Nyarlathotep's Story

The entire spectacle was watched over by a figure clad in yellow robes with ragged edges and torn appearance. To most he would be appear a mere observer, perhaps a lich or dark mage, but they would be wrong. The figure had many names, his true one being crushing to those who heard it uttered, for now he played a king, a monarch with his manic aristocracy around him. Nonetheless he had not come to watch a twisted crimson reverie, although their naivety did amuse him. No instead soon after he merely appeared with the other group, "Fools, I am here for your master, not mere figureheads. I have much to discuss with my equal. Meanwhile you keep being slaves to one you can't quite comprehend, me I am briefly amused by such an opulent mess of blood and gore, but I have bigger plans than mere games. I call on you Nyarlathotep . We have waited long enough, it is time the Crawling Chaos knew of certain tidings. I know this blood sacifice is merely a show, a theatrical display, and I know you have been gone. Thus I call out for you to take a form."

The figure robed in torn yellow sickly robes wore a mask of quicksilver which had wailing aberrant faces crying out, like a thousand hideous souls suffering. On the head was a crown, of some unknown or eldritch metal. Many would recognize him right away, nonetheless he intended them to know the true name, "Puny fools, leading and following in merry game, so blind to actual relevance. I am HASTUR. I find your pitiful blood orgies shameful and too chaotic, not enough ruthless decadence. I Hastur demand your master reveals himself, it is time we talked." each time he spoke his name, the world shivered and people around would feel extreme coldness ice up their veins, a truly fiendish display of authority. The mere name bring darkness and black souls to the fore.

"Oh, for the love of the un-god." Jules said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked towards the King in Yellow with his three eyes, abject scorn burning deep within their viridian depths. He thrust an impatient hand towards Hastur, gesturing anxiously.

"This. This guy right here. This is what I'm talking about. Fuckin King comes in here, disses you all for enjoying yourselves, and demands to see the boss."

The crowd turned towards Hastur, their eyes wide, their mortality worn on their sleeves. Jules descended from the podium and snatched a rock from the cold ground.

"Nyarlathotep isn't your dog, Hastur. Anything you have to say to Him you can say to us. Or...maybe you're afraid to admit who the real important people here are?" Jules said with snide derision. He tossed the stone up and down in the air, and pointed two accusing fingers at the ochre god. The rest of the gathered cultists likewise drew or gathered weaponry, and began to circle the deity like sharks...

It was not easy to drive this deity to absolute fury, but when Jules tried his pretensions. The group around him comprised of every class and gender would start screaming, as the flesh started falling from their bodies in great swathes, revealing grisly living muscles. The blood oozing from the fresh wounds, falling from limbs, faces, practically melting from their body. Some would desperately bend over to pick it back up, but it would just fall back off, as their appearances became less human-like. Unfortunately the deity was not done. After few minutes those afflicts just disintegrated into puddles of blood and gore, one minutes circling him, next minute gone. Meanwhile blue energy circled around him, wailing, screaming, then gone. The cultists who had been there were now bloodied clothes. He had not even moved or spoke, the people had just dissolved into macabre crimson flood. Although it was obvious to Jules what Hastur has just done he sapped their souls out of them after brually destroying their bodies.

"I won't ask again lil' boy. I am amused somewhat by theatrics, but you forget yourself. I don't take joy in murdering people, I prefer to use them. Of course you demanded me to do such harsh acts, and I will say now if your master was not protecting your group there you would all be dead. I am Hastur, The Unnameable, The Eldritch King, The Lurker Beyond the Threshold. I will not deal with pretenders who dance the superior jig, but will not listen to their betters. Once again I demand to see your master or would you care for me to test just how strong his protection is?" his visage looked over the others, some were okay, but others were staring in horror, "Utterly pathetic, this is why I play with Nobles not Cultists, Nobles at least become psychopaths, Cultists are merely cowardly and afraid."

"Afraid? These people just stood up to you despite your ability to liquefy them. What about you? What are you so afraid of that you have to go and kill a bunch of Nyarlathotep's disciples?" Jules said, crossing his arms and standing his ground. Hastur had played straight into the cult leader's hands. The grisly murder of these fledgling agents of chaos was the exact sort of thin that The Crawling Chaos could use as justification for future acts against Hastur's own blind followers. Honestly, it was startling how easy it was to manipulate so-called Gods such as this robed fool.

"We're not the pathetic ones here. The great King Hastur, the Unnameable, The Eldritch King, lashing out in petty spite against the fleeting defiance of a gaggle of mortals. It's no small wonder you choose to hide your face. No. Nyarlathotep won't hold court with you. Not after what you just did." the necromancer said, bidding the remaining cultists to flee for their lives. It would take some time to build the numbers back up, but the sacrifice had been absolutely worth it.

In that moment, Nealaphh blinked into existence just above Jules' shoulder, rotating slowly on its glimmering, crystalline axis. The black, glass tetrahedron pulsated with an angry red light. Jules glanced over at The Enigma, Nyarlathotep's second in command, and smirked.

"If you want to keep making cheap threats, then smite me and be done with it. I mean, I won't stay dead. I never do. Otherwise, say your piece and maybe we'll bring it up with Him." Jules said with a finalizing flick of his hand. The burning depths of his own eyes bored into the hollow eyes of Hastur's livid mask. How could it be so easy to shake the ego of a lofty being such as this?

Everything turned black, the ground, the air, the sky, the grass, it just started filling in a void of black. No colour, no life, in fact those who were living were immediately denied life, if only for a time. And this time it was as if the void itself spoke, "Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos if you won't confront me in this life, then I shall merely force you by denying them entry into another rift. Now I can speak freely without your pitiful necromancer with pretensions of being superior." pausing the figure was no longer a figure, more like an aberration, with tentacles and such, it was truly indescribable, but in the end The King in Yellow was merely a costume, an avatar to prevent lesser mortals from dying from mere sight, "It has been a time and a time I was quiet, but you have no doubt been watching Erebuz. Well in the past I did weaken his chains metaphorical or not. And now he taking advantage, I have gathered some fools to deal with him for good or as good as he can get. The question I came to ask which your snivelling Jules would not comprehend is how do we address him? I pondered for a time, he is after an aspect of destruction, impossible fully to understand, but he must be handled we cannot usurp this world if that fool trying to unmake it."

The void with just utter infinite darkness, apart from two unholy unnameable horrors, "As to who I sent well I found a figure named Ezrael the Atrocious, and got him out of his hermitage to address this being. It is an ego thing for him, nonetheless Erebuz can't be ignored."

Nyarlathotep came into presence within the shadowed world. He took no shape, nor concentrated his presence in a single area, for the Crawling Chaos had no true form. At this primeval level of existence, Nyarlathotep existed in his most pure state of being. Nyarlathotep was an idea. His words etched themselves into the vibrating threads of the ebon firmament, implicit in their presence, and unfathomable in their depth.

My Dearest Hastur,

First, let me clarify. Jules Restlin does not think himself your better; he merely finds your childish tendency for petty retribution to be below someone of your supposed station. I am not inclined to disagree.

As for your oh-so-urgent solicitation...no. I have not, in fact, been keeping tabs on this Erebuz. My attention was focused on matters far more fundamental that have since been resolved. But...ah...I see. Erebuz. Another failed attempt at ruling over hell. Sealed away within a temporal context. How droll.

Hastur, when will you learn? Potency is not a matter of raw power, it is a matter of agency. I don't care how mighty this being is, and I don't care if he wants to rule over the Multiverse as an undisputed tyrant. These things do not matter to my own agenda. In fact, I am more inclined to align myself with him as destroyer of civilization than whatever bizarre obsession you're currently pursuing.

So I suppose my question is this.

Why should I care?

Unamused the King appeared to challenge Nylarlathotep, "I would think you of all 'people' would understand why Erebuz needs curtailed, but clearly your mingling with mankind has dampened your mind. I remember when you were once a powerful force in Egypt almost overcoming their whole religion. That is one who would know why this is urgent, but if I must spell it out. Fine. If he unmakes existence, our whole shtick or show is over. We cannot die, true but I rather like the entire Multiverse as it is. It is just chaotic enough I can use it to my advantage, I did once believe Erebuz could be used, but he is not worthy of anything. You insult me for thinking about potency and raw power, but Erebuz himself is arrogant, patient and he will not give one iota about us. It is not self perservation."

Pausing he considered his words, "It is more, we use humanity. Unlike our sibling Cthuhlu our existence does not mark end of that world as we know it, we the clockmakers, we construct great ideas and let them loose. Erebuz is like our sibling, he will only use power, but in the end as you have said raw power is nothing. I agree, it is why I play nobles and corrupt them, leading them darker down the paths of eldritch and cruel. Erebuz is a threat to what we do, not our lives, but how we act. We wish to subjugate and corrupt, he wishes to plain end, no great game, just darkness."

With that the blackness would end and all that remained in the area would be yellow robe, torn and frayed, but the King himself had gone.

The Butcher of Wing City snarled a foul howl, echoing into the night as he arrived back upon the mortal plane. His boots crunched into the familiar hunting ground, carrying him forward into the darkness to find a new victim.

It had been a long while since that fateful day the Vankoryth Detente had a meeting that came to an uneven end.

A large glossy poster hung on the back of the door, only visible to occupants.

It was for a soiree, Social Immortal, hosted by the Vankoryth Detente to benefit Verinotte Hall. Anyone who had the privilege of wining and dining in the Room of York could consider themselves invited, for the Room of York was only accessible by the very wealthy or the very well connected.

The night would feature an uncorking of a very rare bottle of wine, the opportunity to rub elbows with the who's who of the vampire world, and free tapas.

It had been quite some time since the last time Remilia Scarlet had been seen in public, and lo and behold...on the day she announced her return to Terra, she would once again be partaking in the livelihoods and events which took place. Truth be told, she had been a bit uneasy about going out so soon...but she'd manage. Remilia arrived early, parasol in hand as she would enter. Making her face known to the public once more.

"Good evening, all..."

The door to the Room of York swung open of it's own accord, and through it Daemala Tauvyr glided. Her striking beauty was complimented by a floor length gown, which hugged her frame and was absolutely dripping in minuscule blood red beads. Atop her head, mounted between her thick black bangs and a pile of dark hair impossibly high, was a tiara. The dark stone in the center seemed to have a wisp of black smoke living inside.

The Queen of the Vampires had made her entrance. She swept a look around the almost empty room, her internal commentary on the decor cut short as she spotted none other than-

"Remilia?!"