Forward - The following is not a work of fiction. I (that is, Iblis d'Murani)
stumbled upon a surprisingly well-preserved book located in the northern Razine
mountain range. Although initially wary of the artefact, with its bone-clasped
exterior and weathered surface, curiosity soon overcame me. After careful study
of the contents I found it to be a script unlike any I have yet seen. Although I
am a novice in the art of Bookbinding, it was a matter of relative ease to
translate the book, but much harder was to comprehend it: even when one gets
past the bizarre, often archaic language, the message contained within is
garbled. Nevertheless I present it to you all now, with the warning that
although it is almost certainly factual, I have no idea if it is the work of a
madman, or whether the Soulless truly had mortal followers, nihilistic beings
that destroyed their fellows in exchange for power. (If such is indeed the
case, startling new revelations arise in regards to the feeding habits and
intelligence of creatures such as Kethuru.) Irrespective of details, I ask you
to read the following with an open mind.

~ ~ ~

In my long and longer life, I have survived and witnessed much. I have parleyed
with monsters the likes of which an ordinary mind could not comprehend, let
alone survive. I have seen the murder of a hundred thousand and taken it as a
matter of course, for are we not cattle to the great herders, the Dread
Overlords, who do watch us with many-faceted eyes; eyes to which compassion is
but a concept, arguable and ephemeral as some fleeting gas or memory? Yea, I
have killed, and shall yet kill again, for sacrifices must be made. I have
stood astride a mountain of bodies, mangled and charred by forces which could
have struck me down at the slightest provocation, and yet did not. Yea, I have
witnessed much. Yet naught I have yet seen has surprised or shocked me as much
as that which I do see daily - the ordinary fools who go about their everyday
lives, uncaring - ignoring - of the creatures that daily assail and assault
their very sanity. Uncaring that these mighty, incomprehensible creatures will
someday soon perform that which all mortals fear in the deepest reaches of
their heart, and reclaim what is rightfully theirs: not only Lusternia, but all
that exists beyond, sucking in the very planes as humans do air, creating chaos
which even the greatest human minds would snap in the wake of, a storm of
insanity that would devour all in its path. Unaware than mortalkind, as
grandiose as his aspirations and hopes and fears may be, is but a fleeting
concept, soon to be a memory, the proverbial eyeblink to the otherwise eternal,
glaring, baleful gaze of the Great One, the Dread Kethuru.

Mortals are such pitiful beings. Scurrying like insects, as if they actually
possessed some manner of import, building their cities with no foresight,
building in places where the Great Ones eternal rampages will bring them in but
a few hundred years - what is to Them the mortal equivalent of minutes. They do
not realize that they are nothing but food. They yet try and formulate some
tactic to combat what they pathetically refer to as the Soulless Ones, and they
believe they have found such in this "Ascension", this pitiful mortal thing
which allows them to gain "God-like power". Fools that they are. They are but
fragments of Divine too weak and cowardly to persist in a world in which
inaction bred destruction, Divine who destroyed themselves in fear and horror
rather than attempt (however foolish any and all attempts may be) to combat the
Great Ones, as did so many of their brethren. Fragments. Shards. Shards cannot
gain the power of even Elder Gods: I would be truly surprised if any of these
"Vernal Gods" possess power even comparable to that which I have been bestowed
with. I doubt it. I truly doubt it. They have gained some puny minor victories,
yes, perhaps: perhaps a hundred of these "Vernal Gods" ambushed the least of the
Mighty Ones, and for their efforts did each die in agony while killing the
weakest of the "Soulless". Yes, perhaps such would please them, a victory
against the forces of chaos and brutality which mortals do struggle against
daily, even at the cost of a hundred of their own, and the massive, almost
incomprehensible amount of resources the creation of the hundred took. This is
the greatest blasphemy, in my eye: they may fight the Masterful Ones all they
wish, and I shall not complain, for it is at least engaging and amusing to
fight off armies of clangoru and undead (shambling beings, pathetic beings,
bereft of life and yet living nonetheless, unsuitable as food yet fighting
against the Old Ones with voracity) with the help of but a few comrades. But
that they should waste POWER - POWER. Power is everything. The Great Lord
Kethuru devours power in vast amounts, and does increase His already huge
strength, and by extension my own. But these fools waste it. They power up
themselves and then they fight the Elder Ones, whose wisdom is eternal, and
then they die, and huge amounts of power are lost. Why do they not power up
themselves and then offer themselves as sacrifices? Why do they not SEE? I MAKE
them see.

I recall not where I was born, only that it was a place infinitely old and
infinitely horrible. A mouldering cess-pit of stone and moss, a castle which
was deserted but for the insects and the poisonous foulness that I subsisted
upon. It was a place of eternal darkness, but my eyes (for I still had eyes,
then, pitiable things that were cowed and tainted by the foulness of mortality)
grew used to such, and I never wanted for the sunlight. There were books in this
place, too, and I devoured each with my mortal eyes, reading of all that was
transpiring in the world beyond, the world outside. I read of the Great Ones,
whose intellect and power surpassed mortals to the extent where they existed
only as food for Them, and I rejoiced, for it seemed there was in truth some
higher power, some greater force into which I could ingratiated myself and gain
power from. I assumed and yet assume I was mortal, although I do not recall
parents, and the details of my past are as nothing: all that I see when I think
of such is an endless spiralling abyss and my birth-name. And yet I read
voraciously of other subjects, too. I read of the Power which mortals hoarded
ceaselessly in their "Nexii", using such to make themselves more powerful, yet
in the end doing so only to deny the Masterful Ones of that which was and is
Their birthright, Their right as superior beings to devour all that they see.
Yea, I read of the Elder Wars, and though I felt rage and horror when I read of
the transgressions of such as Meridian and Terentia, I simultaneously felt peace
and warmth when I read of such as Fain, the Elder whose power was great and
whose purity was greater, who did see as I see the infinite potentialities of
the Great Old Ones, the ceaseless power and insight one could gain if one was
to offer himself wholly unto The Almighty. And once every book was read, I
ventured out of the castle with its whispering ghosts and full tombs, and I did
venture into the world outside, cloaked and enshrouded to hide my severe
emaciation (for food in the - my - castle was scarce indeed, and I had been
there for so many weeks since my awakening) from the judgemental eyes of the
inferior.

I encountered mortals, those who were as I was, and I did communicate with them
in the common tongue. They spoke much, and almost all of it was lies: they spoke
of how the Great Old Ones were nothing more than mindless beasts that devoured
solely for the purpose of destruction, as if Their hunger was something
unnatural, something to be feared or even abhorred. I grew enraged at such
words, and often I lashed out. Before I even ingratiated myself with the
Almighty Ones, I was already a murderer many times over, and although I could
not devour the souls of my victims, I emulated my soon-to-be-Lord and His
incomprehensible court nonetheless, and feasted well upon flesh and blood.
Perhaps it is this cannibalism, this like-minded hunger, that drew the
eternally benevolent gaze of the Great Devourer, for He spoke to me in my
dreams, in a language grown fat with meaning. He said "you are to be the first
of My followers. Mortals fear the Heralds of She-that-is-left. Mortals must
learn their place in the world, to be bred as cattle to the true Immortals. You
are to show them kindness, and ingratiate yourself with them, and speak with
them in a tongue they can understand and accept. You are to be My emissary, and
should they ignore, you are to kill them, and offer their very essence unto Me,
for all is ended under the gaze of the Heralds." And when I awoke I wept with
the gladness of it, for I was now, in truth, a scholar of the Old Ones. I cast
aside my cloak and went out into the world as I was and have everyday hence,
clad only in my scales and loincloth, a savage, joyous grin upon my face and a
message of utter doom for all who would oppose the Mighty Ones burning in my
admittedly hypothetical heart. Most mortals, as my Lord predicted, could not
hope to understand the gloriousness of Him and His, and laughed in my face, or
even took fright and fled. Occasionally they were even violent, and attacked
with a speed that amazed even myself. I tore many hearts from many breasts
before I began to find willing and worthy acolytes. Yet once the recruitment
began, the fact of the matter was impossible to deny: the Great Lord Kethuru is
not, as the lesser mortals say, a being of sheer carnal rage and hunger, unable
to communicate on a level mortals could understand. No, He is like them, and
like us, yet so much greater so many times over.

My name is Athoth Nevarn, and I am the High Priest of the Order of Kethuru, the
Overlord of Pestilence and King of Despair. In His magnificent service do I
serve daily. I have been blessed for my service with the kind of power few
mortals dream of - I no longer need to eat, or sleep, and for this I am
thankful, for sleep brought dreams which I feared and yet fear: dreams
dominated by the glaring eyes of some hideous frog-being who did command me to
abandon the path of purity and truth and instead embark on some blasphemous war
against forces which even I, in my great wisdom, cannot comprehend in Their
entirety. I no longer need to fear the lies of mortals, for my Lord has
graciously rendered me deaf to their idiocy. I no longer need gaze upon this
dead world, food for the Almighty Ones, for He has blinded me, and yet I do
still see that which matters. I kill, and I write, and that is all I need, for
my Lord requires naught else. My physical appearance has altered, truly, but
what can be expected when I am daily subjected to forces which could (should my
Lord so choose it) rend me asunder? My flesh is loose and ragged, but the muscle
and bones are mighty yet. The eyes are blinded but the spirit within can yet
view the world through an inner eye, one unclouded by stupidity and the frailty
of mortal perception. The ears are deaf but I yet hear that which matters, the
eternal wisdom of the Master, whose voice grows stronger daily. My perceptions
are heightened, and so do I take the punishments gladly, for they are as
nothing to the power that has been bestowed upon me.