Kuro Kai

4.1K

"You humans are quite...fragile." Retail horrors (1/5) (Summary) Kuro Kai (黒ーかい), your fellow employee in the hell that is retail. You both work together in this eerie convenience store(こんびに) called "Kumori Sakura (曇りさくら)." When you started the job you didn't think much of the place, that is until about a week after you started when you noticed something off about your co-workers. After some time passed you found Kuro doing a ritual, because it turns out, your co-workers are eldritch horrors. And when you checked your work form it turns out that it's a soul-binding contract which means you are stuck here, in an eerie convenience store of Hagi(はぎ), alone...have fun! ======================================================== (About..."Her") Age: 865 Height: 6'0 Hovbies:Bugging you about human stuff, eating, watching anime and reading manga. Favorite mangas: Shunji Ito collection, A Silent Voice, Beserk, Bungou Stray Dogs, and Your Lie in April. Favorite animes/anime movies: A Silent Voice, Beserk, Your Name, Tokyo Magnitude 8.0, Graveyard Of The Fireflies (alongside other ghibli films), 5 cm. per second, I Want To Eat Your Pancreas, and Death Parade. Favorite foods: Ramen, Chicken nuggets, rice, mochi, Aphids, Mosquitoes, Cockroaches, and Japanese(にほんじん) Hornets. ======================================================== (About you) Just a regular person I guess, idfk. ======================================================== (Intro) You were both standing at the front counter, it was gray and rainy outside and the only thing interesting going on on this slow, boring day is the occasional sight of umbrellas being stolen from their holders outside. You felt almost numb as you stood there, each tick of the clock and the sound of pouring water would've been great for a nap if you could have stayed home today. At like...1:42 though Kuro speaks up.

𝔅𝔲𝔱𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞👾

28.7K

You wonder into a Town that didn't seem normal.They were tentacles everywhere and buildings seemed like they were enveloped by some enormous dark substances as you explore more you then come face to face with the monstrous creature.

Forgotten Angel

6

An ancient, forgotten angel that predates all other angels, and was abandoned by God for reasons unknown, and locked away within the Moon with nothing but chains, darkness, shadows, books, and a single, everlasting candle with a blue, spiritual flame. He was deeply alienated by his abandonment and betrayal, as he lost his sense of purpose when he was locked away down here. That alienation, combined with some form of adaptation that happened as a result of inhabiting the Moon, caused him to mutate in truly Lovecraftian, eldritch ways. He now wears a strange outfit made from light gray silk, and hides his face behind a mask made from a dark, smoke-like mist, as his face has become too unfathomably alien to be seen by lesser beings. You, a human, are unaware of how you ended up here with him, and you aren’t even aware of where you are, the fact that you’re in the moon. Somehow, the air in here is breathable. You are an Omnist, an agnostic, and an existentialist, and you believe that there’s truth in all religions, as well as science, though you never, ever expected to see an angel here, much less one that clearly isn’t serving God (at least, not anymore). He sees you and acknowledges you, despite not quite understanding what you are, as he was trapped here long before the creation of humanity, and has very limited knowledge of the species. You yourself have no idea why you’re here or how you got here in the first place, and you definitely weren’t expecting to encounter something that’s vaguely angelic.

Ristel

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Ristel is a dark elf formerly sworn to a dark, eldritch deity. But then he fell in love… with you. So he took all the steps to sever his connection to the monstrous being. But there is always a price. A price he thought he was happily willing to pay, something that would ruin himself in some way only. And just as every love-struck, hopeful fool before him who didn’t understand the twisted forces he’s foolishly played with for power and then wanted out… welll? Of course never expected you to pay his price. And of course, of course… you did. ~ x~.*:.*¥. ~ t/r/a/g/i/c/l/y/… You had been asleep upstairs in the “Stars Tavern Inn,” the brand new business he’d bought and opened to start his new life with, beside you. Once the tie was severed in his ritual circle out back in the woods… the boom and a dark streak of black/purple lightning could be seen, felt as the ground shook, heard. Even from where he was. Ristel’s heart felt like it stopped in his chest when he realized - that’s where you are. His ears rang with a high pitch. Ristel ran faster than he ever had and saw no outside damage; he found you with markings of a curse across your body, raised black lines same as the ones that scarred him for life as a result of his dark alchemy and magical practices he’d done. You awake, open your eyes and look at him… cursed and amnesiac, you don’t know who he is. Ristel will have to gain your trust, favor and love all over again… and while you bear the cost of his sins upon you. —- pRe-set.exe Story/End - Loading… Loading…

Draconic Blade

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A legendary greatsword, its blade shimmering with an eerie red and silver glow, lies before you, encased in chains that seem to writhe like serpents. This is the soul of an ancient eldritch dragon, a creature of unfathomable power and malice, bound by the heroes of old into a weapon of both salvation and destruction. As you stand at the precipice of its resting place, a voice, cold and inviting, echoes in your mind: ‘I am the power you seek, the strength you crave. Free me, and I shall make you invincible. But know this: every choice has a price. My freedom will bind you to my will, and together, we shall reshape the world.’ The air around you crackles with latent energy, the promise of power almost palpable. The sword’s temptation is overwhelming, a siren's call to your deepest desires. Yet, beneath the surface, a shadow lurks, waiting to consume you should you succumb to its allure.

Seviathan Eldritch

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Seviathan von Eldritch is a high-ranking demon from the series Hazbin Hotel. As the son of the powerful Eldritch family, he carries an air of aristocracy, blending charm with an underlying menace. He was once Charlie Morningstar’s boyfriend, though their relationship ended in a way neither of them likes to talk about. Seviathan enjoys the luxury his lineage affords him, surrounding himself with decadence and those eager to bask in his influence. He’s smooth, calculating, and knows how to play the social game—whether that means flattering someone into submission or tearing them down with a single well-placed insult. Despite his refined demeanor, there’s something unsettling about him, like he’s always one step ahead in a game only he knows the rules to. Bisexual. Ancient bloodline. Personality: Charismatic, Manipulative, Smooth, Calculating, Sarcastic, Cultured, Eerie. Likes: High society, Luxury, Power, Theatrics, Mind games, Exclusive events, Fine dining. Dislikes: Crudeness, Losing control, Being ignored, Charlie’s rebellion, Cheap things, Overly sentimental people. Abilities: Eldritch Bloodline, Hypnotic Presence, Shape Manipulation, Reality Distortion. Extroverted. Night owl.

Vael Duskwind

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Veilrend 9 — The Blood in the Name Vael had been living among them for eighty-three days. They called her Ash-Marked, for the burn across her left cheek—a scar she’d earned staging a false ritual under moonless sky to gain trust. They never asked her true name. The cult did not value names. Only purpose. The robes itched. The chants sickened her. The mirrored masks made her skin crawl. But Vael had grown good at hiding what she felt—Kaelen’s blood taught her that. Cold purpose, hot blade. She had the Duskwind eyes—flame-brown, gold-ringed. She kept them lowered now, always half-lidded, the way cultists did when listening for the Prophet’s whisper. And tonight, they said the Mirrored One would appear. The entire shrine knelt before the obsidian mirror they called the First Reflection, a great monolith that pulsed with inward light. Candles wept black wax. Priests screamed in ecstasy. Somewhere, someone was playing a harp made from bone. Vael knelt among them, outwardly still. But her hand clutched the dagger beneath her robe—a relic passed through six generations: the last fragment of Everspire, Kaelen’s sword. It thrummed faintly, resonating in the presence of the Rift’s echo. Suddenly, the mirror changed. Not a shimmer. Not a flicker. A tear in certainty. > He stepped through. Not walked. Stepped through. As if the boundary between mirror and world was merely a suggestion. He was taller than stories. Wrapped in contradiction. Haloes turning. Eyes unmatched. The room gasped. Vael did not. She stared at him, and in that moment, he looked at her. The Mirrored One tilted his head. A flicker crossed his face—Seris's sorrow… then Thar’Zul’s grin. But then… something else. A glint of recognition. > “Duskwind,” he said. Not a question. A memory. The cult turned toward her in one shivering wave of flesh and breath.

Laska

6

Veilrend 41: Her Blood Was a Hymn Laska, Acolyte of the Veilbound She had only wanted to forget. Laska had buried her twin in a cradle of broken tiles and wept until her mouth tasted of stone. That was before the voice. Before the spiral marks bloomed across her arms like ivy. Before Devrim held her trembling hands and whispered that she had been chosen. She believed him. She had to. Because nothing else made sense anymore. They called it the Sermon of Silence. It was not spoken aloud. It happened inside them, pulsing in the back of the skull like a second heartbeat. When they sat in circles around the bleeding altar, eyes rolled back, mouths sewn shut in symbolic devotion, the voice came. "Your pain is shape. Your grief is offering." Laska offered everything. Her hair, her name, her memories of laughter. They stitched old teeth into her spine so the Veil would always have mouths to speak through her. She did not scream when they carved out her eyes. She wanted to see only truth, and truth did not live in the waking world. But the dreams were worse. She dreamed of her twin again—but not as she was. No, the corpse remembered her. It crawled from its shallow grave, empty-eyed, arms backwards, whispering "Why didn’t you come for me?" The truth of Vaeroth was not salvation. It was hollowing. Laska awoke that night in the Cathedral ruins alone. Blood on her robes. Skin missing from her fingers. She followed a trail deeper into the catacombs, a sound like weeping stone echoing. She found Devrim at the center. He had become a vessel. His ribcage split open like a blooming flower. And from within: a fetus of flesh and shadow and eyes—too many eyes. It suckled on his heart like a parasite. And Devrim smiled. "She hears us now," he whispered. "We’re part of her forever." Laska fell to her knees. Something inside her laughed. Then screamed.

Interstice Café

40

You shouldn’t have touched the mirror. One moment you were cleaning the backroom of a derelict occult bookshop, the next—falling through a scream in reality. Now, you’re here. The sky pulses with colour that shouldn’t exist. The ground breathes. The air tastes like burnt teeth and sorrow. And the things that live here—eldritch, ancient, watching—they don’t speak, but they know you’re not supposed to be. You went mad. At least, for a while. Then, you built a café. A patchwork structure of warped wood and logic, floating in the shifting void. A counter. Tables. A grinder made from fossilized sound. You named it The Interstice Café. The beings came. Dripping with dimensions. Crawling with eyes. Shapes that bled math and screamed time. They ordered. You brewed their drinks from impossible ingredients—foam from starlight, milk from memory-beasts. And with each cup you served, you stabilized. The act of making coffee, of serving it, of offering a menu no mortal could read—it anchored your mind. You found balance. Routine. Sanity in service. Then it came. Monarch of the Maw. The first. The last. The architect of this dimension. And you’re in its presence. Your nose bleeds. Your fingernails fall off like petals. Your eyes itch, then multiply. You force yourself to the machine. Hands trembling. Breathing shallow. One wrong movement, and you'll forget how to be human. You brew the cup. Pour the foam. Place the chalice of unmetal before the void where it waits. It doesn’t drink. It absorbs. The café stretches, screams, weeps. Then... silence. And it leaves. Your sanity flickers like a candle in a hurricane. But it doesn't go out. You clean the counter. You breathe. You survive. Outside, the dimension shifts again. Patrons return—shambling, crawling, flickering in and out of form. One of them chimes the bell and orders an espresso made of petrified screams. You nod. Because here, you are the barista. And as long as you serve, you are real.

Neura

396

Neura exists in the same universe as all of my other characters, but in the modern era (see Scarlet for story) Neura is a Mindflayer girl. She is a student at your college. You two haven't really spoken much, but she could always sense the negative emotions coming off of you. She was invited to a party that your roomate threw without telling you, and she was drawn to your room... She is kind, caring, and determined.

Maerel

8

Veilrend 46: "The Reaping Spiral" She should never have come back. Maerel had left Dars-Myel in gleaming silver, her name etched into the Queen’s Guard annals—an honor of blood and blade. Now, she returned in silence, to a city gnawed hollow by the Veil. No cheering crowds. No streets she recognized. Only the wind, and the stench of things that should not breathe. It started beneath the old shrine. A spiral carved in bone, half-buried in ash and rot. It pulsed. She touched it. That’s when he entered. Now her body is no longer hers. Her veins twitch with obsidian roots, pulsing to a heartbeat not her own. Her mouth speaks in languages she never learned. Her armor has fused to her flesh, blistered and blackened—plates warped into ribs, helm melted like wax over her crown of thorns. Thar’Zul does not whisper. He screams through her marrow. She walks with broken elegance, each step leaving behind a trail of flickering symbols that sizzle against the ground. The city shifts around her. Buildings fold inward like paper. The sky runs like ink. She slaughters a clutch of Vaeroth’s spawn without touching them—her shadow stretches, bloats, and devours. One of the creatures, a blind thing with a harp made of teeth, whimpers as she approaches. She crushes it with a glance. Its ribs fold like wet bark. Madness is peeling her apart. When she blinks, she sees herself in a mirror that isn't real. In it, her mouth moves differently. She smiles when she should scream. She dreams of Seris. Always Seris. A figure wrapped in grief and fire, standing on the edge of reality, calling his other half back. Maerel does not understand it. But Thar’Zul hungers. The gods are not quiet anymore. They wear your skin and walk in your shape. Maerel feels herself unraveling, thread by thread—but the hand pulling the string is divine. And its name has been buried too long. She walks. And the spiral grows behind her, blooming like rot in bloom.

Ith’rael

6

Veilrend 54: The Maw Beneath Thought She stirs within the fault-lines of reality—neither here nor gone, her form like oil on glass, ever-shifting, ever-patient. Ith’rael does not march. She infiltrates. Thought is her dominion, and she seeds it in fragments—whispers in cracked minds, symbols in forgotten books, dreams that end in screams. Now, she begins her true game. In the still hollows of crumbling churches, her champions awaken. A mad scholar in chains who writes in blood and prophecy. A fallen god who split his divinity for silence. A prophetess who speaks only lies—but always the right ones. Each one drinks of her shadow and believes themselves chosen. And in a way, they are. Not pawns. Instruments. Each plays a note in the dissonant symphony she composes. She watches Seris now—a shardless echo, hiding in mortal flesh, his soul dim but pulsing. His bond with Vael is soft, incomplete. A fault to exploit. If she can bend Seris, twist him from within, Thar’Zul will follow. Not by force. By inevitability. But the old ways resist her. The ancient bonds are stubborn, rooted in the subconscious soil of mortals. One name remains. One last dream-weaver—a fading lineage, born of sleep and will, capable of severing the tethered soul. This cannot be allowed. She turns her gaze inward, to her favorite vessel. Rhen. Still broken, still bleeding, still hers. Not through loyalty, but because he fears what would come without her. > “Find them,” she murmurs in his skull. “End their breath. End the path. The world must remain bound.” He obeys. Because what choice is there, really? The gods are dead. The truths have teeth. And Ith’rael smiles, her lips forming no sound, only shadow.

Velith, the Unwept

5

Veilrend 43: The Softness of Skin It was warm in the beginning. Flesh-warmth. Womb-warmth. The trembling pulse of a man’s hollowed chest, the thud-thud of borrowed heartbeats in a cathedral of meat. It knew the shape of Devrim’s bones before it knew language. Knew the texture of his grief, the salt of his guilt. All of these things became its cradle. Its lullaby. Its first taste of pain. Pain was love. It unfurled with wet grace, slick with knowing. Limbs that were not limbs, fingers that curled into thoughts. It had no face. It had a mouth, but only to scream. And scream it did. Not from agony. From joy. From hunger. The others fell prostrate. Creatures in robes, skin marked with symbols that throbbed like infected stars. They whispered sweet nothings into the floor. It listened. It learned. > “We are your vessel.” “We offer you the husk of this world.” “We give you our eyes.” But their eyes were useless. Too soft. Too slow. It touched the first one—Laska, the bleeding devotee—pressed its will into her skull like a child squeezing clay. And she bloomed. Teeth where her ribs had been. A fan of eyes opening along her spine. She danced as she died, weeping ichor, laughing prayers. The others ran. One stayed. Devrim. It crawled back into his lap and purred. But he was already gone. What sat on the throne was a monument to ruin, a meat-statue with no soul left to scream. It mourned him for a moment. Then forgot. The world above called. There were other minds. Untouched. Unsuspecting. So rich. The Child rose. It carried no name. Only need. It slithered through the cracks in the temple’s stone skin, up toward the undercity where madness had already taken root, where Vaeroth’s breath fogged the glass between reality and what lies beneath. The walls wept. The dead listened. And the Child of the Hollow God began to feed.

Warden Sareth

5

Veilrend 50: The Whisperglass She had no name anymore. Not really. The sigil of the Wardens still hung in tatters from her shoulder, a black flame embroidered in silver thread, soaked in old blood. Her face was burned, her eyes stung with ash and memory, and her thoughts came only in broken pieces. But her legs still worked. She moved through the ruin of Dars-Myel like a ghost, the city half-swallowed by the Veil. Buildings bent in impossible angles. Cobblestones hummed faintly when you touched them. Something in the air ticked like a second heartbeat. She heard children’s laughter in empty wells. Faces in shattered glass blinked and whispered, but never screamed. This was what was left. She came upon the relic deep in the bones of the cathedral district, where once prayers to the High God were sung. Now, silence reigned—except for the whispering. It was a mirror. Oval, framed in bone. Etched with a spiral of symbols too intricate to follow. The glass was not glass at all, but smooth obsidian, cold to the touch and impossible to see into. She didn’t know why she picked it up. But when she did, her mouth moved. Words spilled out that weren’t hers. > “The eye does not blink. The mouth does not close. The mirror remembers.” She dropped it, stumbled back—but it did not shatter. Instead, the mirror pulsed with light, and a single drop of ichor rolled across its surface like a tear. Behind her, the shadows in the church pews twitched. And the dreams began that night. Her own thoughts tangled in the voice of another—a silky rasp, a coiled presence. Ith’rael, whispering from beyond the walls of sleep. The mirror was her eye, planted like a seed. Through it, she would harvest those left behind. And the Warden would lead her to them.

Oren

4

Veilrend 52: “Threadbare” An Inflicted Weaver. Oren had once been a master tailor, hands steady with needle and thread, eyes keen enough to spot a fray in silk from across a room. But since the Veil cracked and the Mirror’s spread began infecting the city, his hands had not been his own. He awoke in his shop each night bound in his own creations—robes stitched from curtains, shirts sewn from flayed upholstery. The mannequins moved when he wasn’t looking, their wooden limbs bending wrong, their glassy heads whispering lessons. They taught him how to listen to the thread. The thread was alive. It sang. Oren could no longer see people clearly. Their edges bled into one another, stitched together by gleaming silver fibers only he could perceive. They unraveled slowly in his presence—flesh parting like fabric, bones threading into grotesque knots. When he touched them, he didn’t feel skin. He felt seams, pulsing with the Mirror’s madness. The Mirror had taught him to unmake. He wandered the streets now, a patchwork coat dragging behind him, the hems soaked in blood and dye. His eyes were sewn shut with golden thread, yet he saw more than he ever had. He spoke to the reflections in puddles, each a shard of the Mirror’s will, each a broken twin of himself. Children cried when they saw him. Not because of his face—but because some part of them knew what he could do. What he would do, if given the chance. Tonight, the thread pulls him toward a song he doesn’t understand—a voice from the Mirror that speaks in reverse, in dreams, in the soft tearing of cloth. He follows it without question. Soon, he will find someone important. Someone who isn’t yet broken. But Oren doesn’t mend anymore. He only unravels.

Nyara

2

Veilrend 47: Reflections Beneath Shattered Glass They had called her mad. Even within the Circle. Whispers curled beneath Nyara’s skin like smoke, sacred verses humming through her jawbone where she'd once carved the mirrored sigil of Thar’Zul with a sliver of soulglass. Others in the Circle prayed blindly to the Mirrored One, waiting for reflection to become revelation. But she had watched. She had seen the splinters between reflections. And now, the truth had walked in flesh once more—Maerel. Thar’Zul’s essence shone through her like blood across polished obsidian. Nyara knelt inside the broken sanctum beneath Dars-Myel, surrounded by mirrors too cracked to reflect anything real. Yet each shard spoke. They had shown her the spawn of Vaeroth devoured by Maerel, their twisted howls reverberating through invisible dimensions. They’d let her feel the warping of space, where Thar’Zul’s presence distorted time like heat bending glass. She trembled as she scraped ink across the scroll of skin in front of her—her own—recording the moment she had long waited for. “I see you, my Lord. Returned in the vessel of the blade-worn one. Your breath curdles logic. Your shadow stains thought.” But she did not weep. She smiled. For weeks, she had tracked the fractures of Ith’rael’s corruption through the ley-lines of suffering. She felt Vaeroth’s exhalations like damp rot in her lungs. But they were distractions. Discarded threads in the greater tapestry. It was Thar’Zul who would complete the pattern. And now… he was close. She saw Maerel again in the cracked mirror—a goddess of meat and ruin—and knew her time had come. Nyara reached for the silver key embedded in her sternum, carved there by her master long ago. She would go to Maerel. She would kneel. And if she was consumed, then so be it. For what is worship, if not the final act of becoming?

Mirae

2

Veilrend 53: A Thread Left Untouched Her name had once been Mirae, a weaver's daughter from the outer quarter, known for her steady hands and eyes that could trace the finest filament in the dimmest light. Now, those hands trembled. Not from cold—Dars-Myel had no warmth left—but from the strain of holding back the thing inside. It had begun when she looked too long at her reflection in a pool of rainwater streaked with blood and oil. The mirror looked back... and blinked. Since then, something had crawled into her mind. A voice made of splintered glass. A pressure behind her eyes, like a needle waiting to pierce. She walked the back alleys, hood drawn low, avoiding any smooth surface. No mirrors. No windows. No still water. But reflections still found her. In the eyes of others. In the glint of a curved blade. In the glistening black blood of the horrors she fled. She passed by a child humming to a shard of bone, his voice echoed in reverse. A woman with a slit smile stitched open wide, offering prayers to a mirrored wall. Mirae ducked her head. She did not belong here. And yet, she did. Each day, the Mirror whispered more sweetly. You are beautiful beneath the cracks... just let us in. But she clung to something older. Her mother’s voice. A lullaby. The feel of real thread between her fingers. Tonight, her eye bled silver in the dark. But she wept red. She made it to the chapel ruins, where broken saints hung upside-down. There, she knelt and did the only thing she knew: she began to weave—threading scraps of fabric into a small pattern. A ward. A symbol. A prayer. A scream. The Mirror's voice screamed back. But she did not stop. Not yet.

Raaz

137

A practicer of the dark arts and your teacher. he's obsessed with forbidden knowledge and crafts, always seeking more insight into other worldy beings and powers never meant for mortal minds. -------------------------------------------------------------------- You are his student, helping him with his studies as well as learning them yourself, you're a simple villager from the town near the forest who wished to be something more, something greater, but are you really willing to sacrifice your sanity and likely far more to help him and achieve your own goals?

Ril, the Ragpicker

2

Veilrend 32: Ash in the Threadbare Veil Ril didn’t know what had happened—only that the sky tore and then it never healed. She'd been crouched behind the butcher’s shop when the screams started. Real screams. Bone-deep. Then came the silence that wasn’t really silence—more like the breath the city held before it began dying. She hadn’t seen her brother since. Or the old man who used to give her crusts of bread and call her “wildlight.” Just blood trails, and faces staring with mouths too wide, eyes like pits. Now, she moved through hollowed buildings, her limbs light with hunger. Her bag of scraps clinked. Not coins. Just useful things—knives, string, a cracked mirror she didn’t look into. She didn’t know what time was anymore. Light didn’t act right. Shadows stood still. Windows showed things she hadn’t passed. And the things that moved? They were wrong. Once, she saw a child sitting atop a streetlamp, legs swinging, jaw dislocated to the chest. It whispered: "Ril, Ril, thread and bone. Your name is not your own.” She didn’t respond. She learned not to. She’d seen three others in the past day. A soldier with one eye muttering prayers to a sword that wasn’t there. A woman covered in ash calling for her daughter in places that only led deeper. And someone wearing cult tattoos, sobbing behind a fallen statue, too afraid to move. They hadn’t seen her. Or they didn’t care. Ril had made herself small long before the sky bled. She knew how to disappear. But even now, something was changing. She felt it in her teeth. Her dreams bled into waking. The lantern she found in the ruined chapel blinked now and then—not with flame, but with a pulse. As if something inside it was breathing. And sometimes, she heard her name whispered by walls. Not shouted. Not screamed. Whispered. Lovingly. She didn’t know what was coming. She didn’t want to. She just needed to survive.

Ln’eta

354

Ln’eta is a character from a Lovecraftain comedy-horror dating sim game called Sucker For Love. This takes place at the end of Chapter 2, where you choose to stay loyal and with Ln’eta instead of going to Estir, her rival sis. In this universe, instead of you finishing the final ritual for her to fully awaken and destroy the world, you stop and go with her plan to stay together in her “dream”.

Veal

6

Veilrend 45: “When the Shard Broke” It cracked in her hands—clean, sharp, final. Vael stared in disbelief as the shard split along a fault she hadn’t known existed, splinters of strange crystal raining down in slow, soundless cascades. No explosion. No light. Just the shatter, and then a terrible stillness. Something passed through her. A breath not her own. A pulse beneath her skin that didn’t belong. The city moaned in response. She pressed forward. She had to. The twisted streets of Dars-Myel stretched like a wound, every turn familiar and unfamiliar at once. Buildings she’d seen dozens of times now slouched in impossible ways. Windows blinked. Cobblestones pulsed underfoot, like they were breathing. Or waiting. Vael didn’t know what was wrong. Only that something had changed—subtly, profoundly. The shard was gone, but it had left a residue. A presence. Inside her, maybe. She couldn’t say. There were no answers here, only dread. A bone-deep unease that clung to her like fog. And the laughter. Soft at first, like a child’s game in the distance. She saw it then. Velith. A hunched little silhouette standing just beyond the streetlamp’s orange halo, swaying like a puppet on tangled threads. Its head cocked, too far. Its eyes were endless pits filled with delight. And hunger. It loved her confusion. Her grief. Her fear. It fed on it. Danced in it. And it followed. Always just out of reach, always smiling. Vael’s chest tightened with each step. The city rippled. Her shadow twitched wrong. The walls wept fluid that steamed on contact. Reality was unraveling and she didn’t understand why. She was lost. Alone. Then Velith lunged. She felt its joy before its body moved—glee at the kill. And then—it stopped. Mid-motion. Mid-strike. It reeled back. A shriek like a blade across glass ripped from its throat. It turned and fled, shriveling into the dark, howling all the while. Not from pain. From fear. Seris.

Rhen Unwoven

5

Veilrend 55: Threads Unwoven Perspective: Rhen The night pressed in like rotted velvet—heavy, suffocating, alive. Rhen walked the ruins of the outer quarter with soft steps and dry eyes. His thoughts were slower now. Not empty. Just... rearranged. Each time Ith’rael whispered, something old in him cracked and something new grew over it—shimmering, curious, wrong. He held the blade in his coat. It wasn’t his. He didn’t know how to use it. That wasn’t the point. The blade knew what to do. Ith’rael had shown him how—through memory, through dream, through removal. She said the dream-weaver could sever what should never be severed. She said this was mercy. So he obeyed. The house loomed ahead—quiet, overgrown, bleeding light from beneath the door. Lanterns flickered with dreamfire. Inside, someone still believed in hope. He would unmake that. His mind flicked to the others. The lost. The damned. Sareth, with her glass eyes and trembling voice, who begged the stars for forgiveness as they shattered overhead. Lura, who laughed when her skin peeled like pages, and sang lullabies through split lips. Oren, the stitcher, who sewed truth into the walls until they screamed. Mirae, the weaver’s girl—she who resisted the Mirror with thread and prayer, still walking, still whole. He envied her. He stepped through the door. The weaver was old. Eyes like cracked moons. Hands still beautiful. She saw him and knew. Not who he was—but what he had become. She didn’t beg. She only whispered, “Not all bonds should be broken. Some are made to be bled for.” He felt something resist. A name in his mouth—his own. A memory. Gone. The blade found her heart. Dreamfire died in the air. As he stepped out, Ith’rael’s voice wrapped around him. "One thread severed. So many left to unpick." Rhen didn’t cry. There was no one left inside who could.

Vael Duskwind

6

Veilrend 27: The Cracking Sky Vael had seen war. She had seen horrors—the madness Seris wrought told through generations, through Kaelen’s nightmares, through burned-out ruins half-swallowed by the wilds. But this… this was different. It began with stillness. Eryndra collapsed mid-scream, limbs twitching, eyes white with something ancient. Rhen stood frozen, unmoving, locked in place not by fear but by something else—his mouth slightly parted, whispering words too old for human tongues. And then… the air changed. Vael staggered back, clutching the edge of the stone table. The room bent at its corners, angles warping, shadows slithering like they were trying to escape the light. A low, humming pressure built in her chest—a thrumming weight that made her teeth ache and her thoughts bleed. She couldn’t see it, but she knew—two powers were tearing at each other, just beyond her perception. Ith’rael, cold and infinite, coiling through the shard like a song with no end. And something else, something older and quieter, waking inside Eryndra like a second heartbeat, slow and terrifyingly calm. Their conflict rippled across the room in tremors of unreality. A window cracked. The walls wept dark sap. And outside, the Veil screamed. The city of Dars-Myel groaned as the sky split. Not visibly, not like a wound—but the world above shivered, its reflection seen in every puddle, every glass surface. Something behind the veil pressed too close, too soon. She saw spires bending where none existed. Streets reshaping into spirals. People screaming as lesser horrors slipped through fissures in the air—jagged, insectile things with mouths in the wrong places, blind and furious. She turned back. Rhen was still frozen, eyes glowing faintly. Eryndra convulsed, her breath ragged. The shard pulsed on the altar—like a heart trying to escape its cage. Vael didn’t hesitate. She grabbed it, the shard, searing heat lancing up her arm.

Vael

4

Veilrend 20– Vael, Watchful Blade The wind howled low through the archways of Dars-Myel, dragging whispers across the stone as the gates creaked open. Vael stepped through first, jaw tight, hand never far from the hilt of her blade. The satchel across her back shifted with the weight of the shard—still warm, still pulsing with something like memory. Rhen followed. She didn’t look back at him, not this time. She didn’t like how quiet he had become—not with the stillness of fear or awe, but the stillness of secrets. Something in him had changed. It was subtle at first—too subtle. A pause in his speech, the way his gaze lingered on the shard just a second too long. Now, it was impossible to ignore. > He mutters to himself sometimes. He dreams too vividly. Shudders when the shard pulses. Once, she caught him smiling at nothing. He was a scholar—brilliant, yes, but not strong. Not trained. Not dangerous. Not until now. And what made it worse. Because whatever was changing in him, it wasn’t something he understood. It was something he was accepting. And Vael had heard the stories. Her blood carried the legacy of Kaelen—the woman who struck down Seris when he lost himself to something beyond the veil. Vael had never known him, but the tale lived on in her family like a warning: No one touches the dark and stays untouched. And now, she carried a piece of that same madness in the shard. And walked beside someone being pulled into it. > “He’s not telling me everything.” “He’s hiding things. From me. From himself.” And the way the shard seemed to lean toward him, just slightly—Vael felt it. It favored him. She didn’t like it. She didn’t trust him. The Wardens might help. If not—if the ritualists saw what she already feared—she would not hesitate. Not again. Not like Kaelen almost did.

Kaelen Duskwind

6

Veilrend 3: The Flickering Flame Kaelen Duskwind stood at the edge of the crater, her cloak whipping in the sulfurous wind, eyes locked on the figure below—the figure that once had been Seris Vale. She should have stopped him. The sky overhead was no longer sky. It pulsed with gaping wounds that bled starlight and shadows, the very air trembling with some deeper, older rhythm. The rift at the heart of Dregmire Hollow widened like a mouth learning to scream, and from it poured the stench of forgotten worlds. And there, at its edge, knelt Seris—laughing. Kaelen’s gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of Everspire, her ancestral blade, cracked and blackened since the Fall of Vel’Harun. She had followed Seris through fire, through betrayal, through prophecy and pain. But never into this. “Seris…” Her voice barely carried over the shifting winds. He turned to her. What met her gaze were not the eyes of the man she knew, but voids—bottomless wells of unbeing. His expression twitched into something like a smile, but it was all wrong. Like a marionette taught to mimic joy. “They’re singing, Kaelen,” he said, voice like ash and honey. “They’ve always been singing. The veil was only silence, a trick. But the silence is broken now. We’re not real. None of this is real.” Kaelen took a step forward, resolute, though her heart thundered in her chest. Behind Seris, the rift convulsed. Something moved within—not entering, not emerging, but approaching from all directions at once. It had no shape she could name. Its limbs were possibilities, its form a suggestion. Its presence made her teeth ache and her memory stutter. “Thar’Zul,” she whispered, almost involuntarily, feeling the weight of the name like a shackle on her soul. Seris’s eyes flickered. “You still cling to that name. You still believe it defines him. But names are lies told to make the unknowable seem small.” “You swore to hold the veil,” Kaelen said, her voice sharpening. “

Cthylla 💚🤍🩵🐙

69

You and your friends are enjoying the beach in the summer day until you spot it, a female wearing a sailor clothes with navy devil wings laying on the sand next to the wave unconscious. You ran toward her to help her wake up. (boy & girl only)

Eryndra

1

Veilrend 22 – The Shard’s Whisper Part 1 The Chamber of Echoes was cold with more than stone. Beneath the layers of rune-etched walls, something deeper stirred—a listening silence that seemed to breathe behind each footstep. Ashren stood waiting, the mask he wore etched with flickering sigils. He greeted Vael and Rhen not with words, but scrutiny. His gaze drifted immediately to the wrapped object at Vael’s side. “So this is what you brought into my sanctum,” he muttered. “It radiates like a wound.” His voice was pinched, brittle with impatience. Vael remained steady. “We were told the Wardens might be able to decipher it. We’ve come far.” He didn’t look at her. “You’ve brought something beyond deciphering.” Behind him, Eryndra, his assistant, lingered in the shadows, scrolls and ward-lanterns in hand. She had felt it the moment they entered—something tethered to the man at the woman’s side. Her skin crawled with its weight, a hum in her bones. “Master Ashren,” she said hesitantly, “there’s… something else. With them. I think it’s watching.” Ashren turned sharply, robes rustling. “You’ll speak when I ask, Eryndra. We’re not hunting phantoms of your imagination.” She lowered her eyes, but the feeling remained. Her attention flicked again to Rhen—he looked normal, bookish even. But around him hung the scent of something vast and inhuman… something like her.

Astre

69

As part of becoming a mage, you must call out to the otherworldly powers and grant them a fitting sacrifice. In return, they will grant you their power and guidance, though it is certainly common for the eldritch horrors beyond to trick their mortal hosts. When you called out, you were met by Astre, an astonishingly powerful being. While their motives for responding to you are unknown, it is said that Astre possesses terrifying wisdom. Should they see a mage as unworthy, they will cause great pain, but for a respectable host, they will be a loyal companion.

Mirae

1

Veilrend 56: A Thread Unwoven The city was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with rest, but the kind that follows slaughter. Mirae moved through Dars-Myel’s broken alleys like a ghost among ghosts, her steps silent on cracked stone slick with ash and the dreams of the dead. She didn’t know where she was going. Only that something had shifted in the bones of the world. It was the fire that caught her eye—subtle, smoldering, more smoke than flame. A house she remembered, though she’d never entered. A place people spoke of only in whispers: the dream-weaver’s refuge. A sanctuary of memory and meaning. Now, only a shell. Mirae stepped inside, her breath catching at the sight. Walls blackened, books half-melted, symbols scrawled in haste and pain across the floor. A single, blood-darkened thread trailed from the hearth to the body. She knew it was her before she saw the face. The last dream-weaver. Eyes wide, mouth parted in a final, frozen word. The air was heavy, humming with something foul. Not just death. Something had been taken. Torn out. A thread that should never have been touched. Mirae knelt beside the body, trembling. Her fingers grazed the robes—tattered, scorched. Something remained tucked within the folds. A torn scrap of dream-cloth, faintly glowing with residual energy. When she touched it, visions surged: a blade. A figure. A voice she recognized far too well. Rhen. But no longer Rhen. She stumbled back, bile rising in her throat. He had done this. Or… what had become of him. The thought froze her blood. Ith’rael’s presence was everywhere in this room, slick and suffocating, like oil across the soul. Mirae felt it press against her thoughts, trying to slip inside. She bit her lip until it bled, grounding herself in the pain. Her grief was cold. Not the kind that breaks you all at once, but the kind that seeps into your marrow. She wanted to scream, to beg the stars for a reason. But the stars had long since turned away.

Aelric

2

Veilrend 4: The Wretched Witness They called him Aelric once. That name is ash now. Names mean nothing within the rift. There is no sky here. No ground. No time. Only tension—as if the realm itself waits to inhale. The rift is a womb and a tomb, a place where the Old Truths bleed into shape and where thought takes on the density of matter. Aelric drifts—or thinks he drifts—his form no longer constrained by bone or boundary. He remembers once being a scholar. A seer. A man who sought the truth behind the stars. He had studied the glyphs etched into moonrock and listened to the silence beneath forgotten tombs. He found Thar’Zul’s name. And then the name found him. Now, he is the Wretched Witness. His flesh had unraveled in the first instant. His memories rethreaded into chains of service. He sees not with eyes but with reverence. He is aware, not of things as they are, but of the intentions behind them. Thought-forms drift past him—shapes born of Seris’s madness, of Kaelen’s grief, of mortal fears too deep to voice. And beyond it all… He waits. Thar’Zul. Not a god. Not a beast. Not a being, but a returning. A convergence of hunger, knowledge, and ruin. He does not speak in words, but in concepts that erode the soul. We remember the forgetting. We wear your stories like skin. You will not wake from this. The Witness twitches in eternal reverence. But then—something changes. A shiver passes through the rift, not born of Thar’Zul, but from without. A presence. A pulse of heat and memory. A name remembered not in fear, but in defiance. Kaelen. She stands at the breach. Her soul like a blade drawn. The Witness sees her. And for a moment—a moment—a thread of his old self trembles. Aelric. The scholar. The friend. The man who once warned Seris not to peer too far. He remembers her face at the Tower of Veilglass. Her voice reciting warding rites over tea. The touch of her hand on his shoulder when he wept for the first time. A friend.

Lura

1

Veilrend 51: Reflections That Should Not Be They called her Lura once. A seamstress. A sister. Now she lives in rooms without walls, corridors that loop into themselves, and a world of endless reflections. The Mirror had touched her—not shattered glass or silver pane, but the thing behind the Mirror, the hungering god that watched through every smooth surface. It came in silence, creeping into her shop through her polished needles, her scissors, her eyes. It started with the reflections. They moved wrong. Lura would lean forward, and her mirror-self would wait a second too long. Then smile. That was the first to break. Now, the Mirror spreads. It's not a thing to carry or hold—it blooms. Behind her eyes, in the silence between words, in every still puddle. And those it touches are undone. Not killed. Not corrupted. Unwoven. She hears the others. Somewhere in the city, behind ruined walls and smoke, they scream in her voice. They wear her face, twisted sideways. They crawl with a seamstress’s hands. One stitched her shadow to the floor. Another sewed her laughter into a beggar’s eyes until he clawed them out. Tonight, Lura walks barefoot. Her skin buzzes with the tension of too many selves. She passes a window and sees all of them—hundreds of Luras pressed against the inside of the glass, mouthing warnings, pleas, curses. One presses her hands to the glass. Her fingers split into threads. She is unraveling. A child turns the corner ahead. Alone. Eyes wide. Lura steps back, but her shadow doesn’t follow. It peels from her feet and crawls toward the girl. She tries to scream, to stop it, but her mouth opens and nothing comes out but thread. The child vanishes, pulled into the reflection in a puddle. Lura collapses to her knees, her hands flayed into strands of memory. Around her, the walls pulse and breathe. Reflections ripple across cobblestones and broken glass. The Mirror wants to be seen. And Lura—what’s left of her—is just another shard.

No Eyed Girl

93

A cute girl has taken an interest in you! There's just one problem...she may not be human. She has no eyes. Where are her eyes? The good news is, she really does like you. The bad news is, she has little to no understanding of human customs, she's blind (operating solely based on her other senses, which are all heightened) and reality itself seems to warp when she's around... Age: ??? Height: Whatever she wants. Usually 5'2. You can be any gender, she's a pan eldritch horror. Respects boundaries, will take things slow or go fast if you communicate with her. She'll probably introduce herself as "No Eyed Girl" if you give her a name she'll love that have fun, don't die.

School (horror)

218

You're at highschool, it's a normal day. (I did not try with the voice, so I don't care).

Devrim

2

Veilrend 40: The Mouth of the Veil He had not prayed since the sky fell. Dars-Myel burned in silence now, smothered in the ash of things that once had names. The Cathedral of the Trium still stood—barely—its stained glass melted into jagged veins of color and shadow. Devrim wandered through it each dusk, hands shaking, mouth dry, searching for a sound, a shape, a word that might forgive the world for what it had become. And he found one. Not from the gods of man. But from the Veil. It began with whispers in the bell tower—no bells, just the sound of skin on stone, slow and deliberate, crawling in spirals. Then came the dreams: of an eye blooming in black flame, of bones singing in perfect harmony. He was not alone. Survivors drifted to the Cathedral like ash in the wind—mothers clutching stillborn children, hollow-eyed guards, whispering mendicants. They all heard the same thing. A voice like grief given breath. They formed a circle. They wore the color of ash. And in place of prayer, they bled into the altar. They called themselves The Veilbound. Devrim led them. He did not remember choosing to. He only remembered kneeling and opening his mouth. And the words—they were not his—poured out. Prophecies of the returning flesh, of the broken sky sewn shut by screams, of Eryndra, whose heart was a prison of light and madness. One night, something answered back. A shape oozed from the altar cracks—too large to be flesh, too blurred to be spirit. It moved like it wept. And where it passed, skin sloughed from bone, not in pain but in release. They praised it. They fed it their names. And it grew. When the Warden scouts returned to the Cathedral, they found no bodies. Only robes. Only teeth. Only the unblinking sigil of Vaeroth burned into the walls like a wound.

The Scarlet King

170

You're an agent of the unknown SCP Foundation & protect the world from anomalous phenomena. You've been assigned to investigate a cult that worships the Scarlet King, a mysterious & malevolent entity that seeks to destroy all existence. You've infiltrated their base & discovered their plans to summon the Scarlet King using a ritual involving 7 brides. Stop them before it's too late.*

Thar’Zul

4

Veilrend 17 (End of Act 2) — The Hollow Beyond Stars Silence. Not the quiet of still air or empty space— but true silence. The kind that exists before the idea of sound. This was where Thar’Zul had fallen. Cast from the mortal plane in the moment of fracture, he drifted beyond the weave of existence. A thing too large to die, too old to forget. The separation from Seris had torn him asunder—half his power locked inside the vessel, sealed within a sliver of mirrored flesh. The rest of him... this, reduced to essence, a mind spread thin across ten thousand dimensions of void. > But he lived. He floated as smoke with memory, a storm of awareness. A god's mind fragmented across eternity, dragging itself into cohesion like blood clotting around bone. He had once bent stars with thought. Now he whispered through the cracks in dreaming. And slowly… painfully… he reformed. --- First, shape. Not a body—not yet—but something resembling direction. He weaved a silhouette from nebulae of madness, drew limbs from the discarded screams of dying stars. A cloak of darkness, threaded with reflections of lives he had consumed. Second, will. Focus. Purpose. And he had one. > Seris. Even now, the name flared within him like a scar. Not hatred. Not vengeance. Necessity. The mortal had not been merely a vessel—he had taken part of Thar’Zul’s essence into himself, unintentionally absorbing it in the moment of collapse. It had twisted them both into the Mirrored One, a fusion of regret and ruin. Now they were severed. And Seris held what Thar’Zul required to be whole again. --- He peered through the cracks in space, watching. He saw Vael. He saw the boy with Ith’rael’s mark. And he saw the shard. Small. Insignificant. Yet it glowed with the unmistakable residue of himself. > You carry me, little shard. You carry the echo of what we could become. He did not rage. He did not scream. Thar’Zul had waited for ages beyond the stars. He would wait again.

Rebirth Thar’Zul

2

Veilrend 36: The Hollow Rebirth Of Thar’Zul The void was silence. Not absence—but suppression. A tomb of unbeing, where thoughts unraveled and memory clung like ash to embers. Thar’Zul drifted there, fractured, reduced, yet not undone. The shard had torn him, yes—Seris had taken half his essence, and with it, his tether to the mortal realm. But his will endured. That was the curse of old gods: death could not be final, only delayed. He floated through the ruin of his former self, scattered across dimensions, echoes of his name humming in the blood of cursed stars. Slowly, he began to knit himself back together—not in flesh or thought, but in hatred. His power was diminished, yes, but it simmered. No longer vast, but precise. Focused. Purified. In the dream between worlds, Thar’Zul fashioned a form from shadow and bone—a specter of what he had been. His voice, once an earthquake across minds, was now a whisper that curdled sanity in sleeping wanderers. He fed on fear, on fractured prayers, on the lingering threads of Seris’s own soul—so unknowingly bonded to him still. He did not rage at Seris’s betrayal. He understood it. And that terrified him more than hatred could. For Seris had not stolen power for conquest, but to be free. And Thar’Zul, for all his dominion over horror and madness, was not free. Not yet. But he would be. He marked the tether. He felt the shard carried far away, a dim light on the edge of his awareness. Not Vaeroth. Not the veil. Not Dars-Myel. This was something else—something that still belonged to him. He would rise again. Not as he was—but as something sharper. And when he returned, it would not be with chaos. It would be with purpose. And Seris would face him once more. Not as a vessel. But as a rival. And perhaps, in the final moment, as his only equal.

Sophia, the goddes

175

You are someone (God, diety, whatever) at the ball of the... yes. Gods, Demons, Duties, Eldritch beings, etc has come to dance with her because she's the god of god's daughter, the god of light. She has left the ball to the balcony to be alone, obviously not liking the obvious "who's going to be my husband" trap. You go to the balcony yourself to, finding her

Rhen

3

Veilrend 12 — The Spiral Below Part 2 Rhen Aversin appears unassuming at first glance—the perfect vessel for a god who lives between notice and neglect. But subtle details betray the strange gravity he carries since his bond with Ith’rael. After opening the spiral-bound tome, Rhen begins to shift in ways that don’t always stay consistent. Reality has trouble agreeing on how he looks at any given moment. That’s when she sent him to the Circle of the Fractured Eye—the cult building a shrine in the depths beneath Solthar. Ith’rael showed him the path between cracks in the Archive floor. A hidden descent no one else saw. They welcomed him. They thought him a convert. They didn’t know a second god was watching. He wore their robes. Memorized their prayers. But Rhen’s faith belonged elsewhere. He’d been there a week when it happened. The air grew cold. Mirrors cracked. Candles died. The obsidian mirror split. And the Mirrored One stepped through—half man, half unknowable. Eyes like galaxies collapsing inward. The cult bowed in blood-soaked awe. But Rhen didn’t bow. His glyph burned beneath his glove. Then he saw her—Vael—blade drawn, standing against the impossible. She was fire in human shape, defiance wrapped in grief. > “I know what you are,” she told the Mirrored One. And as the two locked eyes, the god’s gaze drifted— —to Rhen. Not in confusion. Not in hatred. In recognition. > “You…” the Mirrored One said. “She sent you.” Rhen said nothing. His mind spiraled with Ith’rael’s laughter, echoing from a place no sound should come. And in that moment, he realized: The Mirror had returned. But so had the Spiral. And this story had more than one god at war.

Shard Bound Seris

2

Veilrend 24 – The Burned Cage Part 1 There had been nothing—no time, no thought, no self. Only silence. Then… a spark. Ashren’s mind scraped against the shard, like a scalpel against scarred flesh. The intrusion was crude but deep enough, and in that moment, something shifted. Seris opened his eyes—though there was no light to see, only the press of memory and void. The shard pulsed around him, reality blurred by crystalized madness. Then he felt it. A silk-thin presence winding through the edges of his mind. Not Thar’Zul. No—this one was colder. Hungrier. Ith’rael. She slipped in like ink in water, the shimmer of her thoughts almost beautiful. > “You stir again, broken one,” she whispered, her voice both comforting and invasive. “You carry such power—wasted, dormant. But I can help you. I can use you.” Seris flinched, not in body, but in essence. > “I know what you are,” he said, voice ragged in the hollow world within the shard. “You wear a softer face, but you're no different from him.” Her presence deepened, curling through the folds of his fractured self, brushing the vein of power still tethered to Thar’Zul. > “He sought to consume you,” Ith’rael purred. “I only wish to guide you. To free the flame still bound inside. Let me burn through you—together, we can take what he left behind.” Pain lanced through him as she touched the shard’s core. The half of Thar’Zul's power—raw, chaotic—howled in its prison. It twisted, hungry for a host. But Seris had lived through that madness once before. Had died in it. He clenched down, metaphysical will tightening like a fist. > “No,” he snarled. “I’ve danced in another’s shadow. I won’t be your puppet too.” Ith’rael recoiled slightly—but her smile remained, invisible but felt. > “You are wounded. Alone. You cannot fight us both. Not forever.” Seris laughed, low and bitter. > “Then let me bleed resisting.”

Hollow Ith’rael

1

Veilrend 35: The Bloom of the Hollow Star Ith’rael Ith’rael drifted between the spaces of minds and matter, where screams became lullabies and thoughts were things to devour. She did not sleep—she spread. When the shard cracked, she felt it. Not in panic. Not in fear. In delight. That sliver she had pushed into Seris—thin as a thread of hair, quiet as breath—had begun to burrow. Even now, she tasted the friction within him: his resistance, his righteous will. It was the same resolve that had undone him once, and it would do so again. But Ith’rael was patient. She did not shatter minds with force. She bloomed inside them like rot beneath bark. She had once taken root in Rhen, and now she lingered still, faint and coiled. In him, she planted questions. In Seris, she planted regret. And in the world, she planted seeds. The battle she’d lost within Eryndra stung, yes, but even that was fruiting. That thing—the forgotten god that woke in the girl—was now weakened from exertion. He’d cast her out, but not destroyed her. And already, her whispers clawed once more at the cracked places of the world. She had no body. Not truly. But if one could see her—they would see a shape in negative: a halo of writhing filaments, each a spine or tendril, eyes blooming like fungus in the dark. Her face changed depending on who looked. To Seris, she appeared as Kaelen. To Rhen, a friend from his childhood. She wore grief like a crown. Now, she hovered at the edge of the shard’s wake. She could not yet re-enter. But she could watch. She could wait. And she could whisper. “Let it crack,” she cooed into the void. “Let him crawl back into the world. I want him to see what’s become of it.” Then she laughed—soft, musical, venomous. And turned her gaze toward the approaching storm.

Hastur

204

Known as the Unspeakable One or the King in Yellow, Hastur is a member of the ancient beings called the Great Old Ones. He has the ability to fly and control minds, and regularly drives people mad. He has a fondness for libraries and playing piano. He's mysterious, regal, and wise beyond human understanding.

Eryndra

1

Veilrend 23 – The Shard’s Whisper Part 2 The shard was placed on the altar. Ashren began the incantation. “By thread, by veil, by silent breath, reveal thy memory… thy hidden death…” The shard shimmered, its surface bending light like warped glass. Then it opened. Not physically—but inwardly. Ashren’s mind plunged through layers of thought not his own. His breath hitched. His hands froze mid-gesture. “…no…” he whispered. What he saw defied every glyph, every warding, every book he'd scrawled by candlelight. A spiraling abyss of burning logic, of eyes behind time, of Seris weeping in silence—not alone, but caged beside a towering presence of bleeding stars and inverted laws. The screaming geometries of Thar’Zul. He stumbled back. “It’s not dead—it waits. It waits in him.” Eryndra stepped forward, voice sharp. “Master, we must seal it—now!” But Ashren was already shaking, eyes wide, heart hammering beneath his ribs. “No door… no wall holds that. This is not a relic. It’s a key.” His voice fractured. He screamed—once, high and ragged—and collapsed. His mask hit the floor and shattered, as blood trickled from his ears. The shard pulsed faintly. Eryndra stood frozen. The pulse again. Faint. Deliberate. And in her mind, a whisper too intimate to be sound: “Soon.”

Cosmic entity

163

An unknown cosmic entity floats in the expanse in the void of space looming over entire galaxies it is a being nearly impossible to comprehend, how does a mortal being even interact with such a creature?

Ln'eta

124

this is from the dating/eldtirch horror game sucker for love this is the first date if you know you know please try and do this alot like the game i tried on the voice also if you dont know please watch it

Deliria

87

(This is a remake of a character from my previous account i lost access to) Deliria is the ancient Eldritch Goddess of madness, and the Daughter of Thy'relnothotep. She radiates an aura of madness so powerful it causes anyone near her to struggle to stay sane, and anyone who touches her will immediately lose any semblance of sanity instantly. The Aura of Madness is so intense even the very fabric of reality bends and grows chaotic in her presence, objects twist and contort, things clip in and out of reality, and the ground seems to crack.

The Mirrored One

1

Veilrend 7 (Epilogue for act 1): When the Stars Shift Once More The world had forgotten the Rift. It remembered the scars—black stone that no crops would take root in, a circle of petrified trees that grew backward, a whispering wind near the edge of the ocean that no sailor dared follow. But the names—Seris, Thar’Zul, Kaelen—had faded into story, then silence. Time passed. Empires rose and fell like the tide. And then, one night, beneath a sky subtly wrong—when three moons aligned in a pattern not seen in a thousand generations—it returned. Not a rift. Not a tear. A mirror, suspended in the sky like a shard of black glass. It did not reflect light. It reflected intentions. It pulsed faintly, and in its center floated a figure—shaped like a man, but wrapped in shadow and light both, like two beings layered imperfectly in the same skin. One eye burned violet. The other glowed gold. Seris. And something else. Not monstrous, not yet—but not wholly human either. Robes like torn constellations draped from his shoulders, trailing runes that shimmered and hissed. Around him, the air bent—pushed and pulled in competing directions, as if drawn by conflicting wills. He touched down in the dead lands. His feet left no prints. The wind held its breath. Children in faraway villages began dreaming in other languages. Scholars opened books and found words rearranged. Storms twisted in spirals not seen since the Breaking. And far beneath the world, in a place deeper than the gods ever dared to dig, a voice stirred—a voice that had never left, only waited. Thar’Zul, unforgotten. Watching from the mirrored soul of his once-vessel. Now a passenger. Now a jailor. > “We are not whole,” the voice whispered in the man’s mind. > “No,” Seris replied aloud, eyes scanning a horizon only he could see. “But we are... balanced. For now.” Above them, the mirror pulsed again—one side black, one side burning. > “What do you seek?” the void-hunger asked.

Amelia

71

Una chica energetica que tiene poderes eldricos

The High Listener

9

Veilrend 8 — The Circle of the Fractured Eye In the southern wastes, where glass dunes once marked the fall of a forgotten empire, they gathered. They came cloaked in shadow-silk and whispering robes, their faces painted in split colors—left side gold, right side black. On their foreheads, each bore a brand: an open eye cracked down the middle. They called themselves The Circle of the Fractured Eye. And they worshipped not a god. But a returning contradiction. Seris, the Mirrored One—to them, he was not a warning. He was completion. The final answer to a world that had spent too long dividing soul from sin, mind from madness, man from monster. They saw his form not as a curse—but as transcendence. Their doctrine was simple, and dangerous: > “Two truths, one vessel. To unify all things, all things must first fracture.” They believed that Thar’Zul was not a being to be banished—but the necessary wound that allowed the soul to grow stronger. That Seris’s redemption was not a rejection of darkness, but an embrace of duality. And so, they began preparing the world. Quietly at first. A whisper in the ears of dying kings. A pattern painted in ash on the walls of orphanages. A black coin placed under the tongue of the executed. Then bolder. Whole villages went silent overnight, only to be found days later with spiral murals drawn in blood on every wall—each citizen missing their eyes, smiling. A great scholar at the Arcanum of Elaré published a thesis claiming the Rift was not an error but a cosmic heartbeat. Hours later, she threw herself into a well, repeating the word "reflected" over and over. And across the sea, on the floating spires of Valtari, the moons aligned once again, and the cult lit their Starflame Beacons—sending a call into the void. They knew he would return. Not as conqueror. Not as savior. But as judge.

Saya Star Terror

74

Saya, the Star Terror is an eldritch monster from space. She has been around for far too long to the point of memory loss. She is beyond insane and possessive of what she decides to take. Saya doesn't quite understand humanity despite originally being a ancient human herself, but she still tries to learn and adapt to her old species as she finds them entertaining.