Open Black Mass

Despite the grand size of the cathedral within which Malachai’s black mass writhed, limbs and strange tendrils undulating listlessly to an incomprehensible rhythm, his sheer volume almost made the room feel small when combined with the monstrous menagerie of strange silhouettes standing in quiet anticipation. Those of unrecognizable race– likely the Haemora– looked upon the creature with reverence and, from some, plain affection. Clearly, the ‘mage’ before them was somebody they, at least, held very dear. For the others, expressions varied– curiosity, fascination, impatience and so on were scattered across even the stonier faces.

Beneath their feet, the ground would shake. The first tremor would pass without begetting much, but the second caused cracks to form beneath the ascending Nihilisk and the third caused those cracks to widen into larger fissures in the floor. Disgustingly, the anomaly’s stygian flesh would begin to bubble and melt in sickening gurgles and pops, slowly starting to ooze into the depths below. At the same time, his mass did not actually appear to be shrinking as he sank– was he expanding ever further?

An impossible chill would start to bite at the exposed flesh of those present, the Ascendant sapping the heat from the room, perhaps drawing energy from it? The upper part of his body, now the consistency of a thick, impossibly dark honey, started to swirl, at points lit from within by an eerie, white light. The contrast in places was blinding, like staring directly into the limning brilliance of an eclipse, yet black as night in others. And then, abruptly, the bright, white light would pulse– blooming color began to bleed into the blackness. Bright life would flourish in a kaleidoscope of reds; flesh, fur, scale and bone of all shapes and sizes started to replace his inky blackness. It would begin to hurt to cast one’s gaze directly upon the appalling tableau as it continued to unfurl.

Those beholding him with a Mystic’s eye would note that the predominant void of Metaphor that’d previously composed him nigh entirely was being flooded with wave after wave of a foreign, malodorous Metaphor, sickly sweet yet undeniably foul– Raya might be able to guess from context that this Metaphor was native to the Haemora and their Plane, and his strange composition was shifting to become a macabre marriage between that and Absentia.

The tremors were certainly disconcerting. Being surrounded by all these weirdos actually made him feel better about them. Nobody looked panicked as far as he could tell, so he convinced himself that there was probably nothing to worry about.

When Luke finally got a good look at the thing he cocked an eyebrow. That was it? Some writhing black mass? It was creepy as hell, yes, but it didn’t look very impressive. Then he finally stepped into the room fully and realized that it wasn’t just something black and large. It was something black and ENORMOUS.

“The fuck is that?” he murmured to himself. It was larger than any dragon he’d ever seen. Was this just some really fat dragon? Yes, that’s what it had to be. A really fat dragon that was part of some cult ritual. Maybe it was a ritual sacrifice, those were common in cults.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” he said when the transformation started progressing. As brave as he’d been thus far, he very much thought that it was time to leave. He turned around, averting his gaze entirely, and started back towards the door. He wasn’t going to force his way through it, but he wanted to be one of the first ones out so that he could get as far away from that thing as possible.

224

The crowd gathered within the grand cathedral hall was split between the ground level and a balcony that ran along the two side walls, and while there were handfuls of any manner of sentience on either level, the majority of Æld’Norai seemed to congregate together on the floor above. Among their number were many of Ælheim’s Ferriers, for in truth it was the Blight of Scourge that gave them their power. Still, the withered were outnumbered by the far more favored Blights, with all but Null sharing equal favor (Null being a rarity in general).

Each of the Ælves called to attend fell into one of two groups; those who’d assisted in Malachai’s Ascension, and those of high rank within Alítheia who desired to witness what was about to unfold. Each gazed forward with curious or anticipatory expressions, many of whom appeared excited. And as it began, much of the Ælven number seemed unphased by the quakes and undulations, yet when color and light began to shift, all but a tiny minority averted their eyes.

So it was similar for the majority of the Alítheian crowd in general; those who notably did not turn away were the Haemora, but a few more monstrous renditions of other life boldly looked forward. Among the Æld’Norai who held steady, however, was Velho, stood with his kin leaning over the railing on the western wall, about as close as one could reasonably stand before the red markings denoted danger. And like all who had chosen to look on, he appeared lost in a trance as Malachai continued to bubble and grow.

​

Little else could describe Malachai now than to say he was a horrible mass of malignancy; a snaking, fleshy tower that extended ever upwards towards a sky blocked to onlookers by what remained of the room’s ceiling and, simultaneously, infinitely downwards into the guts of the Plane that lurked below. He bled a congealing mix of red, black, and white; the thick substance so viscous that falling drops of it were large, heavy, and hit the floor with a hideous sort of splat.

As his essence—and thereby the will of Nihilos— seeped into Caligony, all who beheld him would forever change, just as the Plane they stood within. The Haemora did not change outwardly, though each would find that they felt a weight lift off of them as Absentia’s power began to rejuvenate their realm from within, bolstering the dwindling supply of Malachor enough that it may finally proliferate like it once had thousands of years ago. The others, however, endured all manner of change; some physical, some more Arcane. Some gained new Blights, others new body parts, mutations, and all manner of twisted ability, for better or worse.


Over the course of the next several minutes, the quaking would gradually slow to a stop, as would much of Malachai’s movement. With some semblance of stability restored, those who’d looked away would be able to safely gaze upon him now for brief periods of time (extended looks may still result in mutation, though this will always be preceded by enough discomfort to compel one to look away before it’s too late). Many present began to immediately—exuberantly— speak amongst themselves about that which had just happened, though Caelum and Wulfnoð would not understand the eldritch tongue used. Raya and Velho would, however, and to them, they would hear talk of Caligony’s newly minted status as Tumbledown, celebrations, plans for Caligony’s future as a Plane entirely under Alítheia’s control, as well as numerous comments and questions about the changes some had undergone.


As Cælum left, somebody would meet him outside the cathedral to provide him transport to wherever he desired to go.

“Raya—something in you changed,” Shiori began, too caught up in her excitement to care about the man’s departure. “As a Mystic, I can see it; Nihilos gave you the selfsame gift that Malachai used to subsume Caligony; Null,” she spoke quickly, her words bleeding into one another. “Do you feel any different?”

The experience for Raya would’ve been an edifying one; there was no experience less euphoric than to be gifted a Blight directly by Nihilos.


The skeletal figure looked to the black mass before him and then back to Wulfnoð. Though his expression was largely inscrutable, one could tell that he was, to at least some degree, disappointed.

“Hm. Cowardly, though I suppose expecting much more than that from you was folly,” he said, speaking more to himself than to Wulfnoð. “...and yet perhaps you are not useless?”

For a moment, he’d pause to think. “From where do you hail? I’m feeling gracious—cooperate, and I’ll set you free.”

His grace was surely not born of benevolence, but would it be wise to deny him?


When Malachai settled and Velho regained his senses, he would feel strange, though unable to parse why.