It had been two weeks since Iris discovered she was pregnant, yet her body writhed with restless unease—as if it were a prison confining the struggling soul inside. Her dreams, once radiant with hope, had shattered and faded into haunting shadows, giving birth to a profound sense of loss. Each night, she woke drenched in cold sweat, pulled from sleep by a faint whimpering echoing deep within her womb—not the soft coos of a newborn, but a sound ancient and desperate, hungrier than any lullaby could ever quell.
That night, when she opened her eyes, the familiar world around her had been swallowed by an eerie, suffocating silence. The hourglass resting on the table had stopped flowing; its grains of sand frozen mid-descent, trapped in a moment thick with dread. The fire in the hearth lay cold and extinguished—its once warm, flickering glow snuffed out, leaving the room cloaked in oppressive shadows. Even her breath seemed to still, failing to leave a mist on the cold windowpane, deepening the bitter and somber chill that hung in the air.
"My time has been suspended," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely piercing the oppressive stillness that swallowed all sound.
Then, from the shadowed depths of the room's corner, the creature emerged, its arrival unraveling the fragile boundary between fear and reality. It bore the name "The Fetal Eater"—a title that transcended mere label, embodying the primal dread and haunting horror etched into its very existence. This name whispered of a sorrow so profound, it echoed the universal ache of loss.
The creature's visage was a void—there was no face, only an abyssal black hole where one ought to be, a hollow, lifeless womb that never nurtured a heartbeat. Its gaunt, elongated limbs twisted unnaturally, resembling fetal bones contorted into the outline of a distorted, towering human figure whose nightmarish silhouette sent chills crawling down the spine. Its voice was no mere sound but a resonant echo of wombs that have lost their children, a lament stitched from the fabric of a mother's eternal grief—each wail a piercing scream drawn from the depths of harrowing maternal pain, reflecting the anguish borne by countless women before her.
In the enveloping darkness, Lamashtu glided with an uncanny, fluid grace, as if stepping upon whispers of shadow that themselves murmured fear to every living being daring to meet her gaze. Each calculated footfall released a soft hiss—a breath like wind slipping mournfully through cracked windows—fracturing the suffocating silence that had pressed heavily upon the room.
As Lamashtu drew nearer, Iris's eyes caught terrifying details: her skin seemed woven from the very fabric of night itself, absorbing and swallowing every flicker of light. This unholy darkness shifted and breathed with a life of its own. Shadows slithered and writhed along the contours of her body, forming the haunting illusion of countless dark creatures crawling just beneath the surface—lurking, alert, their presence poised to strike at any moment. The air around Iris constricted, weighed down by the figure's oppressive aura, while an unnatural, biting coldness crept into her throat, stealing her breath away.
"I am Lamashtu. I sense the life yet to be destined."
With every deliberate step, it advanced steadily, as if the very fabric of the world around Iris twisted and swayed on the edge of some terrifying unknown. She recoiled instinctively, her body trembling as a pervasive dread seeped deep into her bones, each thunderous heartbeat resonating with the threat closing in. Her breath caught, ensnared by paralyzing fear that gripped her chest like icy claws. Summoning her magic in desperation, she felt Gaia's power falter—weak, ineffectual against this eldritch presence. This was something far beyond the laws of nature and magic: an abyssal force whose shadowy aura bled into every corner of the room, suffusing the space with a suffocating, profound terror, as if the very realms of heaven and hell were colliding before her eyes.
"Your child is not yours," it intoned, its voice dripping with cold finality and ancient malice. "She is the continuation of a cursed bond: a tragic fusion between the Void and Genesis, two primordial forces never meant to coexist."
"Give her to me... and you will awaken whole, unbroken, freed forever from the unbearable burden of this pregnancy you were never meant to bear."
Formless Battle
Iris did not lash out. Instead, she summoned Gaia's roots deep from within, not through spells or magic but through the indomitable strength of a mother's will. Her belly throbbed with a steady pulse as she felt the fetus resisting, writhing like a fragile flicker of unnamed light struggling to endure. Around her, the shadow of Lamashtu slithered with a haunting, serpentine grace—an abyssal darkness so thick it swallowed every shard of nearby light, carving out a void of oppressive blackness. Its eyes, sharp and piercing like a hunting eagle's, gleamed with predatory hunger far beyond mere dominion, fixated with ruthless intent on Iris's every move. The growl of its voice rolled through the air and sunk deep into her bones—a cold, chilling resonance that stirred a profound, icy unease within her heart.
"You are wrong," Iris declared, her voice unwavering, filled with unshakable conviction. "This child is not a curse. She is a bridge, a symbol of hope, perhaps even the very path to healing. And I am the gateway."
Lamashtu howled, the force of her scream reverberating through the chamber, shaking the ancient mirror until it shattered into a cascade of glittering shards. Fragments of glass and splintered wood scattered wildly across the cold stone floor. Her shadow writhed and twisted with a life of its own, contorting into grotesque shapes that danced erratically in the engulfing darkness. Each guttural roar thickened the heavy air, pressing down as if the very atmosphere were suffocating itself, granting the stunned Iris a fleeting moment to steady her breath and collect her scattered thoughts. Despite the chaos, she remained rooted in place, blood trickling slowly from the corner of her mouth, cool against her skin as she pressed a trembling hand firmly against her glowing womb. Veins pulsed visibly beneath her skin, throbbing with a suffocating fear as Lamashtu's oppressive, shadowed aura seeped insidiously into the recesses of her mind, aiming to unravel her steadfast resolve.
"You will not touch my child," Iris declared, her voice cutting through the darkness like a sharpened blade—sharp, unyielding, and resolute. "I am Gaia. I am life, and I am the Mother."
The monstrous figure dissolved into a swirling mist of crimson and deep black, leaving behind a pungent, metallic scent heavy with the mingled odors of blood and amniotic fluid—a raw, primal aroma that blurred the boundary between birth and death, folding them into a single, shadowed moment suspended in time. As the dim, ethereal light bled through the dissipating haze, faint tendrils of twisted, writhing shadows clung to the edges of the room, marking the lingering residue of a dark presence—one that transcended mere silence or peace, hinting instead at something far more ominous, ancient, and profoundly unsettling.
By morning, the healer found Iris diminished and fragile, her body limp as if trapped within an unending nightmare. Yet within her womb, the fetus throbbed with an extraordinary duality: radiant, pure light magic—an essence drawn from Gaia—intertwined with veils of shadow, ancient runes glowing faintly across the placenta like whispered secrets defying the night. It was as though two colossal forces, one of brilliant creation and the other of consuming void, were bound in a fearsome, intricate dance—both clashing and cooperating, forging an unparalleled resistance at the very core of her being.
Beyond the reach of Lamashtu, other equally fearsome entities stirred in restless anticipation, drawn irresistibly to the child's presence. This presence radiated a shimmering aura that blended awe and unease, like a cold breath echoing across the vast cosmic expanse. Hidden within the blurred thresholds between worlds, these ancient beings perceived ripples of immense power surging outward—a beacon that tore through dimensions and beckoned creatures from realms beyond mortal comprehension. It was a harbinger of colliding realities and cataclysmic change yet to unfold.
Azazel—the Creator of Darkness and Bringer of Destruction—stood as a towering force whose immense power shredded the fragile veils separating realities. Ever watchful, he regarded every cosmic imbalance as an opportunity to extend his shadowed dominion. The child's presence unsettled the delicate, chaotic order Azazel so meticulously maintained, igniting a fierce and dark resolve within him to snuff out this unpredictable variable before it unraveled the very fabric of his carefully woven empire.
Tiamat – The primordial goddess of the sea and destruction, her elemental fury unleashed through crashing tidal waves and tempestuous storms that threaten to obliterate entire worlds. From the depths, ancient and monstrous beasts rise at her beckoning, their roars echoing across shattered horizons. The child bears a cryptic connection to an ancient prophecy—one that heralds either the cataclysmic rise or the ruinous fall of Tiamat. Cloaked in restless shadows, the goddess senses the approaching winds of fate, a chilling tempests that could either crown her eternal dominion or drown it in chaos and ruin.
Nyarlathotep – The Harbinger of Darkness, a mercurial master of chaos who manifests in countless shifting, nightmarish forms. His presence distorts reality itself, weaving intricate illusions that twist minds and shatter perceptions at the edges of mortal understanding. Should the child harness the power to rend the veil between dimensions or unravel the fragile threads of sanity binding the world, Nyarlathotep lurks patiently in the shadows—ready to manipulate, corrupt, or exploit the child's devastating potential for his unfathomable, inscrutable schemes.
Kali – The fierce and relentless goddess of vengeance and destruction, embodiment of the eternal cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Her arrival is thunderous—a roaring tempest of wrath and renewal waiting to be unleashed upon the world. The child's emergence threatens to accelerate this endless wheel of destruction, a volatile force that could either serve as a devastating weapon in Kali's hands or a destabilizing variable jeopardizing the delicate balance she fiercely guards with fierce devotion and blinding fury.
The Nameless One—a shadow cast beyond the reach of mortal understanding—exists as an ancient presence predating time itself. It is an unfathomable force, intricately woven into the very fabric of existence. Moving silently through the infinite void, it is invisible yet omnipresent, its essence a boundless eternal abyss that cradles all realities within its fathomless depths. The child's arrival threatens to fracture this timeless expanse—a subtle crack with the potential to unravel or erase the delicate imprints of reality's vast tapestry. To The Nameless One, this event pulses like a violent storm on the horizon of eternity, a surging tempest capable of irreversibly reshaping the known world.
From the depths of the heavy night, the entities observed in solemn silence. Moonlight strained weakly through billowing clouds, casting silvery shafts that danced like ghostly fingers weaving through the shadows. Above them stretched an endless canvas of stars—silent sentinels shimmering faintly, their cold light bearing quiet witness to the fates unfolding below. Beneath this cosmic eye, the ocean unleashed its primal fury, waves crashing against the shore in a relentless, thunderous symphony. The roar echoed ancient sorrows, a mournful chant that seeped deep into the soul of the night, threading an eerie harmony through the stillness of the darkness.
"Amidst the all-encompassing darkness I have fought so fiercely to command, there flickers a single, forbidden light—the child. Fitran, born from the intertwined forces of both shadow and radiance, now breathes life into a future I cannot permit to dawn. His very existence threatens to unravel every bond and creed I have forged through centuries of sacrifice. Perhaps the time has come to extinguish him before his presence shatters the fate I have meticulously crafted," Azazel whispered, his voice a chilling breeze weaving through the suffocating shadows like a whisper of death.
"From the abyssal depths of an untouched ocean of souls, I feel a surge unlike any wave before—a tempest of flickering shadows entwined with piercing light. This child... born of the queen's ethereal grace and the knight's unwavering valor, carries within his blood a fierce storm, one destined to sweep away all that lies before it. A terrible transformation ripples through the very fabric of the world, as if the earth itself shudders beneath the weight of an inevitable cycle's approach. I must gaze into this enigma with utmost care—will he emerge as an ally amid the coming chaos, or rise as a harbinger of ruin in this gathering gale?" Tiamat intoned, her voice deep and resonant, echoing with the ancient power of forgotten depths.
"That child… ah, he is far more than a mere child. He is the embodiment of perfect uncertainty, a living paradox whose very existence threatens to unravel everything I have painstakingly woven. Within the darkest recesses of my soul, a fear stirs—ancient, deep, and more suffocating than any I have known. Inside him pulses a dangerous truth, a force volatile and untamed, too potent to be left unchecked. Yet I will watch him from the shadows—a silent guardian, a subtle guide—perhaps nudging him further along the precipice, deeper into the abyss where his destined darkness awaits." whispered Nyarlathotep, his voice a slithering breath weighted with dread and fascination.
"From cursed blood, something unprecedented awakens—a volatile fusion of love and destruction," murmured Kali, her voice rolling like thunder cloaked in velvet. "I sense a primal surge, a potent current pulsing fiercely through the very veins of this nascent life—one fated to upheave the eternal cycle that governs existence. Will he dance with death's cruel grace, or rise as a harbinger of ruin, fracturing the fragile peace sustained for countless eons? When that inevitable moment comes, I shall be there—watching, waiting—poised and ready."
"His presence is a jagged flaw etched deep into the fabric of the cosmic currents, an enigma that defies all reason and order," murmured The Nameless One, his voice a whisper like a shadow slipping through shadows. "He is a paradox incarnate—a singular point in existence that perhaps should never have emerged. This child stirs ripples across the vast, unyielding sea of my endless silence. Within the void, I catch the faint susurrus of his whispers—an untamed potential awakening restless echoes in the darkness. Perhaps fate has decreed that I alone shall be the last to confront him. Destiny spins its threads, weaving our paths tightly into one inevitable crossing."