Maybe the Sky has learned from me. Maybe the forging of my first son tipped the Sky down the last metaphysical step it needed to give birth. Whatever the reason, my Greater Self does me a disservice.

  I am no longer alone. Other life flourishes in the Unformed Sky.

  Strange creatures, a mix between bird and fish, soar elegantly, their flight sustained by red wings speckled with gold. Serpentine shapes of iridescent scales and crackling energy slither amongst the cloud. Delicate beings keep ethereal, membrane-like wings wide open as they fall endlessly. Stalks of porcelain extend from deep inside the clouds, uncoiling lazily in the still air. Masses of finger-sized glimmers rush, their movements like those of a single being. A creature that looks like a fat, plumed bird produces a bubble from a stick-like beak; it rides it, making ground where there is none. A mass of butterfly-like wings plays chase with a twin, both circling around each other without end.

  It’s a fascinating spectacle, even if marred by its Otherness. It has been kickstarted by the birth of my first children, I know. The Sky copies what I introduced, even if only by accident.

  Those creatures murmur and rustle, sigh and click. They bring noise to the silence, and it surprises me how much I got used to the latter, comfortable with it even. The new noise is… difficult.

  But that is the least.

  As the fat bird floats beside a cloud, a stalk lazily uncoils outward, popping the bubble it rides. The creature sighs as another stalk drags it into the cloud. It disappears into it, and its kin steers their bubbles elsewhere.

  The scene repeats itself everywhere, the creatures predating each other in a never-ending spiral.

  A mass of sparkling lights engulfs two wing-things, consuming them entirely. A serpentine creature slumps under the beak of a bird, its killer following suit as the spires constricting it robs it of life. A being that resembles a mass of flowing bars falls to pieces as a limb scythes through it. And again, and again, and again.

  Pointless.

  A cycle of predators and prey has no meaning here. The life-giving energies of the Sky provide them all with everything they could ever need. But they still lash out, pushed on by half-formed instincts and desires. They are similar to me in that regard, but theirs is a lust without focus and without vision, a desire without a mind to steer it.

  Animals. Like my first wayward children, they are a manifestation of Chaos, and as such, must be quelled.

  And yet, some struggle to fit that description. The biggest, most powerful, the Sky bends under the weight of their desires.

  A whale-like creature soars ponderously through the Sky, the light of dawn glinting red over the silver plates adorning its sleek body. Clouds turn rimmed with red as it brushes them, and they leave their position to follow its flight, alongside entire schools of fish-things; they swirl and change, their flight turning into a lazy floating as the whale’s desires imprint themselves over their reality. When their master spread its three beaks open, they rush into them, disappearing into the tooth-ridded maws behind it.

  A plumed being that seems carved out of primeval grey rock veined with gold crashes its way through clouds and creatures alike. Those it destroys with its six limbs break apart and turn into the same material, that then orbit around the creature. It makes its kingdom one of destruction, made out of rubble and broken life, upon which the rock-thing feasts endlessly.

  A mass of melted wax is topped by an almost humanoid torso carved out of pale wood and flame. It spreads malformed arms wide, and those around it melt away into wax, only to reform into malformed parodies of life. It matters not that they melt and die instants after their emergence, only that the process of creation continues. And it does so, again and again.

  How very pointless. But the lesser creatures at least lacked the gall of aping my work. These imitators know nothing of art and vision. They do care not for creating a world and bringing order to chaos, only to satisfy their chaotic, rough-hewn desires. They are brainless children playing demiurge. It offends me, deeply.

  When two of the Creators meet, it’s like two icebergs crashing against each other. They clash violently alongside their cohort, more often than not only ending in destroying each other.

  The Sky is merciful, taking the broken matter and making new life out of it, but it doesn’t change the pointlessness of it all. Even Creation can be chaotic, if not steered properly. As much as the act can be joyful, it can truly shine only when directed, guided, and projected toward harmony and perfection. This unbroken circle of creation, animal instinct and destruction is pointless and a waste of the Sky’s potential, the discord of many half-formed minds a stain upon its beauty.

  It won’t stand.

  Many creatures come to my island. Some are attracted by the weight of its Order, wishing with suicidal intensity to become part of it, others, more chaotic, desire to break it apart and make it as they are, like my first children wished.

  As they get close, they fall under the effects of Influence. A mass of pivoting spheres the color of burnished copper turns steadily golden. A bird-thing’s plumage shines with newfound light, its body lengthening and becoming sleeker and more graceful.

  My Influence turns their attribute to Holy, but it’s not enough. They are still Other.

  I take a new step.

  Flying is a universal attribute in the Sky, so they all fall under my purview.

  I direct my will toward the creatures, coaxing them to come to me. They obey at once, flying toward me in groups, each school racing to be the first. One after the other, they sink into my Core, disappearing into the golden flames burning inside.

  Their weak lives disappear into me like sugar into milk. They don’t even leave an echo behind. How disappointing. I hoped to do something with it.

  Others, more stubborn and powerful, resist the pull, struggling against it. I focus my will on these, breaking their insolent defiance. As they disappear into me, they leave echoes, materials for me to use.

  Smiling, I keep harvesting echoes. My island trembles as I work, growing ever larger.

  As long as I have the materials, there is nothing I cannot shape. Life is no different.

  My island shudders and groans as it grows. The Corpuscles gather, forming into Materia that swells it ever larger.

  One of the Creators has given in to temptation. The whale-creature sinks its beaks into my island’s side, the size of each large enough to swallow great mouthfuls of it. Following its master, the swarms of food-beings gnaw over sand and rock termites on wood.

  It is only too late that the creature realizes it has strayed too far.

  My island holds it fast, rock melting into golden sludge. In panic, the monster struggles and thrashes, trying to dislodge itself, but its efforts are for nothing.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I don’t even turn to see the Creator being dragged screaming into my island alongside its cohort.

  Failed invaders are not even worthy of contempt. And I have more important matters to attend to.

  My son offers me his wing, watching curiously as I smooth it. Rock-like, rough-hewn feathers give way to shining, golden metal under my fingers. Sweet, obedient son that he is, he doesn't protest the transformation or the Creator's end. His trust shines bright like a lamp to my eyes. Expected as it is, it still won't go unrewarded, or unnoticed.

  I twitch as another tremor shakes my island, the Creator fighting against its pull. This requires a direct intervention, it seems...

  I pat my son, and I put three fingers on his head and gently but firmly turn him around.

  A mass of tentacles explodes from my back, mouths howling and gibbering over glazed rock and skin, teeth and eyes and nails growing and flowing, violent and hungry. They swarm the Creator, stabbing, crushing, bludgeoning. For a moment, I have the impression of a creature in absolute terror as his body is being violently ripped apart. Then my tentacles engulf him, and he disappears inside my island.

  Ah, peace...

  My child rustles his wings questioningly. I pat him, biding him to wait a moment longer as my tentacles retract, disappearing into my back once again.

  Offering him my hand, I smile as he walks on it, and laugh as he clambers on my arm and shoulder, where he nuzzles my cheek. Ah, sweet child...

  Together with him, I go to inspect the tree. Ilienta is growing well, the tree has reached my waist, with golden buds adorning the tips of the branches.

  “No more unsightly ugliness for you…” I murmur, caressing the a metallic leaf. “You’re so much more beautiful now, aren’t you, little ones?”

  The consciousness of my first children, nestled inside the tree, sparkles in answer. I smile.

  Sitting down by the tree’s base, I look at myself.

  I giggle, excited, and more when my son, picking up my emotions, improvises a little dance on my shoulder. My growth is proceeding splendidly.

  Happy, I take my choices, expending the last of my growth for now.

  As I finish my choices, I lay my head against the tree’s bark. Inside of me, I can feel myself changing, and growing. Above me, I can hear my children rustling and chirping, healthy and safe.

  This is it. This must be contentment.

  Still, danger and uncertainty cannot be allowed to touch my children. Ripping my first attempt at a door from its holders, I throw the disgrace into the Forge. Watching it melt away into slag is pleasant. It is glad to work the one that allows to remedy one’s mistakes.

  My Workshop fills with dancing shadows as my hammer rises and falls. I can feel my children’s curious gazes upon me, and it adds strength to my inspiration, gives power to my arm.

  The end product is something to marvel at.

  Grinning widely, I shape one of the Tree’s branches. I make it thicker, and stronger, tapering its end into a powerful hook. To that, I hang the treehouse. Like this, as soon as they are born, my children will have a place to call home.

  My Core melts at the sight. My children…

  I am invigorated as I return to my work.

  My island has grown considerably. A ring of untouched land now surround the stretch dotted by my first work

  Picking a point of the open space, I raise a new monolith. But this one will be different.

  The core of the construction is made out of Materia, which I carve and smooth, giving the monolith four, even sides. These I cover with plates of shining Prima, until the rock-like Materia inside is completely covered and only forged, shining gold remains to be seen. The process is completed with a pyramid-shaped topping made entirely out of Prima; it completes the casing, making the Monolith into a thing of sharp edges and gold shine.

  Using my finger, I carve the sharp letters of D’uli over all four sides of the Obelisk. It’s a long, laborious work, but by the end, the construct is covered with a ewb of spidery scriptures speaking of Creation and Shaping.

  With one last touch, it is done.

  The pleasure of another work completed to satisfaction courses through me. It’s an invigorating, youthful sensation that makes me desire to skip and dance.

  Limiting myself to a smile, I watch as my Obelisk activates. Light fills the scriptures, like molten gold running through a web of channels. A corona of light gathers around the pinnacle, motes of gold trembling inside of it. The whole construct thrums, the vibration clear for me, but barely at the edge of perception for anyone else.

  I nod, pleased. This will do.

  A sudden tremor shakes the ground.

  Annoyance runs through me. A frowning eye emerges from my back to watch.

  Sure enough, one of the Creators is assailing my island.

  It’s a new thing, a half-formed jumble of limbs and beaks and tentacles, all turning and circling around a single, unblinking toad eye.

  As I watch, it flings a part of itself at my island, causing another tremor. The mass of flesh and bone melts as it flops over my domain, turning into sludge and then into nothing.

  I set my gaze over this new interloper. I wonder, does it attack in this way out of intelligence or because of its own malformed nature?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I lift a hand. My island answers, rumbling. It groans and struggles, before a massive, tongue-like protrusion emerges from its side. The limb’s surface boils, sand and rock turning into a contorted glassy substance. It shudders, cracks and snaps echoing from inside, and I feel the changes like they are happening over my own skin and flesh.

  The limb swings, uncoiling like a snapping whip. As the shudder reaches the end, the tip of it rips open with a birthing scream, revealing rows upon rows of rocky teeth.

  It was about time these Creators were shown their place.

  My fingers twitch. The Bane throws itself out in the Sky with a shriek. Too fast for the Creator to avoid. The teeth sink between masses of roiling beaks and limbs. Pieces of flesh fly as the creature is dragged back toward my island. It screams shrilly, as if many voices. But there is no mouth I can see. Curious.

  The Bane slows down and then coils on itself, carefully bringing the prey lodged into its mouth to me.

  Raising gently from the ground, I inspect it.

  The creature is even more hideous up close. Amputated stumps wave pitifully, bleeding sludge. Ripped flesh roils and ripple like mud. I see the mouths. Lipped, lipless, beaked or simple holes; they open and close, emitting a cacophony of variations over the same, pathetic whine. The toady eye weep ichor. I peer into it, but there is no intelligence to be found, only wild, animal terror.

  I scoff, drawing back.

  “Only malformed nature then.”

  The creator screeches as it disappears down into the Bane. A swelling goes down the limb, disappearing into my island’s main form.

  Tasty.