Chapter One: Son of Azazel
"Son Of Azazel.."
A chorus of voices spoke—old, young, infants—all in a single, eerie, dreary note. The words echoed from a vast, tentacled darkness into the ruined temple hall, a single colossal circle. Its ceiling vanished inside a low, slow-moving dark fog that hung like a storm cloud pressed flat against the heavens. The gray concrete floor lay under a constant haze of drifting dust specks that rose and fell without wind.
Fallen pillars the size of city towers lay scattered and cracked, half-sunk into the floor. At the center stood a broken round table of the same concrete, split perfectly in half. Its top was engraved with constellations and streaking fallen stars that glowed a faint, dead white.
Seven giant concrete chairs ringed the table, each large enough for something thirty feet tall. Six were plain and empty; the seventh was darker, its seat and back worn into a deep, permanent hollow.
Hosted upon it was a figure with white flowing hair and abyssal dark eyes. His form was frail and feminine, his skin aglow in white. His back rested against the huge armrest, one leg crossed atop the other stone armrest. He flicked casually at a flat stone.
A single jagged staircase, its steps cracked and uneven, rose straight from the table toward the far wall. At its top loomed a door—a sheer mountain of seamless black stone. Chains thick as buildings wrapped it hundreds of times, fused into a solid cage of shadow.
Through narrow gaps between the great chains writhed a vast, coiling, liquid darkness full of slow, searching tentacles. Eighteen huge eyes, pale and wet as moons, drifted forward and pressed against the gaps, staring down. Beneath them, a long horizontal mouth opened and closed, its teeth shifting and rearranging themselves.
Yog-Sothoth... The Chained Origin of Horrors.
But he just called it The Thing—the thing that always dragged him into nightmares after he slept, bringing him countless times to this ruined temple. Initially, he had been spooked, but now his lifeless eyes glanced at the vast black.
It was just a normal bad dream. He flicked the stone again.
"Not today, Yog," he taunted. But it reverberated across the hall with thunderous ferocity—after all, it was *his* dream. "I ain't agreeing to your contract." He placed his arms behind his head, gazing at the black fog above. "Totally not being your vessel."
In this world, the only path to power was by signing contracts with foreign entities. They might be gods, saints, angels, dragons, or whatever else. If they took an interest in you, you could use their powers—called Specters—along with Flaws (Geas). Well, the one interested in him happened to be this chained terror.
He just had to wait... until another entity, perhaps a less scary one, took interest in him.
He sighed.
Well, he had to give this chained terror one thing: it was this lucid dream. It was like a peaceful sanctuary from the problems in the waking world.
"Son of Azazel..."
You possess a uniqueness far greater than to be expended on lesser deities...
O' vessel bereft of fate...
I alone stand worthy of thy glory."
The countless voices spoke, its form shifting behind the chains. Should it break those mental barriers manifested as great chains, it would override his consciousness.
How cunning. The main entity was probably eons beyond—this was just its passive force of interest.
"Ok then, Yog. Tell me who this 'Azazel' is." His eyes darted from the ceiling to the eighteen huge eyes. "Then we'll strike a deal. How's that?"
The temple went silent. Well, that was it. As far as time went, he couldn't remember his parents. The first time this monster had called him "Son of Azazel," he had felt thrilled—probably by the fact he had a father. But this chained terror always withheld his identity.
The countless voices from the chained terror spoke, its gigantic maw changing shapes in the vast darkness.
" I remain bound by rules...
Not to speak of thy identity... O' Nether."
He resumed flipping his stone, a sad smile on his face. See? Same answer.
"Then there's no deal, Yog. I think it's about time I end this perilous lucid dream." He winked his dead black eyes at the chains' formless terror. "Bring more convincing bargains next time, and who knows? I might just strike a deal."
His form floated from the chair like a god—well, in your dreams, you could literally will anything.
His hands motioned to compress the ruined temple into a singularity, shutting the gigantic doors.
"Halt...
O' Child of Azazel."
Tilting his head, he halted. What? Had this monster suddenly devised a nice bargain? His ear twitched.
"Should you not awaken as a Dormant...
By the end of today, O' Nether...
You shall die..."
He glanced at the monster in apathy, then his mouth moved with indifference.
"How...?"
"Look upon thy constellations beneath you, Son of Azazel."
He glanced below at the table to see the constellations parting, then fusing together. They played before him a scene—a gigantic, seven-foot spider with countless eyes on its abdomen and a rotting black proboscis. It had twenty jagged gray limbs instead of eight. One pierced through his form, which shielded a horrified blonde-haired girl. Her terrified form was bathed in the crimson hue of his blood.
A smile was plastered on his dying face, the last light fading from his usually cold eyes.. Behind him, he could make out two figures: a lad with fierce golden eyes, his flames barring the distance between him and the monster, while a lass with red eyes severed the limb that pierced his dead form into a pulp of viscera.
Surprisingly, he knew them, but they weren't anything close to friends. They were among the kids in the sanctuary.
Why were they willing to die for him?
"What happens to them?" he asked, glancing at the formless terror.
After a while, the eighteen-eyed vast darkness—like it was weeping—spoke.
"O' Son of Azazel...
Thy eyes just gazed upon thy death...
Yet still, it retains such indifference...
Have thou truly lost thy emotions...
Thy human ability to feel pain?"
He tilted his head. What was there to be worried about? It was just death—nothing more. Not sleeping a whole night with an empty belly, or being flogged disgracefully in the streets, or bruised by bullies.
It was just an eternal rest. What then was so scary about it?
"Hey, Yog... My question remains unanswered."
"It remains dependent on thee...
Should thou remain persistent, they shall die...
Their fates lie in your hands, O' Nether."
"I see..." With indifference, he added, "Thanks, Yog. This is goodbye." He slowly folded his hands. The great chains binding the door shortened, contracting. The door slowly folded into itself.
"Remember...
O' Son of Azazel...
When thou diest...
I shall possess full autonomy upon thy body...
It would still end in my victory."
"Well... I'll be dead by then, so it doesn't count as a victory." His eyes glanced at the split table. "Fate... Perhaps I might bend it. After all, now I know the future."
The great door clasped shut with a seismic thud. The great chains binding it sealed with furious finality.
Seeing all was done, he collapsed back into the tall concrete chair. His dead eyes were stagnant as the dark fog from the arched dome descended slowly into the midst of the ruined temple.
Shrouding his form, which still sat on the elevated stone chair.
"Guess it's time to wake up... Nether."
He opened his eyes amidst the darkness. Pale sunlight filtered through the only window, hung far above his double-decker bunk. It seemed it was morning.
He winked his eyes, then slowly, with a quiet yawn, descended from the top of his bunk, clad in the white attire—a white high-necked pajama, the daily uniform of the Sanctuary.
In fact, the other five male figures about his age, sleeping in a pair of three double-decker bunks in this stuffy small room, were also clad in the same attire. Yet his abyssal lifeless eyes, like a magnet to iron, were drawn to one of them.
He had black, crisped hair and slightly long latches. He was sleeping peacefully without a snore, his blanket well in place above his form.
He was the lad he had seen—the one with the burning flames...