To access the grand assembly hall from one of the ship’s private cabins, a long, winding corridor had to be navigated, eventually leading to a descending set of stairs. The ship was a marvel of both size and purpose. Beyond just carrying a significant number of the Nether Lord’s followers, it was designed to host various dark rites and ceremonies. For those dedicated to the Nether Lord, a deity believed to reign over the deep abyss, being on this ship was a sign of utmost respect and trust.
However, only a select few among the devout were given this honor. Many weren’t deemed deserving to set foot on the vessel, and most were unaware of its very existence. These less privileged followers heard only fragmented tales and rumors during secretive meetings: Whispers spoke of a majestic ship that sailed under the directive of the Nether Lord. They said it was the Lord’s eyes surveying the vast oceans. The ship was not just a means of transportation; it symbolized the holy mission of their sect and was believed to be instrumental in heralding a new era of power and dominance.
Richard, wearing a ceremonial black robe, took deliberate, measured steps along the corridor, which felt almost endless. Every so often, he would cross paths with fellow members of their dark sect, also in robes. While some greeted him in reverence, Richard would only nod slightly in return. Scattered along the corridor were crew members dressed in simpler, rougher clothing. Their necks bore chains, marking their lower status. These were believers too, but without the ability to tap into any demonic energies. Their role on the ship was purely servile, attending to the whims and needs of the more powerful “priests”.
Despite the corridor being adequately illuminated, the atmosphere was heavy and stifling. Black iron candle holders, ornately designed, were fixed onto the pale, gray walls at regular intervals, interspersed with haunting oil paintings. These works of art showcased otherworldly landscapes and unsettling, misshapen faces. Luxuriant, deep-red draperies hung gracefully from the ceiling, sometimes masking shadow-filled alcoves.
This aesthetic was deeply rooted in their beliefs. Devotees of the abyss held that chaotic darkness was the pure essence of the Nether Lord, the original color from which the universe sprang. Such decor was an attempt to synchronize their surroundings with the abyss, all to earn the Nether Lord’s favor.
Despite the hall’s somber aesthetics, the opulence was undeniable. Richard was well aware that building such a ship had drained enormous resources. However, there were always individuals ready to contribute — be it influential officials craving more years to their life, merchants seeking cures from ailments, or nobility chasing unparalleled power. In hopes of divine intervention, their desperate offerings financed this magnificent vessel.
The major religious organizations, along with various city-state administrations, had established strict codes for what they termed the “civilized world.” These edicts acted as barriers, protecting and perhaps even deluding the general populace. But no barrier is without cracks, and these cracks have always been, are still, and will always be present.
Soon, Richard arrived at the entrance of the assembly hall.
At the corridor’s termination, a pair of imposing double doors stood ajar, revealing an expansive hall bathed in radiant light. The ceiling, reminiscent of a cathedral dome, was held aloft by colossal pillars, and from its apex dangled a magnificent, three-tiered chandelier, its multitude of candles casting a glow that reached even the furthest corners of the space.
Given the hall’s sheer size and function, it couldn’t maintain the somber ambiance prevalent in the ship’s other chambers. To evoke the appropriate atmosphere of reverence for the Nether Lord, the architects and artisans employed a wealth of intricate designs and lavish embellishments. Carvings resembling tentacles, symbols of the Nether Lord’s omnipresence, spiraled around the pillars. At the hall’s deepest end, expansive murals painted in dark hues showcased sprawling branches, another amulet of the Lord. Among these depictions, sculptures of peculiar and eerie designs stood strategically positioned, lending the room an aura of both reverence and an almost oppressive grandeur.
Richard made his way into the hall, joining a sea of fellow believers. He took a moment to adjust the hood casting a shadow over his face before raising his eyes to the platform dominating the center of the space.
That platform bore the presence of the “Saint.”
The Saint, a figure of unparalleled devotion, was the pinnacle of sanctity within the temporal realm and the closest to the abyssal “Master.” His multifaceted eye stalks rose, taking in the assembly of the devout.
His gargantuan form took up much of the platform’s space. At a glance, his silhouette suggested a crown constructed of intertwined thorns, but a closer inspection revealed it to be a nightmarish assemblage of interwoven, pitch-black bones akin to a grotesque bird’s nest. Encased within this bone matrix was a colossal brain, its surface rhythmically contracting and expanding. This bony labyrinth acted as both protection and prison for the brain, from which neural tendrils grew, culminating in the eye stalks that scanned the surroundings. Suspended above this intricate structure, a dark chain dangled, seemingly unattached to anything.
This chain, originating from within the brain, floated ethereally before reconnecting with the skeletal crown, creating a perpetual loop. This was emblematic of the Saint’s profound transformation. He had transcended the elementary stage of forming bonds between man and demon. Now, his bond was introspective; the vestiges of his humanity nearly eradicated, supplanted by the awe-inspiring essence of a shadow demon.
Richard’s gaze momentarily locked with the Saint’s before he respectfully lowered his head.
The Saint was poised on the brink of the ultimate evolution. Merely a hair’s breadth away from completing his transformation, upon which the chains would dissolve, marking his full descent into the abyss, uniting with the Nether Lord.
Yet, despite being at the cusp of this ultimate metamorphosis, the Saint chose to remain tethered to the mortal realm. His continued existence here was a testament to his commitment: to guide the uninitiated, like he once was, towards the singular, eternal goal of the abyss. Such devotion was indeed worthy of admiration.
A hushed whisper echoed, “All have assembled.”
The silence that pervaded the hall was abruptly shattered by a resonant, timeworn voice that seemed to emanate not from the room, but directly from within the consciousness of everyone there. This sudden telepathic communication rendered the previously lively hubbub of whispers and low conversations mute, leaving behind a profound hush marked by an air of reverence and anticipation.
From his central position on the platform, the Saint subtly shifted one of his many eye stalks, aiming it deliberately at the main entrance of the hall. Following this unspoken command, the enormous wooden doors began to draw close, their hinges emitting a prolonged groan, before they finally merged and locked securely.
His voice, ever so deep and entrancing, persisted within the psyche of every attendant, “As the day’s light fades and the sun prepares to rest, in a mere three hours, the Dream of the Nameless One will unfurl once more. Before we are once again enveloped in this enigmatic vision, it’s imperative that we reflect upon the information we’ve amassed thus far…”
Amid the weight of the forthcoming revelation, Richard honed in on the Saint’s voice, striving to catch every nuance, every detail. As he did so, a peculiar warmth, tinged with a slight itch, radiated from his chest. He visualized thin, tendril-like fibers weaving their way through his flesh and skeletal structure, expanding their reach. These fibers seemed to snake their way to his vital organs, embedding further into him. He pondered, would it be long before he was saturated with these eerie, cotton-like strands?
Momentarily, the weight on Richard’s shoulders felt alleviated, and he thought he discerned the gentle laughter of a young maiden close to his ear. But this fleeting distraction was promptly overridden by the Saint’s commanding voice, which refocused Richard’s attention.
“We have, on numerous occasions, ventured into the Dream of the Nameless One. These excursions span both covert operations conducted by our scattered members across various city-states, and more planned incursions led by our esteemed priests. Regrettably, as some of you might already surmise, certain endeavors have not been as fruitful as hoped.”
As the Saint articulated his thoughts, subtle, rhythmic clicking sounds emanated from the “Crown of Thorned Bones”. Portions of his bony structure seemed to come alive, emitting glimmers which coagulated along the edges of the bones. This radiant energy gradually morphed into a more discernible, increasingly vibrant apparition.
As the spectral image solidified, it depicted a young maiden garbed in a sable dress. Her raven-black hair, cropped short, framed a visage of fragility. Adorning her neck was an ornamental bell, which chimed softly. Despite appearing to be in her mid-teens, her frail countenance lent her an even more youthful appearance. However, what was most striking was her arm — or the lack of a typical one. Extending from her shoulder and covering a portion of her torso was a skeletal structure from which a jet-black chain protruded, tethering her to a beast recognized by many within the hall: a sinister, shadowy dark hound.
A ripple of murmurings ensued among the assembly. While a few whispered speculations, others, having prior knowledge of this apparition, cast pointed glances in a certain direction.
All of those glances settled on Richard.
Richard’s fingers fumbled with the edge of his hood, the sudden surge of attention causing him both pride and discomfort. While part of him swelled with satisfaction at having acquired such critical intelligence, the intense gaze of the assembly and the implications surrounding the information made him feel exposed and uneasy.
Just as the weight of the room’s scrutiny began to feel overwhelming, the Saint’s authoritative voice filled the void, offering Richard a brief respite from the unspoken questions of the congregation.
“…Amidst significant adversity, and even loss, one among us succeeded in retrieving pivotal knowledge. The image you witness now is that of our enemy.”
“Do not be beguiled by her seemingly delicate facade,” the Saint cautioned. “She is an anathema, embodying a doctrine far more twisted and forbidden than any outsider cult. Through means still undetermined, she exerts dominion over a formidable dark hound. Yet, what is truly disconcerting is that her own arcane prowess appears to surpass even that of her beastly companion. Her actions are both malevolent and erratic.”
“The brother who procured this intelligence stands as one of our most distinguished members, seasoned in battle and endowed with immense power. Yet, even he was grievously wounded in a devious assault by this heretical figure, narrowly escaping the jaws of her ominous hound. Thus, be on guard. As we continue our forays into the Dream of the Nameless One, it’s plausible we’ll cross paths with this sacrilegious adversary once more.”
“What you should especially brace yourselves for is her unorthodox and perilous form of assault…”
The Saint’s voice trailed off momentarily. It was an unusual sight, seeing a figure of such profound wisdom and power momentarily at a loss for words.
Once again adjusting his hood, perhaps more out of habit now, Richard mused about potentially fortifying its design later.
The Saint’s voice then resumed its mental embrace, its tone slightly bemused, “…her preferred tactic is to literally hurl her hound at her foes.”
