First, you must allow me to set the context. The muses described here are a part of a greater celestial mythos- a mythology woven of the threads of other myths, personal beliefs, fictions, and pure phantasm. They are more than fiction, and not less than reality but alongside it- parallel perceptions which now and then cross paths in ways which I hope provide a supporting structure, and points of familiar reference, like landmarks to which those who explore these paths may return, so that they will not be lost in the complexities of another world. The author of these texts is herself a muse, and she, the avatar of the mundane flesh which is encompassed within her eventual totality.
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Before everything else...there was Chaos. This primordial Chaos was the substance from which all reality sprang. None can say what consciousness drew upon it, what hand first gave shape to that substance, or if the Chaos itself drew together to forge conceptual bonds, like celestial synapses in a sleeping emptiness. Some believe in an eternity before the first time, that this reality is only a single wave in an ocean of Chaos tides. That one single enlightened conscience remained when all else was scattered by the perfection of Entropy, and that it was this sleeping mind which drew with it's dreams upon the Chaos, and breathed life into the universe once again. There are others who suggest that even the tiniest speck of matter lying static in that Chaos field had within it the spark of it's own consciousness, which sprang into life, and set reality once again into motion. That free will is a force like unto God, and that each being creates itself, and contains within itself the capacity for infinite creation- or destruction. Some, too, are there who say that both things are true, and that the conflict of Matter and Thought lie at the heart of the eternal War- But the War... that came much later. My people are believed by many to be the oldest. Few are there who would dispute it, for we are creatures of pure creative Chaos- it is the substance in which our consciousness dwells and thrives. In our natural state, we drift, little more than dreams ourselves, each entity scarcely conscious of its own individuality at all. When the first of the Celestials came to be, we were drawn to them, inhabited them, and took their flesh as our own. We lived as they did, and reveled in physical form, and we suffered as they suffered, and died as they died. In turn, we were born, as were they, and so there was very little division between the Celestial beings and ourselves. We walked among them, and many of my kind forgot themselves and were lost in those first times. Those whose souls were Chaos souls lived long, healed quickly, and were sometimes venerated by their kin. But the Chaos calls to its own. We crave it- indeed, require it- for our very existences. And so we are drawn, even in our physical flesh, to wild minds and spirits, to danger and passion, to power and emotion, and in this way, many more were lost to madness, to terrible sorrow, or to depredation of the flesh we had taken for our own. It is so even still, and the tattered shreds of the spirits of Chaos- of the Muse, as we came to be called- remain, passed down in their progenitors, as the flash of wild inspiration, the spark in the eye of a memory of a thousand years past. Still, some continue, whole, or mostly so, spirits of the primordial dwelling in flesh of every sort imaginable in the infinite realms of Reality, immortal in spirit, blessed or cursed to rebirth in new flesh each time a corporeal body fails.
Of the Muse, you must know that our flesh is not stolen! It is crafted by nature the same as any creature. Our Chaos fills it, as any soul might- and this too is debated, for though we do not displace any living soul, it is uncertain whether we inhabit vessels otherwise empty, or merge with, or dwell in symbiosis there within. It is a delicate subject, and few, myself included, care to dwell long on what might be the truth of it.
Before I tell you of the other Celestial and sub-Celestial beings, I should probably first give you some understanding of the ways of the Muse, so that you might better understand our place in this complex tapestry. I have said we are beings of the Primal Chaos, and that we depend critically upon it's presence for our existence. We have come over the millenia to hone our understanding of that power, and how to nurture it, as one might gently fan an ember into a flame. Our name was given to us by the ancient humans of Crete, who superstitiously interpreted us as minor, but powerful deities, because of this ability to seemingly feed the fires of creativity, and our extreme longevity and healing capacity which permits not only long life, but long youth, as well. (They also were mistaken in believing that musae are exclusively female.) A brief word on this: the Muse's flesh can die of age, but injury and sickness can only do so when the muse is without access to some source of Primal Chaos, which are plentiful in the presence of any race but the Angelics. Given access to Chaos, a Muse may regenerate from virtually any injury, and they will do so. Without such a source, or when the source is extremely limited, (as in the case of the Angelics,) the Muse may simply wither and die, even without injury or illness. The spirit of the Muse is bound as tightly to its flesh as any other corporeal being, and will struggle to endure under even the most agonizing conditions.
A Muse, under most circumstances, will retain all, or at least most, of the memories of it's various incarnations throughout it's vast lifespan, but the weight of such experiences can be heavy. On occasion, that weight will become more than the spirit can bear. In these circumstances, he or she may fall into a kind of fugue state, forgetting their nature, and becoming lost. The spirit of a lost Muse may wander many lifetimes bearing a constant veil of inexplicable sorrow, or sense of seeking some unknown fulfillment they can't even identify. Some who are lost never find themselves again, and slowly deteriorate over many lives until only tatters remain.
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