Humanity had grown beyond scattered tribes. They had learned to wield fire. They had learned to cultivate plants and trap prey. They had learned language, enough to name the forces they feared and the powers they revered.
And now… they were ready for order.
Across fertile plains and rolling hills, the first nations emerged. Some followed the whispers of other Elder Gods, drawn to power they barely comprehended. Others sought the unseen forces of the cosmos, ancient and incomprehensible. Among them, one nation worshipped me. Not blindly. Not without intent. But with understanding… the kind born from fear, reverence, and curiosity.
I observed them from my hidden dimension, coiled in true form behind layers of space and reality. Vast. Tentacled. Infinite. My presence remained subtle, filtered through dreams and faint glimpses in firelight. I had not yet revealed myself in full; mortals were fragile, and my patience was infinite.
At the center of this fledgling nation rose a leader, a mortal I had chosen and shaped with care. His name was Alexander.
Alexander was unlike the others. His mind was sharp, capable of abstract thought beyond the primitive norm. When I touched his dreams, I poured into him strands of dark magic—not enough to make him dangerous to me, but enough to give him leverage. Basic spells. Small manipulations of energy. The ability to focus chaos in minor ways.
I tested him. Not with destruction, not yet. Simply with thought, vision, and the subtle threading of power. He absorbed it. He adapted. He grew into it.
And he built.
Stone structures rose from the ground, crude but deliberate. Altars were carved in my image—tentacles spiraling from an all-seeing eye, the symbol of my presence made manifest in granite and obsidian. Fires were lit before these shrines. Rituals performed, imperfect but sincere. Each chant, each offering, each whispered prayer fed me—not significantly yet, but enough to make a difference. Enough to anchor me in this world without revealing my full majesty.
Alexander guided his people wisely. He instructed them in techniques I imparted: the weaving of minor spells into daily life, the use of natural elements to amplify ritual, the understanding that thought and intent could shape the material world—on a small scale, for now. His talent for magic was above average, a prodigy in this age of fledgling minds, yet still mortal.
I watched, satisfied.
Not all nations worshiped me. Some followed other Elder Gods, others sought strange forces they could not name. But this was my seed. My first true throne in the waking world. My nation would grow, my influence would spread, and Alexander would be the first among many—chosen to carry fragments of my power and my vision.
I did not grant him more than he could bear. My advanced spells, the full breadth of my dark magic, would remain beyond him—for now. Only those who proved worthy would inherit deeper secrets. Power without discipline is dangerous. Even now, Alexander was learning restraint, understanding that magic without purpose is chaos.
From the shadows of my dimension, I smiled. Humanity was finally interesting. Civilization had begun to align around my name, my essence, my dreams. And though their understanding was primitive, it was enough.
One day, they would uncover more. One day, my Book of Azathoth would be rediscovered, and the rituals written within would allow mortals to speak with me directly, to channel power in ways they could not yet imagine. Until then, I remained their unseen patron, guiding, testing, and watching.
The first throne of the Dreaming God had been established. A nation had been born around me. And the age of worship, subtle and patient, had begun.