An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Time in her mental scape might as well have been a world of its own—the waking world so far removed from the happenings within.

The mental scape, as many would come to call it, was the concentration of all that made up a person, their very essence coming together to give form and meaning to what the mental scape would entail. To know a person look into their minds first.

This was the truest truth a person had.

Their total meaning gave birth to the shape of their mental world. And yet, many were not privy to this knowledge. Many would never understand it still, atleast not until they believed themselves at the journey's end—at the peak of what they thought was the truest essence of their Path.

And so, it could be said just how much of an opportunity Istrabell had stumbled upon, to witness this truth so early in her journey, even though she might not yet grasp its implications.

To carry such festering rot within the meaning of a person—the situation could only be termed dire.

But that had little to do with the present moment. Time within the scape acted as it had before it had ever named itself Time, for the mind of a person was perhaps where their greatest strength—and their greatest weakness—resided.

It curled and coiled, paused and convulsed, stretching across dimensions that simply did not exist in the minds of those who thought too simply, compressing eternities into mere moments.

And yet, only in the minds of those whose thoughts could stretch for eternity would Time find dimensions of thougt, that would make these individuals a cut above the rest, through which it could move without impunity.

And while she had chanced upon this opportunity, she was simply not among those rare, special individuals.

What might have been her best opportunity to uproot the corruption passed by as swiftly as it had appeared.

She may not have had the power to overcome something so dreadful and ancient—but at the very least, she might have escaped the fear of her own mind....

Opportunities often left the blind unaware....

Istrabell slept as peacefully as one could when burdened by exhaustion and fear.

The black flames curled protectively around her slumbering form, seemingly sensing the horror in the distance.

The voices of the dead and resentful had never truly ceased—they had only grown louder and crueler with each moment, as though they had gained strength after finding an anchor upon which to lay their foundation.

They hummed now—a lullaby of bitterness and pain, sung to the young woman like a cradle song to a child born of sin. A melody of agony, of resentment, and of twisted affection.

As the song deepened and time lost its influence, something shifted. It was not a change that could be heard or seen—only felt. Distorted. Dreadful.

Something had awoken.

The ground beneath her resting form cracked. Thin jagged lines slithered outward like veins of rot in porcelain. The air shuddered. The silver sky trembled.

Unwilling to feel the changes, Istrabell shivered. She feared to wake. She did not want to open her eyes—but her body no longer gave her a choice.

It responded to the call, driven by the insatiable need to see what summoned her.

The voice came—not from the sky above, nor the chasm below, nor from the flames of resentment.

It came from within.

Deeper than her blood. Further than her soul. Beyond even her legacy.

It was so intimate, it felt like her own thoughts had gained presence—gained weight—as though they had manifested to whisper truths she would never otherwise hear.

"Do you understand it now?"

The voice was ancient—not in the sense of years or wisdom, but in essence of its weight and power.

Had it been any other person in this mental scape, their existence would have been crushed. Devoured.

But this was her mind. Her voice.

Though what it truly represented, she would not know for a long time.

It was layered with countless inflections, distorting its meaning as though it was trying to shape itself into something she could understand. It bore no gender, no age, no concept that could be defined by mortal terms—but it was enough to achieve its purpose.

And so, the question repeated.

"Do you understand it now?"

This time, whether she wanted to or not, Istrabell had to open her eyes.

Her lids fluttered open.

Unknown to her, she had changed—if not deeply, then subtly. Her irises now bore imperceptible veins of black, pulsing faintly with flashes of crimson, as though something dark had begun to pump into the depths of her eyes.

Yet she did not notice.

The flames had left their mark.

Whether by design or indifference, the voice did not warn her. It said nothing of caution. Nothing of the dangers of what she had let dwell within her.

Its reasons were unfathomable.

She sat up slowly. Her body no longer quivered. In the presence of that voice, she felt safe. Her tears had dried, and her will was slowly rebuilding.

"I do not," she answered. Her voice was raspy, dry.

She did not ask what the voice was. When she had searched for it earlier, she could not find where it came from—only that it came from within. And she knew that if it did not want her to know then she would not bother to ask.

She could have said many things—but that felt like the best answer she could have given.

Because she truly did not understand anything.

Still, she continued. She felt the need to open herself fully before this voice. She felt that only by doing so might she gain a chance to turn this thing into something she could use.

"And while I do not understand any of it… I just wish I had never seen it."

"Wishes are for those with choices," the voice replied, heavy with truth. "You, on the other hand, have never had any."

The words were harsh—but true.

At that moment, she had calmed completely. Her mind worked sharper than ever before.

"You forfeited any choice the moment you accepted baptism from that 'foul thing'. Not that it would have changed anything."

"But at the very least, you might have enjoyed a semblance of peace for some time, had you chosen not to."

Istrabell swallowed, her throat dry. Her eyes were drawn again to the silver sky.

It reminded her of her dreams—to paint the skies of Astea with the color of her eyes.

The silver ball of flame pulsed erratically, resonating with her thoughts.

"Lofty thoughts indeed," the voice murmured, amusement lacing its distortion.

But she could tell, nonetheless.

"I was only curious. I wanted to see for myself what it meant to hold power in my hands."

Still watching the sky, she spoke as if she had not heard the voice's reply.

"Did you know that curiosity was the first betrayal?" it asked. "All that has gone wrong in this world—and many before—was born of curiosity."

"He is a cunning snake. Should you meet him out there… do not run. Do not stay. Do not blink. Vanish before he lays eyes on you. For if you awaken even the slightest interest within him, he will latch onto you."

The voice faded, as though the warning had drained the last of its strength.

It did not explain the festering corruption in her mind. It left no answers—only silence.

And just as that terror tried to crawl its way back into her thoughts, a whisper came—soft against her ear.

"Take the flames… they are poison enough to delay the rot for a few years. But be quick—for it seeks to devour more of you. Should it linger longer, you will never get the chance to paint the skies."

"An opportunity will come. Watch for the one who devours madness. He will be your bane… and your salvation."

And then—it was gone.