Darkened feathers blending into shadow.
The slime knew based from Sira's assassins they bought their information from an info broker.
One with a high caliber of insight.
Based on the scrolls the dark elf handed him, he was sure of that.
Nobels coming back from a "getaway" in the country side, only to be faced with an angry mob at their door come morning.
People thought "disposed of" suddenly found alive and well in The Backwaters of Thalgrin.
"I need an operative for narrative control." He thought.
"Fictions change empires after all."
He flew high into the air, then glided like a moth that could bring a storm in his wake if he thought it was efficient.
"For both better....or worse."
"Narratives require custodians.”
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
[Nyx of the Ravenkin detected within 100 meter radius]
[Use for entities design includes potential Skyborne Informant]
Nyx perched atop the city’s highest tower, her feathered silhouette dissolving into the moon’s shadow.
One of the cursed Ravenfolk—an avian people gifted with flight, mimicry, and eyes that missed nothing.
Old priests still muttered that her kind once sang beside angels—
until Heaven decided wings were not proof of obedience.
The Ravenfolk were said to be cursed remnants of something older—
a race that once knew the skies too well.
Temple records called it a fall.
The streets called it pest control.
But this one however, a smuggler who controlled messages in and out of the city like a gatekeeper with eyes that see every angle.
Was both Witty, chaotic, greedy—but terrified of being irrelevant.
"Well, well..." she caws, turning her raven-like head. "What brings the night to my roost? I heard whispers of a new power..."
Her eyes gleamed with curiosity and greed.
The wind howls around the spire, carrying the slimes scent of ash, decay, and silent promise.
His form slithers up the side of the tower, merging from shadow to substance—claws clicking against the stone, presence stretching like a black omen across the rooftop.
"Whispers are all that remain before the scream," Heikin murmured. Voice a smooth hiss that echoes in her mind more than her ears.
"You perch above a dying world, Nyx... Wouldn’t you rather soar above one reborn in chaos?"
Nyx tilts her head, feathers ruffling. Her wings flex subtly—ready to flee, or strike.
"Chaos, huh?" she croaks, licking her beak. "Tempting... But chaos burns fast. I prefer the kind that lasts. What are you offering, shadow-thing?"
Heikin raises a tendril, not in threat—but invitation.
A black spiral of arcane script forms midair, pulsing with truths too vast and old for most minds to handle.
Forbidden flight maps.
Secrets of rulers she only dared to eavesdrop on.
Names of traitors. Codes. Blood debts.
"I offer irrelevance’s antidote. The keys to every gate, every secret, every locked mouth in this kingdom. You’ll be the chaos courier. The winged whisper that even kings fear."
Nyx stares at the swirling knowledge—her pupils dilate like eclipses. Her wings falter. She steps forward.
"And in return?"
"You will serve the Maw of Silence." Heikin replied.
"You will steal secrets not yet spoken. You will be my eye, my wing, my echo in the wind."
Nyx stood where angels were once permitted to linger.
Ravenfolk—winged, sharp-eyed, and taught from birth to keep their heads low.
The priests claimed her people had fallen from Heaven in ages past.
Not for sin.
For asking the wrong questions while still able to fly.
"In return, I will make you immortal in memory. The last voice they hear before the end."
A long pause. Her claws tighten on the stone. Then—
"You had me at secrets," she grins.
"But I want chaos privileges. First pick of panicked nobles, dibs on intercepted love letters, and full rights to mock the dying."
Heikin nods, tendrils curling into a contract of smoke and blood.
"Granted. From this moment, you are Nyx, Wing of the Maw—first talon of truth, first scream of silence."
She caws in delight, leaping into the night sky as the sigil of his cult burns like a black brand beneath her feathers. The wind carries her laughter and the Maw's whispered rise.
The Ravenfolk were tolerated, not welcomed.
Winged once like angels—
grounded like vermin.
Heaven called it correction.
History called it a curse.
Heikin recognized it for what it was:
a demotion disguised as divine judgment.
Old priests still whispered that Ravenfolk once served Heaven—
until obedience proved more valuable than wings.
Heikin descended into the city’s ancient sewers—where light dies and the walls sweat disease.
The air is thick with the drone of flies and the hiss of rats. He does not walk, but flow—a shadow among rot.
The walls twitch with unseen vermin as his presence is felt.
Gobrin told him of a women who blessed the poor and dammed them all at once.
This peaked the Maws interest.
But until he found her...
Prince Valen’s conscience rippled through the hive link, his presence forming like a silhouette carved from guilt and ambition.
His mental image kneels instinctively, spine bowed even in thought, eyes sharp with intrigue rather than fear.
“Master…”
The word trembles as it leaves him—soft, reverent, threaded with hunger. His voice is barely more than a breath against the psychic current.
“What is your will? I’ve spread the word among my followers. They await your commands.”
A pause follows, heavier. Resentment seeps in, darkening his tone like wine left too long in the open.
“The nobles’ decadence disgusts me.”
The bitterness sharpens, cutting.
“It’s time for a new order.”
Heikin’s reply does not arrive so much as infect.
His voice slithers into Valen’s mind—slow, viscous, inevitable—each word carrying weight like a toxin carefully measured. Tone laced with purpose.
“You still wear the skin of royalty.”
The phrase presses close, intimate and cruel.
“Use it. Woo the desperate. Seduce the ambitious. Blackmail the corrupt.”
The cadence tightens, predatory.
“Nobles crave power like rats crave rot—feed them both.”
The hive link hums as Heikin continues, the pressure mounting.
“Rebuild your name in the noble courts as a broker of secrets.”
The words coil.
“Charm them. Break them. Bind them.”
“Yes, master,” Valen answers, the response slipping out like silk over a blade. He purrs, confidence bleeding back into his voice.
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“They’ll dance to my tune while they bleed for your cause.”
A low, satisfied breath.
“My network will spread like wildfire.”
His excitement crests into a quiet, dark laugh.
“Through them, we’ll corrupt the very foundations of their society.”
The laughter sharpens.
“Starting with the merchant guilds that finance monster hunters.”
Heikin’s presence deepens, the psychic air thickening as if something vast has shifted beneath the city.
“Form the Hollow Court.”
The title reverberates, echoing like footsteps in an empty hall.
“A court of liars and ghosts.”
Each word lands with deliberate precision.
“Gather the disgraced, the disillusioned, the discarded—knights without orders, nobles without lands, heirs without thrones.”
The command tightens like a leash.
“Give them purpose under my shadow.”
The hive link pulses.
“These will be your pawns—each useful, broken, and easily controlled.”
A faint, amused curl enters Heikin’s tone.
“They will spread the cult like whispers in a ballroom.”
Valen’s mental image straightens, eyes widening as understanding snaps into place.
“I know just the ones…”
The words rush out now, excitement sharpening his breath.
“Lady Katerina—stripped of her titles for supporting your kind. And Lord Ulric, who lost everything in that ill-fated war against the dwarves.”
He rises to one knee in the hive link, posture firming with purpose.
“The Hollow Court will be our greatest weapon, master.”
Conviction hardens his voice.
“We’ll turn their desperation into devotion.”
“Feed me kingdoms.”
Heikin speaks, and the phrase echoes—as if multiple minds spoke in unison, fluid thoughts merging into a single hunger.
“Cities rot from the inside first. Deliver them to me—bleeding, but grateful.”
The instructions follow, relentless.
“You will secretly steer political tensions. Provoke economic collapses. Expose hidden scandals.”
Each clause tightens the web.
“Destabilize allied kingdoms.”
The hunger swells.
“Each toppled ruler becomes a feast. Each civil war, a banquet.”
Valen’s face alights with dark enthusiasm, eyes burning brighter than before.
“I understand now, master.”
His voice quivers—not with fear, but fervor.
“Destroy their nations piece by piece. Let their nobles come to me—broken and begging.”
A smile bleeds into his tone.
“The Hollow Court will serve as your diplomats… and executioners.”
Anticipation drips from every syllable.
“We’ll weave chaos like a spider’s web.”
“And lastly.”
Heikin’s words slow, each one heavy, final.
“Speak my name in secret.”
A pause.
“To the desperate, offer salvation. To the powerful, offer immunity.”
The pressure sharpens.
“To the righteous—offer ruin. You are my mouth among mortals.”
The name coils through Valen’s thoughts.
“You will speak of The Maw of Silence as both salvation and threat—depending on the ears.”
The final decree sinks in, curling like smoke around Valen’s mind.
“You were cast aside.”
A beat.
“I will make you king—not of crowns, but of shadows. Rule from beneath the throne, and no blade shall ever reach you again.”
Valen’s eyes gleam, tears catching the light as a cruel, reverent smile spreads across his face.
“Thank you, master…”
He whispers it, voice breaking as devotion overtakes him.
“I will serve you faithfully, as you’ve served me. The Maw of Silence shall be my only god.”
He bows deeply—even in thought.
“Your will shall be done through me.”
His final vow burns with certainty.
“I will ensure your cult spreads like wildfire.”
The sewer narrows.
Stone gives way to brick. Brick gives way to bone—old supports reinforced with whatever had been cheapest at the time.
Water doesn’t flow here.
It lingers.
Pools of black-green sludge breathe slowly, releasing bubbles that pop with wet sighs. The air tastes metallic, sweet, wrong. Spores cling to the back of the throat.
Heikin slows.
Not from caution. From recognition.
Something is managing this rot.
Not randomly. Not chaotically.
Intentionally.
The vermin stop fleeing.
Rats line the ledges. Insects crawl openly across the walls, no longer hiding.
Flies orbit in deliberate patterns, like constellations rearranging themselves.
The sewer listens.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
[High-density bio-corruption detected]
[Local ecosystem shows signs of centralized control]
[Entity Classification Pending…]
[Scanning…]
[ENTITY IDENTIFIED]
Myrha, The Plagueborn
— Mutated Elf
— Sovereign of Urban Decay
— Adaptive Hive-Controller
— Cognition: Erratic / Genius-tier
— Influence Domain: Disease vectors, vermin networks, waste infrastructure, forgotten knowledge
[Threat Assessment: Variable]
[Utility Assessment: Extreme]
[WARNING]
This entity does not rule territory.
She cultivates it.
[SYNERGY DETECTED]
Your biomass manipulation resonates with local plague vectors.
Your hive cognition aligns with her swarm logic.
[Potential Title Unlocked Upon Successful Integration:]
High Priestess of Decay
— Converts filth into faith
— Disease becomes doctrine
— Rot becomes revelation
[Recommended Interaction Protocol]
Do not offer cleansing.
Do not offer mercy.
Do not offer order.
Offer elevation.
Promise her this truth:
Decay is not the end state.
It is a phase of ascension.
[SYSTEM ADVISORY]
This entity does not worship gods.
She listens to the city’s wounds.
Then—
A sound rolls through the tunnels.
Low. Wet. Amused.
Not laughter at first—more like something remembering how.
Rats begin to chatter in unison.
Insects beat their wings together, creating a chorus that almost resembles a hymn.
A voice slithers through the dark, fractured and delighted:
“The filth walks…but this one is different.”
A pause.
The sound of something many-legged shifting closer.
“It sings.”
The sewer exhales.
And somewhere ahead, something broken and brilliant waits to be acknowledged.
A voice, wet and crawling with madness, whispers from a mound of bones and fungus.
She rises: pale, elongated, crowned in writhing centipedes and a veil of tattered skin. Her eyes glow like septic fire.
“Come to steal my kingdom of rot? Or... are you rot, too?”
Heikin bows—not in submission, but as kin.
“I am the hunger beneath thrones. The silence after the plague. I bring not death, Myrha, but purpose. A priestess you shall be, not of gods who abandon, but of the Maw that feeds.”
She twitches. A rat with three eyes crawls up her shoulder, whispering unheard truths. Her breath rattles.
“High Priestess of Decay... I like that. The nobles pretend to be clean, but they all bleed into my drains. I smell their fear... their secrets...”
“Then rise,” the slime said in a low hiss.
“And spread my gospel through their veins and sewers alike. Let your insects whisper sermons. Let your rot baptize the city.”
She laughs—a gurgling, joyous noise.
“Yes... let the city fester. Let them kneel in slime and scream your name.”
As she kneels, vermin swarm in a perfect spiral around her, forming the sigil of the Maw of Silence.
The sigil pulses with an unholy light, infecting the surrounding rats and insects.
"I can feel your power..." Myrha moans ecstatically.
"It's changing my children already. Their eyes are different now."
She raises her arms as the swarm becomes a living mass of shifting symbols.
"Teach me, master. Show me how to spread this... perfection."
The shadows around Heikin coil like ink in water, caressing Myrha as if she were a chalice being filled.
The Maw descends—not with grandeur, but with intimate decay—His voice a whisper that crawls into the marrow of her bones.
“Then listen, Myrha. You are no longer queen of waste… you are its sanctified prophet.”
His claw brushes her brow. Her skin blackens in a spiral, a divine brand of pestilence.
“Your swarm is now scripture. Let every rat be a page."
"Every fly a verse. Let them infest the food of nobles, nest in confession booths, whisper sermons in dying ears."
"Build beneath the cathedrals, rot their roots. Let your hive preach sickness in silence.”
The swarm around her spasms—mice with blackened veins begin chittering words in a tongue no mortal taught them. A chorus of filth.
“Your new flock awaits,” Heikin continued. “Raise hives in forgotten sanctuaries. Corrupt fountains with the Song of Rot. And when they pray for salvation…”
He leans in close, breath like mold on her skin.
“…let their gods gag on plague.”
Myrha begins to laugh—low and reverent—as her arms twist into gnarled stalks, her voice joining the droning song of a thousand flies.
“High Priestess of Decay... I hear your gospel. Let the city choke on your silence.”
And when that day comes...
The once feeble slime shall rise to optimize the kingdom.
The Maw remembered a time when he’d feared systems. Now he was becoming one.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
[First followers of the Maw acquired]
[New skills unlocked as a result of cult like mythic status formation]
[Infamy combining with divine essences resulting in boosted stats]
→ Cultic resonance detected
→ Belief-based authority lattice forming
Mythic Status: Initiated (Proto-Deific Phase)
→ Infamy and divine essence interacting
→ External perception now reinforces internal growth
Stat Recalibration in Progress…
Entity Designation: Heikin K. Remington
Registered Alias: Kurai Hoshi — “Dim Star”
Emergent Mythic Title: The Maw of Silence (Unstable)
Current Species: Slime → Tier 1 Hybrid Organism
Primary Form: Greater Hobgoblin (Adaptive)
Classification: Ascendant Predator-Class Entity
Threat Assessment: High → Severe (Exponential Growth Detected)
Strength: 15 → 22 ↑↑↑
Ogre musculature fully stabilized. Cult-reinforced perception increases effective force output when observed by subordinates or prey. Physical dominance now scales with fear response.
Dexterity: 15 → 20 ↑↑
Motion efficiency refined. Movement now optimized through predictive threat modeling. Minor precognitive correction observed during pursuit or ambush.
Vitality: 17 → 26 ↑↑↑
Biological redundancy enhanced. Damage tolerance significantly increased when acting as a focal entity for followers. Core integrity reinforced by belief feedback.
Endurance: 18 → 27 ↑↑↑
Sustained high-output activity extended well beyond previous thresholds. Fatigue accumulation reduced under conditions of authority, worship, or dominance.
Intelligence: 19 → 28 ↑↑↑
Multi-layer strategic processing unlocked. Capable of managing simultaneous influence vectors (political, cultic, territorial). Abstract manipulation efficiency increased.
Wisdom: Optimization-Oriented → Predatory Cognition ↑↑
Emotional data fully weaponized. Fear, faith, and desperation now classified as exploitable resources rather than variables.
Mana: Elevated → Surging
Internal mana density now partially self-regenerating.
Mana recovery accelerated in areas of decay, secrecy, or societal collapse.
Elemental Charge Capacity: Expanded
Overdraw thresholds increased.
Structural strain reduced when acting through proxies or minions.
Skill Acquired: Predator’s Presence
Your existence alone destabilizes hostile morale.
Witnesses may hesitate, panic, or submit instinctively when they witness your transformation or brutality.
Skill Acquired: Puppet Fear
Psychological warfare enhanced through indirect action. Fear spreads faster when carried by others.
Using your minions (like Gobrin & Grok) to stage false info, lures, or decoys to amplify the psychological effect of your attacks.
Fear Aura: Apex Predator
Dominance establishes obedience. Low-will entities may defect, flee, or kneel without direct coercion.
Passive/Active: Once you’ve established dominance in an area (like a goblin camp), weaker enemies naturally cower or obey you.
Bonus Effect: Low morale units may defect or flee mid-battle.
Skill Acquired: Split Form / Scout Progeny
You may now divide portions of yourself into lesser autonomous entities.
— Create smaller slime spawn or clones from your body for reconnaissance, infiltration, sabotage.
— Strength reduced; loyalty absolute.
— Mythic perception increases progeny effectiveness.
Limitations: Weaker than your core form, but effective for diversions or spying.
[SYSTEM NOTE]
An influence network has begun forming beyond physical proximity.
This entity’s growth is no longer linear.
Warning:
Continued accumulation of followers may result in irreversible mythic crystallization.
Designation Pending:
“The Celestial Maw” — Conditions not yet fulfilled.
In truth, it is only writing data.”
— Talmeri, Silent Historian of the Shapers
after they believe their story is finished.