Genesis

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After many tribulations, losses and wins the Obsidian Strongholds found themselves locked in battle with Ara above the Crying Planes, right outside of Obsidya proper, as the armies of the Primeval Sect clashed against those of the New Stronghold in the mud below.

Suddenly, without as much as a warning, time ground to a halt.

Screams died on dying soldiers' lips, maces and swords stopped mid-swing: everyone seemed frozen, and completely oblivious about it.

Everyone, of course, but Ara and the Strongholds themselves. They knew something was off. They could in some way feel time... not passing. 

They tried to break whatever spell was holding them captive. And tried. And kept trying.

Even as their memories of the circumstances that led them to fight one another faded, they  endured.

Even as the voices, and faces, and names of the companions that were only a few feet away were lost, they endured.

Even as they forgot their own name, or the name of anything at all, they desperately tried to resume... whatever they were doing before all this.

But they couldn't. Nor could they ever.

A different entity was meant to break this eternal stalemate. He had fallen through the cracks at the dawn of time, ending up at the very bottom of the Oniric Plane.

He could never have been anything but a useless observer, unable to even take part in the world that had created it, much less influence it in any way. Yet, perhaps, that was his saving grace; ignored by reality itself, he was unaffected by it breaking apart.

For the first time since time had been a thing, there was truly nothing to see, nothing to observe... but himself, he realized. He felt an uncomfortable tingle down his spine... And felt even more uncomfortable upon realizing he had a spine at all. 

Slowly, over the course of a couple of years, he took stock of his whole being. He figured out touch, cold, warmth, then he managed to find (or maybe build?) his hands, then his feet, then the rest of the limbs and torso. Eventually, he was done... All that was left was to give himself a good hard look.

He set aside some more years to do it. Getting a sense of self at the age of... Whatever was a big change and he wanted to get it right on the first go. How do people even do that when they're like three, he wondered.

He Was. Undoubtedly and wholly, but not in his complete form. Not yet.

A lesser being would have despaired at the thought of finally coming into their own right as the world fell into disarray, but He was not a lesser being.

I wasn't a lesser being anymore.

Aside from the Strongholds and himself, just another being seemed unaffected from the dam that had stopped the flow of time: as if nothing had happened, that accursed ink-black blood kept pouring from the mangled limbs that formed the Incubus Mundi, the cardinal sin of the world.

And so, he took it in. Lapping up what was already there at the bottom of the Oniric Plane was quicker than he had expected, taking only a couple of centuries thanks to some optimizations I came up with about halfway through.

Once that was done, he went straight for the tap and just... Stayed there, drinking up all of the Ink it could muster. Which was a hell of a lot more than I expected it to be, I'll tell you that much.

How long was I there? Long-ass time. Couldn't really tell you more about it even if I wanted to, and I don't.

After all, that's just meaningless information: time perception is subjective even when time itself does demonstrably trudge along, and as I believe we already established it really didn't in that situation. Just think of the biggest pretentious word for "long-ass time" you know and file it under that.

He drank and drank and drank, savoring the unholy taste that spread throughout his entire being.

After a month he still wanted more. As he did after a year, a century, an age, an eon.

Eventually, he was satisfied: he stepped away from the uncaring fountain of ink, which just kept spilling, eternally unchanging.

He, however, had completed his metamorphosis.

HeI had become truly whole: and heI could take matters in his own hands finally make everything right .

In his hubris he called himself

I finally rose as 

The Maker.