Visions of Kyuss

Vision 1 – The Devouring (Age 9)

  The ground shudders. The sky chokes with ash. You stand frozen in the fractured street of Xal'athel, the world reduced to screams and collapsing stone.   Ahead, the massive, glass-black coils of the Obsidian Leviathan erupt from the earth, its volcanic hide reflecting twisted, broken images of the city. Cracks race along the street like lightning.   You see your mother - one moment clutching your hand, the next torn away as the beast's gaping maw descends, jagged obsidian teeth glinting in the dying light.   You hear her scream.   You do not move.   You cannot move.   The Leviathan devours her whole, along with dozens of others.   No magic stops it. No walls protect them. The mighty city, the proud arcanists, are powerless.   And so are you.  

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Vision 2 – The Mockery of the Council

  Cold marble. Gleaming arcane runes. The towering chamber of Xal'athel's council, where the self-important magi sit upon elevated platforms, their robes pristine, their eyes amused.   You stand below them, trembling with fury and desperation.   "I want to stop it," you say, voice raw. "I want to stop death. I want the power to prevent it."   Their laughter echoes. One leans forward, a smirk curling across his face.   "Power over death? Child, that takes lifetimes to master."   More laughter. Another suggests you apprentice in the funerary guild. "It suits your obsession."   You burn with shame. And hate. You say nothing.   But inside, a new resolve coils tight, like a worm beneath your skin.  

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Vision 3 – The Book of the Spiral Path

  The stolen text feels heavy in your trembling hands. Its cover is dark, soft like old leather, but marked with a perfect spiral insignia, etched in some shimmering, oily ink that seems to pulse as you stare.   You open it.   The words writhe on the page, not in metaphor, but literally. Letters crawl, swirl, and burrow into your mind.   A whisper slips into your ears, not from the room, but from within.   "Kyuss…"   The voice is vast, cold, eternal. The hairs on your neck rise. Your breath catches.   "The Spiral devours the beginning and the end. All that remains is you."   You smile for the first time in years.  

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Vision 4 – The Lich Below

  The vault air is stale. The scent of dust, rot, and forgotten power fills your lungs as you step into the subterranean crypt.   There, bound in glistening obsidian chains, lies Mak'ar. Not human, not a corpse, but something beyond life and beyond your world. His six desiccated arms clutch strange relics to him, and his large black eyes regard you with cold, alien intelligence.   Behind him, resting on a pedestal of void-black stone, sits the Black Wyrmstone, pulsing with quiet, hungry power.   "Your kind fears death," Mak'ar rasps inside your mind. "But you... You would reshape it."   You nod.   He smiles, revealing withered fangs. His thoughts inside your head carry both madness and promise.   "Then let me show you how."  

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Vision 5 – The Blood That Binds

  The air is thick with the scent of iron and heat as crimson liquid floats, twisting in the space between you. Jusad's hands move with surgical precision, shaping the blood into elegant spirals, blades, and sigils, each one a testament to his mastery of sangromancy.   For the first time in years, you laugh. It's a sharp, startled sound that escapes your throat before you can suppress it.   Jusad tilts his head toward you, the smooth surface of his metal mask catching the lamplight. Hollow eye slits regard you, and from beneath the mask, his voice hums with amused warmth.   "You know, once you're powerful enough, maybe you can finally unravel this damn curse," he says, tapping the side of the mask with a finger. The metallic ring lingers in the room. "See my handsome face for yourself."   You shouldn't entertain the thought. But you do.   You imagine the face behind the cold iron. The voice without the echo of metal. The curve of his mouth, the sharpness of his eyes. You want to see him - truly see him -and perhaps more.   Jusad's posture leans just a hair closer, as if daring you to admit what you're thinking. The masked face tilts, playful, unreadable, but his voice lowers.   "Of course, you'd have to be very strong for that," he adds, the words curling like smoke. "Strong enough to peel away curses… and lies."   The blood spiral bursts apart, a dozen crimson blades embedding themselves into the training dummy with surgical precision.   You nod, swallowing your response, the first real, dangerous smile curling your lips.  

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Vision 6 – The Moment of Godhood (and Ruin)

  The world burns in shades of green and black.   The Wormcrown Rite reaches its apex, the air crackling with void lightning as the souls of Kuluth-Mar's sacrifices spiral into the Black Obelisk, their screams fueling your rise.   You stand tall - colossal, luminous, monstrous.   You feel the shedding of mortality, the threshold of divinity cracking open before you.   And beside you, Jusad.   His masked face tilts toward you, even now unreadable, but the faintest spark of something - pride, perhaps more - burns in the space between you.   He draws a knife across his palm, crimson pooling into the air. You smile, even in the throes of ascension, watching the blood spiral and solidify into wicked blades.   Of course. In your current moment of vulnerability, Jusad will protect you. He always -   A shadow cuts through the ritual circle. Then another.   Drow knights, clad in void-black armor, blades humming with disruptive magic, slice through the sigils and runes with surgical precision.   Everything fractures.   You turn to Jusad, heart racing, not with fear, but with hope. He'll defend you.   But his masked head jerks toward the knights in realization. "No -"   The knights converge on the mask. Mak'ar, standing on the edge of the ritual platform, watches with an invested curiosity. The shadow energy from the wyrmstone begins to waver as the knights approach. Five knights dive at the mask, and magic detonates from them in a sudden flash.   The ground tears. The air collapses in on itself, crushing the knights' remains before imploding in on itself and drawing Mak'ar with it.   Jusad - your ally, your teacher, your almost - vanishes. His body is thrown like a ragdoll into the darkness, consumed by the ruptured ley lines, spiraling beyond your reach.   Your heart breaks.   And then, so does your body.   Your flesh dissolves into writhing worms. Your bones crack, fragment, and are devoured by vermin. The Black Obelisk yawns open like a cosmic maw.   You, or what remains of you, are pulled screaming into its infinite void.   You feel your godhood slip through your fingers.   You feel your loss burn deeper than any wound.   And then, only silence.