Velith, the Unwept

Intro 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.