This tome was discovered half-buried in one of the lesser House crypts, in the Bonehoard of Magnagora. Encrusted with gravedirt and scarcely legible, it took some considerable effort to reconstruct its contents. I confess, I may have took some liberties with it - but trust me when I say the spirit of the thing remains constant and unchanged. It dates back many hundreds of years; indeed, it was almost certainly compiled in the immediate aftermath of that period of history now dubbed "The Taint Wars". It is divided into five constituent sections, each representing one of the Demon Lords of Nil, and each section appears to have been transcribed by a different author, judging by the vast differences in locution and idiom. I present it to you now in the hopes of widening scholarly knowledge of that chaotic and little-known period: though, as ever, I must caution you to take all of its contents with a grain of salt. Clearly, at least one of the contributors was not in his right mind at the time.

- Auturius, Nihilistic scholar.

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THE PROPHET OF GORGULU

Hail, ye unworthy! Ye cowards! Ye wretched, putrescent wyrms! Know ye this - in the coming years, the city once known as Magnagora shall undergo changes! Changes far more profound than those wrought on the craven clay of thy body, changes that shall affect the very LANDSCAPE of the First WORLD!

When once I lived, my name was Toique i'Xiia, a trill of no small import in the House of that name. Now - I have no name, no RACE! NO FACE! I need NONE. Emblems of WEAKNESS! When the indomitable will of He Who Devours stretched out from the Supra Plane, those fleeting, fair-weather scholars and academics fled from the Stone of Truth; they thought the end was upon them. Ha! HA Only those invested with true intelligence - true courage! TRUTH! TRUTH! - stood firm as its surface cracked and became slick with oil; only those invested with TRUTH were able to stand firm as tendrils of liquidious shadowstuff emerged, grasping! GRASPING GRASPING Grasping for followers, for vessels of His eternal will! Oh, we were all made to dance as puppets to His unknown and unknowable tune - and we danced, all of us, for we were unable to resist. But those wretched cowards, UNTRUTH! UNTRUE! Oh, how they TRIED! When the will of He Who Devours departed, they began to scheme and grasp and grab and gabble amongst themselves. They had not LEARNED his lessons, not GRASPED his intricacies! Many departed to Celest! And under the banner of the Emperor of Cowards, who they sought to curry favor with, they were destroyed, decimated, unmade! We all saw the explosion! The Emperor of Cowards has not been seen since that day, and he may persist or be gone - but we know, WE KNOW! WE KNOW! WE KNOW! We know that all of those Magnagorans present perished! Their bonedust litters the Balach! We are fewer, far fewer, than we were. But we that we are we WE

REMAIN

We are stronger for their departure! We who stayed to drink from the goblet of He Who Devours, in this, the very seat of our POWER POWER Our guilds were quickly re-established. The Geomancers were twisted by their prolonged contact to the changed Plane of Earth, oh, how they laugh now! Like knives through the aether! The ur'Guard departed Celest - no longer welcome, no longer trusted - and now they call Magnagora home, and they have regained the lost arts of Necromancy, and march grim-faced through the streets, the martial music of their boots! A chorus! A CHORUS As for my own guild, once the Fatalists, we have realized there is a LARGER order to the universe! Fate has no place for those who grasp the IMPORTANCE of TRUTH! WE KNOW! WE KNOW! We know that Fate and the Fates are sinewy spiders, seeking to ensnare us in a web of their own design! The Nihilists shall not DEIGN to be ensnared! We believe in NOTHING! NOTHING but power! We travelled to the Shallamar, which is changed and reborn as we, and we gave it a more suitable appellation - NIL! Apropos of NOTHING! A most pertinent name, yes! Oh, we who were once deemed mighty amongst the Fatalists, we each travelled to the Lord we once called Master, and we were shocked indeed - for the changes wrought upon us, upon the Plane, they were as nothing compared to the change amongst our once-Lords! So changed are they!

NOTHING REMAIN HE IS

Oh, King Gorgulu! Your name is the very LEAST of your changes! Your crown has been stolen, your jester ascendant - he is Duke no longer! But we know. WE KNOW! WE KNOW! We know you are the TRUE King of Nil still! To those contemptible wretches who chose to swear allegiance to the other Lords of Nil - know that I shall ever mark you traitor! WE KNOW! They say He no longer speaks, but I KNOW. I have HEARD Him. He no longer speaks with His mouth - mouth in the singular, though now He has many - but He speaks to me in my MIND. He tells me! HE TELLS HE TELLS He tells me to devour. He tells me that the Aspects of Nil are now greater than they were, regenerated, remade, reborn, and that each deign to embody an aspect of our new guiding principle - the TAKE Taint, the Taint THEM of Kethuru. The TAINT! And my Lord is HUNGER! HUNGER INCARNATE! As He, I shall devour - as He, I shall remain insatiate! My desires are diverse indeed, yes! YES! YES! I seek to taste of fae flesh, of elf flesh, of MERIAN flesh! To sup on blood! To see their women ravaged, to see their city burned, to see a CROWN upon my brow and a scepter of dominion in my claw! CLAW! I HUNGER! Mark ye well my words, Penitent ones who seek to join our ranks! If you seek entry into the Cult of GORGULU, you must be prepared to HUNGER! Hunger ALWAYS! And EAT! AND DEVOUR!

CONSUME THEM WE
WE CONSUME

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THE PROPHET OF BAALPHEGAR

(Foreword: it saddens me, to see that such a drooling lunatic as Toique i'Xiia has been granted first place in this, the first tome of our reformed Guild. In life, he was a trill of little import, save that his ignoble quacking oft impugned the valiant House of d'Murani; in undeath, he is a creature of contagion, all sores and screaming. In truth, I believe many potential followers shall be repelled by his vulgar chicken-scratchings. But if it be the will of the Fold, then I will abide by it: Prophets should show their fellows respect... insofar as such can be afforded.)

If you can consent to peruse his... "words" seems too charitable... then you know of our history already. (Garbled though his account was.) We were once a vassal state of the Holy Celestine Empire: the City of Magnagora, home of the Stone of Truth. One ill-advised voyage to the Supra Plane (or as they now call it, the Astral - a far more appropriate epithet, no?) later, and here we are. Liberated and transformed into something new and glorious, heir to a power greater than even the Elders we called progenitors. The Fatalists rediscovered our latent powers, which are as changed as we; how could they not be, when we tap directly into the aetheric energies of Shallamar, which is now so different? We travelled through the Megalith (a title I staunchly oppose, let it be noted. The Stone of Truth was an elegant name), and we ended up in Shallamar, which a band of revenants led by the odious Toique have renamed "Nil". (Now let us hope THAT does not catch on.) Though the mortal senses of a mugwump would have been repelled by the rivers of blood, the shrieking of innocents drowning in muddy sludge, the sore-raddled forms of demons... I found it evocative, perhaps even beautiful. There is a great poetry to what we have become. Truth, if truth were further needed, that I am a mugwump no longer.

We travelled further; and I split from my fellows, as we had agreed to seek out that Emanation we felt most kinship with. For me, it was always Lord Baalphegar, that cautious and worldly-wise embodiment of knowledge. His new domain was desolate and silent, populated by vast fields of intricate spiderwebs. These webs held aloft corpses: whether angels who escaped the Taint, only to be slain by their transformed brethren, or over-eager Nihilists even swifter than we, I still do not know. I only know that all were missing their eyes, and that their mouth's were opened in a collective silent scream. A smile quirked my lips as I beheld their prostrate forms. I knew then how my Lord had changed - clearly, knowledge was no longer a gift to be shared freely. Now, knowledge is a commodity, to be jealously guarded, hoarded by true seekers. In the heart of his land, I found a great pit. Dug by no mortal hand, it was unfathomably deep, and from it came seductive whispers - promises of power everlasting, of knowledge beyond the ken of any living being. Overcome with desire, I leapt, and found myself suspended in webbing amidst an eternal crimson void: as trapped as the rest of those poor victims. Yet unlike them, I burned with conviction, with a lust for enlightenment that mere traps could not dampen or turn asunder. It was this conviction that enabled me to fight my way free of these petty silken strands: and it was this conviction that saw me true into the very heartlands of Lord Baalphegar's principality. For in truth, that is what he now is, a prince. Indeed, THE prince - the Prince of Dark Fates. It was in that place I found a tome bound in mortal flesh and clasped with bone, the source of those enchanting whispers. And - guided by that near-prescient spark of conviction - I opened it, and drank deep from a concentrated draught of forbidden knowledge.

Oh, such secrets there were! The hidden desires of a multitude of men: the private fantasies of farmers, Emperors, GODS! I became overwhelmed, and in a fit of emotion my treacherous hands flew to my own eyes, gouging them loose, that I might cease my perusal by force, if not choice. Though blackness overwhelming rushed in to cloister my questing gaze, a simple herbal remedy from the Ethereal Plane was sufficient to restore my sight. Once it was restored, I realized I was stood in an entirely new room. One constructed of black marble, instead of webbing, though that omnipresent crimson void loomed ominous in the sky. Here, in this room, I communed directly with Prince Baalphegar, though he never deigned to appear to me directly. Though the information I learned from his tome could have filled libraries, the glistening jewels which dropped from his mouth were illimitably more valuable, though unquestionably more complex. The nature of our relationship with those remaining scions of Celest: this he told me. Information on how best to harm the Supernals and their wretched followers, who are now pledged to cleanse both Magnagora and Shallamar: this he told me. The lies and treacheries of the three Fates, whose webbing is no less ubiquitous than the Prince's own: this, too, he told me.

My brain fair drowns in such concentrated wisdom, and when I close my eyes, a cipher of unfathomable complexity swims in front of me. And yet, day by day, I piece together a little more of its tapestry. Such is the Dark Fate - and the joyous destiny - of those who pledge allegiance to the Shadowed Prince of Plots.

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THE PROPHET OF NIFILHEMA

Oh, such a pretty book! Merian-flesh! How pearlescent, how refractive it is. It is sad that Magnagora is no longer so pretty. Oh yes yes yes, Gorgaliel's followers talk about the beauty of transformation, and la-de-dah for them and their smelly blackened city and stinky old mad god, hmph. But I've ALWAYS loved shiny things, things that reflect and sparkle!

Oh, the Taint is very, VERY varied! We all changed in different ways. Some of us, like the Brood, became very tall and very forbidding and not very pretty at all, boo-hoo. They're all in the ur'Guard now - I bet the orclach are jealous that they're muscling in on their old territory! A lot of us got very smart, and some of the smart ones got very ugly too - they have to wear masks now, and thank the Lady for that, because ew! Ew! Some of them bleed constantly, and some of them are rotting, and I saw one man - this was before the Article of Aesthetic Requirement was passed - who couldn't close his mouth, because he had so many teeth. Oh, they were sprouting from his cheeks, and eyes, and ears and everything! But now the Article has passed, only the prettiest Viscanti (that's what we call ourselves now!) are allowed to roam the streets freely. I am among them, of course! But who would want to roam the streets, anyway? Chemical pollutants rain down at all hours, and desert dust would scour my lovely white skin brown in no time at all, euch euch euchhh. What is the POINT of letting my blood to look paler, if I'm just going to ruin the effort with desert-dust?

Oh, but the book is for the Fold, right? Ahem-hem and all that. My name is Lucida d'Murani (yes, yes, it sounds like lucidian, and I used to be a trill, how ver-ah droll...), and I was one of the first to travel to Nil! (Or Shallamar, like that gloomy, gloomy scholar says we are to call it. Who cares what we call it? Names don't matter!) It was really verrry different than it used to be, and at first I was sad, because all the angels are so so ugly now. But then I got to the lands of the Lady, and oh, they're so GORGEOUS! Beautiful amaranth flowers bloom from rivers of blood, and it makes the corpses SO much more bearable. But you know, even the corpses have a certain charm to them, ghastly though it is - the cast of the light glistening from a discarded jawbone, the hollow shadows playing in the empty eyesocket... The world is so much different, when you look at it through Tainted eyes! But, uhm, where was I? Oh, yes - Lady Nifilhema! Her domain used to be very hilly and flowery. It was a lot like Raziela's domain, which I visited a few time on fact-finding missions aaages ago, always with a Celestine in tow. (Phhhbt to them!) Now, it is a bit like the richer hospitals in Magnagora! All white and clean and sparkly. The contrast is beyond reproach - one second you are crossing trenches of gore, the next you're in a pure white castle! But always, the scarlet sky is above, to remind you where you are. Oh, I love Nil! (Or Shallamar, or whatever the Fold wants it called. I don't caaaare!)

ANYway, we all got to Nil, and we all split up, which was good; because Gorgaliel's pet was drooling and screaming, and Ashtorath's pet was so quiet and creepy-starey! (It's like I said, the Taint wasn't so kind to all of us!) I found the pit that my Lady now calls home, and - surprise, surprise! - it was bloody. Bloody, and from it rose the heady musk of flowers. Oh, sweet paroxysms of escstasy wracked my form as I jumped in! It was like the contrast of red and white, battling for control of my body - the red, the pain; the white, the bliss. I guess in the end they formed an uneasy truce, because I found myself standing within her pretty-pretty halls, my new robes soaked with more than blood. And oh my, so many glistening things within those halls! They put this shiny book to shame! And the interplay of the gorgeous sky, as its manifold refractive rays played upon them all...! I could have wandered there for hours, just looking at all her fancy new toys, seeing my face reflected at so so many multitudinous angles. And given an opportunity to play with them, I could get lost there forever and ever! But, I knew I had business, so I kept a clear head. Purposeful, that's how I strode! But I couldn't resist... just a little more of that contrast, that's all I desired... so I climbed within an iron maiden a little less pretty than the rest of her tools. I moaned as the barbs pierced my flesh. Some of them stabbed me in fresh wounds, and the agony and the ecstasy was redoubled. I lost track of time as I writhed there, truly I did! But when the door tumbled open, I was in a new chamber - and there she was! My Lady! Reborn!

She was always the prettiest of the Emanations and Supernals, but you can't imagine how she's changed unless you've seen her. No mortal could ever be so so SO pretty! So perfect! In her, the red and the white find their apotheosis - their ultimate culmination! The ultimate white of flesh and teeth, the ultimate red of lips and eyes and blood! The coppery scent of us both, and the carnal heat of the amaranth above her combined, and I swooned, overcome with heat. But she caught me in her arms, and for hours we communed in a way holier by far than we once did. The silly, chaste praying of a little girl scholar, gathering my robes about my knees to share a few words with her - oh, it's so funny to me now! My new prayer is so much better, so much truer. Sometimes it was me who was tortured, and sometimes it was her: but always, the tools were in motion, passing hands, rending flesh! Why are words necessary, why are names necessary? She was not Nifilhema to me in those moments, and I wasn't Lucida. Together, we became pain and torment, joy and love. When I finally rejoined the others - silly scholars! So much less important to me now, than once they were! - they gasped and gaped at me: desensitized as they were by their own experiences, they still had seen nothing like the hooks that pierced my flesh and the gore that matted my hair and my wings. But I just laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed!

Oh, I remember how my father used to say, "you can't just be pretty, Lucida! You can't just sit around, drinking deep of pleasure and fancy! You need a vocation!" And I think I've found it, I really do!

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THE PROPHET OF ASHTORATH

If you wanted to save the best for last, scum, you're one off. I won't waste your time with meandering stories. I know the importance of direct action. I know the importance of fact. Look for no silly anecdotes flourishing beneath my quill - only unvarnished truth. My name is Rokarn y'Bolgari. In life, I was a diplomat and a Fatalist. I was sent on many missions to other lands. Like Duke Ashtorath, whose Prophet I was, I had a voice that lesser men found bewitchingly beguiling. It was in my nature to do whatever was necessary to accomplish my missions. Often, this meant underhanded action. Sometimes I seduced my target, whether man or woman. Sometimes I discredited them, wielding my poison tongue like a lash to bloody their flanks. Sometimes it meant murder, though I rarely dirtied my own hands, as silky and manicured as they were. My words were my weapon, you see.

I was in Celest at the genesis of the Taint, and I rushed home, foolishly following the summons of that damnable mugwump aether-correspondent. "There has been a small mishap in Magnagora, but it is now under control. If you see a dark cloud over Magnagora, do not be concerned. It is completely harmless." Those words could not fool a babe in arms, but I was taken in. (Me - the manipulator. The irony would be delicious, were I not the victim.) I did not actually enter the Taint-cloud, of course. When I saw that stark divider between healthy grass and desert waste, I paused, taking stock. But however minute my pause, it was sufficient for the Tainted lurking within the mist to grab me, and pull me in. I was transformed, even as they were. My flesh darkening with a crimson carapace, my bones stretching within me, my eyes glistening with a furor more magic than martial: these sensations I will carry with me forever. It was that very day, that the cataclysm between Hallifax and Gaudiguch served to shake loose Kethuru from his effluence, robbing it of its mutable power. If I had not ran to Magnagora so swiftly, I might not be Tainted today: I might be travelling west to rebuild, with the other refugees. But then again, I might have still been in Celest when the second cataclysm took place, and be as dead as Marilynth and all her kin. So perhaps it is a blessing.

Though my body was greatly changed, my mind remained a bulwark, a veritable fortress against the petty stupidities that afflicted the other Tainted. Even as Marilynth made her silly sacrifice, I was there at the Megalith, discussing our change in policies. (If such a simple phrase can encompass our new outlook.) I did not succumb to insanity, as King Gorgaliel, nor megalomania, as Duke Baalphegar. I was there in the midst of things when we refounded the Fatalists, under the banner of "The Nihilist Priesthood". We have a new mission now. We are no longer slaves to the Tapestry of Fate. We no longer pay obeisance to the Three Sisters. In truth, it meant very little to me one way or the other. My interest in the Fatalists (and my continued interest in the Nihilist Priesthood) was always a matter of common convenience. I granted them a high-profile, powerful potentate: they granted me clemency and leverage over the common folk. My new abilities, twisted as they are, grant me power my Fatalist self could only dream of: consequently, as long as my political influence continues to expand, I am - and remain - satisfied. Or such was my outlook prior to our pilgrimage.

Despite my apathy towards our future direction, I consented to make the pilgrimage with the rest of the Prophets. Miraculously, all survived, though with varying degrees of degeneration, both physical and mental. I was the only one truly untouched. (I have no doubt that the other Prophets have noticed, and are jealous.) The Plane of Nil resembles the Plane of Shallamar in only the most superficial aspects. The homes of the Dukes, King and Queen (or the Lords and Lady, as we have collectively dubbed them) are in roughly the same locations, and some old landmarks are faintly visible. But mostly it is unfamiliar, which made navigation difficult. Nevertheless, we set out in roughly the right direction, and soon split off from each other to visit our respective Lord of choice. Naturally, I travelled to the southeastern region of Nil, to the home of the Duke. All the grass had died, and all that remained was a vast desert, stretching as far as my eyes could see. The cause of this was immediately evident - this section of Nil was vastly hotter than any of the others. I envied that cloaked and hooded Prophet of Baalphegar as he travelled through the colder climes of his own Lords realm. Nevertheless, I let bare my robes and continued the journey onwards. The source of the insufferable heat soon became apparent - a vast pit, rent in the earth as if with vast claws, lay in the very epicenter of the desert. Flames of an incalculable temperature licked at the sides, cauterizing sand into jagged shards of glass. It would have been a fools errand to jump in. Yet, I reasoned, no more foolish than following the lies of a Tainted mugwump aether-correspondent. I leapt.

Though I once prided myself on my eloquence, no words could encompass the pain that surged through my form. The pain was unimaginable, beyond endurance. It eclipsed rational thought, leaving only screaming, insensate insanity. I am glad it did. It was a valuable insight into the mind of my Lord - one that would set the scene for his later lesson. Once my head cleared and I applied salves to my terrible burns, I found myself in a curious reflection of the Duke's former domain. The uninitiated may not be aware, but prior to his transformation, Duke Ashtorath dwelt within a great cathedral, populated by many crystalline bells. His incomparable voice, it was often said, could ring the bells with nary a whisper: and the liquidious beauty of it, when he deigned to sing - the combination of ringing bell and tender choir - it could render one rapt, perhaps even insensible. The cathedral still existed, but now it was silent. The bells rang no more, and the compelling voice of the former Duke was conspicuous only in its absence. As I made my cautious way up the winding stairs, I passed many lesser demons, who shrank and cowered from my gaze. "You are one touched by He", they whispered. "You are Hatred, and you are Fear, and your tongue and fist are to be feared equally." I laughed at their terror. For the first time since I was Tainted, my apathy slipped away, and I felt a measure of happiness unmatched by my former self. Happiness? No - more a giddying, quivering kind of joy, bereft of control, like a daring drunk teetering over a gravedigger pit. I beat those few demons that were foolish enough to cross my path, as my way wound ever upwards: and with each yelp of pain and each desperate look of servile, terrified devotion, I felt a little more myself again. The spirit of Rokarn y'Bolgari was reborn on that journey, even as his body was remade by the Taint. After what seemed like hours of upward progress, I found myself in the belltower of Lord Ashtorath's cathedral. His new abode.

Those legendary bells were still there, but any fool could see that they would never ring again. The mechanisms that governed them were twisted and gouged by a being of unimaginable strength, metal twisted into knots like rope. The bells themselves were horribly blackened, and it was scarcely a wonder, for the baking heat that emanated from Lord Ashtorath dominated the surroundings far more efficiently than his enhanced stature or blazing eyes could hope to. He stared at me for a moment, and I tensed, for I knew one strike with his great claws would cleave my head from my shoulders. But his posture relaxed as recognition dawned in his eyes, and his voice rang out, as reassuring as ever it was. "My good and faithful servant", he crooned, "come to me, that I may gaze upon the future of my realm." Flashbacks of that damn mugwump echoed through my head again, but I did not heed them. And no sooner had I ventured over to my Lord's side that he seized me up in a huge, hoary fist. His posture changed again: he seemed to swell, as if his rage was something physical, something tangible that could not be contained in so small a shell. He lifted me up to his face, and I could clearly see that what I had took for magic - like the arcane light that burned within my own sockets - was, in fact, mundane. His eyes were not merely blazing. They were on fire.

I was his plaything in that tower for many hours. While the other Prophets gained wisdom and power from their Lords, I was beaten to a pulp, my hoary carapace scratched and rent. While the other Prophets knew kind words and solidarity - however twisted through the dark lens of the Taint - I knew only the unending flames of hatred. Yet even the physical pain paled, compared to the unimaginable sound of the bells. For, you see, every time my Lord shrieked with a fresh spate of wrath, the bells would shriek in sympathetic tandem. And they were quite as warped as he in their blackened state. The sound of them filled my world until my only constants were pain and noise, noise and pain. At first I desired vengeance against him, against my own Lord, to whom I had confided so much in times gone by. Then I desired death, a sweet release from the agony of existence, to have my thread severed from the Tapestry. Finally, I desired destruction. Destruction not only of him, or me, but of the world and everything that resided therein. Desolation to match the arid, barren desert my new existence had become. In that fleeting, golden moment of wrath I wanted to tear Father Sun from the sky, see the forests reduced to cinders, the Supernals raped and defiled, the very Gods themselves hunted down through the Void and devoured.

My voice rose in a senseless, orgiastic shrieking of nihilistic apotheosis, and it was only then the fire that burned within his eyes went out, and his merciless assault reached its cessation. "I see you are a quick student", he hissed, his voice every bit as seductive as before. "It is fortunate. A scant few minutes more, and I fear you would be dead!" His laughter a hearty, healthy baritone, his clawed hands infinitely gentle as he helped me, swaying unsteadily, to my feet. But his laughter ceased with characteristically terrifying suddeness, as he reached out with spiderlike swiftness to grasp my throat. "You know my lesson now. You have gained the only knowledge I have to impart. Go and spread it to your fellows... Prophet." He spat in my face, and his saliva was as acid, and as I put up my hands to wipe it away I was swept pitilessly down those endless steps. When I awoke, I found myself outside - aching from crown to heel and almost insane from the trial - once more ready to jump within the pit, and return to the mists of Nil. To rejoin with my 'fellows'.

But they were my fellows, my peers, no longer. For all the endless changes of the Taint, my scourging at the hands of one whom I had loved so deeply was the final step in my remaking. I am become Wrath; I am become Hatred. I seethe with a rage I can scarce control. I can well believe, now, that it is a physical thing, something too volatile for a mortal shell to contain. When I gaze upon the tittering scion of Nifilhema, I desire only her ravishment and debasement: utter pain, that even she cannot stand to endure. When Gorgaliel's servant meets my eyes, I want to gouge his out, and feed them to his bloated, hideous Lord, to see what happens when blindness and madness meet. When I see the cloaked understudy of Baalphegar I want to throttle him, until secrets gush from his mouth like the sea of ink that spills from his restless, questing quill. And as for the Prophet of Luciphage, I want him dead. Buried. His lichdom stripped and his place as Heresiarch usurped: his crown upon my brow and his weeping wife shackled in my chambers. Now, there is a fire in me: a fire that burns eternally, keeping me from seeking rest or respite, hearth or home. It will consume me if it is left unchecked. So know you this, reader: if you seek to join the cult of Lord Ashtorath, I will batter you as pitilessly as my Lord did me. Not so you know my pain (though you will), or so that you, too, burn with vengeance and rage (though you shall - assuming you survive your initiation). I do it only to quench, at least temporarily, the ineffable inferno of my remade soul.

Know this also: the lessons of Lord Ashtorath are the truest to the spirit of Nihilism. For in the end, our greatest desire is for all to be as nothing.

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THE PROPHET OF LUCIPHAGE

Before I begin my tale, I shall lay out a very important premable for you, Fold. We stand today at the epoch of a new beginning. Not just for the Nihilist Priesthood, or even the city of Magnagora as a whole; but for the entirety of the Basin of Life! A new society has been birthed, and as its spiritual leaders we have a solemn duty to guide our fellows by laying the foundation of its beliefs. By no means do I suggest you adopt the stance of a proselytizing Celestine: as anyone can tell you, impassioned pleas, however eloquent, are rendered meaningless by the wild and fiery eyes of zealotry. Rather I advise you to remain calm and measured, utilizing logic and rationality. Our elemental plane is that of the Earth, after all; we do it and ourselves a disservice when we are not grounded in truth and fact. We must spread the teachings of Supreme Master Luciphage in an acute, restrained manner. And have no doubts that it WILL be the teachings of Supreme Master Luciphage you shall be a vector for: to be deluged in the fanatical beliefs of the lesser Demon Lords is, ultimately, to be devoured by them.

With that brief (and hopefully rallying) foreword out of the way, greetings to you all. My name is Zeroutinias Inalai, and I am - or was - a merian. I am significantly older than the other Prophets, hence my seniority in the Fatalists prior to its fall: I was its Administrator, tending to the day-to-day affairs of my fellows. When the Great Taint occured, I was within our guildhall, working on some paperwork. I scarcely noticed as tenebrous shadows slipped in through the windows and door, engulfing my form - to think of it, so engrossed in mundane work that I ignored my own remaking! Of course, once it had occured, I was made to act as a puppet of Kethuru - like many others, I joined a vanguard at the outskirts of the Tainted land, to grab and forcibly transform those poor dolts who came too close. It was only when the will of Kethuru was shook from the Taint that I regained my mind, and returned to Magnagora to plan the rebuilding of the guild. The city was in disarray - many of its best and brightest had transformed utterly. Shining lights such as Toique i'Xiia had become tumescent with pustules, shrieking apocalyptic visions of the future; canny diplomats like Rokarn y'Bolgari now silent, sullen and hulking, their legendary wit forever lost. And, of course, the High Prophet Ghani n'Rotri had accompanied Emperor Ladantine on his ill-fated attempt to hijack the Pool of Stars, and was now missing, presumed dead: we were without a Guildmaster.

Clearly a capable, charismatic leader was needed to take up the reins and redirect the Fatalists. Alas, no such leader was forthcoming - I came close to despair in those early weeks, convinced that the Taint had mutilated our leaders beyond repair, and left only ineffectual pen-pushers like myself cogent and intelligent. A war with Celest (for many refugees fled, before Ladantine's hubris decimated their city) would be short indeed, were that the case. What could I do - leave the increasingly erratic Rokarn in charge; or perhaps relinquish command to that sadistic trill girl? With a heavy heart, I foisted my Administerial duties upon Toomis d'Murani, the Prophet of Baalphegar, and forcibly seized control: declaring myself the Heresiarch, deliberately counterpointing the traditional Celestine title of "Ecclesiarch". With the help of Toomis d'Murani (who had retained his intellect, if not his morals) and Veritus n'Rotri, I re-established some measure of control over the guild, dictating great swathes of policy which were dutifully transcribed beneath their quills. I was largely unopposed in the endeavor, my Prophets more interested in the narrow, constricting passions of their respective obsessions. In a mere month we were rechristened the Nihilist Priesthood, and I declared a formal pilgrimage to the transformed Plane of Shallamar to commune with our new Lords.

I will confess, I was extremely nervous at the prospect. The only knowledge we had of the new Emanations was troubling, to say the least: frenzied screaming over the aetherwaves as the Project Cosmic Hope expedition went terribly wrong... a swiftly cut-off report of King Gorgaliel bubbling and melting as if he was made of wax; Lady Nifilhema screaming and clawing her face; Duke Ashtorath roaring in psychopathic rage, the utter antithesis of his usual eddifying guile. And many Fatalists had struck out to Shallamar immediately following the repulsion of Kethuru from the Taint, never to be heard from again. But, I reasoned, we were the former leaders of the Fatalists, most beloved by the Emanations. Surely a spark of their former selves must remain, even as they did within us - permitting a measure of compassion and mercy for us, the most loyal? I recognised my words as quailing and feeble even as I uttered them, knowing full well that the effects of the Taint upon Half-Formed could be adversely different than that on mortals. For all I knew, we were making a pilgrimage to pay obeisance to a new breed of Soulless Gods. But we drew our power from the transformed Plane of Shallamar, and visiting it would ultimately be unavoidable. So the decree went out, the Prophets gathered, and together we reaved through the planar fabrics and arrived. Arrived - in what we now call the Plane of Nil.

In time, the memory of Shallamar will fade and, eventually, disappear from the realms forever: and I think that a mercy, for the juxtaposition between its former beauty and its new harsh hideousness was, perhaps, a greater shock to my sanity than the Great Taint itself. Meadows blackened and charred... the castles of the Emanations reduced to swirling, miasmic Pits... even the sky - once a deeper, richer azure than that of the Prime Material sky, flecked with dusky pink clouds - was crimson, and swirling with ominous stormclouds. The futility of our mission once again struck me, and I clung onto the Megalith for support. I was once again struck at the disparity between myself and the others - Toique, of course, was drooling heedlessly and grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed at a Plane that well reflected the turmoil of his addled brains. Lucida was trilling some insipid tune, and seemed unaware of the horror around her. Toomis was quiet, the picture of studious detachment; but his eyes glistened with cold hunger beneath his cowl. As for Rokarn, he seemed to draw strength from the chaos and horror around him, smiling and conversing freely for the first time since his remaking... but always with a clipped and violent undercurrent, as if a volatile river of rage lay underneath every honeyed word. Not a one of them felt my disgust. I reconstructed my composure swiftly.

Being the Heresiarch, I commanded the rest of the Prophets to remain at the Nexus while I strove onwards through the mists of Nil. Thus it was I who first gazed upon the transformed domains of the Emanations - though I did not deign to leap into the Pits they now called home, believing it prudent to use my fellow Prophets as test subjects. A Heresiarch torn limb from limb by insane Godlings would be no use to anybody. However, I was greatly puzzled when I attempted to commune with my own Lord: the Pit that once corresponded to Lord Luciphage was now clearly the home of Gorgaliel, all dripping poison and foul corruption. Gorgaliel, I suddenly recalled, had a home apart from the other Emanations, in the same way that Elohora has a home apart from the Supernals: Lord Luciphage, I reasoned, must have laid claim to it in much the same way that I had laid claim to the Fatalists themselves. But how was I to reach him? By embracing one of the Emanations, trusting that they would transport me to Lord Luciphage via the same aetheric pathways that once funneled to Gorgaliel? Such would be foolhardy to the extreme, I well knew. So I went back to the Megalith and ordered my fellows onwards, lying through my teeth when I said all was safe and there was nothing to fear. The fools scuttled forwards eagerly, and scattered across the transformed Plane with not a thought to the danger that lie ahead. For my part, I leaned back against the Megalith, deep in repose and thinking hard.

They were gone for many hours, and I am not ashamed to say that I dozed there, my back to the thrumming, pitted surface of our Nexus of power. The sensation was so soothing... sleep had been so hard to come by, in those frenetic first weeks of our rebirth... But these are just excuses. The reality is that I felt overcome, suddenly, almost as if one of the fabled dreamweavers of lore was floating, insubstantially, above me: sprinkling me with whatever breed of arcane hokum they utilized in days long past, inducing a sleep I neither wanted nor needed. Attempts to fight against the encroaching sensation were useless, and soon my head lolled stuporously to the side in dolorous repose. I daresay I looked similar to that imbecile Toique. When I opened my eyes again, I was not sequestered safely within the cold mists, and no soothing cold stone lay behind me, thrumming with unfathomable cosmic magic. I was stood in some vast, shadowy maze. I could no longer see the crimson sky above me, and even the questionably-familiar landmarks that had illuminated my plodding journey through the swamps of Nil were absent. I was somewhere new.

I wandered through that labyrinth for what felt like hours, cursing under my breath the insipid nature of my dream. I knew I would derive no rest from this slumber - would awaken, perhaps, tireder than before. Yet somehow I felt compelled to struggle onwards. At the precise moment I felt I could wander no more, and that my legs would spill from under me, I emerged into a black marble chamber. I say "emerged", of course, but that is not the right phrase - the labyrinth seemed to simply cease, as if it had sensed my weariness and teleported me, having passed its trial, directly onwards. There was no evidence now that the labyrinth had existed at all: no visible means to get on or off this empty, floating platform, suspended improbably in the (now all too visible) crimson void of the sky. It was bereft of adornment, save for a terrifyingly carved throne festooned with mortal bones and garishly daubed with blood, flanked by two of the largest and most grotesque archdemons I had encountered. Dusting off my robes, I ventured forwards to ask one of the hideous pair why I had been summoned here, contrariwise to being permitted peaceful dreaming. Before I could even open my mouth, a gout of black fire erupted before me, and a tall, darkly robed man appeared from't, languishing upon the carven throne with regal repose.

This man could have passed for my brother, so alike were we, as he unfolded himself grandly from the great seat and stood before me. He was tall, as I; bony, as I; pale, as I. The cruelly curved wings which erupted from his back looked like mine, the barbed tail that emerged from beneath the confines of his robe looked like my own. Even the robes themselves were virtually identical: though mine were embossed with the traditional seal of the Heresiarch and his lacked any embellishment, falling in silky folds to his feet. Only two things truly set us apart. While my eyes glowed with the crimson light that typifies we Tainted, his were blue and feckless, sparkling with good humour: and while I clutched no symbol nor rod of power in my hands, he possessed a magnificent scepter, which I recognised instantly as once belonging to King Gorgaliel. It glowed with a commanding and clearly magical power, and I felt compelled to kneel before this man, this man who could have been my brother.

"My most faithful servant," he said, placing a pale and long-fingered hand upon my shoulder. I tried not to gasp or flinch away, even though the coldness of his touch was as the grave, perceptible even through the heavy wool of my robes. "You have returned to my side, as I knew you would, and together we can usher in a new genesis of glory and domination over the feeble Basin of Life." Mercifully, the invasive, corrupting touch of his spidery hand left my shoulder, and I was able to rise to my feet and stare wholly upon the munificence of Lord Luciphage - or, as he now must be known, Supreme Master Luciphage, for all the power of Nil is his to command. Clearing my throat, I was able to speak.
"Most benevolent master," I began, choosing my words with the utmost care, "You have took the seat of Gorgaliel--" He cut me off with an impatient wave of his hand, resuming his languid seat upon the throne.

"Gorgulu. He is Gorgulu, now, and ever shalt be. His crown has been cleaved. There was no 'taking' to be done - the throne was empty when I arrived, as if such a seat could be sat upon by the senseless idiot God that he has devolved into."
The words seemed almost to bore him, as if the transformation of one he had once embraced as kin was a trivial matter, scarcely worth his notice.
"I see, my Lord. Then what about the other Emanations? Did they not covet the throne?"
"Ha! Nifilhema would not deign to covet the Throne of the Beast, except, perhaps, as an artistic curio. Her new interests lie chiefly in the flesh, and what can be done to it. Baalphegar would not desire the great seat, for the sake of pragmatism. He lurks behind it, in the shadows, my vizier and advisor in all things: knowledgable and insidiously dangerous, he remains a coward, under the thrall of my gaze. Ashtorath..." here the Supreme Master paused, and for a moment the resemblance between us became even more uncanny, as crimson light began to glow ominously from his eyesockets. "Ashtorath covets the Throne, and would be foolish enough to attempt war and open rebellion against me, given time enough and allies. But he shall attain neither. Any attempt at rebellion will be met with steel and flame: no alliances will arise, for fear of me and my patient plans will ever surpass fear of an insensate brute such as he. I am the Lord of Nil, and shall be for all time."

I nodded dumbly.
"And what of me, my Lord?"
"You? There is nothing more to be said of you. You are my most devoted acolyte. Alone of those Fatalists who survived the Great Taint, you have retained your mind, and crucially, maintained your sanity." He rose again from the Throne, and again that invasive hand was placed upon my shoulder, but now I scarcely registered the searing cold, even as frost began to form upon me and my breath puffed out in chill mist. I was entranced. "You have reorganized the Fatalists as the Nihilists, you have arranged this pilgrimage so that the silly, lesser beings may recieve shackles disguised as instruction from the other Emanations, who shall now and forever be demonized as the Demon Lords of Nil. You, alone, are worthy to wear the title of Heresiarch, and spread the words of patience and temperance amongst all things amongst the TRUE Nihilists of the Basin. Cackling devourers, spinning patient spiders, beautiful deadly aesthetes, silent hulking beasts - they are all necessary footsoldiers, tools to be utilized on the long road to ultimate power. But they are tools, just the same. They are blinded by their extremism and thus undone. You, and your most trusted advisors, will NEVER be undone. You will retain your wits and your wills, and that shall be what separates you from the common muck and rabble of mortality."
"But what if I do not consider myself worthy of the task, my Lord?" I asked, aware I was overstepping my bounds, aware that the punishment might be severe indeed. But he just laughed, and released me once more.
"By seizing power, you have shown me already that you are. Doubt in your abilities did not stop you from attaining Heresiarchy, and even that minor shackle will loosen and fall away with time. Your station is clear, my friend. Do not doubt it."

I stood there, in the circular chamber, and felt a growing excitement within me. I no longer felt that secret envy of the other Prophets, as if they were closer to the mysteries of the Taint than I. I no longer felt abashed that I was apart from them, different: no longer feared that I was less "pure" in my devotion, simply because I did not express it in so pronounced a way. It is a blessing, you see, that we greater Viscanti have retained our minds. It permits us to be so much more than mere servants. It permits us to be masters. Emperors, even - supreme in our knowledge, supreme in our moral supremacy, supreme in our intellectual superiority. Supreme as the Lord of Nil himself. I kneeled once more on the floor before my Lord and knew that I needed no more instruction from him. I would find my own path in this world, invest myself into the things that I WISH to. I was free of doubt. And my Lord was greatly pleased, for a smile split his features, no less charming for the fanged teeth which comprised it. I did not even feel the searing cold of his hands as his thumb was pressed into my forehead, and the notion that I had dreamed the whole encounter, as I jerked myself awake before the Megalith, did not enter my head... for the mark of the Beast is clear for all to see upon my brow.

Those who wish to follow the Supreme Master do not need to read these words. They do not need to devote themselves to some abstract goal: they do not need to destroy themselves with the foolish passions that typify his lesser kin. They only need to believe in their own strength, and take that which they want. Domination over all, my dear Fold, is the final lesson to be had. No greater design, no twisted thread running through the vaunted Tapestry, is more important or pure than this.

Go - seek. And do.