Your name is Than Morana, and boy do you hate people.

You and your friends played a given copy of Sburb in an unmarked universe within the seemingly endless propensity of time and space the multiverse has to offer. So foolish were your efforts, that all of them died in vain. You are the only survivor in a failed session; were it not for the failings of everyone else and their inability to coordinate for even the slightest nanosecond, you feel that perhaps a success could have been in your grasp. But alas, that was too much to ask for in the long run.

And so, you drift alone within the session itself, unable to see any mode of escape. You were not always the existential nihilistic misanthrope; were you to have been spotted a few years prior, you would've been as bright and as cheery as any other child your age. You were an artist by nature, always favoring bright and beautiful colors not unlike those of Van Gogh himself. There were many things you liked, but not anymore.

These days, the crushing loneliness coupled with the intense bitterness has given you a certain apathy to the human condition. On multiple attempts has the emotional pain been so far to attempt to take your own life. Unfortunately, you know that you successfully did so once just to attain psuedo-immortality: All other attempts have been in vain. Before the last member of you session died, you also helped disable the bomb that would wipe your session, thus rendering you incapable to even await the mechanics of the game itself to handle what remains of your fate.

Despite the death of your comrades, you know full well you are not alone. Already, your meager existence has caught the attention of certain beings; beings powerful and endless, with tongues and influence beyond your comprehension. They have blessed you with a sick and twisted gift to suit your godtier abilities: The ability to re-animate the dead as shambling, walking corpses. You have tried this ability on the carapaces slain in battle; to do so to the remains of your friends, however stupid they were, you consider to be unconscionable, unspeakable, and forbidden.

You've taken the liberty of slaying the citizens of your home moon, the Dersians. After wiping out their empire, you went on to reanimate several of them again to do your bidding. You figure that being forced to live forever is particularly cumbersome if you're not going to take advantage of everything around you. As such, you are now waiting on hand on foot by what is literally a skeletal army. None of them know your true name; you refer to yourself simply as a brand new alias: Chasm.

Your name is Than Morana; forever psuedo-immortal godtier necromancer on a dead planet, and you deal with being alone the best way possible.

God, do you hate the living.