Ancience

The elders had much lore to tell. Stories of woods haunted by changelings who steal children in the night for their rituals. Bottomless lakes what could swallow the strongest swimmer to oblivion. Spectres reaching back from beyond the veil to impart curses. Yarns mostly, meant to caution.

Some of what was told bore as more ominous. Leviathans, great worms of monsters, insidiously burrowing massive caverns beneath the earth. These were said to give no concern to we.

That is unless so fed.

Once tasted of our blood, the leviathan would become insatiable, and if not thus tributed would wreak untold devastation.

Most seldom of all was spoken word of that most feared, and then only by our eldest. A man who in his battling days was known for leading honorable charges, and who later chiefed the village with a tempered and trustworthy mind.

When he spoke — which in those, his fading years, was little — we listened.

One night he emerged from his hut. As he approached the fire, we who kept watch began waking the rest.

He waited patiently until all were in attendance. Huddled against the bon, blanketed by a deeply starred sky.

“You all know what I know. I have ensured this in my teachings.” He gazed into the fire as he spoke. His words came with the slow, if tired, wisdom of age.

“I have had a dream.” His face seemed somehow unsettled, yet resolved. “A thing come more and more rare in my years.”

Indeed they had, as we had so gathered to hear them all. Their revelations had served our survival.

“One I have prayed and offered to never receive.”

Unease took a palpable grip, and knowing glances were shared. We had all at least once heard the tale.

An abomination, if even it could be called. Sentient and growing long before even the philosophy of time. A cosmic nebula of malice, which takes a horrible shape for the singular purpose of inspiring the will to perish.

The size of a titan. Serpentine of body, short of tail. Sprouting from sides, back, and belly, countless articulated spines, each ending in talons like shards of obsidian.

Some of those myriad legs were wrapped and lengthened, gory extensions to make wretched wings. Patchworks said to be made of the flayed skins of its victims, stitched with sinew to add to their span.

Such is said to be a sight as would send any to madness. A thrashing of body, teeth, and claws. So violently triumphant, donning its trophies.

An impenetrable hide of oily darkness wrapped it, and its thick neck ended in an eyeless stump ringed with maws of jagged needles.

Its stench was said to be unbearable, and its screeches mistaken for no other. It could take to flight, making crushing gales, and at will dissolve to natural form — a dark, vaporous ether.

It had attached to our world for what we have wrought upon one another. Devouring one life at a time, just as we have devoured ourselves.

Its origins were of course shrouded in guesswork. Yet a thing risen beyond legend to become omen.

None considered it without dread.

The fire continued to crackle and spit.

“I have seen the preter —” Our eldest, having never torn from the flames, closed his eyes.

“— and it will claim one of you. Who, I know not.”