An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Crimson candles glowed ominously in the chamber as they littered the darkness like malevolent stars.

There was great silence and stillness within.

And yet that silence was broken by the sound of space shifting, as the figures of Krael and Adler appeared—Adler holding the girl, her body trembling from exposure, her bones bare to the world. They seemed to scream from inside her flesh, as graying ichor bubbled over her skin like corrosive venom.

Adler suspended the girl in the air using his control over reality so that she would not be harmed by his touch, and that seemed to bring her great relief, for her shuddering lessened.

The Count watched the girl tremble, and somewhere deep in his heart, there was a pain—for her suffering, for her beaten and broken body barely clinging to life—a pain he did not recognize, a hollow ache.

While Krael did not notice it, others noticed more.

Hidden within the mindscape, Sael noticed. And in a rare moment, there was no mischievous smile on his face. A trace of anger flickered there whenever the image of the Count surfaced.

"You pushed her too far..." he said, his voice barely a whisper. No one heard him but the skulls at his feet, who trembled at the pain in his tone. Yet the fury they feared did not come. Sael merely leaned back upon his broken and scarred throne, his expression relaxing into a smile as he sensed the presence of a particular figure—the anger and hurt before fading like illusions.

Back in the underground chamber—now turned ritual chamber—

The crimson candlelight softened. No longer malevolent, the light radiated serenity as the Count and his butler stood waiting.

Adler knew nothing of the conversation between his master and the strange entity, and he wouldn't ask. He merely stood behind the young master, silent and waiting.

In the midst of it all... the little girl floated, her arms limp.

Her hair was caked in clotted blood, her skin bathed in gore and flesh—her own and that of the mercenaries. The contrast between her almost angelic, nefarious crystal-grey ichor and the corrupted hues of the mercenaries was a sight the Count found himself enamored with. The more he looked, the more he fell in love with the idea of bubbling ichor.

Something whispered to him how much more beautiful it would be if it were still warm... still fresh.

The basket floated beside her—pristine, as it had been when first given to her. She held it even while unconscious, a contrast to the charred mess of her body. She refused to let go of the one thing that proved there was still a reason to live, even if that reason was depraved—gutting others for their brains, eyes, and hearts.

The air was thick with the stench of corrupted flesh and a scorched, ashen aura—cold and yet searing.

The very blood that sustained her life until now.

With the aether present in the mercenaries' blood, she had siphoned it off to sustain the legacy that otherwise would have drained her soul completely. But thanks to the timely sacrifice of the mercenaries, she had gained more than she would have without them.

Then, as they were lost in their thoughts, a soundless pressure descended.

Krael and Adler looked up into the darkness above; even the unconscious girl stirred, sensing something reaching her even within her dreams.

Their breaths caught.

Above, the chamber's ceiling dissolved, revealing the slope they had just left behind. From a fold in reality, the first thing they saw was massive—three pairs of wings that blotted out everything, yet moved in utter silence, as though they each had lives of their own. They were feathered in impossible shades: silver, mauve, and midnight violet, with tips tinged in liquid mercury, shimmering softly.

They moved like pages turning in a timeless book, emphasizing the being to whom they belonged. The mercurial shimmer sent tremors down their spines. Be it Krael, Adler, or even the unconscious girl—they all felt a great stirring within, thoughts hidden deep rising to the surface—a yearning, a desire, a passion so profound… And just as suddenly, it vanished.

Attached to the wings was a hooded man, his massive frame the only proof he was indeed a man. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his physique causing Krael to question what race he belonged to. He stood so tall that even Adler, the tallest man Krael had seen in years, came a little short by comparison.

He descended without motion. Reality shifted to allow his presence—one moment absent, the next, within the chamber. And the chamber, once dark, grew darker still. Something was hidden, elusive, that neither Krael nor Adler could define.

The girl stirred, her body unwilling to sleep through such an occasion.

Her eye fluttered open—and she saw what had called to her. Her gaze widened, torn between desire and fear as she looked upon him. The hood concealed all, but flickers of mauve and mercury beneath it drew her in, like a voice she had known before birth. She did not understand what they were, but they saw her. They pierced through blood, bone, and soul. As if they had known her before she was even herself.

Her body refused to move—not that it could. Her nerves were so damaged it was a miracle she could still see, with only one eye left to gaze upon the being before her.

Her soul quivered.

He was unlike anyone she had ever known. No story in her memory could describe him—but she felt familiarity.

He stepped toward her, robes flowing like liquid violet shadows, never touching the ground, never stained by blood. The air itself parted for him, unwilling to touch him.

When he spoke, it was not sound, but desire made manifest. A longing-given voice.

"Child of Silent Death and Hollow Delirium, rise."

The words bloomed in her mind—warm and cold, silk over steel, honey wrapped in venom. Her wounds throbbed. Her heart stilled. For a moment, she forgot the pain—forgot herself. She was emptied, not by violence, but by reverence.

She tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

Her lips moved, but only a whisper escaped.

"...Who are you?"

A pause. Eternity in a breath. Then his presence pressed against her—not cruelly, but inescapably. He stood beside her floating form, and though she could not see his face, she felt his gaze—burning, serene. A hand veiled in starlit cloth touched her forehead—no contact, yet her blood ignited, her vision blurred with memories not her own.

"I am the hand that opens the gate. The keeper of the law. The whisper of the Entity. I come to weave the ritual of your becoming."