Lettes from the Beyond

Vynnset,

I write to you regarding the path I now walk. Take heed, for there may come a day when you step into my mantle within the Church of Pain. Observe and learn as I search i’Arathael for the means to snuff out the Light at its source.

You know my dedication to researching the Old Ones, those beings who threatened to consume all of Rathe in the Third Age. There survives only fragmented records, but everything written about them suggests they were overwhelmingly powerful, defeated only by the immense release of aetheric energy that marked the Ancients’ sacrifice. Third Age Aetherscribes hinted at an outworld origin for the Old Ones, of them “arriving from elsewhere”, of their “otherworldly appearance”.

If they indeed came from beyond our Aesir-forged world, perhaps they brought with them some ineffable force with which we may smite Solana from existence. The scant evidence would suggest they died at the time of the cataclysm, but even a sample of their dead flesh might seed an epiphany.

I am preparing another expedition into the Shadowrealm in i’Arathael with a sortie of our most capable Disciples of Pain. We leave on the morrow. Every traversal is fraught, so I record my research for posterity. In Ursur’s name, may it never come to that.

— Chane

Vynnset,

We have been exploring for near two weeks, following previously mapped paths in search of undiscovered arteries coursing through the Shadowrealm. In that time, I have lost three of my Disciples, ambushed by a pack of skinless, many-eyed demon dogs. As my remaining Runeblades held the curs at bay, my patron lent me the power to invoke a flood of runechants that destroyed the beasts.

As is our bargain, Ursur fed upon the blood of the slain, and as we delve deeper into the Shadowrealm, I sense Ursur’s thirst growing, satiated less and less by the blood that is spilled each time. I have not experienced that before, in any part of i’Arathael, but I believe I have already discovered the cause.

On the stones and earth along our current path, we found a substance not unlike the black mold that grows in the Demonastery’s Shadow Crypts. Yet upon closer inspection, these ‘black’ spots contained a warped microcosm, alive with shifting, scintillated light. There may be no nature in the Shadowrealm, as we understand it, but this tainted substance was unnatural, even to this place.

We began to see more of it – a strange light that would pierce the eye as it danced, shimmering waves of color emanating from its thickest patches. It formed a trail leading deeper into the Shadowrealm, and as we set off to follow it, I felt Ursur stir. I took it as further proof that I had indeed found something worthy of deeper investigation.

Whilst tracking the corruption, we chanced upon a Shadowrealm Walker. I have come across many of these huge, stilt-legged creatures before. They are slow to anger, stalking with a predatory grace over this desolate landscape, reminding me of the praying mantises I would capture and study as a boy in the Golden Fields. But this beast staggered as it walked, its earth-shaking footsteps uneven. That same foulness covered its chitinous carapace, its spiked ridges bent and twisted with fresh growths.

The Walker roared when it saw us, a sound I heard within my skull like a thousand hungry insects consuming one another. Again, Ursur trembled. The intensity of the Embra’s reaction is like nothing I have felt before, Vynnset. We are definitely on the right path.

It charged us on those massive, stumbling legs. From my Disciples I requested a sacrifice, and Kien volunteered without hesitation. I slit his throat and with his gushing blood I drew demigons from the aether to intercept the Walker and tear it apart. After my demigons sank back into the shadows, and Ursur had drunk his fill from Kien’s corpse, I noticed some of the vile cladding on the Walker’s remains had slipped free to form a living, effulgent puddle that crept away from the dead creature. We shall follow it.

— Chane

Vynnset,

I believe this creeping foulness has led us to the source of its corruption. It grew as it absorbed other patches of defilement in its path, slithering inexorably towards a mountain on the horizon. Even at that distance, I saw signs of deformity emanating from each slope, pulsing as if the entire mass was alive and breathing. Upon reaching the base, we found an opening, unsettling in its smooth, regular proportions, that appeared to lead inside.

As I stepped closer, Ursur recoiled. You well understand, Vynnset, it takes exceptional power to excite an Embra. A single slash of my flesh drew enough blood to allow me to shackle Ursur to my will, rendering his resistance futile. I picked out my two worthiest Runeblades and commanded the rest to make camp outside. Our aetheric torches blazing, we delved into the gloom.

The cave walls glinted with that same unnatural luminescence, like a thousand variegated needles. The tunnel opened onto an interior hollow, where a nest of young Shadowrealm Walkers waited for their mother’s return. Their hides were smeared with corruption, their forms altered from that of their Aesir’s original design, the true extent of the changes hidden by the shifting spectrums emanating from their weeping sores. The nestling Walkers did not respond to our presence, perhaps rendered delirious by the foulness that covered their bodies.

Peering upwards, I saw a round orifice of radial symmetry, the sky above visible through each hole. The configuration was familiar; not a constellation, or a chart of runes, but something I had noted in my studies. Vynnset, it was then that I realized the formidable nature of that which incites Ursur’s hesitancy. It was no mountain we stood within, but the skull of an Old One, its excised eye watching the sky, the same eye illustrated in salvaged records from the Third Age.

In the nest with the young Walkers was a mound of meat and offal, gathered by the mother, no doubt. It too, glinted with the scintillating light of corruption. I watched as one nestling tore at this pile of gore, feeding, the corruption on its carapace undulating and spreading with this act. Ancient writings on the Old Ones suggested a malleability, flesh reshaped with biomantic will. Even in death this volition remains, reaching out to warp the creatures of the Shadowrealm.

To properly study the Old One’s cranium, I needed to remove the nestling Walkers. Requesting a blood sacrifice, my two Disciples hesitated, each suggesting that the other was the more suitable offering. As I’m sure you would have done in my place, I rendered both apart with Galaxxi Black. Then, drawing upon their blood sacrifice, I reduced them to runechants.

Yet when I opened my mouth to invoke my prey’s destruction, I emitted such a deathly wail that the runic percussion shredded the creatures. Their carapaces shattered and ichor splattered the nest as they disintegrated. Vynnset, it was like nothing we have experienced in the Demonastery. I reveled in the immense violence at my beckoning. I believe it to be my proximity to the Old One’s remains that so intensified my incantation.

I attempted to take a sample from the skull, cutting away a sliver of desiccated sinew and depositing it into a canister resting on the ground. The sample proved reactive. The canister’s glass took on the strange property of the corruption. The suddenly volatile contents swelled and threatened to burst the vessel. I engraved a Sigil of Suffering upon the jar, which seemed to pacify the specimen.

As I carried my prize towards the exit of the hollow, I became curious about the structure of the passageway’s walls, their rough and mottled texture. I used a rock to chip away at the area beside me. The wall crumbled at the blow, and another truth revealed itself: talons, carapaces, bones, and skulls spilled forth. This mountain was formed from creatures consumed, bone and sinew quilted together, a gruesome reminder of what could be were I not the man I have strived to become.

As I sit at the maw of the mountain and draft this letter, Ursur rages inside my mind. How such corruption could excite an Embra, I do not know, but it gives me pause. Still, he will calm in time, for everything I do is in service of the Shadow.

— Chane

Vynnset,

My base camp has been ravaged, my Runeblades slain before I returned to the surface. Their bodies litter the ground, flesh smashed to pulp, and bones shattered to ruin. Colossal footprints lead away from the destruction, leaving a trail so contaminated by the same murk I hold in my specimen jar that I feel compelled to pursue it. To bear such intensity of corruption this creature must be one of baleful strength.

Ursur whispers the name “Baalghor”. What is this Baalghor? Clearly titanic in proportion. Corrupted. Logic dictates that the lair of this demon may harbor more secrets of the Old Ones. Step by step, I am closer to unlocking their power; the power perhaps to consume even the Aesir of Light.

And so, I write this last letter, knowing that the answer to our endeavors lies ahead. Until we speak again, Vynnset, in the flesh, as the dusk gathers over the ruins of Solana.

— Chane