In the beginning, there was nothing.
And then, suddenly, a trickle of consciousness. No more than a fleeting thought really, but enough for a small shadow of being to start swirling in that empty space. It paused, resting for a while, building up strength as it gathered itself around, subtly morphing into intricate patterns.
If gods can be said to have sprung from the minds of men, then what was happening here could only be described as the birth of one. The shadow fed upon the thoughts of its creator, shifting according to his descriptions, absorbing the skritch of the pen on paper as if the ink was its own lifeblood. It grew and moved and twisted itself into a form vaguely human, though slightly blurred, as if it was not sure what it was meant to be yet. Detail slowly etched itself onto the shadow, while colors bled across its surface. The shadow moved of its own will now, inspecting itself as flesh became solid, clothes rustling with newness.
The pen paused on the paper. All activity on the shadow stopped, as if holding its breath, waiting for the final act that would complete it, make it whole.
Words held power. They could create or destroy. The right words need to be chosen.
Say them.
Say your right words.
The pen dipped into the inkwell and without hesitation wrote in a loose, flowing script:
Jareth, the Goblin King.
There was no change but for a sudden heaviness, as if before now he was never real, only a piece of imagination. The new Fae examined himself, reveling in the feeling of fabric on skin, hair brushing his face, and magic crackling in his fingertips.
Goblin King.
Jareth.
He gave a feral smile and ran his tongue along a pointed canine. It would do nicely.
