#elder being

[paperdoe]

there’s a voice that calls

vent art done some weeks ago when it seemed my demons were unusually loud one night. and it seemed so sweet to just give up. i’m better now but still find myself feeling this way to a lesser degree. despite this being vent art this is something that happened to aylen too ;) when she thought all was lost, but the elder being granted her a vision of her family cheering her on. (heavily inspired by that spirit scene lol) 

[williamxoreo]

So I decided to make a Counterpart/Opposite to Eather (formally was known as Madam Eather)

Her name is Chronos, a being of time itself

[eldergodstxt]

(image source)

[paperdoe]

The Elder being

The Eldest. The God of life and death. Of all things that grow and rot. And the most ancient of the Divines. He has a veritable range of manifestations. The most common one looks like a walking corpse, with flowers and other plant matter growing out of his empty eye sockets and cracks in the bone. Velvet hangs from his tines, some of them torn and broken. If this form can be compared to one that is dead, then his second manifestation is a perfect opposite. His body whole and strong and gleaming with an ethereal whiteness brighter than the sun but soft on the eyes. His antlers a lofty and magnificent crown. But this second form is very rare up close. Shown only to those purest in heart and near/after death. Though some legends say that a pure white buck can lead one to where they need to be. If this is the Elder Being, it’s not known. But those who do see the apparition feel it is so. 

It’s unknown as to why he chooses to manifest in his first form, but individuals believe he expects those to seek their hearts and try to understand what they feel. The lesson; those who seem foul or unassuming often tell the truth, while those who appear grandiose at first tell lies. 

Many believe this god has major influence not only to deer, but to all living things, and doesn’t appear as cervine to all. A few deem him to be the One God, and creator of the earth, while others think of him as a high ranking servant to some powerful unknown force. The matter is hotly debated in some more extremist individuals. Little to no stories tell of him parting wide rivers or moving mountains for divine intervention, if he decides to intervene at all. Though perhaps his intervening is more subtle than many think, and that he guides and advises individuals to their supposed fate. Those who believe their lives were heavily influenced by the Being say he appears to those who have a need in their souls, and sends them to other souls in need to help nourish their own.

 The Dark Spectre

This gloomy being is almost exactly what it sounds like. An unassuming shadow in the distance and never seen very up close. Often in the form of a wolf or raven, though a deer form has been reported. Those who believe in it say it’s a living shadow with no body in contrast to the Elder Being. Others report it having three glowing yellow eyes lacking pupils 

The Spectre is the most mysterious and much debate and confusion about this spirits purpose and motivations run rampant. Some say it is malevolent and finds gratification in ruining lives. While others say it’s a harbinger and ill omen of whats to come. Though perhaps both opinions have some merit. Stories say it does help those in need, but being the weakest spirit, requires a heavy price to gain the power needed. The result an individual receives can follow them to their deaths. Many stories and legends talk of feeling overpowering sensations of dread and urgency, a warning just before disasters such as powerful natural events happen, amongst other unfortunate events. Whether it is a messenger of doom or it’s own individual counterpart to the Elder Being is unknown.   

[vampthropologist]

Found a picrew, made an elder being

picrew

@anyone who wants to

[sky-writing]

October OC Challenge Day 4

Day four’s prompt is Tempter. On day two, we looked at the last words before Silas Wolfram fell from heroism. Today, we get a peak at the mysterious benefactor that caused this fall from grace.

Sothal, the Flesh-weaver.

The Weaver of Flesh

The mortal mind is its own worst enemy. The tools it wields to ensure its continued existence are the very same that, when proper pressure is applied, lead it to ruin. Fear, uncertainty, suspicion, aggression, all of them serve the futile goal of self-preservation, a powerful motivator for any mortal. There is nothing like the threat of certain death to bring these traits to their logical extremes.

The mortal plane held little interest to most of the Elder Beings. Many of them had simply forgotten it existed, while others saw no worth in it.

Sothal thought different.

It had taken a keen interest in these short-lived bags of meat and water. Their buttons were so easily pressed, and while they always reacted in one of only a scant few ways, it was always a sadistic joy watching the other little fleas try to comprehend what was happening.

Madness was usually the response its presence provoked. Whatever poor little creature it found ease in exposing to its power usually had their mind broken quickly, dissolving into gibbering insanity. Sometimes it would conjure a never-ending shill screech in their mind, make them relive their darkest memories repeatedly, or create new horrors in front of their eyes entirely until they simply couldn’t handle anymore. Their kin cried and pleaded with their gods, sometimes they put their loved one out of their misery, other times wasted their own lives away caring for a shivering pile of now useless flesh. It was good for a chuckle.

Every so often, though, it found itself a project.

Sothal could speak with those whose minds were weakened by stress or fear over lengths of time. It did so frequently. What was less frequent, was someone speaking back.

The realm of dreams was a blurring of the lines between the mortal planes and the worlds beyond, the dark expanse of the Elder Beings included. A particularly savvy dreamer could project their consciousness across those lines, even without the aid or knowledge of magic. It had happened before, and it happened then.

Silas Wolfram. That was what the little thing had called itself. Its mind was stronger than Sothal had bargained; the mortal had heard all the whispers of the future it had planted in him. It had intended to simply conjure those images without explanation, make him think those foolish thoughts and drive him mad with confusion and doubt, but this Silas was more attuned than most, and had correctly surmised that dreams were the key to communion with the mischievous Elder Being.

It was hilarious.  

The visions were true of course. Fact was stranger than fiction after all, or so mortals would say. There truly was evil stirring both within the mortal plane and beyond it. Some older than even Sothal and its brethren. The east of his little world would soon, in the years to come, grow dark, and the moon which seemingly sat in silence was quivering and shaking under the strain of an awakening.

It left out, of course, that the gods and their champions, both living and to-come, were taking steps in secret to combat this terrible new era on the horizon. What fun was there without a little existential dread?

A hero like Wolfram would never be able to resist a call to action. Sothal had seen it countless times before, those piles of meat throwing their lives away all so some other pile of meat could cling to its flickering light just a few scant years longer before the darkness took them regardless. It was an exercise in futility so amusing, it wished it had thought of it itself.

‘You’re the only one who can save them,’ is all it had to whisper, and like a thirsting dog, its newest toy lapped it up. Misguided self-sacrifice at its finest. From there, Sothal had an opportunity before it. This Silas was powerful by mortal standards. Over the years and centuries, the few who knew its name had given it a title of sorts.

Flesh-weaver.

Apt, in its own simplistic way.

It, on occasion, dabbled in creating life of its own. Nothing so simple and efficient as the god’s children. No, it liked to experiment. Get creative. It wove monstrosities, horrors, each more terrible and powerful than the last.

Silas had uses –opened doors.

It was a simple give-and-take arrangement. He gave Sothal material; blood, bone, flesh, all neatly separated from one another (for no particular reason other than it tickled Sothal to have Silas mired in gore) and in return, Sothal gave him power. A deeper connection between the two. It made Silas all the more dangerous, and effective, and had the added bonus of making him that much easier to control.

Sothal tightened the leash around Silas’ throat and the simpleton thanked him for it each time with hundreds of corpses. Thousands of pounds of meat and bone to twist and crack and mold into something a bit more special, all in a pointless attempt to gain the strength to face an evil he had no hope of defeating regardless. It was the most fun Sothal had had with a mortal in ages.

All fun must come to an end, though.

It was the damned elf. The golden-haired one that Sothal never was fully able to purge out of Silas’ mind. She came riding in on a dragon of all things, and a party of companions. They slaughtered all of Sothal’s pet-projects and reduced its favorite helper to a shattered, emaciated husk.  

Just as it was about to convince the fool to help it cross over into the material plane. A feat no Elder Being had achieved since the erection of the celestial walls.

Silas could have been the one. The one to stack the bodies high enough, to make the blood run red enough to bring it through.

He still could be.

Beneath the sands of the Akasha Desert, under a mile of sand and stone, there is a tomb. A tomb for a husk who once was a hero, and became a pawn in a game.

This is the tomb of no dead man, but an undying once-man. A thing wearing the suit of a human being, a soul long sold away to a god of void and oblivion. A thing made of meat, of flesh.

And flesh can be woven back together again.

In due time.