Secret History Scripture: The Lost in Search of Our Lord
Nowhere can one look and not see proof of our lord, yet a time existed where he could not be seen, and there were those that doubted his presence. Still, even in that cradle of doubt, he was always there among us. So I write to share this truth: He moved among the faithless unseen, a thief in the night of their unbelief.
—tenth passage from the seer Nora
Claw-tipped fingers scraped against hardened earth. Black shell-like plates covered what had once been softer flesh, but the rot had long since changed him. He'd been an ambush predator before—cunning and quick—yet choices made even before the rot's touch had marked the path he now walked.
Smelling the air as best he could to find anything of worth, he was mostly met with dirt and rot, not the food he sought. Gently brushing the crust where he once had eyes, he remembered the light that had scarred them years ago, leaving him to navigate this wasteland by instinct alone.
If these rot lands hadn't changed all beasts as they had him, he'd be long dead. The rot crept like a slow death across the land, a plague they'd once fled when it was merely whispers on the wind. Yet when all races hunted them to the very edges, where even the stones they picked for scraps wept decay, it was all they had left.
Clean earth felt like another life. Forests, lakes, fresh meat with no taint—when pain wasn't clawing at his skull, before the carapace grew thicker and light seared his flesh. Long before he learned that true survival meant becoming a thing others feared to touch. Back when he'd wanted someone to hold.
The hunger never ended, even here in this sea of rot that birthed its own twisted offspring. Little remained that they could consume without poison—though poison had become relative. Living here demanded its price: become part of the plague or die to it.
Some adapted, their flesh bubbling and reshaping into forms that could process decay like sweet fruit. Others withered, leaving husks the rot claimed whole. The more disfigured the beast that embraced the rot, the longer it survived, eating the very decay that consumed others. The cycle continued until they became indistinguishable from the rot that others would one day consume.
Seers used to call this punishment—claimed they'd forgotten how to love anything but their own hunger. Hard to care when uniting his scattered kind seemed impossible, when they'd been reduced to random beasts scavenging in muck.
They could still think. Still feel. Still remember what they'd been. And they could die.
That was their existence—that, and rot.
Pain flared again from the scars across his eyes, triggering a recurring memory he couldn't let go. The light. He'd heard the champion could always hold it, yet whispers claimed the champion left it upon the earth in his wake. It was a sight he'd always wanted to see.
He'd been younger then, stupid enough for hope. Soft enough to bleed properly when he'd crawled toward the blessed rock, drawn by its beauty like a moth to flame. He'd only wanted to touch the light, to feel its warmth. When he first saw it, it seemed so pure, so welcoming from a distance. But the moment his flesh met the blessed glow, it seared through him worse than the rot ever could. The light hadn't even acknowledged him as it burned—just radiated its holy fire with the same indifference it showed to all the rot, to all his kind. Half his face had melted before he'd learned that monsters weren't meant for such sacred things.
If only the light cared about them as it did those living in its grace. Instead, they remained hunted, pushed deeper into plague lands where even the air grew thick with spores that made breathing an act of slow drowning.
The goddess of light proved both more merciful and more cruel than they could ever be. In forests, mountains, even these vast plains of rot, her chosen champion hunted them without rest. He never seemed to tire, never seemed to doubt, never seemed to see anything in his targets but disease to be dealt with.
They'd tried unity once. Back when their numbers could darken the horizon—a writhing mass of castoffs and a few plague-touched that made even the earth tremble. They'd had power in those numbers, proud they could stand their ground and wage war against all. But the light had put an end to that with a single champion on the human side. One person who carved their numbers down to small packs, scattered and broken, fleeing to the unknown, seeking solace from his wrath. Instead, they met dwarfs and elves who culled their ranks methodically, dwindling them further, picking off stragglers, ending whatever was left that could be seen as a threat.
Their hunger turned even the survivors against each other.
Now all that was left was the loneliness that cut deeper than hunger, deeper than blindness. They'd been social creatures once, before the plague made every touch potentially fatal, before desperation made every encounter a question of who would consume whom.
He grew tired of those thoughts. Having no sight made it easy to think and think—an endless time to do that—when you could not see or eat.
He picked at the ground, searching for something edible, and hummed to pass time. The tune was half-remembered from before, when they'd had songs, not just growls for threats and warnings.
The sound reminded him of whispers among those who still bothered teaching speech, who insisted they were more than grunting beasts—that a god existed for them. A god who understood what it meant to be cast out, called monster, hunted for the crime of existing in a form others found distasteful.
His favorite line echoed in memory: "Beyond the dwarf garrison, in the ash of a human settlement, among ash and ruin, he will rise—Abaddon our lord and savior."
The words had echoed often in his ears, though he'd quit caring whether they held truth. Days to months passed with no god, no salvation, no change beyond the slow degradation of hope. It always ended the same—pushed deeper into plague lands with nothing to believe but death.
Until the light came again with its champion. And worse still, these events happened without sight, so he had to flee based on whims and sounds of those fleeing the light, giving him a chance to join the flight.
Still, it remained a pleasant dream thinking of a god, even if he rejected it. Someone to remove the blight and give them a home free of the light. Someone to heal and love them.
They weren't evil—no more than the light that killed them as easily as they killed each other. So why were they denied the light and not others? The mocking light all other races considered good and right, when it consumed and killed with the same indiscriminate nature as any of his kind, while claiming a righteousness and declaring them deserving of death? At least monsters were honest about their hunger. At least they didn't dress killing in false virtue.
A smell like rot but new hit the air, breaking his rambling thoughts.
"You look lost."
A sweet voice spoke near his head. His hearing and smell still functioned, and as he focused toward the sound, he caught the scent of deep rot on her flesh, thick as the plague itself. But—something else. Something more like him, as if the rot was chosen rather than inflicted.
"You're like me—the rot is our friend!" Her cheerful tone carried no hunger, no desperation. Just curiosity.
When had someone last spoken to him with curiosity instead of fear or rage? Nor tried to tear at his flesh before he returned the favor and won.
"You know they told me about a god named Abaddon who will love us. Did you know?"
He turned away from the sound. "Heard the same tale. They're just stories now."
"Why do you think they call him Abaddon?"
The question caught him off guard. He'd never considered the name itself, only the promise it carried.
"Means chaos, I think." The answer came automatically. "Maybe they call him that because he'll destroy what made us this way. Or maybe destruction is all we know how to hope for anymore."
"I can take you to him. I want to see him myself."
Her voice carried such lovely lies, but they sounded like truth, even if he couldn't really believe them. He could not keep a desire at bay.
"I will eat you if you don't stop talking. We have no god. I have no food."
Giggling surrounded him—a sea of voices all around, yet somehow the same source. Was she not alone?
"A seer told me he will heal us, love us. She died before she could tell me more." Genuine grief colored the voice now. "But she said he was to the north."
He grabbed for her, tired of games. His hand met something slick and yielding—a tentacle with a mouth that kissed his hardened flesh while another circled his side, breathing heavy decay. But it wasn't trying to kill him. It felt more like a whisper, testing. As if it were testing him.
When had something last touched him without intent to harm? Even when it was this much absurdity.
"See? My touch doesn't melt your flesh, nor my breath harm you. We are the same! Join me—let's find him."
Joy in her voice sounded genuine, untainted by the madness that usually accompanied deep rot. He released his grip and felt more tentacles brush against him gently, exploring without invading.
How many did this thing possess? The touches were curious but not threatening. Had other monsters fled this area because of what she was? Was that why she was desperate to talk—to touch? A loneliness that gnawed worse than hunger?
Did it matter? Death and rot were all that remained. He was afraid to hope, afraid to pray, but if even a chance existed that he could be healed, could be more than this walking plague shell...
He reached out, grasping the slick tentacles, following them to their source. She was massive and slimy, smelling like decay's heart. He kept exploring her form—closer to a thick mound of living rot than anything else. Had she embraced the plague completely, or had it embraced her, and they'd become one?
Her skin was warm like gel, and he felt pulses—not one heart but many, scattered throughout her mass. She lived in a way that defied the rot's usual rules. Most plague-touched were cold, their circulation failing as disease consumed them. This one thrummed with vitality.
"If you try anything, I will eat you." He tested, unsure what she could do.
The warning felt necessary, though she'd shown rare patience, letting him explore her strange form without recoiling. He wondered why her rot did not affect him more. Was he that far gone himself? He could not see, so wasn't sure.
"Do you trust me?" her voice asked carefully, an odd contrast to her abrupt cheerfulness before.
Something vulnerable colored the question, as if his answer mattered more than their survival.
He barked laughter at that notion. "No. Why should I?"
"Because you want to see our lord, and I want to too." Certainty filled her voice, but underneath lay longing that matched his own. "Because we're the only ones left who still remember how to want something more than just surviving."
That hit closer to truth than he liked to admit.
"I cannot see. So… will you take me?"
"I swear in our lord Abaddon's name, I will guide you!"
Her cheerful reply carried weight. Among their kind, swearing by the god they hoped existed was not done lightly. Then again, they were now just killers in a sea of rot—what did it really mean?
Whatever, why not? Even if she only offered death, he was halfway there anyway. This was his last hope for something beyond endless despair, endless hunger, endless solitude.
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.