The Cult of Silent Echoes
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“And the Spirit of God moved across the face of the deep”...
The deep
Deep..
The world is a function of order. The solid after effect of the collapse of the potential into the
actual.
But order is temporary, for all falls back into chaos. Moving forever toward that ultimate
nothingness,
All that exists is but as an island, surrounded by what is Not.
The Abyss.
Where nothing is, but everything May.
A chaos of infinite potentially.
Shapes that the eye is incapable of perceiving, non things, that to glimpse would shatter
consciousness itself, collapsing the waveform of reality to where all is null.
This is the nothingness before the beginning, where the great Gods of this Abyss ruled all
potentiality.
All that is, what we call “reality”, emerged from that Abyss like a shadow, cast from amorphous
shapes illuminated by a negative light.
But not all of these shadows called reality have forgotten that negative light of the Abyss.
Great stones, erupted from the dark depths, bursting forth into what is, from beyond
perception, still feel that ancient birth pain, and resonate with the call of those ancient Gods
that ruled them once, and will one day, rule them again.
That resonance, the call from the Abyss is perceived by only a few.
The mad,
who’s minds are fractured by the non-voice of nothing, from nowhere that even the loudest
clamoring can not drown out. For no sound, nor any sensory overload, drown out this silence,
the first silence, the voracious devourer of all sense.
The Tormented,
who seek that call, hearing it everywhere, and finding it nowhere. Who finally seek their own
destruction, hoping for oblivion beyond this existence.
But beware, there are still others.
Those who rejoice in the call of the Abyss.
They gather, this Cult of Silent Echoes.
Called to strange places,
around the ancient stones that remember being Not.
They hear the echoes of the Abyss, and the call of one who is, and is not.
The focus of the swirling storm of chaos that boils beyond reality.
Who vomits up strange forms, only to devour them again.
The Mad Sultan at the center all that is, and is not.
All.
Not.
Are the same and both void where he is.
Together the vile, mad followers voice what is echoed from the nothingness beyond reality,
AZATHOTH
Then they disperse into the world
Like a contagion spreading along unseen veins.
Strange are the motions they make
That appear random and chaotic to any who may observe them.
And if observed in these gesticulations they are simply deemed mad, or perhaps artists of
some obscure discipline.
And stranger still are the objects placed with such seeming precision around the world.
Strange devices, who’s mechanisms defy all utility.
Like tuning forks that vibrate with no sound.
Odd little stones, stained with symbols unintelligible to those who see them.
If they are seen at all.
For this ritual cares not if it is observed, as it obeys commands that are unobservable.
This is a ritual with but one goal.
The collapse of all order, all reality.
Until the Abyss itself erupts upon our world
Devouring and vomiting up,
disintegrating and reconstructing
tearing apart and stitching together
All of this, all realities.
And then, as time itself disintegrates,
the gates will be torn open
and the Old Gods of the spaces that are not spaces
who dwell in Not.
The masters of all potentialities will
Claim All.