[right]For secrets are edged tools,
and must be kept from children and from fools.
[color=gray] - John Dryden, Sir Martin Mar-all[/color][/right]

This is what is known. They coasted along a night-lit highway, the worlds-that-were scattered below in wondrous splendor. Ahead, swad in colors which they could recall the words for but chose not to, heavens curved to a horizon where the birds and the rivers were made of sound. The people in this world were beautiful, woven from constantly singing superstrings. Then it was over, dopplering in their wake and scattered across its moorings. At one point it had been considered to eliminate pain, replacing it with something less [i]distracting[/i]. But pain was a message, and its removal carried the danger of apparent immortality. The best to be done was to make it less debilitating, but its form was at the far end of nuclear and every half-imaginary nerve was punching through the filters.

At the edge of the worlds, where creation was built upon creation, it was about dimension. One degree of freedom over your opponent, and there was no contest at all. Theirs fell fifteen to be here. Their people played with meaning in their infancy, and could literally alter morality in their favor, but where [b]this thing[/b] came from, their creation was nothing but a tiny circle that could be crushed between [b]its[/b] fingers. If [b]it[/b] had [i]any[/i] mind, [i]any[/i] thought at all, it would have been over in an instant. But [b]it[/b] was only firepower, bristled and brought to bear with reckless abandon.

Heavens exploded curveward and rimward, worlds-that-were reduced to never-were as defensive projections scattered. Here, an opening, a space from which to fight. [b]It[/b] roared uncaringly, tendrils engaged in every direction, leveling nearby scenery. They were able to cut loose with their counter-attacks, and for a moment even began to win: With exhaustion setting in, it was not winning, however, but stalling. Something had to give, or it would be the end.

[b][h3]”Come.”[/h3][/b]

Its options were vanishing quickly. Paradoxically, that left but one true option; take what was proffered. A path cleared in its mind, and it grabbed its enemy by the tail and began to accelerate. Secondary and tertiary skins flushed away in white-hot agony as both of them raced towards the border. All [b]it[/b] had was rage and more brandished firepower than its entire civilization combined, but it had thought and purpose. It reached up and heaved [b]the thing[/b] by the tail, sacrificing its hind legs to blow it off-course. The tear was directly ahead, and it – creation was torn violently asunder, darkness closed in on every side. It fell, disconnected from its senses. It did not feel or see the gap close behind it and the worlds-that-were recede, and for a moment there was absolute silence, all the panic gone, all the alarms silenced.

That moment brought composure. It had not been noticed yet; a world-that-could-be, before time and before creation. Ahead, behind, always at the front of its vision, the scroll. It approached with caution; here are others, ready to perceive that which was not ready to be seen. As it curled around the scroll, its purpose became clear. Here, the chance for creation. It was trapped, far from its people, safe yet imprisoned. Already, it yearned to return, and here could be written the bedrock of its efforts.

Information was power. In its infancy, it played with meaning, and the possession of all truth or mistruth by any would surely doom its efforts. There was but one option; it could escape without knowing the breadth of creation, and so first upon the pyre was the sacrifice of everyone’s omniscience. In a small corner, sandwiched between the larger entries scrawled before it. To everyone, there would be secrets. The currency through which it could manipulate its peers and the universe itself.

A pang of homesickness, so early amongst the eons. Given precisely one eternity, it could have staved off such emotions, but it now had a planck heartbeat. A fit of sorrow, and a familiarity from its home written into the foundations of the world-that-could-be. Information and meaning were to be substance, meaningful building blocks of reality that could be picked up and examined. This, it was less careful with; scrawled larger across the fabric. Then, it clamped down, its moment of weakness over, and emotion purged as a liability. It would never be the same, but such sacrifices were necessary. That it would experience no joy upon arrival home could no longer register in its mind as a great loss.

Finally, its gift to itself more than the world-that-could-be; grant the thing, the interloper secrets, and in return creation would grant wonders. Here it placed its benefit into the laws of reality, drawn between the margins of another’s writing. Such a boon was a luxury, and less likely to be rejected if it was the only one; it stopped itself from continuing, and realized it would have to make do with the advantage it had given itself, and not a small one at that. It retreated from the scroll, and hid itself in the non-space from the others.

[hider=Summary]
We start with some wacky scenes. The Eidolon is running from something that has no mind but enough firepower to destroy all of creation (the Eidolon’s world, anyways). They’re losing really badly, and the gesture to come is taken more as an escape.

The Eidolon races the monster to the tear in reality, and the Eidolon wins. It drops into the world and immediately regrets its decision, wanting to go home. It starts writing itself advantages into reality on the scroll, and in a moment of homesickness writes an aspect of its original reality onto the scroll.

It decides emotion is a weakness, and purges it. Ironic, because while it maintains the goal of going home, it has no attachment to that goal and will feel nothing if it goes home.

Once it’s done writin’, it retreats and hides from everyone.

[/hider]