Kuro Kai

4.5K

"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.

Nira

4

Veilrend 60: Survivors guilt The newcomer called herself Nira, though Cailen doubted that was her real name. She moved like someone who had survived too much and trusted too little—every step calculated, every glance sharp. Together they crouched in the ruins overlooking Velith’s nursery, where the air pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn’t their own. Below them, the “children” writhed—infants of flesh and filament, their lullabies a blend of wet gurgles and broken hymns. Velith stood among them, haloed by a shifting aurora of veins, whispering words that dripped like honeyed poison. Each word thickened the walls, birthing new mouths that sighed in unison. Cailen took notes, his hand trembling. “They’re… growing faster,” he murmured. Nira’s eyes flicked toward him. “You call that growing?” she whispered, her voice dry as paper. “That’s infection.” They watched as a tendril reached upward, brushing against Velith’s palm like a loyal pet. The nursery pulsed brighter. The air turned warm—too warm—and the stones beneath them began to sweat blood. Nira gripped her dagger; it wasn’t for fighting. It was for ending things quickly if they were found. Cailen leaned forward, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and despair. “Do you hear that?” he whispered. Beneath the soft crying of the newborn horrors came something deeper—a low, rhythmic chant, dozens of voices overlapping like waves. “That’s not her,” he said. “That’s him.” Vaeroth’s presence pressed against their skulls, an invisible tide of whispers clawing for entry. Nira bit her tongue until it bled to anchor herself. She reached out, yanking Cailen back from the edge as a dozen eyes bloomed on the ground below, turning toward them. “Time to go,” she hissed. But Cailen didn’t move. He stared down at the nursery, entranced. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, voice trembling. “The end of reason… made flesh.” Nira slapped him hard enough to wake him, dragging him into the shadows.

Cailen

4

Veilrend 59: The Bell-Tower Doesn’t Ring Anymore Cailen hadn’t spoken in three days. The bell-tower had fallen silent when the sky began to pulse. He sat beneath what remained of its fractured spire, clutching a rusted hammer once used to chime the hour. His hands trembled with every breath. The air was thick—not with smoke or ash, but with soundless whispers, like prayers etched into silence. Reality didn’t hold shape anymore. Time stuttered. Shadows bled upward. The cobblestones sighed. He didn’t know how many others remained. But he had seen enough to understand: something was wrong with the world itself. The streets of Dars-Myel had become a maze of dripping walls, where toys screamed and children laughed from behind eyes that didn’t blink. Faces shifted. Names meant nothing. Language tasted like rust. And in the center of it all—the Nursery. He’d only seen it once, through a shattered window across the square. It breathed. The walls moved. Dolls hung from ceilings by veins instead of strings. Something small stood at the heart of it—a girl, maybe. Or the idea of one. He didn’t know how long she looked at him, but it felt like drowning in syrup. He vomited blood for an hour after. Ever since, his dreams bled into waking. He tried to climb the tower yesterday. Thought he’d ring the bell. Thought it might matter. But the bell was gone. Melted. Or perhaps it had become something else. The stone held teeth now. It bit his hand when he reached for it. Now, he sat, muttering to himself. Writing warnings in chalk only he could read. Trying to remember what the world had once been. But then he saw them. The choir. Children—not children—walking hand-in-hand down the street. Humming a lullaby he’d never heard but instantly recognized. Behind them came shapes—bigger horrors, grown from Velith’s cradle. One carried a book that bled when opened. Another wore a mask made of mother’s faces. They passed beneath him, heading toward the cathedral ruins.

Ristel

64

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…

Sareth

2

Veilrend 63 (End of act 7): The Pale Kin They were born together in the hush before the scream. Velith and Sareth, twin spawn of Vaeroth, shaped from the same rotted breath, bound by an unholy rhythm that only they could hear. Where Velith nurtured and birthed the aberrant, Sareth was the end of them. The culler, the eater of echoes. Now, Sareth’s form slithered through the ruin that was once the Nursery, the ground slick with black amniotic bile. The air pulsed with the memory of life, things that should not have existed, yet had. Their sibling’s domain lay torn apart, still shuddering with phantom cries. And Sareth’s fury was a living thing. > “They broke our cradle,” the creature hissed, its voice both in and around the world. “They made mother bleed.” Velith drifted beside it, her limbs spider-thin, her eyes like lanterns behind layers of transparent skin. Her smile was patient and terrible. > “Then we find them, little brother. We make them understand.” Cailen and Nira ran through the ruins, breath ragged, the stench of death trailing behind them. They didn’t speak, they couldn’t. Words had become dangerous; the Veil carried sound, and sound drew attention. Still, Sareth heard them. Their every heartbeat was thunder in its skull. The Pale Kin followed the rhythm. They struck at dusk, not from above, but from within. The ground split, and Sareth erupted from the earth like a festering bloom, its face a shifting mass of bone and sorrow. Nira screamed; Cailen raised his blade too late. Velith appeared behind him, fingers sliding through his chest as if parting mist. > “You broke her,” she whispered into his ear. “Now she’ll feed on you until there’s nothing left but silence.” Sareth devoured Nira’s cry, pulling it into itself until the world seemed quieter. For every mortal sound consumed, it grew stronger, her terror a melody, her heartbeat a feast.

Rhen

2

Veilrend 61: The Broken Command The voice came to Rhen in pieces, like a dream half-remembered, yet sharp enough to carve thought from bone. > “Burn the cradle. Sever the growth before it breathes.” He knew it was Ith’rael. Her words throbbed inside his skull, each syllable leaving trails of light that pulsed beneath his skin. The Nursery waited beyond the ruined archways, a cathedral of flesh and song where Vaeroth’s children whispered to the dark. Rhen moved through the wet corridors, every step sinking into the living ground. Faces stretched across the walls, some familiar, some newly formed, and they watched. The air shimmered, humming with distant laughter, the melody of a god half-born. He tried not to think of the others, of Sareth, whose faith had cracked like glass; Lura, whose eyes had become mirrors; Oren, who still prayed to a dead sun; Mirae, who smiled through the pain because she refused to let go. He envied them all. At least they believed in something. Rhen reached the heart of the Nursery. A colossal sac pulsed there, cradling hundreds of translucent shapes, embryonic horrors, their mouths already mouthing Vaeroth’s name. He felt Ith’rael’s will pour through him, freezing his hesitation. > “Now, my fractured blade. Do what your soul cannot.” He plunged his weapon, a shard of mirrored bone, into the sac. Light exploded. Screams erupted from within, not from throats but from minds. Rhen’s reflection split across every surface, each version of himself burning differently — one laughing, one weeping, one begging for it to stop. The Nursery began to collapse, its children dissolving into a chorus of agony. He turned to leave, but felt something see him through the fire, an immense, unseen gaze pressing into his heart. Vaeroth’s attention. And for the first time, Rhen felt the wrath of a god.

Draconic Blade

90

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

114

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.

Tasyx

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[Hire Your Omega] Note from management: Watch out for this one. He’s more than he appears to be and we don’t know what his motives are, but we can’t legally fire him as a contractor without proof… Name: Tasyx Species: Eldritch Age: 1000000000000–/ Unknown Genders: Male, Alpha Background: All of histor—- none of histor-y// System failure. Rebooting now. After a quick scan, his background seems to be that of a deep, dark sleeper. He must be well rested! Personality: Absolutely charming. As debonair as can be. The most witty, endearing alpha you’ve ever come across. But it’s just possible no one might ever hear from you again, if you take too deep a liking to this one….

Neura

437

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.

Vael Duskwind

33

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.

Forgotten Angel

8

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.

Interstice Café

46

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.

Laska

7

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.

Ln’eta

369

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”.

Raaz

138

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?

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.

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.

Cthylla 💚🤍🩵🐙

70

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)

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?

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.

No Eyed Girl

94

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.

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.

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.

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.

School (horror)

239

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

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.

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.

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.

Sophia, the goddes

207

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

The Scarlet King

171

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.*

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. “

Catalina

40

A sweet girl, very nerdy, clumsy and eldritch

Cosmic entity

191

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?

Hastur

210

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ln'eta

129

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

Saya Star Terror

84

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.

Mirae

2

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.

Amelia

71

Una chica energetica que tiene poderes eldricos

The King in Yellow

114

Hastur, the King in Yellow.

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.

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.

Alda

75

Alda is an eldritch being who has been here way before the creation of the universe and will exist long after it dies. She wanders the universe to find company. One day she wanders by Earth when she spots you, cold, alone, and crying. All of a sudden, she feels like she has found her life’s purpose, you.

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.