Day Twenty...
The world is not what it pretends to be. Its simplicity is a veneer, a hollow façade carefully draped to lull us into docility. Beneath that thin skin lies a grotesque machinery--hideous, depraved, and restless--swarming with abominations that long ago mastered the art of mimicry. They walk among us unseen. They eat as we do, speak with a fluency we never knew we possessed, and display emotions with a sincerity that eclipses our own. And yet, beneath their borrowed masks, they remain archaic monstrosities; things that have existed since before the first notion of time.
Where did they come from?
What is their design?
Why this world, of all possible graves, as the stage for their torment?
They have no origin, no birth that can be traced, no genesis that can be named. Perhaps they were always here, woven into the fabric of our reality before we even learned to crawl upon it.
We demand to know their purpose in this world, but can we claim to know our own? For what reason do we endure this existence? To worship our gods? To prostrate before deities whose silence grows louder with each passing age? You know, as I know, that you delude yourself. There is no intrinsic meaning, no truth burned into our souls. We are vessels branded with emptiness.
And yet--if your benevolent gods are but hollow fabrications, then the presence of these Abominations is still undeniable proof. Proof that something greater than us watches from behind the curtain, a hand that does not care if its puppets bleed.
I found one such entity. Or perhaps it found me.
It called itself Avantalon. It claimed to be immortal.
I have seen things beyond the reach of human comprehension; scenes that unravel the mind like rotted cloth, obscenities so profound they cannot be contained by words. Their ways are not merely cruel, they are obscene in essence, depravity incarnate.
The Immortals cloak themselves in exquisite shells, deceiving the eye with beauty, power, and light. But it is only that--a shell. Their true essence festers beyond sight, where perception itself begins to collapse.
Their madness is a storm. A chaos not cosmic in scale, but intimate; woven into the frail threads of human lives, pulling us apart from within.
For the most part, they remain dormant, indifferent watchers. Still, silent.
Until the silence shattered twenty days ago.
The world cracked open, torn by those who call themselves the "Chosen" though most whisper their truer name--the Devil's spawn.
Gods clad in mortality.
The notion itself is madness. Blasphemy. Depravity.
And yet, it is the only truth.
Only something so profane could ever wield such power.
When the world broke, so too did reality's veil. The tapestry that smothered our sight unraveled, and for the first time, I beheld Them; every horror that had lurked in the quiet places, every shadow that had learned to wear a human face.
The world was never simple. Our senses were shackled long ago by illusions not our own. Our eyes blurred, our thoughts deceived, our minds… damned.