Just happened upon this rule somewhere that I haven't seen or maybe been paying attention to. Given that Osveril is Purity (Voids) and Jvan is Beauty (Voids), I'll probably start writing Jvan's portfolio as Beauty (Negatives) with pretty much the same powers.
The same powers as your original idea, or the same powers as Osveril's Portfolio? If the former, that is fine (unless it overlaps too strongly with the latter). If the latter, then they'd still be the same Portfolio (or sufficiently close) (eg. Teknall's Smithing and Conata's Metalworking, while having different names, are exactly the same thing). This would provide no problems unless/until Osveril ascends.
If I remember correctly, Osveril and Jvan have rather different interpretations (standalone absolute void vs. void in a context/as a contrast to existence) and ways of using the portfolio (emptiness anomalies vs. filling the Gap and harvesting tectonic pressure), so there shouldn't be much of an overlap if their variants go by different names. Though that could be one less source of conflict if, in a hypothetical future, Osveril did somehow manage to ascend without getting pre-emptively swatted or locked somewhere.
Concept: A morbid truant twice touched by fell forces, scarred by greed and driven by fear.
Origin: The land Prabha once called home was, while not as splendid as Yachiel, blessed with peace and prosperity. It was far enough from the Edge of the World not to be beset by its monstrous denizens, and, while it had once been steeped in the shadow of mighty sorcerers, dreaded and revered as figures of myth, men and gods had slowly encroached upon it and driven away its dark masters. Some roving fae and spirits were rumoured to still haunt the woods, but none had seen them in decades. The people of its fields and hills were, for the most part, bold and industrious, and did not let themselves be frightened by old tales.
But every fold has a prodigal son. Born among commoners, Prabhalocta was never content with his station. He listened with secret longing to the hushed legends of the olden sorcerers, and, rather than heed their cautionary moral, envied the awe these necromancers were said to inspire into their thralls. Often he would swear to himself that he would one day become as mighty as them, whether as a lord or even a king of the land. And, though his lineage was humble, he did not lack determination. First, he tried the way of wealth. He did not have the patience to follow it honestly, and kept company with deceit and subterfuge. As a merchant, he sought to buy cheaply and sell dearly, and did not disdain any treachery in doing so. When his ill-gotten gains did not satisfy him, he gave himself to gambling, and when he became shunned even among the rabble, his skill with mimicry and disguise came to his aid. He posed as a saintly pilgrim, a corrupt magistrate, even a druid collecting the offerings for his god. These escapades bore good fruit, but, after narrowly avoiding the gallows one time too many, Prabha decided to abandon this path.
In his avarice, he came to tread one more perilous still. One night, he ventured into a forlorn wood where the savage fae were said to gather. What transpired there, no one knows, but, when he walked out from among the trees the day after, he had a wild light in his eyes and wielded terrible witchcraft. For a year from then, the entire land came to dread his ravages. He preyed upon any he could catch outside the reach of their gods, and delighted in tormenting them as would an evil spirit. Seized by a fiendish glee, he prided himself of having surpassed the ancient sorcerers themselves.
Yet, as time went by, he fell himself prey to terror. He had been given power in exchange for a promise of which he had then thought lightly, but which returned to haunt him more and more often. Any day now, the fae would come to claim their due, and what could a reviled marauder give them? Nor was this his only concern - the people of the land had grown weary of his vexations, and had begun to set out on their own hunts. In desperation, Prabha turned to the legends whose perverse temptation had led him to that point. The sorcerers were long gone, but perhaps their power lingered. He went to find it in their forsaken abodes, and once more the night transformed him, this time forever. The morning found his eyes dull, but manifold.
Not long afterwards, golden clouds began to gather on the horizon, and armies to march through the once peaceful fields. Knowing that, whether the Circle of Light triumphed or was repelled, his life there was forfeit, Prabha slipped away into the shadows while he still could. Elatreis was not far, and in a city as great as Silver Spear he could disappear long enough to plot his next move. Besides, he had been dreaming of it since his third eye had opened...
Appearance: As is becoming of someone who has worn many a visage, Prabha seems to disappear when out of his disguises. He is neither tall nor short, neither dark nor fair, and his round, amiable face and short dark beard can become lost among the hundreds of a crowd faster than one can blink, though, if one looks closely, his cold, empty eyes can give one pause. Until recently, his shaven head completed the impression, but of late he has taken to wearing a turban to cover the large blue eye with a snake-like pupil that sits in the middle of his forehead. His gait is cautious and his tones hushed and conspiratorial, though he seems to take pains to conceal this.
Skills and Flaws
Quick Words, Quick Hands: Everyone struggles to live, but not everyone struggles equally. Over his life, Prabha has perfected the craft of taking much and giving little: an improvised tale to dupe a fool out of his coin, a deft nudge to the bones at the gambling table, the right amount of praise to adorn the meagre wares he peddles. And, above all, never dropping the mask of trustworthiness, or at least credibility.
Cutthroat’s Wiles: As a combatant, Prabha is neither talented nor skilled. Seeking, as in everything, an easy solution, he prefers to compensate with what he calls resourcefulness and others base tricks. From dirt in the eyes to knives in the back, nothing is beneath him when survival is concerned.
Man of Many Faces: Ever since his childhood, Prabha displayed an uncanny gift for disguising his features, voice and mannerisms, and this has served him well to this day. As occasion required, he has been a soldier, a beggar, a noble, a druid, a beast, a spirit, and someone who is ostensibly not a sorcerer. With but some rags and stolen clothes, he can become any of these and more yet at any moment.
The Unrelenting Beast: It was fear that drove Prabha down the path of sorcery. Fear hounds him still wherever he goes. He dreads the nameless being in whose debt he is, the wrath of God and her heralds, the spirits with whom he deals, the old gods and their followers, the visions that haunt him and the death he so relished inflicting on others. Ironically, this fear can drive him to reckless acts, for he will seize at anything that seems to offer freedom from its clutches.
Hooks:
Prabha once struck a bargain with a fey. He never kept his end, nor does he intend to.
There is only one thing worth seeking, and that is power that strikes fear into all, God and man alike.
Ancient, forgotten things are sunken in the Sea of Dead Stars. They are terrible, yet they have a strange lure.
SOUL - WHAT YOU ARE BENEATH THE SKIN
Initiation: When Prabha came to the ruined haunt of an infamous vanished sorcerer, he sat outside it and listened to the stars, as the necromancer was said to have done. Though he had little hope of succeeding, he thought he heard the distant tones of a dream-song, and persevered. It seemed to him that the truth he sought - for it was, he now understood, a truth - was just before him. He reached for it, but time and again, the truth eluded him.
The stars did not answer, but something else did. All he recalls is a shape cloaked in darkness deeper than the night, bearing the pain of revelation in its hand. It hurled him into oblivion, and it was long before his three eyes opened. He saw what he had been pursuing, and was more afraid than he had ever been before.
Weirds
Loathsome Conquerors: At Prabha’s call, motes of translucent blue fog arise out of the ground and coalesce into the forms of four monstrous worms. They have mouths like lampreys, are each twice as long as a man’s arm, and, though they appear dim and wraith-like, their swollen bodies are as strong as iron chains. The spectral worms obey their master’s bidding, and can hear his whispers wherever they might be, but they are clumsy and dull, and, though robust, can be slain by mortal weapons. They are also gluttons after carrion.
Nightfall: Prabha can conjure up a cloud of thick inky mist, which crawls and seeps through the air in strange forms like a viscous, living darkness. Those caught within it are beset by horrifying sounds and hallucinations, which seem as though horrors as dire as their own mind can paint them are lurking just out of sight, ready to pounce on them. The fainter of heart may well be driven mad by the experience, and any who have breathed long and deeply enough of the black vapours will be plagued by nightmares and echoes of the illusions for a few days.
Baleful Gaze: The third eye carved into Prabha’s forehead sees visions of death and putrescence so terrible that the world itself withers when they are projected onto it. When it is fully opened, it radiates a chilling, sinister light. Dead wood and flesh touched by it rot, metal grows dull and rusted, and plants and small animals are stricken with a wasting blight. Men and greater beasts will not suffer such afflictions unless they are already debilitated, but will find themselves paralysed in fear and unable even to think if their own gaze is caught by that of the unnatural orb.
BLOOD AND BONE - THE NEPHILIM
Nephilim: Tide of Day’s Undoing Sobriquets: None. The Tide is the Tide.
Concept: Vast of wit and cunning, yet a thrall to primal hunger.
Form: A towering, foetid mass of animate slime, the Tide has no single shape to define it. Its gelatinous body flows, shifts and ripples constantly, crawling and pouring like a river as it moves and rising and ebbing like a monstrous fountain when it stands still. The pitch-black sludge is run through with veins of cyan, which sometimes seem to twist and intertwine in strangely meaningful patterns, and, now and then, a few great burning eyes will open in the amorphous giant, only to be submerged by new waves and spouts. The fragments of its broken sarcophagus cling to its surface, never remaining in the same spot for more than a moment.
Abominations
Anathema of the Earth: Wherever the abhorrent mass of the Tide touches the soil, whether it be swampy or arid, the latter is transformed into a vile, clinging fluid, only slightly thicker than the black ooze itself. Only stone and rock can resist this corruption, and mires and puddles follow the Nephilim wherever it goes like the trail of a colossal slug. The creature can put the liquefied ground to a variety of uses, such as fashioning bludgeons and projectiles out of it, or even submerge into it entirely and swim through the earth for brief tracts, bursting to the surface where its foes least expect it.
Breathe in Life: Having no discernible organs of any sort, the Tide breathes through the entirety of its body. As it inhales, it can draw in air with such strength as to raise hurricane winds that converge upon it, strong enough to uproot trees, topple houses and lift man and beast from the ground. For as long as the Nephilim draws breath, and on such occasions this can last for several minutes, these howling streams of air will carry any unfortunate enough to be caught in them towards it to be consumed in its formless maw.
Breathe out Death: Those who, by some miracle, have been spared by the Tide’s drawing in all that surrounds it should not rejoice too soon. Its breath is a twofold weapon, wreaking ruin whichever way it blows. When it exhales, the monstrosity can spew out clouds of noxious smoke, coating itself in them or spreading them upon the wind. These fumes corrode all living matter they touch, turning flesh and bone into ghastly puddles within seconds and tainting the earth where they sink into it.
Deep Waters Run Low: While the Tide’s oozing body is tremendously flexible and agile, it is far weaker and less resilient that the solid bulk of other Nephilim. It cannot lift weights that would be trivial for them, and, while it is not by much easier to injure for its yielding consistency, it affords little protection to its master should it be struck by a direct blow while he is within it.
Concept: A morbid truant twice touched by fell forces, scarred by greed and driven by fear.
Origin: The land Prabha once called home was, while not as splendid as Yachiel, blessed with peace and prosperity. It was far enough from the Edge of the World not to be beset by its monstrous denizens, and, while it had once been steeped in the shadow of mighty sorcerers, dreaded and revered as figures of myth, men and gods had slowly encroached upon it and driven away its dark masters. Some roving fae and spirits were rumoured to still haunt the woods, but none had seen them in decades. The people of its fields and hills were, for the most part, bold and industrious, and did not let themselves be frightened by old tales.
But every fold has a prodigal son. Born among commoners, Prabhalocta was never content with his station. He listened with secret longing to the hushed legends of the olden sorcerers, and, rather than heed their cautionary moral, envied the awe these necromancers were said to inspire into their thralls. Often he would swear to himself that he would one day become as mighty as them, whether as a lord or even a king of the land. And, though his lineage was humble, he did not lack determination. First, he tried the way of wealth. He did not have the patience to follow it honestly, and kept company with deceit and subterfuge. As a merchant, he sought to buy cheaply and sell dearly, and did not disdain any treachery in doing so. When his ill-gotten gains did not satisfy him, he gave himself to gambling, and when he became shunned even among the rabble, his skill with mimicry and disguise came to his aid. He posed as a saintly pilgrim, a corrupt magistrate, even a druid collecting the offerings for his god. These escapades bore good fruit, but, after narrowly avoiding the gallows one time too many, Prabha decided to abandon this path.
In his avarice, he came to tread one more perilous still. One night, he ventured into a forlorn wood where the savage fae were said to gather. What transpired there, no one knows, but, when he walked out from among the trees the day after, he had a wild light in his eyes and wielded terrible witchcraft. For a year from then, the entire land came to dread his ravages. He preyed upon any he could catch outside the reach of their gods, and delighted in tormenting them as would an evil spirit. Seized by a fiendish glee, he prided himself of having surpassed the ancient sorcerers themselves.
Yet, as time went by, he fell himself prey to terror. He had been given power in exchange for a promise of which he had then thought lightly, but which returned to haunt him more and more often. Any day now, the fae would come to claim their due, and what could a reviled marauder give them? Nor was this his only concern - the people of the land had grown weary of his vexations, and had begun to set out on their own hunts. In desperation, Prabha turned to the legends whose perverse temptation had led him to that point. The sorcerers were long gone, but perhaps their power lingered. He went to find it in their forsaken abodes, and once more the night transformed him, this time forever. The morning found his eyes dull, but manifold.
Not long afterwards, golden clouds began to gather on the horizon, and armies to march through the once peaceful fields. Knowing that, whether the Circle of Light triumphed or was repelled, his life there was forfeit, Prabha slipped away into the shadows while he still could. Elatreis was not far, and in a city as great as Silver Spear he could disappear long enough to plot his next move. Besides, he had been dreaming of it since his third eye had opened...
Appearance: As is becoming of someone who has worn many a visage, Prabha seems to disappear when out of his disguises. He is neither tall nor short, neither dark nor fair, and his round, amiable face and short dark beard can become lost among the hundreds of a crowd faster than one can blink, though, if one looks closely, his cold, empty eyes can give one pause. Until recently, his shaven head completed the impression, but of late he has taken to wearing a turban to cover the large blue eye with a snake-like pupil that sits in the middle of his forehead. His gait is cautious and his tones hushed and conspiratorial, though he seems to take pains to conceal this.
Skills and Flaws
Quick Words, Quick Hands: Everyone struggles to live, but not everyone struggles equally. Over his life, Prabha has perfected the craft of taking much and giving little: an improvised tale to dupe a fool out of his coin, a deft nudge to the bones at the gambling table, the right amount of praise to adorn the meagre wares he peddles. And, above all, never dropping the mask of trustworthiness, or at least credibility.
Cutthroat’s Wiles: As a combatant, Prabha is neither talented nor skilled. Seeking, as in everything, an easy solution, he prefers to compensate with what he calls resourcefulness and others base tricks. From dirt in the eyes to knives in the back, nothing is beneath him when survival is concerned.
Man of Many Faces: Ever since his childhood, Prabha displayed an uncanny gift for disguising his features, voice and mannerisms, and this has served him well to this day. As occasion required, he has been a soldier, a beggar, a noble, a druid, a beast, a spirit, and someone who is ostensibly not a sorcerer. With but some rags and stolen clothes, he can become any of these and more yet at any moment.
The Unrelenting Beast: It was fear that drove Prabha down the path of sorcery. Fear hounds him still wherever he goes. He dreads the nameless being in whose debt he is, the wrath of God and her heralds, the spirits with whom he deals, the old gods and their followers, the visions that haunt him and the death he so relished inflicting on others. Ironically, this fear can drive him to reckless acts, for he will seize at anything that seems to offer freedom from its clutches.
Hooks:
Prabha once struck a bargain with a fey. He never kept his end, nor does he intend to.
There is only one thing worth seeking, and that is power that strikes fear into all, God and man alike.
Ancient, forgotten things are sunken in the Sea of Dead Stars. They are terrible, yet they have a strange lure.
SOUL - WHAT YOU ARE BENEATH THE SKIN
Initiation: When Prabha came to the ruined haunt of an infamous vanished sorcerer, he sat outside it and listened to the stars, as the necromancer was said to have done. Though he had little hope of succeeding, he thought he heard the distant tones of a dream-song, and persevered. It seemed to him that the truth he sought - for it was, he now understood, a truth - was just before him. He reached for it, but time and again, the truth eluded him.
The stars did not answer, but something else did. All he recalls is a shape cloaked in darkness deeper than the night, bearing the pain of revelation in its hand. It hurled him into oblivion, and it was long before his three eyes opened. He saw what he had been pursuing, and was more afraid than he had ever been before.
Weirds
Loathsome Conquerors: At Prabha’s call, motes of translucent blue fog arise out of the ground and coalesce into the forms of four monstrous worms. They have mouths like lampreys, are each twice as long as a man’s arm, and, though they appear dim and wraith-like, their swollen bodies are as strong as iron chains. The spectral worms obey their master’s bidding, and can hear his whispers wherever they might be, but they are clumsy and dull, and, though robust, can be slain by mortal weapons. They are also gluttons after carrion.
Nightfall: Prabha can conjure up a cloud of thick inky mist, which crawls and seeps through the air in strange forms like a viscous, living darkness. Those caught within it are beset by horrifying sounds and hallucinations, which seem as though horrors as dire as their own mind can paint them are lurking just out of sight, ready to pounce on them. The fainter of heart may well be driven mad by the experience, and any who have breathed long and deeply enough of the black vapours will be plagued by nightmares and echoes of the illusions for a few days.
Baleful Gaze: The third eye carved into Prabha’s forehead sees visions of death and putrescence so terrible that the world itself withers when they are projected onto it. When it is fully opened, it radiates a chilling, sinister light. Dead wood and flesh touched by it rot, metal grows dull and rusted, and plants and small animals are stricken with a wasting blight. Men and greater beasts will not suffer such afflictions unless they are already debilitated, but will find themselves paralysed in fear and unable even to think if their own gaze is caught by that of the unnatural orb.
BLOOD AND BONE - THE NEPHILIM
Nephilim: Tide of Day’s Undoing Sobriquets: None. The Tide is the Tide.
Concept: Vast of wit and cunning, yet a thrall to primal hunger.
Form: A towering, foetid mass of animate slime, the Tide has no single shape to define it. Its gelatinous body flows, shifts and ripples constantly, crawling and pouring like a river as it moves and rising and ebbing like a monstrous fountain when it stands still. The pitch-black sludge is run through with veins of cyan, which sometimes seem to twist and intertwine in strangely meaningful patterns, and, now and then, a few great burning eyes will open in the amorphous giant, only to be submerged by new waves and spouts. The fragments of its broken sarcophagus cling to its surface, never remaining in the same spot for more than a moment.
Abominations
Anathema of the Earth: Wherever the abhorrent mass of the Tide touches the soil, whether it be swampy or arid, the latter is transformed into a vile, clinging fluid, only slightly thicker than the black ooze itself. Only stone and rock can resist this corruption, and mires and puddles follow the Nephilim wherever it goes like the trail of a colossal slug. The creature can put the liquefied ground to a variety of uses, such as fashioning bludgeons and projectiles out of it, or even submerge into it entirely and swim through the earth for brief tracts, bursting to the surface where its foes least expect it.
Breathe in Life: Having no discernible organs of any sort, the Tide breathes through the entirety of its body. As it inhales, it can draw in air with such strength as to raise hurricane winds that converge upon it, strong enough to uproot trees, topple houses and lift man and beast from the ground. For as long as the Nephilim draws breath, and on such occasions this can last for several minutes, these howling streams of air will carry any unfortunate enough to be caught in them towards it to be consumed in its formless maw.
Breathe out Death: Those who, by some miracle, have been spared by the Tide’s drawing in all that surrounds it should not rejoice too soon. Its breath is a twofold weapon, wreaking ruin whichever way it blows. When it exhales, the monstrosity can spew out clouds of noxious smoke, coating itself in them or spreading them upon the wind. These fumes corrode all living matter they touch, turning flesh and bone into ghastly puddles within seconds and tainting the earth where they sink into it.
Deep Waters Run Low: While the Tide’s oozing body is tremendously flexible and agile, it is far weaker and less resilient that the solid bulk of other Nephilim. It cannot lift weights that would be trivial for them, and, while it is not by much easier to injure for its yielding consistency, it affords little protection to its master should it be struck by a direct blow while he is within it.
Silence lay upon the ageless stone. It coiled like miasmatic vapours rising from ancient, corrupt seas deep beneath the earth, seeping into every crack, every hollow that might once have been a door. The shapeless grey mounds, eaten away by voracious aeons, breathed in the stillness, and exhaled shadows of creeping menace. Among them it flowed, sharpening the quiescent teeth of the chamber, whose alabaster facets glimmered peacefully, yet warily in the twilight penumbra cast by the monstrous growths on the walls of live rock. Corrosive hunger and lust to consume dripped from the bulbous filaments of the parasitic abnormities as iridescent blood from a gaping mouth. Pools of thirst slithered between the skeletal pillars that plunged down to tremendous depths, and rested on the jagged, vaulted ceiling overhead. Murky eyes idly followed them from the crevices between mangled ribs, never blinking, never moving, even as they slowly sunk into the darkness below. Somewhere, mandibles scraped noiselessly over the foetid air.
The closer the strands of silence crept to the center of the vault, the more shapes drifted through them in inaudible motion. Amorphous carcasses of what might have been buildings were replaced by angular figures hewn from stone with claw and ichor, first stunted and incomplete, then greater and more imposing, until they towered over the abysses alongside the pillars. What they were, none could have said save the dead voices of those who first had built them. There were mounds akin to crouching wyverns, protrusions rising from their body like petrified mockeries of horns and folded wings. Others were high, slender blocks, crowned with pyramidal adornments and flanked by sharp flames. Others yet were great spires gripped in the coils of vortices of stone and whispers, rivulets of distorted life coursing along them, merging into thundering cascades of venom. Greater yet were ghosts of pillared temples of cults that were now less than dust. They snarled with their cryptic recesses, clamouring for the rivers of souls that had once sated their ravenous masters, and the world shrank from around them, as though it could perceive their dread intent.
At the very core of the city that had risen from death stood the colossal ziggurat of the Old Ones. It was as dark as all things of spirit and matter around it, seemingly woven from shadows given substance rather than reared from stone. Dim luminescence pulsed from gaps that cut its ephemeral walls like eyes, now and then coalescing into grasping shapeless limbs which flailed blindly through the void before dissipating into numberless screaming shards. Gnawing spectres of wraith-fire threshed through the corridors that pierced it like the nest of all things foul that it was, echoing chants of gibbering obeisance to the terror that lurked beneath the earth rumbling with a strength that shook stone. Over its walls, upon its roof, at the foot of its walls gathered monstrosities innumerable, raising their gnarled limbs in unholy supplication and intoning, in preternatural unison, the decayed words of rites that emerged after millennia from abyssal oblivion. Their forms were as diverse as they were many, some bearing their Riglir heritage manifest in their claws and carapaces, others donning distorted guises, viscous, proboscidal, or writhing with tentacles, that could only be born of the direst madness of the cosmos.
The only part of the tremendous unreal building that was not acrawl with the hideous throng was the ample staircase leading from the lower ground to its uppermost altar. It seemed to curve in strange manners if observed from most angles, yet rose straight when one trod upon it. There were no braziers flanking it, nor did any strange lichen or wisp of the deep cast its steady light over it, for those who walked that sheer path abhorred all that was not dark. Nor was it in any way adorned for what was to occur upon it. The mere vastness of its proportions and the distortion of its shape were sufficient decoration.
At the upper end of the ascending path there stood a great figure of shadow and chitinous bone, which almost rose to the size of the imposing eidolon in the shrine behind it. It was broad and heavy in its onyx armour, to the point that even the mismatched, yet powerful limbs it stood upon seemed to struggle to support its bulk. Designs of purple spirals, burning eyes and snapping mouths flowed over its body, glaring and snapping as they rearranged themselves in an endless hypnotic dance. A faint halo of luminescence whose colours could not be named danced around its double heads, and its mandibles breathed out pestilential fumes. Five of its claw-tipped arms were lifted up in a gesture of invocation.
Lower down, at the mid-point of the staircase, another behemoth monstrosity faced the dim-shrouded hierophant. Not so much a Riglir as an amorphous mass of undulating, shifting flesh and venomous blood, it loomed as though itself were some ancestral idol carven out of the same necromantic stone as the temple. Legs moulded themselves out of its churning mass as it shifted from side to side, only to dissolve once more when their momentary purpose was done. It had no head or mouth to chant with, but its limbs rose and fell in waves crested with breathing armour in cadenced motions. Loathsome vermin crept over and around the shapeless colossus, their own chittering and screeching weaving themselves into a rhythm matching the movements of their master.
The being at the top of the stairs let out a rumbling howl that echoed through invisible galleries around it, growing and ebbing as it resonated, and the swarms fell still before they had heard it. In silence, it began to sweep and snap its arms in a pattern of growing speed and complexity, tracing circles and many-angled forms until the dripping spikes were less than a blur. As the creature’s arms continued to spin, the rest of its body remaining perfectly still all the while, voices of ages past radiated from the symbols it drew. Songs and laments in hissing, guttural tongues lost to time; the roars of dying gods of a forgotten cycle, then another, then a thousand more; the dull blows of great cities and fortresses crumbling to the ground; the beating of drums, the clash of steel and the cries of war; the creaking of trees struck down by iron and flame. Death sang its discordant song, and reigned supreme through the aeons.
In response, the writhing bulk below intoned the hymn of life. Worms flourished from purulent sores that burst out over its skin in an instant; vile winged beings flew out of gaping pits that opened in its armour, to swoop down upon tides of great spiders, slashing and piercing with their stingers and being in turn dragged down and crushed by ravenous mandibles. Maggots slithered among all, gorging themselves on the carrion and filth. Each of them clung to its few instants of being with a hunger and ferocity that dwarfed the most ardent passions of gods and mortals; each fought with strength of desperation no cause can inspire. They surged up the stairs, to meet the oppression of death that bore down on them. The steps were drowned by their frenzied celebration. Though even the giant that spawned them could not have contained so many, they continued to pour forth, clambering and thrumming and lashing until they met the choir of the time-damned.
”In the glory of That which is below, to break the universal chain and arise in the moment of annihilation, may the aspects of existence become as one.”
Death and life, flesh and mind clashed, tore at each other, spun, intertwined, shattered one another, their blood and ichor mingling and flowing into the pit of night as one river.
”Though there may seem that there are many, there were always two. Though there may seem to be two, there was always one. Our claws crush the spine of time and close the circle. The end with no beginning approaches.”
The gashes and sores on the body of the mountain of life began to swim and hover in precise, yet chaotic paths, tracing the name of what had none in signs that could not have a meaning. Liquid flesh burst in torrents from within the husk of the dark priest, forming itself into faces, limbs, pulsing organs in the same instant as it collapsed.
”We are the One who dwells within. We shall inherit the end.”
Holy March of Outremerine, Edge of the Chasm of Ineffable Odds
A horn blew from the direction of the nearest wall. Nartos did not turn to look. If they were calling, he was too far to be of any use to them. He could, in truth, not have been more than three hundred steps away, but with those things flooding the battlefield every inch of ground gained was a hard-fought victory. No, he and his maniple were far more useful holding back the waves that kept crawling out of that cursed pit. A commander with little experience of the Outremerine way of fighting would have punished such a thought, but the usual tactics did not work here. Flanking was of no use against the creatures, and not even the newest reinforcements needed to have this explained to them twice. Not that there were any in the point positions, anyway.
Like him, none of Nartos’s fellows spared as much as a glance for the call. Those at the forefront gave a push with their locked shields, throwing back the monsters that lunged and clawed at the gaps in the wall. Most of them picked themselves up almost immediately and leapt back into the fray. Their shells might have been cracked, their eyes missing and their arms limp, but they always kept coming as long as they could move at all. Legend had it that they were the unnatural spawn of some ancient god-monster, and they certainly looked the part. Foul things, unworthy of any offer of redemption. If there was something that nobody here lacked, it was the desire to smash as many of the vermin as they could. And, for most, it was the only thing that kept them going, along with unbreakable faith.
The beasts charged again. This time, the shields parted, and mauls came swinging down in the gaps between them. The creatures fell, but just then a fresh wave came bounding over their corpses. Heavy iron spheres rose again, tossing back most of the assailants, but a few managed to dodge the upward arcs and burst among the ranks, tearing and biting savagely. The second line hefted their smaller, lighter maces and rained blows in almost as much of a frenzy. The beasts died.
This was not the first time they had broken through, and it was probably not the last. Nartos could not say with certainty, but this was the longest onslaught he thought he could remember in years. Usually, they did not last more than three or four hours, but now the great affront overhead was coming into sight in the rays of the rising dawn, and still they came. His entire body was one aching sore, blood, both his and not, mixed with nauseating sludge splattered his armour from head to toe, and still they came. The others around him were in no better condition. Worse yet, their numbers had been dwindling. Every time the monsters broke through the shield wall, a few warriors were left lying in puddles of gore and dirt at their feet. And, as they tired, ranks split more and more often, while the enemy always came with new forces.
A cry of “Breaker!” made him raise his head, fighting the leaden veil of fatigue. Sure enough, a horrendous towering shape was approaching among more of the thrall masses. Without even the strength for a quick invocation to Justinian to spare, he hoisted his warhammer and waited for the abomination to draw closer. Only a few more steps… Two, one…
Now.
The first line split open, moving to meet the charging swarm head-on. With sideways blows, they tossed a few of the creatures away, clearing an opening for a few precious moments. That was all he needed.
Nartos and four others, all that remained of the hammer-wielders, sprang forward, carried mostly by the weight of their weapons. The giant horror lashed out with two of its claws, catching and crushing one and tossing a few of the shieldbearers aside. Before it could reach down with its upper pincers, the others swerved aside and struck.
The thing screeched as one of its legs was snapped by a clean blow and black blood sprayed from where the other blows had landed, but did not relent. As it fell, it brought one of its claws down on the soldier beside him, smashing their head into a gruesome bloom of blood and flattened metal.
With an almost superhuman effort, Nartos swung his hammer again, carving what passed for the monstrosity’s head in.
He remained immobile for a few moments, leaning on the weapon’s haft and breathing heavily, oblivious to all that was around him. It was only when the screams flew past him that he could rouse himself and look up.
More of the beasts were coming, but they were not any he had ever seen before. At first, they looked just like centaurs. But centaurs did not have a skin of living armour, or wriggling worms instead of a face, or scythes instead of hands…
”The fort- Justinian be- They will overrun-” Fragments of words swam in the mire of his thoughts. He tried to raise, if not the hammer, at least a hand against the shadows that were closing in, but they were too fast.
Speaking of sheets, the void-ant-crabs now exist in this format as well. It's probably less of a handy reference than the post summary, but at least it's less likely to be lost to the sands of time.
Dust Crawlers: Species (animal, vegetal, semi-sentient).
Lifespan: 7-10 years on average.
Description: As the first of Osveril’s major creation, the Dust Crawlers perfectly embody the principle of utility driving its every action. Everything in them, from the minutest part of their bodies to the unnatural energies that give them life, is directed towards a clear and simple purpose, and no variety or deviation is allowed to interfere with that mandate.
The Crawlers’ function is both straightforward and monumental at once. They must rid the surface of Galbar of all material irregularities, including but not limited to geological formations, bodies of liquid and redundant inhabitants, so that their maker may build its vision of an ideal world over the resulting desolation. While the execution of this task could, in principle, be construed as simple enough not to require overly complex instruments, the amount of sheer force necessary is immense, and all the greater in proportion with the tools’ simplicity. Osveril saw life as the best way to achieving its end, being a relatively familiar, primitive element with the potential to increase in strength exponentially, and this vision it embodied in its servants: crude, unrefined beings of raw power that grow as they unmake in a flawless cycle.
Though it drew upon already existing creatures in creating them, the Hollow One only selected the traits it found useful to its purpose from among them, leading to entities that only distantly resemble Galbaric life. While most of their genetic code is derived from invertebrate animals of various sorts, which in itself leads to such oddities as vaguely mollusk-like beings having an exoskeleton and motory limbs, the addition of some vegetal traits improving features such as structural integrity and growth potential renders Crawlers impossible to define in terms of either realm of life. At the same time, this hybridization, while caused by a Jvanic artifact, is itself not strictly magical in nature, and the Crawlers’ organisms are perfectly functional in their own right.
However, Osveril did not consider this sufficient, and further empowered the creatures with its ruinous boons. Thanks to its touch, all Dust Crawlers are born and live in strange mutilation. While the interior of their bodies is otherwise complete with all necessary organs, they lack a digestive tract beyond their mouths and an internally armoured channel leading to where their stomach would be. In its stead, they have a void, made unstable by being defined in size, mobility and, to a certain extent, shape. Thus, while they are able to ingest physical objects, they cannot process them by means other than exposing them to the peripheral zone of the emptiness. This process does not fully annihilate matter, but distorts it to the extent that, whichever shape it might have had, it is reduced to a thin, almost fluid grey dust, whose aberrant atomic structure appears, if examined, to bear traces of Gap-like binding energies. The dust is then expelled by the means of an excretory system joined to the Crawlers’ breathing apparatus, which directs exhaled air and waste into “vent” openings on their backs.
Since a construct incapable of sustaining itself like this one would not have been optimal for its intended function, Osveril imbued its creations with the more dynamic force of Hunger. Besides giving them a monstrous, insatiable appetite for anything they can perceive that does not bear the Hollow’s mark, this infusion altered their metabolic capabilities to a surreal extent. The mere act of eating something causes Crawler bodies to spontaneously generate energy, propagating from what seem to be specialised neural clusters. It is unclear what exactly are the conditions for this process to occur, but it appears that perception of the object being ingested is necessary, though the ingestion itself may not be directly caused by the Crawler’s actions. The energy obtained can be readily converted into matter, allowing the Crawler body to sustain itself and directing any excess into proliferation.
Dust Crawlers reproduce asexually, writing their own genetic code, which thus remains identical in all individuals, onto cells of flexible design in a curious form of self-impregnation. Once these ovules develop into eggs, they are carried externally, typically on the parent’s hind legs, though they still rely on their host for nutrition. The eggs hatch after slightly over a week, at which point the larval Crawlers that emerge from them begin to feed their developing voids on the easily processed dust that is exhaled by their host. The final stage of their growth, following between two and three weeks after the larval one, is more similar to the development of crustacean zoea, with the growing creatures shedding their membranous skin to reveal the shell underneath. There are no further occurrences of molting in a Crawler’s life cycle, with their carapaces stratifying as they grow and the lower layers being consumed by the expanding void until they reach their adult size. At that point, they will not undergo further transformations until their vital systems give way at the end of their lifespan. Both this and critically damaging the fleshy membranes underneath a Crawler’s exoskeleton will cause its void to briefly pulse outwards and collapse, killing it if it was still alive.
While Crawlers possess a rudimentary form of partial sentience, insofar as they are capable of perceiving external stimuli and adjusting their behaviour in response, they have no true consciousness to speak of, and operate on a crude, though fairly complex, system of physiological feedback. They are capable of limited communication among themselves, using the motions of their tentacles and pheromone signals to alert each other of threats and obstacles. This allows for a surprising degree of coordination in their actions, allowing vast swarms to converge on dangerous prey or adapt their movement speed and paths as the terrain requires; however, the fact remains that Dust Crawlers are no more than mindless biological machines of destruction that cannot be stopped by anything short of their death.
Appearance: With their replicated genetic code and overall small possible variation in development, Dust Crawlers are virtually identical to one another in even the most minute details. Like all things touched by Osveril, they share a uniform grey hue and an entirely angular form, with only the most elastic parts of their anatomy having anything resembling a smooth, recurve shape.
Fully grown Crawlers have swollen, ponderous-looking bodies about twice as large as a violet slug, shaped like truncated octagonal prisms. They are covered by a segmented chitinous exoskeleton formed by interlocking grey plates. Their shapes are such that ridges and lines of a faceted, symmetrical geometric design appear to run smoothly from one to the other, though, on closer inspection, there are visible gaps for dust ejection between their edges. Unless an adult Crawler has been injured, there will never be either more or less than twelve segments in their carapace, not counting the head. Their shells are tough and rigid, and their consistency is more similar to that of tree bark hardened with chitin than normal insect or crustacean exoskeletons. The underside is smooth and more thinly armoured. While it protects the drooping, fluid mass inside the carapace from sharp objects, it is flexible enough to sag down and drag along the ground under its weight.
In their overall body structure, Crawlers are highly abnormal among arthropod-like beings, as they lack a recognisable thorax and most of their body appears to be formed by an oversized abdomen. They move on six thick, evenly spaced segmented legs, which, like their bodies, have angular prismoid shapes, and taper to sharp, yet balanced tips. An eighth, bulkier pair of limbs, located directly under the head plate, ends instead in powerful angled pincers, capable of crushing rock and bone alike.
What passes for a Crawler’s head is little more than a flat surface. Two bulging black eyes are partly lodged in small cavities in it, flanking an ample mouth-cavity surrounded by two circles of inwards-facing mandibles, the inner one smaller than the outer. While they each resemble those of an ant, they are much larger, being proportionate to the Crawlers’ size, and are used as much for propelling prey into their mouth as for crushing it. Near the four corners of the plate, the exoskeleton is interrupted by an equal number of short, but stocky tentacular limbs, one in each point, emerging from under it. These tentacles, having oddly rectangular sides despite their flexibility, end in long barbed stingers, lined with small horizontal slits near their base.
Often, a Crawler’s hindmost limbs will be covered in the small prisms of eggs clutching to it, or its shell will be covered in slug-like larvae clustered around the dust vents.
I was going to finally get around to making a wiki page, however lazy, for Osveril, but then looked at the time and decided it would have to wait until tomorrow. Hopefully this means it will be less lazy, not to mention be at all.
And everyone complains about Vestec, but has he ever tried to turn the world into a void with hungery monsters of doom? No. :p
Truth be told, the main reason Osveril hasn't annoyed people yet is that nobody except Jvan likely knows he exists at all. Then again, he hasn't been throwing any moons at Galbar either (though he definitely would if he could).
There's them as well, true. I was forgetting they're developed enough to recognise the Crawlers as a threat, even though I don't think they would register as more actively hostile and violent than any normal animal.
Jvan's gonna see him spinning in his grave and be smug as hell
Heads up, fiberlings are biodiversity monitors, so Dust Crawlers will start to encounter mass hairball resistance once the affected zone spreads far enough. Osveril would do well to tip that balance in the Crawler's favour, though letting the grey zone spread too fast could tip off other gods.
I've got plans for a whole invasive ecosystem, or at least something that could pass for one from a distance, waiting on Osveril to realise that the Crawlers will need support. I imagine that fiberlings won't be the only obstacles they face - white giants probably wouldn't like them either, and even clever mortals could figure out ways to deal with the swarms once they reach more populated areas.
As for the gods taking notice, with Osveril's attitude it's only a matter of time anyway. Given that he still thinks he's got convincing arguments for them, that might even have been his intention if he had a better idea of how minds work.
It was not often that the wind from the sea did not bring any scent with it. Be it a distant waft of some curious bloom upon the waves, the light sting of salt or the stench of a rotting carcass borne ashore, it always carried a touch of the unquiet waters. Even when it had no distinct smell, a waft of fresh air was all that was needed for one to know where the whistling breeze came from.
Yet, on that day, the wind brought nothing.
The breeze blew as it had ever since there had been air to move, but it was hollow. It had no smell, no voice. It did not breathe life into the world that eagerly turned to meet it, but choked and stifled. Grass and leaf did not rustle as it slid among them, creeping with a sickly gait, and drooped down where it had passed. Though the sun shone bright overhead, its touch was cold, as though something had gnawed away at its heat and left it mutilated and ravenous.
With it came silence. And dust. Though the air itself was clear and empty, all in its wake was left covered by a thin grey veil, not a flake of which stirred or fell.The dim shroud clung to its prey with unnatural eagerness and tenacity. It crawled to envelop even those places where the wind could not have carried it. It wound around every blade of grass, slithered under every leaf, filled every nook under a loose pebble, every crack in the earth. Life was entombed and left to wither beneath it. For plants, beasts, gnats, even the minute, impalpable motes that drifted everywhere unseen, nothing was left but dark stillness, so that they might neither see nor hear what walked behind the breeze.
Heavy steps fell soundlessly upon the devoured soil, shattering the husks they trod upon and sending their remains to drift forward in a blind cycle of consumption. The faint whistling of a breath without lungs was lost amid the gnarled folds of space heaped upon one another by void-knives twisting in the wounds they had carved, and only the clouds of razorlike flesh it exhaled spread and lashed at the world around them. Sharp fingers moved slowly yet purposefully, directing the forces that radiated from the Hollow One as they wrought their grim work. An eyeless gaze pulsed outwards from a mask that concealed nothing. It saw the ruin of the earth, and it was good.
Almost.
Once, Osveril would have chastised itself for weakness. Instead of bringing restoration, here it was - inevitable - doing nothing but making the world more agreeable for itself. But now, all it was concerned with was not reducing anything worth being assimilated along with all the clutter and pestilence. Advancing further into reality was a constant painful effort, but the new perspectives it offered, as numerous as the facets on it body, justified it. Every span of time gave it a new piece of insight into the workings of this alien construct, and each was a victory over the forces of havoc and excess. For one, the true meaning of space had told it something: this surface alone was so vast that trying to simply force oneself to endure all of it was futile. All of it would have to be swept before reaching what Osveril imagined was the relative safety of the partial void between bodies of matter that Mother had spoken of, and it was quite simply too much. Thus, finding a compromise between duty and comfort was now part of the plan of action.
Like every other part of that plan, this had given Osveril much to think about. This crude simplification of material forms was obviously only a temporary solution - it did little but hide the worst of the impurity under a thin cover. The most offensive shapes and bulges were shorn away, but the abominable mass from which they were born, and many more like it, remained, and would eventually spawn more if left unchecked. If this universe was to be refashioned into something more acceptable for a start, it had to be struck everywhere at once with a strength Osveril suspected not even all the gods could have. Its cacophonic evolutions could only be matched by a quietude with no equals, that which dwelt in those dear depths of the Gap. It would have to bring it forth, bridge the non-space between worlds.
Fill the Gap between the none and all. How obvious had everything been then. Thoughts and words made its motions slow and clumsy, but it could still call back glimpses of that lost clarity. No, Purity had not displaced what was once the intention behind blind contractions. All was part of its vast design, breathing tiles of a grey mosaic that spanned the void.
The Other would feast on reality and mingle with it, and a pure cosmos would rise on the bones and broken shells of both.
This I swear, by the Void That I Am.
Osveril stopped and struck its staff into the dust. The harpoon-tail pierced the ashen layer, but did not touch the ground beneath it. Immediately, a burst of formless maws bit into the air to all sides, sending a circular grey wave crashing outwards along with the receding cold rush. The Hollow Absolute looked around once more and, satisfied, turned to Transgenesis. What it would strive for was clear, but not everything could come at once. The superficial acclimatisation of this globe was the first step, and it could not be completed without tools. Tools it could now at last fashion.
Since it had left the coast, it had not left the staff idle. All that harboured life had been sought out, tracked down, examined and struck, its essence harvested by the seemingly insatiable stinger. Some of Osveril’s theories had been confirmed in the process. Extension, for example, was proportionate to power: smaller beings had not endured the sampling, and the vital glow was crushed out of them. Others, however, were so limited that the spike had been unable to touch them, even though they were ubiquitous. This was unfortunate, as assimilating even some of them would have allowed it to assemble a weapon finer even than its dust, and one that could reach everywhere. A way would eventually have to be found to control them as well, but for the moment larger creatures would have had to suffice. No great loss, for, among all their multitude, Osveril had found two whose potential was tremendous.
The first were among the lesser of size, but held an array of prodigious qualities. Wherever it had encountered them, there had been many - hundreds, sometimes thousands, living all together underground. Even when they moved to hunt and feed, it was in groups. There was no dissension among them, no deviations, no disobedience to the imperative that bound them all. They spoke in a language of scents and motions, but did not seem to have heavy minds to burden their bodies, nor did they need any. They were cohesive, driven, strong in their numbers and unity. They did not avoid prey larger than themselves, and some had even moved against it as it passed by their nests. Their hunger was great, and they fed on all that lived. Their mandibles were sharp, and, for their size, their bodies were robust. To neglect to give a purpose to such beings as these was something that could only be expected of flawed gods.
The second were more wondrous still. They were much larger, and, while they lived and fed alone, their voracity was unmatched by anything else it had seen. The only aim and law of these beings’ existence was to devour. They ate as they moved, and as they stood still; even when other bearers of life sought to repel them by whatever means they could, they continued to eat, unfazed and indifferent. Had Osveril not known better, it could have thought that inside them there was a craving nothing. They had no other thoughts, if thoughts they had at all; they did not speak, and only stopped to rest their imperfectly designed flesh. More so even than the first entities, their lives were dominated by one command alone, and it was one the Void That Was understood fully. To fail to give such hunger a clear aim was a sign of even deeper corruption.
For Hunger could have a purpose. Not, as lesser minds could have thought, to force that which contained it to seek sustenance for itself. This base use it was put to did nothing but squander its hidden power. Hunger was more than a mere instinct conveyed by living bricks of matter. More than a longing, more than a wish. It was the Void in motion. Emptiness that fought to be filled, but whose immensity made this impossible. The ever-doomed, yet undying struggle of a Hollow to find something that could change it and make it hollow no more. It would never cease as long as there was absence, and therefore it was eternal, though it might consume all things. Not even infinity could sate it.
Hunger is the quest for Purity.
And the nascent amalgamations that rested within Transgenesis would be its heralds.
All they needed were vessels to bear them, and Osveril had found some at last. They were the largest animate beings it had felt yet, vibrant bodies of heat and substance almost larger than its own, and they were numerous. Despite this, they had fled before its cold breath as it approached, and continued to move away even as it drew near. It could have held them in place by giving them nowhere to run, or overtaken them by consuming the distance they shielded themselves with. But it did not. In its slow, leisurely pursuit, it saw how strength could be sapped and eroded, and this pleased it. Nights, in particular, were painful for the creatures, and they were already faltering after the first one; it drew force from the darkness.
They walked still, not far ahead. Those in better shape were at the head, still dragging their thin legs forward at a stable pace. By contrast, those that trailed behind were barely standing, and not even the wind and dust that scourged them incited them as it first had done. At last, they began to drop - one, then another, then a third. The others did not so much as turn, but blindly forged ahead.
Enough. I must have them in one cluster.
Osveril traced a line in the air with the tip of a finger, and the ground and sky before the herd quivered and collapsed into formless absence. The foremost of the beasts almost leapt up in fright, but could only stagger and drop to one side. The rest stood, disoriented or too weak even to start, and it was thus that the Hollow found them as it descended among them. Its inner revolutions flared up as it sought what it had come for, and, when they called out in low relief, Transgenesis darted down, striking exactly where it had to. Not a single motion was wasted, and the grunts and huffs of pain that followed went unheeded. Horns and hooves scraped feebly at the grey shell, but the triangle did not even turn to face them. All who had remained upright fell under the blows, the cold and the dust.
Yet this was not enough for Osveril. The foundation had been laid, and now it remained to ensure that they would stand firm until the time was ripe. It motioned with its hand, and grey tendrils poured forth from every rift and gap in its carapace. They split, bifurcated, dispersed into swarms and clouds as they swept over the creatures, and their silence deadened the last sounds the beasts would make. Fur and flesh were sliced away by innumerable minuscule blades, leaving behind hard plates of skin and bone; muscle was cut, rearranged and welded into shapes never seen by mortal eyes; skeletons were pushed outwards, and brain and marrow blossomed within them. And, all the while, voids drank heat and colour.
Another gesture, and the arms withdrew, sealing the last traces of their grisly labour as they went. What they left behind resembled what they had first touched only in the broadest of terms. The beings had each a body, a head and four limbs to stand on; beyond this, they were the reflection of that which had altered them. There was not a part of their forms that was not broken into sharp facets. From their thick, pillar-like legs to their trapezoidal heads, adorned by parallel slits that might have been eyes and vicious bone blades, all was faded, smooth and symmetrical. Functional.
The Hollow Absolute rested its staff on an armoured flank, and spoke:
”Go, and serve your purpose.”
Then it turned from its works and strode away without a sound. Nothing that was natural would grow in its steps.
***
Finding the incubators again at the end of their time was not difficult. The mark of purity had sunken deep into their flesh, and called to Osveril even from afar. Another useful lesson. While there had once been nothing but a sheer, impenetrable wall beyond the reach of its surrogate senses, a grey stain had now appeared on the barrier. It could not perceive as this patch did, nor even say where exactly it was, but its silence stood out starkly amid the avalanche of noise and colour that crushed and stifled from all sides. Following it was like seeking respite, and, in a way, it was an apt comparison. That quiet blind spot concealed the germs of a new age of solace, for itself and all the world.
Hasten.
Distance shrivelled and crumpled before the urgency of the void, only resentfully stretching back into shape once it had walked past. Dust billowed about in a ragged nimbus, extinguishing life and light in intricate if haphazard patterns. For perhaps the first time, Osveril was heedless of its surroundings. One immediate goal hung before it, and it hurried on as befitted one whose entire life had been nothing but starvation.
When it arrived, the birth was already complete. The herd had not moved very far from the site of the bestowing; the creatures’ improved bodies harvested all they could find from every inch of soil before moving on, and had not needed to wander as widely as they had before to remain fed. It was little wonder, then, that the ground under them should be barren and dry, save for puddles of the thick, murky sap that had replaced the beasts’ blood.
Those who had been unfit to bear the first tools were the only ones left breathing when Osveril approached. They stood in a wide circle around what remained of the rest, dimly staring into the distance. Their purpose was to protect, and it was not yet fully complete. Behind their backs, a mass of toppled bodies, disjoined plates and torn membranes lay strewn in disorder. Though no flies or worms had come to scavenge, perhaps out of distaste for the unnatural carcasses, the chaos of dripping limbs was crawling with new, voracious life.
The harbingers had come.
Large, heavy shapes clambered over the ravaged corpses, and dug through . The plates of their faded brown carapaces heaved and slid over one another as thick, short limbs ending in spikes dragged their bloated, quivering masses at a deceptively fast pace. Though most of them were still wet and the sun was yet high, they did not glimmer in its rays. If anything, dampness made them darker, as though they were made of unpolished, spongy wood. Tentacles tipped with barbed stingers darted around, smelling, skewering loose morsels and dragging them into nested circles of mandibles that could barely be described as a mouth, and powerful bladed pincers tore and crushed larger prizes. The newborn did not lash or snap at each other over their prey; they had been made to devour, and devouring was all they knew.
The Hollow One passed its perception over each of them, prodding into every fold and crack, sliding over every edge. All was as it had intended. Not a single superfluous part. Nothing out of place. The creatures’ design appeared to be as perfect as flesh could bear, just as it had wrought it to be. To one who made such distinctions, it could even have appeared beautiful.
But if there was something Osveril had learned well, it was that perfection and beauty were not enough. What the flesh could bear was no threshold. Not all that was necessary had to be left in place.
”Purity is the only Absolute.
So come, and become flesh of my flesh, void of my void.”
It breathed out dust. Grey night fell over the lurkers’ feast, and still they pulled themselves placidly from meal to meal. The living cloud descended in columns and jagged spirals, burrowing and clipping, reshaping and reinforcing.
”The Void is the wellspring whence we all came. Though you know only blessed oblivion, you shall carry its memory in the flesh. It shall mark you as not of the world of matter, for that which is Hollow must overcome its constraints. Purity is your destiny and your birthright. This is its seal. Wield it for the destruction of the false order of substance.
Welcome the Blessing of the Void.
Hunger is the voice and the will of the Void. It gives us direction when we are lost and strength when we are crippled. It is greater than all the words that drive tainted minds, for no shade of desire or feeling can match that which pervades what is and what is not alike. It lives and grows forever. As long as it dwells within you, you shall never forget, and you shall never relent.
Welcome the Blessing of Hunger.
Our lot is one of pain and struggle. We may never rest from scourging the corruption that is the All. We may not avert our senses from how foul and repugnant it is. Always it encroaches and debases all it can touch. Yet we are the only ones that can stand against the impurity and unmake it. Our calling speaks from what we are and what we are not, and its silent words will never cease to flow until our duty is done. There is no other gift or curse. Endure it alongside me, and alongside me know the bliss of unbeing.
Welcome the absence.”
The dust lifted, and the crawlers were born anew.
Like the wombs that had carried them, they had been remade in the image of the Hollow Absolute. Their brown hue was gone, replaced by the eternal grey. No longer were their shells smooth and curved: sharp ridges had risen to split them into even, symmetrical polygons. Even their tentacles, though they remained as flexible as before, seemed to have grown angular in shape and motions.
But the greatest changes had yet to become visible. The creatures remained still for some instants, then resumed their eating; and in this they were wholly transfigured. With regular, almost mechanical steps they converged on a corpse and their stingers whipped to and fro like maddened snakes even as their mandibles dug into the discoloured meat. With every bite and every breath, plumes of dust shot out from under their plates, so large that nothing they swallowed could have been retained inside. When they were done with one body, and Osveril itself marvelled at how fast they were, they moved on to the next, and then the others, until none was left.
This did not satisfy them. Without flesh to consume, the horrors turned on the soil, digging it up and thrusting it into their maws. When their dust covered all they could reach, Osveril raised a claw and pointed into the distance, away from the sea. Immediately, its spawn ponderously swung their bulk about and scrambled away, grasping, tearing, gorging themselves on all they could reach. A trail of dust followed them. They were as thorough as the breath of their grey master, and much hungrier.
And they would multiply.
As if suddenly reminded of something, Osveril extended its hand, and the space between it and the last of the crawlers fell into itself. Holding up the creature, which continued to blindly wriggle in its grasp, it carefully sliced away a number of small bulges from its hindmost legs with a finger. Another collapse, and the devourer was back with its fellows. The Hollow One slid its prize into a gap between arm and shoulder and began to walk towards the sun.
The transformed sentries followed. They had no wishes of their own. They would protect.
After leaving the coast of the Fractal Sea, Osveril is now somewhere to its northwest, between the Changing Steppes and the Pictaralka. Having concluded that he can’t work properly in such a chaotic environment, he has decided to make the world more comfortable for himself before rebuilding it in a pure form. He plans to eventually release the Other into reality and mix the two together, but for the moment he’s content with withering everything in his path and turning it to dust. He is, however, aware that doing this to all of Galbar is above his abilities, and that he will need better instruments.
Fortunately for him, he has discovered some new living beings, among whom are ants and violet slugs (the latter even gave him some ideas about the concept of hunger and how it figures into his schemes). With Transgenesis, he combines their genes with those of other creatures (some crustaceans, mollusks and plants), tracks down a herd of antelopes and injects the females with the amalgam embryos. To ensure that everything goes as planned, he mutates the antelopes, making them better suited for the purpose of bearing and protecting their charges.
Some months later, Osveril traces the herd again, and finds that the embryos have matured into a sort of half-mollusk, half-arthropod critters that are busy eating their hosts. He transforms and “blesses” them, turning them into the first Dust Crawlers. A sheet is forthcoming, but for now there are a few main things worth noting:
Due to the Blessing of the Void, the Crawlers’ digestive apparatus has been replaced with an unstable void rift, which disperses anything they ingest into the dust that gives them their name. This means that, while a Crawler can swallow anything, it won’t gain any subsistence from it. (1 Might spent on the first blessing.) The Blessing of Hunger remedies this by allowing Crawlers to gain strength from the act of eating itself, as long as they don’t digest what they consume. They’re effectively fueled by a hunger they can never sate. They can’t stop eating, either. (1 Might spent on the second blessing, invested into Purity (Hunger).) Dust Crawlers move in large, rapidly growing swarms. Both their mixed blessings are hereditary.
Osveril takes some Crawler eggs and places them in stasis inside his body, then lets his creations loose. He heads in another direction himself, taking the surviving male antelopes with him.
