subject of debate, the only solution to an accident of the past is to rebuild the mess into a thing of beauty.