The cavern's ceiling extended into the heavens above with innumerable stalactites stretching their gnarled fingers towards the ground. The silence was a near physical force, oppressing thought itself as it weighed down on the souls of all who stood there. It was no serene glade beneath a night sky, spreading calmness and tranquility. This was the silence that deafens, that roaring of blood in your ears that drowns out all else.
The only brief periods of relief were when it was broken by the occasional sharp pattering of a droplet of water hitting the ground below.
And, of course, the deep, guttural chanting of a blood ritual, rivulets of crimson mixing with the clear water to create hauntingly beautiful patterns. Almost a hundred cloaked figures stood around a circle of white chalk, inscribed with patterns and symbols of arcane origin. Magical energy thrummed in the air with the promise of power capable of piercing through the planes of existence.
As the chanting continued, the chalk began to heat up, causing the rock around it to glow a dull orange, illuminating the cavern in an ominous light. The shadows of the stalagmites shifted and moved on the walls.
Eventually, the chant reached a climax and there was that characteristic sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as the walls between planes grew thin. The space above the centre of the chalk circle fell inwards as though poked by a fourth-dimensional needle.
By now, several of the cloaked figures had fallen to their knees, sweat soaking through their heavy garments (at least they have professional standards regarding their equipment), yet their chanting never stopped for a second.
Just before their limits were reached, there was a sharp pop sound that almost sounded as if it came from inside their skulls, and the distortion of space slammed back to normal with a wave of physical force. This wave collided with the chalk barrier with a boom, stopping just before the circle of cloaked figures. Some of the glowing symbols flickered, threatening to go out, but they held just long enough for the phenomenon to subside.
The chanting stopped abruptly, silence returning to that desolate cavern, as the cultists looked curiously towards the centre of the chalk circle.
There, basking in the orange glow of the arcane symbols and looking rather confused, were one - no two - strange looking creatures. A few of the cultists, those still with breath to spare, muttered confused murmurings to those besides them.
One of them stepped forward bravely and cleared his throat before speaking. His hoarse voice echoed rather pitifully in the large cavern in comparison to the powerful chanting from earlier.
"We have called and you have answered. The First Exchange has been completed and our souls are now bound in accordance with the Pact. Is this acceptable, O Wanderers?"
Of the two creatures, the larger one merely stared, his gaze heavy and foreboding (blank and lifeless). The cultist realised that their shapes were indistinct in the darkness, but just as he had the thought to light a fire to see them, his throat seized and his limbs locked.
You must not look! You must not look! You must not look!
The other cultists, still bound as they were by the First Exchange, felt this foreboding terror all the same and rapidly turned their gazes towards the stone floor.
A shrill voice responded from the creatures.
"This is..."
The cultists held their breath.
We have done all we could. The ritual is sacrosanct in its purity. Nothing can go wrong, not when we are so close!
The voice continued.
"Acceptable. Speak, and let us make an accord quickly. Your crude hive-soul fractures with every breath wasted and - ". The voice grew layered, as though a thousand thousand were speaking at once. "Soon it will not be enough to hold us...and I shall gladly devour what remains."
A shiver ran down the spine of the cultists at these words.
They saw our true form through the binding circle that quickly? This kind of power is beyond the second order perhaps even...no it changes nothing. He is not wrong, though - every breath wasted our patchwork form crumbles. We must move according to the plan - quickly.
"We are grateful for the warning, O Wanderers. By the pact, we request a Second Exchange. Is this acceptable?"
The layered voice had returned to its previous, shrill register.
"This is acceptable. We shall fulfil your request in accordance with the [value] of your sacrifice."
A collective breath seemed to be released from the room. The cultist who had previously stepped forward fumbled for something within the inner pocket of his coat before retrieving it and presenting it forwards.
It was a small colourless crystal about the size of a nail.
"This is a splinter-shard of Evanescence. With this we - "
The shrill voice interrupted with a warning tone.
"Do not lie to us, small ones. The Echoes of Evanescence are lost to the cosmos. No mortal could grasp even a fragment without consigning their entire world to a terrible fate."
The cultists shook, sweat beading their foreheads as a sharp burden of esoteric knowledge nestled in the forefront of their minds. A sharp realisation followed as their pupils constricted.
This knowledge alone is enough?! We cannot let Them continue, lest their words alone corrupt us irreversibly!
"Please, appease your anger O Wanderers. We know not of what you speak, only how our most ancient tomes refer to this crystal."
"I see.", the voice trailed off as though in thought. "Not a splinter-shard but an echo of an echo...hmmm..."
Before it could continue, for the first time, that larger silhouette shifted. A baritone voice sounded out, its deep timbre causing the walls themselves to tremble. It stretched out the word, as though speaking with an unfamiliar tongue.
"■■■■■■■. If you bring me ■■■■■■■, I shall grant you the world."
The cultist stuttered, the hand holding up the splinter-shard of Evanescence dropped to his side as his thoughts, and those of all those around him, screeched to a halt. Even the smaller shadow grew still until even the drops of water hovered motionless in the air.
Abruptly, they started to retrace their steps, floating upwards to return to the tips of the stalactites above. The cultists and the smaller shadow were not spared this phenomenon, rewinding their actions, raising that crystal before him once more.
"I see", the shrill voice spoke again, unaware of the repetition of his actions. "Not a splinter-shard but an...wait...". A sharp bloodlust permeated the air before vanishing just as fast. The smaller silhouette looked around cautiously before continuing.
The large creature seemed to shake its head and sighed, but such an action went unnoticed by all in those cavern.
"Is everything to your standards, O Wanderers?", the cultist asked hesitantly.
The smaller silhouette shifted in what seemed to be a gesture of acceptance.
"Yes. We accept your sacrifice. In accordance with the Second Exchange, we are at your service. Speak, and we shall act."
The cultists as one clenched their fists inside their robes, allowing themselves to enjoy a small amount of satisfaction before returning to the heavy task at hand.
They were, of course, completely unaware of the calamity they had just avoided through the Oblivion Seal's effects, though a strange anomaly did occur when it attempted to exert its power on Ziriothrax, Devourer of a Billion Souls, Origin of All Evil, Archon of Suffering, King in Crimson Cloth.
Of course, ■■■■■■■ has already been revealed so far. The special conditions of that red planet allowed for such secrets to be revealed without consequences. Perhaps an intrepid reader may be able to find that esoteric link. But be warned. Do not speak of it, do not mention it, do not think of it. Outside that planet where the strings of fate themselves had given up and sanity had gone on strike, the weight of causality will squash you like the pitiful mortal insect you are.
This warning will only be spoken once. Remember it, lest you encounter a fate most...Brown.