Sz/PMELocations
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Autochthonia
Autochthonia--which refers to the survivable sections of Autochthon's body--is a perfect machine. Millions of gears, to which planets of Creation appear as motes of dust, run in a flawless harmony, their RPMs corresponding to all the prime numbers of the world. Arcs of naked lightning rip through the airless void between the gears and cogs, coating the surrounding surfaces in electric tones of blue and white. Through the shadows, hundred laser beams move about without disturbing the darkness of the place, like hundred glowing spider legs weaving something on the surface. Thin yet sturdy cables layer over immobile surfaces, and sometimes they are pulled by some kind of mechanism at the end and crawl about the tiny spaces they can manage.
The heart of Autochthonia thrums about several years of travel from this relatively mundane part of Autochthon. As you approach the Godhead, you will notice that the ancient cogs whose revolutions rival those of stars have become merely mountainous, and soon they will be as little as your own person. The crudeness of electric arcs disappear and light fades away from the place as the ruthless efficiency makes luminescent waste of energy impossible. The materials that make up the Machine God's bowel become sharper and smaller, to the point where the machinery are now in scale of motes of Essence. Closer to the Godhead yet, the gears now transcend materiality and now it is the very air itself which computes the future of every individual motes of Essence within Autochthon's cosmic person.
The Godhead cannot be approached. No thing outside Autochthon's soul can withstand the crushing complexity of that place, just as no thing of Creation can stand up to the complete meaninglessness of Pure Chaos. As the last surviving, whole Primordial, Autochthon wishes to emulate this level of transcendent complexity across the entirety of all possible realities. Surely, infinity must have been the reward for he who wins the Games of Divinity. It is transcendentally just that the Machine God to become everything.
After separating himself from Creation, the nature of Autochthonia has changed to approximate the divine personality of the Machine God. There is no point in Autochthonia which does not have an explicit purpose. The cosmic constants within this place has been manipulated for maximum possible efficiency, and as such the forces of entropy have been nearly eliminated. Yet, the manipulations were ordered by Autochthon's supernatural mind. To most people, the adjustments he made seem just as chaotic as the natural orders of Creation.
Within Autochthonia, every single human being and every single human soul is a component within this cosmic machine. From the moment the idea of a new human being is conceived, it is given a purpose and a mission. From the moment of birth, it will be modified to serve its function. From the moment this new child lifts its tool, it will not cease to function until expiration. This destiny comes to the Autochthonians just as naturally creative drive comes to the Malfeans and curiosity comes to the Creation-born. Recognizing that such exists would be considered stranger than challenging it.
Billions of Autochthonian workforces are overseen by trillions of Autochthonian machine spirits. Truly and literally, the Machine God is omniscient within Autochthonia--his will is fate itself within this place. Yet it is not often when the will of the Machine God manifests to iron out a mortal's misdemeanor or a malcontent. It would appear that Autochthon's grand machine seems to account for the human possibility of differentiation and individuality.
...
(Think 1984 multiplied by the Matrix multiplied by the world outside the Matrix multiplied by Soviet Russia multiplied Victorian age factories that is run by an omnipotent Laplace's Demon who has gone a little insane.)
Malfeas
Malfeas burns.
This strangulating world glows with the fervent green light of Ligier, the Green Sun, which is its day, and the sickening mercury rainbow that drenches from the hole at the Yozi's heart, which is its night. It is impossible for shadow to exist within this prison. In such a situation, one comes to realize the horror of everything and, in turn, to understand Malfeas' madness.
Pattern does not exist on Malfeas' ground. Without warning, the tearing razorblade winds of Adorjan blows across the land like a cyclone, and sometimes the hungry bile of Kimberry bubbles up from the sky and everything dies. Sometimes all the flowers in all realities blossom from a rotting corpse and let out a sweet scent and sometimes the emerald birds in the sky sing a song whose beauty validates the fear of standing so close to Deep Chaos. Everything is inexplicably beautiful and cruel. It is this utter randomness of everything which has been killing the Yozi for thousands of years.
The only constant within the mad Primordial's stomachs is Ligier, the Green Sun, which is the Heart of Malfeas, which is the last remaining soul of Malfeas. In a way, he is the only thing which connects Malfeas, the fallen Primordial, and Malfeas, the mad Primordial.
...
