The|MULTIVERSE

In the Words of Ricven: Chosen One My Ass

There had always been a time before time. A time where worlds have yet been born. A time where all that remained stood an endless ocean of stars and cosmic wildfire. It was then that these mighty entities; gods; primordials; divines, sprung from nothing and forged the very ground we walk on. They are the architects of worlds, grand authors over our life tales...and the bastards who pull the direst of dick moves.

Yeah, I said it.

Gods, no matter what word you use to paint them or what religion you spin, are dicks. Big dicks; bigger than my own dick.

And my dick is big, too.

I remember my first time convening with these gods. They call themselves Aeons. Five of them exist. Or, is it seven? One of them is the most benevolent of sweethearts, but one hates the shit out of me. Critical fucker that one is; very condescending and adverse in his judgments at every turn of the word.

While the firsts I've met look to me to venture into the worlds beyond, one of them is the sole ass reason me and my crew are scrambling around the multiverse like a band of universal pack hunters hitting anything that moves in ways indescribable to man.

You see...before time was time, one of the Aeons got real sick in the head. The others realized how nuts their sibling godhead had gotten and have taken it upon themselves to put him down. They split the corrupted turkey into six hundred and sixty-six prison spheres and scattered them across the multiverse. Once the worlds were born, every last one of those spheres got coincidentally gobbled-up into these worlds and that in itself meant prisons inside of prisons. As the order of light and dark took their tolls, these celestial space balls ended up doing something not even the Aeons expected—oddly fucking so for not even I could fathom on how that happened.

The fallen Aeon's triple six pieces started to deteriorate and free the spawns of incomprehensible evil.

Starting to think that's how evil itself took wing, to begin with.

Theory has it—no, this ain't no theory, this is a damn infallible fact—that the evil about these worlds where these spheres inhabit manage to tarnish and crack their hold. One would claim that doesn't make any lick of blasted sense, given a shit load of factors one could pull out of the dirt, opinions are such blind assholes, but like I said, spawns of incomprehensible evil. The logic is there, it's just way over the head of one who doesn't want to grasp it. It's so high, that it's surpassing pay grades and a billion times over the leagues.

It's best not to think about it and just act.

And acting is what I've been doing since first kill.

And here I had many believe we were just extra-dimensional traveling baddie-bashers confronting evil in the cracks. It's a lot more complex than that. But who am I to explain such a thing to the common man? I mean, sure the last four we've smashed resembled your average beasts, but the larger than life fuckers have a few dead giveaways.

First and foremost, if you ever run into someone or something that gives off an ominous lime green glow, you run. You haul ass like motherfucking hell and you best not look back.

Now, the sorest of the ole eldritch thumb is their shitload amount of tentacles. Yes. I know. Not everything with tentacles is considered old cosmic horrors, but in this case, it is to an extent. All they do is wobble around like wild dicks with tips straight out of a depraved work of fiction crafted by some perverted scribe who never dipped his nozzle into the pink of a woman—unless we're talking different colors; free game. Some possess heads loaded with teeth. Just think hell leeches or worse. Others are prickle-shafted, variants shoot thorns at you, and then you have those that do nothing.

Well. There was this one incident when one tried to infiltrate Hanakin's no zone.

Next hint of the abominable is their minds. How they speak, act; think. Their wisdom is old; older than time and space, and how they talk. That's another thing in itself. I can't go into full detail, not because I can't, I just rather not, but what I can tell you is that trying to comprehend an eldritch is setting your brain up to get dicked down so bad that you'll ejaculate brain matter from the nose. That shit ain't pretty.

I've seen it happen.

On the plus side, the callous cretins we face are nothing but fragmented husks of a greater form. I say that figuratively because despite how incomplete these shits appear, they still can do some incredible damage if pushed. Each eldritch fragment has a special power for defense sake, and the best offense is a great defense.

Or is it the other way around?

Who cares?

We have yet to slip in sending one back to the Aeons in a ball of aethric light. Killing one reverts them to subdued appearance. The nethric spark is smothered in aethra, and all of that is stuffed in a single orb. It's the prison they were once put in before the Aeons thought it a great idea to scatter them into the all-verse.

With all the chaos popping off, the spheres are breaking down, and these things are running amok causing all kinds of crap. And I, along with my gang, have to clean it up.

And they call me the "Everyman", "Multiverse Knight", "The Chosen One."

Who the fuck said I was the chosen one anyways? I'm far from it. I accept the other titles but chosen one is too damn cliche to me. I may have been raised up on a farm, and I may have been determined by the greater than all to vanquish the darkness that blots out the light, lightbearer duty, but I ain't no damn chosen one and I'm far from the only one putting super foot to mega ass.

The next motherfucking-ass-fucker to call me such a thing, or anything remotely similar to it, I'm punching the pure dragon shit out of them.

Unless it's a kid...or a warm and chewy chick. They get the free pass.

Ricven T. McQueen

Journal Log

(Art by Flea)

The|MULTIVERSE

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