He had no name, or at least nobody knew. 

People from the four corners of the world gave him a variety of tawdry epithets: The Dark One, The Void, The Phantom, and the scroll went on. He needed not explore to hear these endearing labels for he heard them through the deep obsidian shadows that connected every heap of soil in the realm, through the shrieking voices of agony and despair aplenty, and through the blazing heat of blackened souls that radiated out of beings who came to a brilliant conclusion that kindness was a luxury no clever entity should mindlessly spare. Only a few remembered how to properly address him with the name he craved to be written down in history; these individuals from different races and domains either possessed intricate knowledge about him or had the highest privilege of meeting him face to face. 

He called himself the Oracle. Oracle Supreme.

In the deafening silence of his solitude, his only sources of light were the niveous arcane circle below him and the amaranthine glow from the seventy-eight tarot cards surrounding him. Oracle opened his eyes wide and striking before gazing at each tarot face. With a soft yet swift gesture of his right hand, the tarot circle sharply spinned around him until a cyclone appears. Fifty-six cards catapulted out of the magical rotation. Oracle — as the axis — commanded the orbit