It defied description—inky black tendrils writhed from an amorphous, pulsating mass.
It stood upon twisted, goat-like legs, grotesquely contorted and black as the void. From its bloated form sprouted a multitude of malformed goat heads, each more hideous than the last.
Creatures perpetually sloughed from its quivering bulk, crawling and scraping across the ground before being reabsorbed or swallowed by shadow.
Those who truly beheld it did not succumb to fear, but to something far stranger: Bliss
He, she, it—such notions of gender held no meaning for a being like this.
Thal'zurak, the Mother of Forms, the Crawling Womb, wanderer from Shumath-Ghun, dweller of Yaddith.
Some revere it as the Mother of Men; others as the font of all desire. To many, it is but a myth, whispered in shadow.
Scripture hails it as the Mother of All—the primordial source from which sprang countless strange beings, among them a sentient flame capable of bending the desires of men.
Cast away, it descended upon a land veiled in mystery.
**From across the world, creatures are drawn to its song, entranced. One by one, they cast themselves into its consuming glow, reborn as part of its eternal fire.**
Another of its spawn: a giant wrought from the corpses of men. Those who gaze upon it are so utterly enthralled that they surrender there flesh, swelling its monstrous form.
And there are countless more
It, she, he—no matter the tale—was the mother of desire, the mother of all forms, the mother of monsters.
Screaming, crying, convulsing in ecstatic agony—utter rapture in the embrace of the holy mother.
"Give her your fear, devour her whisper,
Lust upon the great mother's blackened flesh.
Relish in her impartial torment,
Desire the agony she breathes.
"In her embrace, bones crack sweetly—
In her kiss, we taste the void.
Blessed be the pain that binds,
Blessed the madness that swallows."
"Crawl into her womb, let the black tendrils take—
Let them hollow us out, let them fill us anew.
In her cold flame, we find rapture,
In her silence, our endless scream."
"O Mother of Shadows, Mother of crawling night,*
"We are but flesh in your caress."
...
Klein awoke to a chorus of agonizing screams interwoven with blissful shouts—the two emotions blending so seamlessly they were nearly indistinguishable.
He reached up to cover his ears but found only empty air. Panic surged as he searched for a familiar face framed by his brown hair—but none appeared.
His head felt unnervingly small, fragile, like that of a child.
Klein felt as though he were drifting in an endless void—nothing to see, nothing to grasp—only thick, heavy darkness pressing in from every side.
Time slipped by strangely. Sometimes it stretched endlessly, like years; other times, it vanished without a trace.
"Where am I?"
He tried to open his eyes, but all he saw was a dull, soft pink haze—muted and unchanging.
Tentatively, he reached out. Beneath his fingers, something soft and yielding met his touch—warm and alive, like flesh. The walls around him shifted slightly, pliant and breathing.
"Why is it so hard to lift my fingers?
"Why am I so weak?"
Klein felt as though he were submerged in thick, suffocating mud, every movement heavy and slow.
Yet, for a fleeting moment, a blissful comfort washed over him, as if cradled gently in a mother's embrace. An unnatural sleep began to pull him under—soft, irresistible.
But without warning, a sharp, burning pain tore through his head—deep and fierce—like ancient knowledge being forced into his mind.
"Ahhh—"
"Am I dead?"
"Is this heaven? Reincarnation?"
"Am I in a coma?"
Faint chants echoed around him—ancient, unknowable. They were muted yet oddly clear, both near and impossibly distant, weaving through the thick haze.
But what truly drew his attention was a faint, sorrowful crying—a woman's voice, fragile and aching, carried softly on the whispering air.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he felt a gentle tug at what seemed like his feet, pulling him deeper into the unknown.
"Don't you dare tell me…"
Klein wasn't stupid.
Had he truly been reincarnated?
From the countless stories he had read, only a few mentioned birth—an honor granted to the rarest of protagonists.
Yet here he was, trapped in this bizarre, alien place, surrounded by those haunting chants of the unknown.
His mind fractured like shattered glass, countless thoughts flooding in—confusing, overwhelming, unbearable.
But one phrase rang clearer than all the rest:
"The Holy Mother. The Mother of Monsters. The Crawling Womb."
Bliss surged through him, rising like fire along his spine, threatening to unravel his very sanity.
Then, just as his mind began to dissolve, an unseen force yanked his consciousness back from the void.
In his mind, a horrifying vision unfolded—countless writhing tentacles entwined with the sorrowful cries of newborn babies, echoing endlessly in the crimsons haze.
....
A pale man clad in a tattered black robe stood in solemn devotion, his gaze unwavering from the young woman sprawled over a table of living flesh that pulsed beneath her. Another cultist, similarly robed, stood nearby in prayer, eyes wide and unblinking.
"May your holy child bless this world again. May your agony wash away the restraints of this world," he intoned.
The young woman's belly writhed and bulged as if on the verge of bursting, her screams echoing through the chamber. The cultist beside Isaac raised a wicked dagger, its blade catching the flickering torchlight, his eyes alight with a fanatic's zeal.
Isaac wanted to laugh—no, to "scream"—with joy. He wanted the world to choke on the bliss he had discovered.
He gazed around at the sea of hollow eyes and slack jaws that surrounded him, and his grin widened into something feral. So many devotees, all gathered to perfect the holy rite he had so long envisioned.
Who needed the Church's blessing when he had such eager bodies? Quality could be replaced with sheer, writhing, glorious quantity.
He had planned for this child for years, living like a worm beneath the Church's heel—so long, he had nearly forgotten the sweet taste of living flesh.
Now, as the ritual neared its climax, a shudder of rapture coursed through him. Isaac licked his lips, a wet giggle bubbling up in his throat. Oh, the rewards he would reap. The Mother would embrace him, and he would bathe in her mercy.
A smile so wide it split his lips bloomed across his face, blood trickling from the corners.
Ignoring the woman's tortured shrieks atop the altar, Isaac turned to the man beside him.
This man—his most faithful servant—had served him for countless years. The decayed flesh had fallen away from his face, exposing the grinning bones beneath.
Michael, sweet Michael. He had died so long ago—yet here he was, still moving, still serving. Isaac's breath quickened in giddy wonder.
"Michael," Isaac crooned, his voice cracking with delight. "For your endless devotion, I grant you the right to perform the ritual."
Tears of joy stung his eyes, his shoulders quaking with mirth. "May we meet again in the Holy Mother's divine kingdom—her black embrace will be our cradle!"
He gazed into Michael's empty, bulging eyes, and something in him snapped. "Oh, buddy," he whispered, giggling. "Just so you know—I love you!"
With a sudden, hungry grip, he pulled Michael into a hug. He squeezed hard—and Michael's head popped free with a sickening squelch, tumbling to the ground in a meaty thump.
Yet the corpse remained standing.
Isaac's giggle turned into a cackle as he traced the sigil of a triangle across his chest, then lightly kicked Michael's head from the altar. Behind him, a hundred—or so—devotees echoed the gesture in perfect, grotesque unison. Their ragged flesh quivered, their faces split by gory, toothy grins.
In truth, every chanting figure beside Isaac was a corpse.
But oh, what a beautiful, blessed choir they made.
"Please… please, no… I'll do anything! Let me go… I beg you!"
Isaac's smile only widened. He leaned closer, gently caressing her tear-streaked face and smearing her blood across her cheek.
"Shhh, You're part of something greater now—something beautiful."
Ignoring her tortured screams, he pressed a finger to her lips, tracing more blood across her skin. "Your suffering is a gift," "The Mother will embrace you, and your agony will save us all."
Isaac's eyes shone as he looked at Michael's headless body, still holding the knife.
He raised his hand slowly, pointing at the woman.
"Now," Isaac whispered, "offer her to the Holy Mother."
Michael's body obeyed, moving stiffly as the blade lifted high.
The woman screamed one last time as the knife plunged into her chest, blood spilling out in a hot rush. Her cries turned into a wet, choking gurgle.
Isaac smile widened. "Yes…" he breathed. "Let the Mother take her."
The chanting around him grew louder, echoing off the stone walls.
The woman shuddered on the altar, her last breath rattling from her throat.
Then, all at once, the chanting stopped.
A heavy silence fell over the room, thick and sudden.
From the wound, black goo began to ooze out, seeping around the blade and spreading across her stomach. It crept down her sides until only a dark, lifeless puddle was left beside the altar.
Isaac's smile froze. "Failed?"
His grin twisted, uncertain, as he stared at the black pool.
"What the fuck?!,"