THE ANTIBEAST -- the first, a prototype, a failure in the grandest of schemes. A strange existence, a sentience born from nightmares yet whose purpose was to eradicate all evil, all falseties, all thieveries of truth from our world and the next. Many would say its existence in itself, is a paradox, and perhaps that would be why it failed to be that blinding strike of light in the dim and horror... but rather, more of a small candle in the darkness, a small reprieve in the crushing shadows, a small bubble of rest to sit and hold by your side and keep the beasts at bay.

They call him by many names these days. They've never been a fan of presenting themselves to the public, nor occupied with the notion of "self". They let the masses call them whatever they'd like. So they'd chosen to call them a "he", and that was the simplest of that bit.

Names. Names were such a tricky little thing. It seemed unfair to him that someone would give you a name once, and you would be stuck with that name for all eternity. All eternity was a pitifully long time to be known by a single name. A single name denoted a single person, a single person meant a single tie, a single connection to last through the years into oblivion. It just didn't seem fair. So for every person, he let them call him whatever they wished, to let them mold him into their image. And they did, and he was thusly known by a myriad of names through the eons. He loved every one of them, with whole heart, body, and soul. They would die and disappear, eventually, but he would not -- and while the world forgot them, he would remember the name they gave him, and he would remember their face, their life, forever.

Forms were just as difficult. The typical order of things, it seemed, was to be given a form, and maintain that form until he had no such energy left to do so; but he didn't understand such a thing, when they were creations of nebulous aether. Then he walked among the commons, reached a hand to dreams and nightmare, and understood physical desire, to touch personally the things that piqued his curiosity so. He went through a few, testing alternatives here and there with the times, even tried the kind of body that most instead called them "she" -- but in the end, he returned to his first chosen form. Standard, simple, recognizable... with a splash of tartan, a trend he picked up and never let go, of course.

And lastly, "place". Everyone put such weight on a thing to call "home", didn't they? He saw a variety of them, seeing grand castles, great open plains, cozy cottages -- even dark and damp caves, or hellish scapes that to him, seemed rather uncomfortable, but seemed to make its resident happy, so that was none of his business. If home was the place he was created, then he found it to be rather unpleasant: a space of floating white, of boundless purity, of order, order, order. Still, he had no intentions of going to the other side, the abyssal dark with the floating, chaotic imagery and feelings that quite literally could turn his world upside down. That was all just a tad too much for him. But he had a great love for the world in-between, the slight clutter but in the way that was endearing, the clean and precise without being overbearing. In the end, he chose this, settling in a building quiet inside, where he could observe the bustling outside with peace.

...Though, of course, and over the years as he chronicled this world that he loved, his home had become awfully cluttered with books and green...