Ah yes, of course. The mortals know you by many names. You are Yuiller, the Primal Chaos. The Living Sorrow. He who brings madness and terror. Yours is the land and the sea and the sky, and you rule over all of these as king. You are beyond divinity, beyond understanding. These petty mortals are as far beneath you as a microbe beneath their own fingernail is to themselves.
Why then, oh why, were these kids able to summon you? How did they know the Song and the Word? How did they perform the Calling? You take in your surroundings:
A small dusty basement with a poured concrete floor. Cardboard boxes are heaped up against one wall, the tracks in the dust upon the floor revealing that they must have recently been moved to make room for your arrival. Inside them you feel nothing unusual, various oddments and assortments of mortal life. Above, a pull-down stair. A way to reach the upper floor no doubt. The wall opposite the boxes... what is that? A desk with a strange device atop. It feels different... have these mortals advanced so far? It has been only a handful of years since oil lamps and public executions, how then do they have these things? No matter. You know what it is now, having examined its internal structure with your transcendent mind. This is an information storage and processing device, with a connection to a loosely connected network of other such devices of varying complexity. Upon the lit display you see words... your words. An entry in some data codex which describes your self and your Calling. A footnote explains that the writings were preserved and 'digitized' as an historical curiosity. No respect given, no mention of your grand self.
FURY
They have stolen this knowledge. They had no right to it. The scholars who made it available, the former cultists who failed to protect it, the children who have used it. They are all culpable. They must pay.
You lash out at the summoner, a tendril forming in an instant and impaling him. Red child blood pumps into your body as his own shrivels, an expression of confusion on his face. You realize you are slow... weak. Not all of your power was transferred from the outer darkness. They performed the Calling incorrectly! None of the ritual accouterments were used! This is not a place of power, and none of your relics are present.
Still... you are faster than any mortal child. Even as the Summoner's body falls to the ground as dust, his essence drained, you ensnare the other cultists in vicelike grip. Your flesh penetrates their skulls, sapping their minds of knowledge and sanity. You learn much.
These humans have indeed advanced far. They know the secret of the atom. They have flight and limited communication over the Aether. They have a vast data codex which covers most of this world, and it holds many secrets. They have weapons... oh they have weapons. Weapons to annihilate cities, continents. So unguarded... so easy to acquire. You could make dominion here with the mortal's own tools.
A twitch of your flesh and the cultists fall dead... all but the one. The one in which you sensed potential. He is still babbling, held in your fleshy grip. His feet dangle inches above the floor as you bring him forth to peer into his eyes. His babbling ceases as he meets your gaze, and he screams. You feel the last vestige of sanity fail him, and now he is an open vessel for your will.
You have a follower. The Cult of Yuiller will rise.
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Topic: You are a horror from beyond (Read 6292 times)