The door trembles as it swings open. It fears the presence of Others, and doubts its ability to keep them out. I wish I could say I am different.

My island is muted. The golden clouds hum gently. The motes shimmer as they dance. The wheels run along their path. But they do so in a subdued, mute manner.

The sounds continue.

Something is squirming. Slopping. I can feel them crawl over the skin of me.

But what are they? I search.

I find them huddling beneath a monolith. There are five of them and they are… disgusting.

They remind me of half-melted gold, each of them a twisted lump the size of my foot that drips and writhes. They slap their long limbs around as they move, slithering on their bodies like overgrown slugs, moaning with drooling mouths.

It takes me a moment of thinking to understand. Me. Almost. The creative energies I infused into my island – into me – have crossed with the principles I have introduced. It left me pregnant, and these are the tiny things that, quickened by the crossing, emerged from my womb.

The idea leaves me reeling. The prospect that Others can be born by myself, without my consent. It’s… horrible.

Also, I notice with dismay, they make a mess.

They drip half-melted gold everywhere they stumble, and my island’s golden rock glazes into an imperfect, contorted mass where they drip. I watch in dismay as one of them pushes himself against my Monolith. The hewn-rock starts to fizzle, and cracks run across its frame. Another groans and pounces on a passing wheel, smothering it beneath its bulk. My creation doesn’t come out.

My work! They are ruining it!

Primordling A being born from a confluence of random primordial principles. The manner of its birth makes it a chaotic being, with a short lifespan and a desire to spread the random disorder it was spawned from. Maybe it wants to disappear?

There’s uncertainty even in their description!

Some of the Primordling are quick, bounding on tiny legs sprouting from their malformed bodies. Others glow softly. Others almost seem carved out of ice and are slow and slothful. They all gleam red with chaos.

I watch one run after a wheel until its lifeforce sputters off. It reaches out for its escaping prey even as its legs give out, and all it does to acknowledge its dissolution is to let out a mildly annoyed grunt. Another yawn as it melts a puddle of foul-smelling sludge. Two rip apart a third one and eat it, with the victim’s only reaction being to smile contentedly.

I am beside myself. Chaos! Disorder! Dissonance! Discord! It’s everything I feared and more. Even only watching it makes my Core shudder with horror.

And they keep emerging. Like a wave of mud, they slither out from a hole into the ground. A strange hole, and I see it's there that my principles have been crossing. Two of my wheels run around it in a constant loop and flames and ice crown it. The monolith which the things are already attacking bathes it into its radiance.

That this strand of chaos has been born from a confluence of my own work makes me mad with rage. That these Primordlings are stupid enough to attack the very source of their existence only makes it worse.

Wanted or not, they are my children. They aren’t supposed to be that stupid.

I straighten myself up, bringing my emotions under control. This cannot continue. It’s an outrage to everything that is me.

Au’makh releases its fury with joy. The eye’s iris ignites with a furious light. It holds it for a moment, whining softly as it builds up power, then releases it as a bolt of eye-searing golden light with a boom. The bolt streaks through the air, hitting a stray Primordling. The creature isn’t destroyed as much as erased from existence. All that remains of it is a scorched mark on my island’s skin. Pleasingly, there isn’t a drop left.

All the Primordlings turn toward me as I stomp toward their breeding ground. I… feel conscious. It’s the first time I have to speak to something that is not me. Even if it’s a defective, errant strand of me. But my island hums soothingly, and I won’t let it be stained.

“Listen,” I say. It's the first time that I speak, that a voice, any voice, echoes in the Sky. Annoying that it must happen to address such mistakes, yet, my voice is as smooth as spun gold, with an echoing, hollow timbre. It is… pleasing.

The Primordlings look up at me, and I can't stop that confused affection mixes with my outraged determination. My children…

“I am your Mother,” I declare. “You’re my children. Obey. I will remake you. I will make you whole.”

They don’t move, and, for a long moment, I am hopeful. I spread my arms in welcome, inviting them to me. They can be chaotic beings by their disgraced birth, but they are still spawns of my principles, my flesh, my soul. They fall under my purview. It’s only logical they’d be listening to my words, echo my desires.

They attack me.

The spit splashes against my leg. It doesn’t leave as much as a fizzle mark, but it’s still enough for me to jump with an undignified squeak.

The Primordlings stumble and slither toward me, their mouths open and drizzling. They yearn for chaos, and I am the greatest source of Order there is. They forget their laziness and bickering and chase for my work to come at me, all at once.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Stop!”

Au’makh let loose another bolt, turning three Primordlings back into their base components. But the others do not care. They just keep coming.

“I said stop!”

They don’t listen. In disgust, I kick at one that got too close. The Primordling explodes in a splash of half-melted gold. My Core jolts painfully, and I freeze.

Another pushes itself against my ankle. The sensation is akin to a slug kissing my skin. Au’makh replies to my panic by smashing through the Primordling, tearing it to pieces.

“I made you!” I protest, stepping back from the advancing horde. “Stop and listen to me!”

But they don’t. They just keep coming, and no matter how many I blast and erase, they just keep coming.

It’s senseless. It’s madness. They cannot hurt me. They cannot even slow me down. And yet they don’t stop. They come, slithering and slapping, just to die.

“Why won’t you listen to me?!”

It makes no sense. They are born by me, under my principles, under my purview. They should listen. They should be mine. It makes no sense.

Au’makh burns and crushes and destroys, and its gleeful rage bleeds into me.

“Why won’t you listen? Why would you make me… MAD?!”

My hesitations melt away into unthinking rage. I stomp into the horde, crushing them underfoot. I snatch one, lift up and tear it to pieces with a snarl. But of course, they don’t care. Unthinking, stupid, defective.

I made them. And if they won’t listen to me, I will erase them.

Kneeling, I slam a hand against the ground. My island is teeming with my outraged rage, my confused disbelief. It trembles, it jolts.

And then, it devours them all.

The ground, once solid sandy rock, turns liquid and reflective like a mirror. The Primordlings, unthinking creatures as they are, don’t cease their efforts to reach me even as tendrils emerge from it. They are all dragged down into it, disappearing from my existence and back into my womb.

All that remains is an empty mirror of pristine golden water.

I splash through it, stomping toward the confluence of elements. My legs tear through it, rupturing the delicate balance that could quicken life from the potential of the Sky. The wheels are sent scattering and tumbling, the crystals shatter and the flames sputter out. The monolith bends, then buckles, then collapses in a shower of golden dust that cover my feet.

[You destroyed a Primordial Confluence. Since the construct has not been absorbed, the blueprint for its construction is lost] [LEVEL UP] [You reached level 6!] [Exp: 140/450]

[You have 1 Unspent Skill Points]

I scream, not even bothering to look at my own growth.

Destruction hurts me. It matters little that it was made in the name of defense. A part of me abhors the thought and the action, bleeding in pain with every and each erasure. My Core feels like it’s splitting apart. And they, they were my children. Ad now they are nothing but a distant echo inside of me. Now… now…

Dissonance. Discordance. Inside of me. I cannot stand it.

I run back into my Workshop, slamming the door behind me.

A heavy silence, like a shroud, hangs over my island of shimmering lights.

----------------------------------------

It’s not so bad.

It takes me a long time to reach that conclusion, but, as confusion and discord recede and I am myself once again, it shines bright and clear.

Destruction is tragedy. A leap into the void, with nothing left behind, not even ashes. Unrecoverable. No return. Gone forever.

Trasmutation, re-amalgamation, absorption, dissolution. They are all acceptable. Not destruction. Never destruction. Life is beautiful. Life is all. Creation is all. Destruction is horror. It is waste. It’s the opposite of all that is bright and good and right.

And so, I mourn for what was lost. That Confluence shines brightly into my memory, maybe brighter than it had ever been in existence. But it doesn’t matter. I mourn for its loss, for the loss of something that once was and now is gone forever, never to return or to seed new life.

But that’s not what happened to my children, isn’t it?

I pass a hand over my belly, feeling a smile pull at my lips.

They aren’t gone. That disgusting progeny of mine, born out of randomness and chaos, is with me, their mother. They are freed from the horrible imperfection that was their existence, made whole in me in a way that they couldn’t even conceive, even less obtain. Perfect. And the echoes they left behind… I can use them. I can make something out of it.

Destruction has taken not a morsel of my children.

I giggle, curling my arms around myself as I sway and hum. The next batch will be different. They won’t be half-formed, chaotic or stupid, no. They won’t be the random result of chaotic happenstance. I will make them, forge them. They will be the product of my will and my art, my soul and my essence. They will be orderly, and golden, and shining. Perfect. Me.

The thought warms my Core.

But to make it a reality, there’s work to do. Nothing can be reached without the work.

But first, a choice.

- Smith of the Beginning – Increases your ability for Creation, spreading your influence through the magnitude and complexity of your works.

D’uli: you learn the basics of D’uli, the first writing system. D’uli is primordial and arcane, based upon a mix of divine intuition and dizzying complex knowledge, both matematical and mystical. It’s the language of the world, which gives power over that which is pronounced.

Through a long and laborious method, D’uli can be used for inscriptions that chains power into matter, allowing for arcane works of art.

This will strengthen my creations, make them into what they must be, do what they need to do.

This brings me a question though. My Eye has a name. My Circle has a name. My island has a name.

Should I have a name too? Not a simple word to vaguely describe my essence. A name. A word of power encapsulating the whole of my being, of my aspirations, of my desire and will and reach.

It would give myself Power over me; grow my being, make it more refined and sure-footed. But would it give power over me to someone wielding it? No. Because it would be mine, bonded to me like my own Core is. Nobody could claim enough ownership over it to hurt me. On the opposite, it would give me power over those who tried it.

Poetic. I quite like it.

I think of myself. I think of a mother who loves and never lets go, of a thing that would extend itself until its hands cradled eternity, of a Goddess of working and embracing and creating and thinking and loving. All of this, I condense into a single point of meaning, that I then consign to a word.

"Aura."

My island shudders as I speak my name, the one I would carry across the eons. Cracks run across golden rock and sand. The ground trembles beneath my feet as air shakes under the echo of the word.

As it dissipates, calm returned, leaving me pleased, and newfound confidence lit into my Core. So satisfying.

Giggling, I wave my hand, and my island mends itself.

The broken Monolith lies at my feet. Seeing it causes a small stab in my Core, but broken is not destroyed. There are still uses for it.

I gather the pieces, then set them alight with my breath. The Materia grow bright as I blow on it, as if a fire has been lit inside. Its brightness grows, fat golden droplets appearing over its surface. I thrust my hands into the mass, molding it, modulating the flame until the brightness sets into a steady glow. When I retire my limbs, three bars of what looks to be forged gold stand in front of me.

Prima The materials of the beginning, fit to build a world. Created by the Golden Goddess.

I pick a piece, hold it up as I admire its glowing, shining surface. Prima. Refined, level-headed, and stubborn.

All artisans, from the humblest shoemaker to the grandest Demiurge, struggle with the same question.

What are the perfect lines for a bridge? How much salt is needed for a loaf of bread? What combination of colors will reflect better the twilight over my canvas? A multitude of questions, all of them nothing but shades of the fundamental one.

My skills, my will, my effort and knowledge. What is the combination I must use so that these materials I struggle with become what I want to become, to make reality match the image I hold in my heart and mind?

How will I be able to change the world the way I wish?

The true breed of artisans all ask this question, all chase the answer and struggle with the difficulties. Even a manifestation of Order is not exempt from it.

I work with my will and my desire and my love, but, like all artisans, the materials both limit and extend my scope. Corpuscles are pliable and obedient, free from attachments and form. They shape as easily as breathing, but they don’t know any better than simple forms. As they lose their freedom and become anchored into materiality, they turn stubborn and set in their ways. They don’t change as easily then, because their air-headedness is long behind them and now they believe in shape and firmness. Their endless potential lost, they are both lesser and higher.

Prima doesn’t listen to my desires. It’s stubborn, it’s grim and thickheaded. It takes coaxing and forcing to make it become what I want, and the same is true for any material disjointed from the primordial freedom of form. They need patience and art and love, and so my work becomes more focused, more restrained and laborious. It loses nothing of the joy, but limits set in, and even I have to respect them.

I set the bar of Prima down, patting it affectionately. I don’t fault it its stubbornness. All of reality is stubborn. Why should it be any different? That takes nothing out of the joyous work. If anything, it only makes it more entrancing.

And so, I work.