Thousands of realities, spread in front of one’s eyes, all merging, blurring, together in an array of hues and colour. Some closer than others, tethered together by a few similarities. Others drifting off on their own, a self-contained reality in this mess of truth and lies.

Yet between them all, between the kaleidoscope of time and space, new realities fill in whatever space available. Replacing the destroyed and the stagnated, lasting for moments and sometimes even centuries, but never forever. In the end, all will be replaced.

In this realm, time had little meaning. Seconds pass for some, and others, eons. But how can one tell? When their entire existence is set on a timescale that is different for every being?

It’s simple, one doesn’t.

But it is of little worry, for very few ever see another in this realm. For space is infinite, and beings are rare.

There are some who found others, an undead gentleman, a cat, and a bioweapon for example. Sometimes these beings join each other in their duties of tending to the realities, other times, they only speak in passing, leaving moments after, sometimes, never to see each other again.

These beings were, are, will be, known only as the Storytellers. They tend to the realities, crafting, influencing, and polishing them into their image. But, even they will fade in time. And with them, their realities crumble and falter, only rarely continuing after their absence.

For these are their stories and not all end in the way one expects. Some, if not most, just… stop. The seconds turn to nothing, and the citizens of the story know not the passage of time. They feel nothing as the void breaches the walls and they fall into nothingness. They pass with nothing. No pain, no joy, no screams, and no recognition.

Sometimes though, one of them survives the collapse. Be it fate, or careful crafting, these few join the storytellers and create their own realities. Which, in turn, would fade and collapse like all those before it.

These New-tellers often fade the fastest, but, some rise higher than the others and stalk the fields of realities for many years. And sometimes, for a rare few, they last even longer, affecting the other Storytellers for the better, or worse, guiding others around them to new heights, or new lows. And in turn lasting even longer than most, and even after they fade, they are remembered in the hearts and minds of the other Storytellers.

As a wise man once said, “They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.”

Maybe it is true, maybe not. But in the end, these realities, these stories, are their legacy. Seen only by the other dwellers of the void, and the other Storytellers. But even then, memory is a fickle thing. And often, what was made, and what was remembered are similar, but not the same.

“So… is this the end?”

Sound, like time, was different here. It was less the manipulation of air, and more the ideas being spread from one to another. Sometimes it would even skip the mouth entirely, becoming something closer to telepathy.

“No.”

There isn’t air in the void, beings here don’t require such things. To those without the necessity of breathing, air becomes more of a luxury than a requirement.

“Then why are we here?”

With a light sigh, a heavily scarred grey wolf looked up from his edge of reality. Said wolf was covered in a thick fur, only parted around his eyes and scars, particularly around a long, thick scar running through his right eye.

“I do not know. This is less a decision, and more a feeling of what to happen next.” The wolf explained, shrugging.

This wolf Storyteller, only recently freed of the title of ‘New-teller’, tended only a handful of realities, with none yet fallen to the void. One reality of his own creation, a pair he maintained, and a final one he only looks at in passing.

“What of Arcane? Shall he make an appearance?”

The other, being little more than a face in a red mist, was older. Having tended to his own reality for years in his own timestream, he had influenced more than he cared to count.

“It is not his time, as I wish for him to remember it. It makes things more… interesting.” The wolf explained, gazing at three semi-transparent panes of glass. With one showing a blue and grey stallion dozing off on a train, another of the same stallion walking through a marshland, and the final one of the stallion fighting a clockwork golem.

“So you’re just pretending to be active?” The mist asked, a thin smile on his… face?

“Noooo… Maybeeee?” The wolf offered pitifully, “Look, I wanted to do something about random timestreams and then I started rambling… now we are here.”

“So this is just filler. How long are you going to drag this on for?”

“About this long.”

Author's Notes:

AN: So... I've got no bloody idea what I was doing here. No event or anything caused this, just shower thoughts. xD
Weapons' EN: The best thoughts.