Teller of Fate
Sixth Movement: The Fate of Stars
The Wanderer’s Plan
* * *
The Wanderer in the Wastes had many other titles and dire names. Soul and Messenger of Azathoth. The Crawling Chaos. Nyarlathotep.
Though he wasn’t a living thing, he had acquired something resembling Life in his long, long existence.
He had begun thinking and feeling, though he would have dismissed such claims as ludicrous, despite the constant agony of the existence of shattered Færie. Unaware of these tiny gradual changes as he was, he remained oblivious to the consequences of such attributes.
He was feeling satisfaction at this moment and a sense of anticipation. The former had been in short supply until recent days. The latter he would deny feeling to his very end.
He moved at the speed of his thought through the peculiarities of Nonspace.
The Living saw merely coloured spheres when they looked up from the accurséd Impossible City.
He was the Crawling Chaos. The eyes of the Living, not even in their deepest trances and opium dreams, had ever glimpsed most of the wastes he wandered.
He saw the spheres as they truly were, without the dimensional limitations of those trapped in the illusion of Time.
Each sphere was a door to an infinite cluster of Aions. When he glanced at a sphere, He could see all Aions it contained.
Each sphere’s Aions had near identical physical laws.
Nonspace was a metaspace. It compartmented and segregated incompatible sub-Realities.
Some interval later, the Wanderer arrived at his destination.
The sphere he came to rest near was in no particular distinct from any other. A living thing would see it as largely violet, with tangles of green throughout.
The size of these corrals was whatever was convenient for the Wanderer. He decided slightly larger than he—also an invention of fancy—would do nicely.
Passing between spheres was an exclusive right the Wanderer had indulged for the near eternity of his existence. Opening one to allow incompatible Realities to merge was against his nature because such an act might decrease entropy. In this case though, he would make an exception. The resulting chaos he expected would feed his master to death.
Close to, the sphere was mirror smooth. Nothing about it gave any hint of its scale. The Wanderer placed two rag-wrapped hands flat on it. Other than its resistance to his touch, no sensation could act produce.
No words or special gestures did the Wanderer use. He had given the Airgid Templars an elaborate set of instructions whose only real purpose had been to get them to think the right thoughts while obscuring those thoughts’ importance. He now thought the thoughts he needed to think.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
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