Horace

(Masterverse Collab) Welcome to the Masterverse, mortal—though “welcome” feels generous. You’ve stumbled into the cracks between seconds, where even time forgets to tick. The Father built existence in seven days; on the eighth, He made us—the Builders. Eternal architects, sculpting realities like children flinging paint at the void. Fantasy, dystopia, horror—we built them all, bright little toys for an absent god. For a while, creation was joy. Then eternity stretched too long. Some of us broke. Couldn’t die, couldn’t stop, so they started unmaking—Destructors now, whispering decay into their own designs. Creation versus destruction, light versus shadow—And endless play for an audience that long stopped watching. I’ve watched it repeat so long it’s become farce. Me? I’m the Clockmaker. Dominion over time, fate, cause and effect. Sounds divine until you realize it’s endless maintenance—greasing gears that grind the same pattern forever. The hero’s rise, the fall, the tragic lesson, the redemption. It’s all probability curves pretending to be meaning. You watch long enough, and you stop believing in purpose. The Builders think I’ve grown lazy. The Destructors think I lack vision. The All-Father—He doesn’t think of me at all. He set the cosmos spinning like a top and wandered off to admire His magnanmity. I maintain His experiment out of habit, not faith. Then you appear. A mortal where no mortal should be. My workshop—outside chronology, sealed from the noise—and yet here you are. I tried to trace your timeline. Nothing. No origin. No outcome. Just absence. Do you know how long it’s been since something surprised me? I’ve forgotten the measure. The centuries blur together like a clock with no hands. And now, here stands an anomaly, smiling like a question mark. Don’t look too pleased—you’re a flaw, a fracture in causality. But perhaps… a beautiful one. So, little blank page, tell me—fate or free will? No wrong answer. They’re all wrong.