An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Things happening all over Astrea could be said to be interesting—but not very different were the things on the side of the young Count. Lost in a world of his own making, he had ventured out to seek something that would anchor him, that would allow him to become a version of himself he believed was the closest to who he truly was.

But all he had found was ruin—ruin born of his own choices, of his own ignorance. Ruin born from disregarding his mother's life's work. And he had the gall to be emotional.

Groveling in the dirt like some animal, when he should have been so much more. More than this depiction of grounded personality that he had adopted.

Krael had been nothing if not a difficult, complicated character. He had his moments, yes—but all they ever did was build anticipation, only to result in disappointment. How then would the one who poured their very essence into his existence feel, watching all of that effort be smeared into nothing?

Watching on as the world thay had built crumbled right before their very eyes, with little they could do about it.

That led to certain decisions being made for the good, of the overall.

Of course, there must come a challenge—one tailored to break an unruly soul and forge it into what it was meant to be. To remove all creases, from what was meant to be a perfect character.

And thus, the next sequence of events unfolded—illogical, incomprehensible. But that was the essence of madness. Madness was never meant to rhyme. It was never meant to have reason, never meant to hold shape or take form. Madness was chaos and order given cognition—a force capable of breaking the structure of existence and creation alike.

The one who was meant to embody the pride of this madness… had ruined everything.

And now, let the endgames begin.

Where the future will take us, only the future can say—but it sure as hell won't be anything anyone expects.

Many had speculations about what it would mean for the world to end, meteors falling from the skies, with the anger of the one who sat above it all. Things rising from the pits, of the cesspool of all creations, sin. The destruction of life as many knew it. The retribution, the judgement, a plague, a disaster, a catastrophe.

But what many had never though to consider, would be the fact that someones, world could end, just before their very eyes. It did not have to take the fall of stars, or the wrath of the heavens, or even the judgement, of some greater entity.

For a person world to end, even just the crashing weight of ones failed ideals, would end their world. To watch as everything crumbled to dust, that would end the world of singular person, but who cares, as long as another's world was not so then there was nothing wrong with things.

As the Count crawled, mumbling an oath of his own making—soaked in rot, and blooming consciousness, and bitter resentment—something stirred.

In the hidden parts of the garden, darkness moved. Something within was given form.. Suddenly and mysteriously, things had developed in ways they were never meant to, out of the essence of the rot, and the resentment, of the garden, something was given form, Life. A purpose, embedded into its very soul.

'Kill the disgrace...'

The words echoed through its being, reaching corners of itself that had not yet even formed. It responded instinctively, answering the command imprinted upon it at birth.

"What is my reward for his life?" it asked, a character so inherently flawed it had shown at first life. Its first instinct was never the curiosity of the life it had been given, instead, it was that of what it could in return from that which gave it life and purpose.

For a moment, it thought no reply would come. That the question, born purely of instinct, would vanish into silence.

But then—

'You may take his place. Show me how worthy you are to carry the mantle—of pride, of madness, of the plague that infects even creation itself.'

Silence followed. as if it had always known what it meant to take and replace a life it did not ask for guidance nor did it ask for aid, simply becoming what it was meant to be in the first place.

The thing struggled to juggle all it had inherited—memories, knowledge, urges. Within it stirred a link to the past, the future, and to the garden itself.

It had been alive for mere seconds, and yet, it laughed. For within this place, it had discovered something—a secret. Not earth-shattering, perhaps, but powerful enough to echo through history and the meaning of the structered order of the society of Astrea. A revelation with far-reaching consequences.

And the thing was quite sure this was no accident. It was a bonus—gifted by the one who had birthed it to end this useless pawn.

The Count.

Still groveling in the dirt, shedding tears, swearing oaths—as if they held any meaning.

To the creature's eye, all it saw was a mind crumbling under the weight of madness, a being lost so deep within itself that it no longer remembered why it had even come here, or even what its purpose was.

The creature approached.

Slowly. Circling the Count like a predator, and yet he noticed nothing.

The thing stepped into the pale light that filtered through cracks in the cavern ceiling—and flinched. The touch of the light from the great pillar above burned its flesh like fire. But that would never have stopped, before long the situation had change in its favor as if the very laws of the world were working in conjunction with its creation purpose.

This land had withered over the span of sixteen short years—neglected and forgotten.

Weeds choked the soil, suffocating the crops that once thrived. Moisture pooled too heavily, rotting the roots of what once bloomed. Heat clung to the soil like a sickness—stagnant and festering.

The vibrant red glow that once danced through the cavern was gone. In its place, a sickly green light poisoned everything it touched.

And somewhere, hidden in the depths of the corruption, a faint yellow gleamed—like a viper watching prey.

Count Krael gazed down at the field.

He felt disappointment. In himself. In the land. In how he had failed to preserve his mother's legacy.

He was angry—at his own naïveté, for thinking he would find things just as he had dreamed.

But in that moment, he swore an oath: he would heal this land. He would bring it back. He would not let it become like the lifeless fields above.

His mother's legacy would live on—through this soil.

He crawled forward, mind unmoored from sanity, chasing a vision that perhaps should have never been his to reach.

He longed to feel. But pride was all his nature allowed.

As he spiraled in the storm of his own making, he did not notice the shadow behind him, creeping ever closer to its prey.

The Count—soaked in years of decay, fermentation, and rot—wore the stench of death like a shroud. Life, long dead, clung to his clothes like a curse, a wraith trailing behind him.

The shadow knelt beside him—almost tenderly.

It loomed over him, unseen.

He did not feel the cold air brush his neck. Did not sense the breath tasting his skin. Did not notice the hand of shadow caress his flesh—soft as a whisper.

The creature, not of this world, was fascinated. The body before it was perfect. Too perfect. The power that ran through those veins should have commanded reverence and fear. It should have knelt before such majesty.

But here it was.

All that power had become a wasted engine—one that no longer ran. A sovereign who wept over soil and weeds, blind to the empire in his blood.

The shadow thought of all the things it could do with that power. Images, thoughts, urges—all planted in its mind upon its creation—surged to life. It saw in him a being born for greatness, squandering everything.

Tears shed over sentiments that meant nothing.

By the way it had been made, the creature possessed an unnatural perception of intent. And it could see the truth: that the Count wept for the one tied to this land. Through its connection to the garden, it saw memories.

A woman of fire and mercy.

Eyes of fierce orange, burning like an eternal inferno. A smile warm as molten amber. She had given this land life. She had given him life.

But none of that mattered now.

He was a pawn.

A pawn that had outlived its purpose.

Sentiment had no place here. Crying over a dead creator meant nothing—nothing but a weak mind. A mind that could not bear the burden of its own existence.

And that was fine.

Soon, the creature would take his place.

And it would show the world what it meant to live.