The Weaver of Flesh

The mortal mind is its own worst enemy. The tools it wields to ensure its continued existence are the very same that, when proper pressure is applied, lead it to ruin. Fear, uncertainty, suspicion, aggression, all of them serve the futile goal of self-preservation, a powerful motivator for any mortal. There is nothing like the threat of certain death to bring these traits to their logical extremes.

The mortal plane held little interest to most of the Elder Beings. Many of them had simply forgotten it existed, while others saw no worth in it.

Sothal thought different.

It had taken a keen interest in these short-lived bags of meat and water. Their buttons were so easily pressed, and while they always reacted in one of only a scant few ways, it was always a sadistic joy watching the other little fleas try to comprehend what was happening.

Madness was usually the response its presence provoked. Whatever poor little creature it found ease in exposing to its power usually had their mind broken quickly, dissolving into gibbering insanity. Sometimes it would conjure a never-ending shill screech in their mind, make them relive their darkest memories repeatedly, or create new horrors in front of their eyes entirely until they simply couldn’t handle anymore. Their kin cried and pleaded with their gods, sometimes they put their loved one out of their misery, other times wasted their own lives away caring for a shivering pile of now useless flesh. It was good for a chuckle.

Every so often, though, it found itself a project.

Sothal could speak with those whose minds were weakened by stress or fear over lengths of time. It did so frequently. What was less frequent, was someone speaking back.

The realm of dreams was a blurring of the lines between the mortal planes and the worlds beyond, the dark expanse of the Elder Beings included. A particularly savvy dreamer could project their consciousness across those lines, even without the aid or knowledge of magic. It had happened before, and it happened then.

Silas Wolfram. That was what the little thing had called itself. Its mind was stronger than Sothal had bargained; the mortal had heard all the whispers of the future it had planted in him. It had intended to simply conjure those images without explanation, make him think those foolish thoughts and drive him mad with confusion and doubt, but this Silas was more attuned than most, and had correctly surmised that dreams were the key to communion with the mischievous Elder Being.

It was hilarious.  

The visions were true of course. Fact was stranger than fiction after all, or so mortals would say. There truly was evil stirring both within the mortal plane and beyond it. Some older than even Sothal and its brethren. The east of his little world would soon, in the years to come, grow dark, and the moon which seemingly sat in silence was quivering and shaking under the strain of an awakening.

It left out, of course, that the gods and their champions, both living and to-come, were taking steps in secret to combat this terrible new era on the horizon. What fun was there without a little existential dread?

A hero like Wolfram would never be able to resist a call to action. Sothal had seen it countless times before, those piles of meat throwing their lives away all so some other pile of meat could cling to its flickering light just a few scant years longer before the darkness took them regardless. It was an exercise in futility so amusing, it wished it had thought of it itself.

‘You’re the only one who can save them,’ is all it had to whisper, and like a thirsting dog, its newest toy lapped it up. Misguided self-sacrifice at its finest. From there, Sothal had an opportunity before it. This Silas was powerful by mortal standards. Over the years and centuries, the few who knew its name had given it a title of sorts.

Flesh-weaver.

Apt, in its own simplistic way.

It, on occasion, dabbled in creating life of its own. Nothing so simple and efficient as the god’s children. No, it liked to experiment. Get creative. It wove monstrosities, horrors, each more terrible and powerful than the last.

Silas had uses –opened doors.

It was a simple give-and-take arrangement. He gave Sothal material; blood, bone, flesh, all neatly separated from one another (for no particular reason other than it tickled Sothal to have Silas mired in gore) and in return, Sothal gave him power. A deeper connection between the two. It made Silas all the more dangerous, and effective, and had the added bonus of making him that much easier to control.

Sothal tightened the leash around Silas’ throat and the simpleton thanked him for it each time with hundreds of corpses. Thousands of pounds of meat and bone to twist and crack and mold into something a bit more special, all in a pointless attempt to gain the strength to face an evil he had no hope of defeating regardless. It was the most fun Sothal had had with a mortal in ages.

All fun must come to an end, though.

It was the damned elf. The golden-haired one that Sothal never was fully able to purge out of Silas’ mind. She came riding in on a dragon of all things, and a party of companions. They slaughtered all of Sothal’s pet-projects and reduced its favorite helper to a shattered, emaciated husk.  

Just as it was about to convince the fool to help it cross over into the material plane. A feat no Elder Being had achieved since the erection of the celestial walls.

Silas could have been the one. The one to stack the bodies high enough, to make the blood run red enough to bring it through.

He still could be.

Beneath the sands of the Akasha Desert, under a mile of sand and stone, there is a tomb. A tomb for a husk who once was a hero, and became a pawn in a game.

This is the tomb of no dead man, but an undying once-man. A thing wearing the suit of a human being, a soul long sold away to a god of void and oblivion. A thing made of meat, of flesh.

And flesh can be woven back together again.