The Scribe

I have long resigned myself to my fate. Besides, there is some pleasure to be had in it, a connection to more worlds than any others have ever stepped foot in. The dying breath of a universe giving life to another... now that is not a sight most anyone is able to behold.
— Notes from the Scribe

Vintage Writing Hand by Gordon Dylan Johnson

I remember little of my life before my current existence, just enough to recall that I had one. We were a society of world-shapers, of little gods creating little universes in which we would dictate the laws of everything. I don't recall if I was a world-shaper, if perhaps I was learning to become one, or perhaps I was simply surrounded by them.
I recall an event of significance, though the details still elude me. Something happened, something unprecedented, something spectacular, something horrific. All I can remember was how it ended: me, cast away from my people, into the confined of the multiversal void between all my brethren's worlds.
It is a lonely existence, etching these stories into the walls of the void my sole form of entertainment. But the more I write, the more I recall of my home, of my people. Perhaps this will eventually grant me the knowledge to return home - or at the very least, the certainty that there is no way back.