Underland

The whole plane was alive.

Valdemar had never seen a ‘jungle,’ though he had read of them in the ancient texts detailing the world before the Whitemoon’s arrival. He had imagined them as lush and verdant forests of mushrooms and moss like those found in Underland; but the one he was seeing right now couldn’t be more different.

Alien, multicolored flowers with teeth and eyes grew on every inch of the ground. This world had grass and vines for the ground, flies for air, and mucus for streams. Protoplasmic oozes slithered alongside twisted snake men and murderous alien spiders, roaming innards-like tunnels in search of prey.

The seers who had observed this plane called it the Green Hell and believed that it was the origin of all life in the universe. A chaotic, primal realm of creation of pure organic matter, a gigantic superorganism whose innards were inhabited by countless monsters. One of them sensed Valdemar’s gaze observing the dimension and rose from a mucus lake in response. An enormous green mass of slime as large as a house slithered on the ground, its acidic surface melting the foliage. Hundreds of red eyes opened all over its surface, glancing at Valdemar through the veil between dimensions.

“Shoggolu!” Ktulu squealed as the vision ended and Valdemar returned to the summoning room. “Jigulhu!”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Valdemar replied as he returned to his book. All around them, a menagerie of summoned creatures waited trapped inside complex summoning circles meant to keep them imprisoned. A four-armed, furred humanoid with a mouth splitting vertically to reveal rows of sharp teeth surrounded by cunning eyes, that warlocks called a Gug; a Weaver, a nightmarish white spider larger than a giant beetle with a baleful human visage in the middle of its eight red eyes, capable of spinning nightmares as well as webs; and a Croaker, an enormous toad with mouths and eyes all over its body, its dozen tongues testing the invisible barrier keeping it imprisoned. This creature’s maddening song was more dangerous than its hunger, but the spell blocked sound as well as flesh.

So far, these entities were the only ones Valdemar had been capable of somewhat keeping ‘docile’—or what could pass for docile for an otherworldly monster—alongside water elementals, oozes, and chronovores. The rest were simply too dangerous to be summoned except in the direst situation.

Lord Och’s Book of the Strangers had proven to be a wealth of information not only on the eponymous creatures, but also countless planes and their denizens. Valdemar hadn’t heard of any of them even in forbidden texts banned by the Church of the Light; of the mysterious Plateau of Nightmares and its slavering inhabitants, of the Green Hell and the fear-fueled realm of the Mistwoods.

Of course, there was a reason for this censorship. All of these planes’ inhabitants were exceedingly dangerous, and many of them served Strangers. Worryingly, Ktulu was capable of summoning a great many of them if he wished.

After much experimentation, Valdemar had narrowed down his familiar’s summoning focus: namely destructive natural forces, monstrous animals, water, and darkness. All of the creatures that Ktulu could summon were associated with Strangers and if not mindless, then uninterested in conversation.

Unlike the Qlippoths, who could understand mortals’ emotions and speak their language, there was nothing ‘human’ about Ktulu’s otherworldly friends.

He could probably cause an extraplanar disaster and not even notice, Valdemar thought as his familiar suddenly started humming a strange tune to himself, tilting his head one side to the other as per the rhythm. The trapped Croaker imitated the child’s movement, as if they were singing in tune. The Gug mindlessly barrelled its fists against the barrier in a vain attempt to escape, while the Weaver observed with unnatural patience. I still wonder why he refuses to call any Qlippoths though. Is Ktulu part of this ‘other side’ that the Nightwalker hinted at?

Speaking of the Nightwalker, the Book of the Strangers had a full chapter dedicated to it, including texts gathered from cultists. Though Valdemar wasn’t sure what was true or not, the information in the book fascinated him.

According to the Nightwalker’s worshipers, Underland wasn’t the first world that the Whitemoon had visited. The rogue moon traveled across the cosmos to annihilate the warmth of life that it despised, leaving only cold and empty space behind it. The Nightwalker served as a herald to the Whitemoon, guiding its otherworldly master from one civilization to the next. This destructive process might take thousands of years but couldn’t be averted. Even destroying the Nightwalker was only a temporary measure, for its master’s power would bring it back from the darkness. The only way to survive, according to the cultists, was to transform into a cold form of existence pleasing to the Whitemoon.

Most fascinating, it appeared that high priests of the Nightwalker often wore masks representing their deity in an attempt to channel its persona and power… becoming avatars of a sort. Eventually, they hoped to ascend into becoming Nightwalkers themselves.

So that’s how it is, Valdemar said as he removed his mask and examined it. The longer I wear this artifact, the more I will become like the creatures on the surface.

Could he even transform though? The Nightwalker’s priests believed that they could ascend to become like their patron, but Valdemar was only half a man. The other didn’t interact well with the Whitemoon’s power.

You’re the me from the other side.

Valdemar hadn’t found anything related to Ialdabaoth in the book, which implied that someone—either the Dark Lords or Ialdabaoth’s own cults—had done their best to destroy any evidence of its existence to an even greater degree than the other Strangers.

He did find references to the Stranger worshiped by the Dokkars, this so-called ‘Mother of All.’ Valdemar had immediately noticed the similarity with one of Ialdabaoth’s titles, the Father of All, and investigated a possible connection. According to text, the Mother of All was a life elemental that birthed the first animals of Underland. She was occasionally described as a tentacled horror, a beautiful woman, or a Dokkar, but in all cases a female form was a common trend among her avatars. Celebrations in her names involved orgies and animal sacrifices, so fresh blood could fertilize the earth.

There were many similarities with Ialdabaoth, especially if it truly was the origin of life in Underland. Was this Mother of All a hybrid similar to Valdemar? Or simply another name for Ialdabaoth? Though he would rather ignore her, Valdemar would have to ask Frigga for clarification.

He could also infer much from the Nightwalker’s words. If this entity’s purpose was to act as an herald of the Whitemoon and lead it to new worlds to destroy, and if Valdemar shared a similar purpose… then it suddenly became clear why the Verney Cult had sponsored his grandfather in his attempt to open a path to Earth.

After offering this world to their god, they would serve him another.

Was that why my grandfather sold out the cult? Valdemar wondered. Because he learned that they would destroy his homeworld?

Valdemar would have to consult the portrait for answers eventually, even if he detested the thought of it. No matter how much Marianne had asked him to reevaluate his grandsire’s intentions, the sorcerer couldn’t find it in him to forgive him.

As for the Nightwalker, Valdemar’s experience in the tower’s heart had shown him that connections were two-way streets and could be subverted. The sorcerer wasn’t certain if the cultists’ ravings about their master’s immortality were correct, but it wouldn’t hurt to put that theory to the test.

It would have to wait until tomorrow, Valdemar thought as he closed the book and groaned. Sleeplessness was taking its hold on his mind. With a word, he returned his summoned thralls to their homes. Ktulu let out a dejected squeal. “I’ll bring new friends tomorrow,” Valdemar promised his familiar. “Humans have to sleep, you know?”

He doubted his dreams would be peaceful though.

His Painted Field had transformed since this morning.

The everpresent moth motif had grown more and more grotesque with time. The insects were black and crimson, the motifs on their wings showing skulls, tears of blood, and inhuman visages. Alien landscapes that Valdemar had seen through visions completed the tapestry, all of them inhabited by ancient and terrible beings.

But the part that bothered him the most was the gray spot.

It was no larger than a fist, but Valdemar couldn’t help but feel unsettled whenever he looked at it. A splash of metallized paint had appeared out of nowhere in a corner of the room, covered in shining veins coursing with electric pigments. This spot contrasted greatly with the rest of the dream tapestry, and Valdemar couldn’t help but think that it shouldn’t be here. Whenever he tried to wash it away, it reformed somewhere else like a cancer.

“It is time,” Lord Bethor declared as Valdemar laid on his bed. Though Ktulu didn’t cower in fear like he did in Lord Och’s presence, the familiar had quickly joined his partner beneath the bedsheet and cuddled against him like a cat looking for warmth. “We shall delve into Ialdabaoth’s dreams.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but is that wise?” Marianne asked as the Dark Lord sat on the ground next to the bed in a lotus pose, stripping himself of his armor to reveal the boiling blood and darkness underneath. “They could affect him through the bond somehow.”

“If they try, I will destroy them,” Lord Bethor replied as he closed his eyes. His sheer arrogance matched Lord Och’s own, and Valdemar couldn’t help but find it somewhat invigorating. “Nothing short of a Nahemoth may match my might on the astral plane.”

“It’s alright, Marianne,” Valdemar replied with a smile. “I’m ready.”

His partner looked more concerned than reassured. “Is there no way I can follow?” Marianne asked. “I am not an oneiromancer, but I am well-versed in dream defense.”

“This is not a dream,” Lord Bethor replied, the surface of his body twisting like raging waters. “By closing himself to the Primordial Dream, his mind will anchor itself into the waking world where you cannot follow. You would need to learn astral projection to assist, and you are very far away from it.”

Marianne clenched her jaw, crossed her arms, and remained silent. Of course she disliked the situation. She was a bodyguard unable to protect her charge, and Valdemar knew she worried that he might end up like Bertrand.

The summoner closed his eyes. He needed to focus on the task ahead, to clear his thoughts and let sleep take him. Ktulu started to utter a strange, yet soothing noise as he started falling asleep too. A lullaby, Valdemar realized. It reminded him of his mother’s music box.

The sorcerer’s world went dark, but the song was drowned out by the silence. His sense of self diluted into something greater than his human flesh, his errant thoughts expanded into a great singularity whose power no man could understand. The abyss swallowed him and he became one with it.

He was no longer a man, but the mask of a god.

He tried to look for his handmaiden, his slave, but she was so small and he was so big. She was but one of the germs inhabiting his belly. He had a hard time finding her among the colonies of errant cells who dared to think themselves separated from his glory. They were sick, every last one of them. They suffered from an illness called individuality, and in their madness refused the cure that he offered.

But in time, he would cradle all of them back into his welcoming arms. One day he would shatter the chains keeping him sealed inside this shell, and the many would return to the one.

Time and space meant nothing to him. His dreaming mind turned downward, in the blurry sea of the past. He looked for the handmaiden and found his mother instead in a cave, dressed all in white. She was younger then, a maiden freshly flowered. Yet no man had been allowed to have their way with her.

She was a gift fit for a god.

The faithful had gathered before the holy blood underneath their prophet’s castle. The Verney prophet smiled in triumph, his ratling familiar crouched on his shoulder. Cultists observed in religious silence as they communed with their master, begging for power and immortality. They had awaited this moment for generations, guided by the whispers of his divine messengers.

His grandfather Pierre stood next to her; he whispered kind words as she trembled in fear, telling her that she would see the sun and the blue sky. He was a man too, but from the hylic lineage. A breed so inferior that it had lost all psychic connection to its maker, and the higher truths of the cosmos. This lowly ape was untouched by the father’s thoughts nor protected by this cancerous shell of a dream. To the god, this creature was clay, fit only to be reshaped into something greater.

But like how earth could become the fertile ground for a mighty seed, this man’s blood had value to the god; for this creature had so degraded that it now existed outside the untouchable wards keeping his progenitor chained. The Dumont’s blood had mixed with that of the prophet’s daughter, begetting a woman of two worlds beholden to neither.

“Take the cup,” Aleksander Verney told Sarah, as a hooded cultist offered her a grail of bones. She took it slowly, but without hesitation. Though she was afraid of failure, she had been prepared her whole life for this moment.

The maiden approached the pond of black blood which had birthed all life. She trembled as she moved, knowing what would happen to her if she was unworthy. Many had tried their luck, hoping to gain power and favor from their god; but none of them survived his deadly embrace. Their blood was too thin and unable to contain his essence.

“Please, God…” She prayed to another deity, the one of her father, for protection. The prophet narrowed his eyes in displeasure, but said no word; he knew this foreign god would not hear her. This was the womb of darkness where no light held sway. “Virgin Mary, protect me.”

The god watched her kneel before his pond, tempted by the promise of youth and vigor, but scared by the unity it offered. He didn’t care. She had been born and bred for a single purpose, and she would either fulfill it or perish. He observed her with his many eyes, smelling her flesh, trying to see if his long wait had come to an end.

Would she be the one?

Slowly, the maiden put her cup in the black blood while careful not to touch it herself. She was still afraid and wary, watching her half-filled grail with anxiety before looking at her father for reassurance. Pierre Dumont slowly nodded, a smile on his face, while Aleksander Verney and his rat watched with cold, empty eyes.

The maiden brought the black blood to her lips and drank.

And as his black blood dripped down her throat and infected her flesh, a frenzy overwhelmed the trapped god. Like a predator woken from its torpor by the smell of meat, so did he tremble in his slumber. The walls trembled as his body stirred with trepidation, and even the cursed dead moon above shivered. His dreams in the Outer Darkness let out a howl that shook the planes.

Escape at last.

But it wasn’t enough. Her body was too weak. Although she didn’t transform, Sarah Dumont scoffed as her throat turned sore.

“What is happening?” Pierre Dumont asked, his former confidence replaced with fear for his child.

“What was meant to be,” the Verney prophet replied with a triumphant smile, his rat familiar squealing at his side. “Worthy!”

“Worthy!” the cultists chanted.

“It burns,” Sarah whispered.

“Carry on, my dear,” Aleksander Verney said, his former coldness replaced with jovial delight. “You must drink, drink, drink.”

Sarah gathered her breath and mustered her courage as she emptied her cup. And as the god’s black blood spread through her veins, he knew she was the one. He had finally found a vessel fit to bear his brood, a red grail to contain his almighty blood. She would birth an avatar that could act beyond the wards keeping him trapped in this endless nightmare.

At long last he would break out to win the Great War and consume the cosmos.

But instead of submitting to her glorious destiny, Sarah Dumont let fear overcome her. “It hurts…” she said before dropping the cup. “I… I can’t…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” her father reassured her. “We’ll continue after you recov—”

No.

He had waited eons. He would not waste any more time.

His black blood boiled with rage, and Sarah let out a scream of fear and surprise. She ran away from the pond, her feet stumbling on the cold stone floor. The maiden fell on a knee, scratching it deep enough for a drop of her blood to fall off her skin.

He didn’t let her escape his grasp. Not so close to freedom.

Tendrils of thick black blood rose from the primordial pond and grabbed her by the leg, intent on dragging this lowly ape back into his embrace.

“Sarah!” Pierre Dumon shouted, his confidence replaced by fear. His daughter looked over her shoulder as more tentacles grabbed her.

“Father!” She screamed in pain as he dragged her across the floor towards the pond, her nails scratching the stone while his cultists shouted in jubilation. “Father!”

“Stop it! Stop it!” And when none moved, Pierre Dumont threw caution aside and tried to stop the inevitable. He attempted to make a mad dash to his daughter, trying to prevent what he had sacrificed so much to achieve.

He didn’t make more than three steps before cultists grabbed him by the shoulders. He punched one in the face with enough strength to force him back, but others caught him by the arm and restrained him.

“Sarah!” Pierre shouted.

“You wanted this,” the Verney prophet whispered softly, hands behind his back as his men kept Pierre bound. “This is a blessing.”

Pierre Dumont glared at him, his eyes sinking into his eye sockets from the fury and the impotent rage. “She is your granddaughter!”

“I know,” Aleksander Verney said, a tear running down his cheek. His words were full of joy. “I am so proud.”

The god ignored them, the screams of ‘Sarah’ and the shouts of ‘worthy.’ He only had eyes for his prey struggling in his countless arms, as he dragged her into his black blood. Tears of fear rained down her cheeks, her lips prayers to a god that wouldn’t hear her.

ABOMINATION.

No! Valdemar screamed internally, as his tentacles… his arms… No!

This wasn’t him! This wasn’t real, this was all a dream, but he couldn’t wake up! He was himself, but he was also the thing in the pond, the very blood of the world!

His mother tried to scream, only for his black blood to coil around her neck to silence her. His tentacles turned into his hands pressing on her naked throat. He felt her salted tears on his skin, smelled her terror…

She never wanted to have you.

“But we did,” the Lilith whispered through his mother’s lips. Her eyes were red as blood, her skin a deathly pallor.

Valdemar let out a roar of rage echoed by the dream, his fingers turning into claws. He hit her face, and a second later it turned back into his mother’s teary face. The image shook Valdemar to the core, his fury instantly replaced with guilt.

“Mother,” Valdemar whispered. “Mother, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t approach me!” she screeched while crawling away. “Don’t touch me, you monster!”

“Mother, I… I swear I didn’t…” Valdemar’s voice broke in his throat, the dream turning into a blur. “I didn’t want any of this!”

The cavern collapsed around him, as did the illusions of his regretful grandfather and the Verney cult. The sad song of a music box echoed as the world transformed into a shadowy village near the Lightless Ocean.

Valdemar was himself again, a ghost from another era standing next to an old well. A familiar well.

His mother was here too. Gone was the innocent maiden she had once been. She dressed all in black, her cheeks creased by age and torment. Her eyes were red-rimmed from too many tears as she looked into the darkness of the well. A small form was wrapped in cloth in her arms, lulled to sleep by a music box.

“No…” Valdemar whispered, his heart turning cold in his chest. “No, please, don’t…”

She hated and feared you.

His mother threw the child into the well, down into the darkness.

Valdemar could only stand and watch as he heard a ‘thump’ sound at the well’s bottom. The ghost of his mother looked into the well without a word, and after a few seconds of silence turned away.

Valdemar approached the well’s edge and looked into the abyss inside. He couldn’t see the bottom. Only darkness.

“You are lying,” Valdemar whispered through his teeth. “My mother… She was always so kind to me. She would never…”

“She did,” his mother’s specter said before turning to face him, her irises as red as blood. “But you cannot die.”

“You lie!” Valdemar snarled angrily, his fists hitting the ground. “This is just an illusion!”

“No, my prince. This is the truth. But it doesn’t matter.” She kissed him on the cheek, her lips both warm and cold all at once. “We love you. We wouldn’t exist without you. We are your dreams.”

Valdemar took a step back to escape her vile touch, before casting a spell. He attempted to crush her neck with telekinesis, but neither his body nor the Lilith’s had blood. He tried to contact Ktulu through the summoning link. It was still here, but diffuse, as if the veil separating the planes stood between them.

Shit, he hated dream magic!

“It is alright, my prince,” the Lilith said before making a noble reverence. “I will give you good dreams, if you wish.”

“Will you die if I dream it?” Valdemar replied angrily, refusing to believe what she had shown him… even if he felt the seed of doubt growing in the back of his mind.

Was this truly a dream? His Painted Field should have kept him away from the Primordial Dream, so how could the Lilith ensnare him in it? Or we are in reality, Valdemar thought as he looked at the well. My dream manifested itself somewhere in Underland. But why can’t I sense my familiar then?

“What would it change?” the Lilith asked and sounded genuinely puzzled. “Great Ialdabaoth would just make another me. Even then, my intervention is not necessary. I only clean the stage before the final performance. The forces at play were set in motion long before your birth, my prince. They cannot be halted. Why try to fight?”

“Why try to convince me at all then?” What was Lord Bethor doing? Had he overestimated his abilities? Or was the Lilith stronger than she looked?

“Because you are in pain,” she replied with false kindness. “Your human life is a nightmare. When you wake up and cast off this false skin to reveal your shining true self, it will be all over. Why fight for lesser creatures? They created you to serve their selfish desires and continue to exploit you. You are better than this.”

“You try to use me too,” Valdemar pointed out. “And you’re far worse than the Dark Lords will ever be.”

“Use you? My prince, we exist to serve you. We act on your behalf, even if you cannot see it yet. All we want is for you to be happy.”

“As far as speeches go, I’ve heard better.” Though Valdemar had no love lost for inquisitors, he had friends he cared for in Marianne, Liliane, Hermann, Iren… he was even starting to get used to Lord Och, of all people! “Why even try to wake up Ialdabaoth? If you are his dream, you will cease to exist once he awakens.”

The Lilith silently observed him for a few seconds, and as she did Valdemar noticed the left side of her face wriggle for a split second. Something inhuman crept underneath his mother’s skin, ready to burst out at a moment’s warning.

“Do you know,” she asked, “The distance between the sun humans worship and this barren rock we stand on?”

Valdemar frowned. “No.”

“Millions of kilometers of nothingness,” she replied. “Now, if you were to look at the darkness above for another world, millions turn to billions. A vast expanse of darkness filled with a few islands of lights and barren rocks. And among these countless grains of sand, only a handful house the seed of life.”

“Your point?”

“The universe is full of death,” the Lilith replied coldly. “Death is the natural state of the cosmos, and life is the wonderful exception. The life that is Ialdabaoth. Awake or dreaming, we are a part of its divine will. Your will. His awakening is inevitable.”

Valdemar didn’t buy it. “Then why do you try so hard to isolate me from others, and to convince me to go along with you? If Ialdabaoth’s awakening was inevitable, you could sit back and watch. If it could do everything on its own, I wouldn’t even be here.”

The Lilith smiled, her teeth pristine as ivory. She looked like his mother, but the way she moved was unlike her. She looked false. “Who doesn’t love to play with the food?”

“I don’t believe you,” Valdemar replied, having pieced it together. “There are some limitations that neither you nor Ialdabaoth are capable of overcoming, and you need me to help break them. But what if I choose not to do anything? What if I just say no?”

The Lilith kept smiling, but her eyes no longer did. The silence stretched on, as oppressive as a Dark Lord’s aura, while Valdemar heard movement coming from the well next to him.

“Then your stubbornness,” she said, her voice twisting into an inhuman echo, “Will be met with relentless despair.”

Valdemar spat on the ground. “Bring it.”

The Lilith raised her hand, perhaps to cast a spell or castigate him… only to let out a gasp as an invisible force coiled around her neck and lifted her above the ground.

“You talk too much,” Lord Bethor declared as he manifested out of nowhere in full armor. His hand was raised into the void, his fingers slowly closing as he telekinetically strangled the Qlippoth impostor. “Whore of the Outer Darkness.”

Lord Och’s words came to mind.

The gods do not deserve our worship, let alone our suffering.