Initium - 0.3 (Patreon)

Initium - 0.3

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“-itch!” 

Greg's curse cut off abruptly as the world around him vanished in a blinding flash of light. One moment he was kneeling on that blood-stained platform, the executioner's axe whistling towards his neck, and the next...

I'm alive.

He blinked rapidly, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. The dingy, dimly-lit warehouse was gone, along with Poppy's smirking face and the chanting cultists. They had all disappeared faster than his brain could process, leaving him... here.

Wait, where the hell is here?

Greg looked around wildly, trying to make sense of his new surroundings. Everything was white, a dense, cloying fog that seemed to swallow up all other colors. It was so thick he could barely see his own hands in front of his face, let alone any landmarks or distinguishing features.

What the fuck is going on? Where did everybody go?

Panic clawed at his throat as he spun in a circle, searching desperately for some sign of the cultists, the warehouse, anything familiar. But there was nothing, just an endless expanse of milky white mist that seemed to press in on him from all sides. This doesn't make any sense. One second I was about to get my head chopped off, and now... what, I just teleported somewhere? How?

A tiny, treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe he hadn't teleported at all. Maybe the axe had fallen, and this was... after. But Greg shoved that thought away violently. No. No way. He refused to even consider it.

I'm not dead. I can't be dead. I'm fifteen, for fuck's sake! I haven't even gotten my driver's license yet!

As if to mock his desperate denial, the fog parted just enough for him to make out what looked like piles of bone-white skulls scattered across the ground. They were half-buried in the mist, but he could still see their empty eye sockets and grinning jaws, leering up at him like macabre sentinels.

Greg's heart hammered against his ribs as he stumbled back, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. His head snapped up, eyes widening even further as he spotted massive chains stretching into the empty sky above. They were a dark, rusty red, each link as big as a car, disappearing into the impenetrable whiteness.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck… Greg stared up and up as he stumbled back, realizing that he couldn’t tell where the chains began or ended.

He glanced down at his feet, hoping to find something more real and grounding, only to realize with a jolt of fear that he was standing on the edge of another pentagram. This one was etched into gray stone, the lines a dull, flaking brown that looked disturbingly like old blood.

Greg scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from the occult symbol. His breathing was ragged and uneven, his whole body shaking as he stared at the pentagram like it might come alive and drag him back to that nightmarish warehouse.

Okay. Okay, think, Veder. There has to be a logical explanation for this. Maybe... maybe a cape did teleport me away at the last second. Right, some hero who heard of the cult's plan and came to save me. Yeah, that's gotta be it.

Even as the thought formed, Greg knew it was flimsy at best. Sure, he knew of like at least half a dozen capes on the East Coast with weird dimensional teleporting powers but if they had saved him, where were they now? Why would they just dump him here and leave?

No, as much as he wanted to cling to that desperate hope, the truth was staring him in the face. This place, with its endless white fog and ominous floating chains and creepy-ass skull piles, was like something out of a horror movie. Or a heavy metal album cover.

Or a depiction of the afterlife.

No. No no no. I'm not dead. I can't be.

Greg looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see the ghostly outline of his own bones. But they looked solid enough, if a bit scratched and filthy. In fact, his whole body seemed intact, clad in the same tattered remains of his white t-shirt and jeans. Even the manacles and chains that had bound him were gone, though angry red welts still circled his wrists and ankles.

See? If I was really dead, I wouldn't still be in my regular clothes. Greg nodded manically, shaking his head so fast he could barely see for a moment or two. There'd be like, a white robe or some shit. And I wouldn't feel pain anymore, right? He clung to that logic like a drowning man to a life raft, his mind rejecting any other possibility. He was alive. He had to be. Maybe this was all some fucked-up dream, or a hallucination brought on by whatever drugs Poppy had slipped him.

Hell, he winced as the word slipped into his thoughts, maybe I’m in a coma in a hospital bed somewhere and my brain’s cooking up this bizarro world. Yeah, yeah, exactly. That made way more sense than being... dead.

Greg shook his head violently, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. No. He wasn't going to say it, wasn't even going to think it. Because it wasn't true. Couldn't be true.

He was Gregory Lucas Veder, sure he was a nerd and kind of a cape geek but he had his whole life ahead of him - comics to read, movies to watch, online arguments to win. He couldn't be dead at fifteen. The universe couldn't be that cruel.

...Could it?

Greg's breathing slowly settled from panicked gasps to a more even rhythm, the eerie silence of this strange place pressing in on him from all sides. With no other options presenting themselves, he decided that moving forward was better than staying frozen in place, alone with his increasingly terrifying thoughts.

He took a hesitant step, then another, his bare feet scuffing against the strange, mist-shrouded ground. After only a minute of walking, Greg glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stone circle he'd left behind.

But there was nothing. Just more of the endless, swirling white.

Oh. It's gone. The realization hit him like a physical blow, a dull, distant sort of shock. Okay. Sure. Why not? It's not like anything makes sense here anyway.

Swallowing hard, Greg turned back around, trying to push the mounting weirdness out of his mind and focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Only to freeze in his tracks, his eyes going wide and his mouth falling open as he found himself confronted by a sight he could never have imagined, not even in his wildest, most fever-pitched dreams.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Towering over him, so massive and imposing that his brain struggled to process the scale, was a giant cat. An enormous, monstrous feline, easily twice the size of the Endbringer Leviathan, clad in a white and red hooded robe. Ebony chains, each link as thick as Greg's torso, coiled around its body like constricting snakes. Skeletal black arms jutted out from beneath the robe, dark blood oozing from the bones in viscous, tar-like rivulets. Atop it’s head and between it’s ears was what looked like an oddly shaped crown, bearing two prongs, with a single blood red eye at the center and a single black slitted pupil in the middle of it.

And staring down at him from behind a tattered black veil were three glowing, blood-red eyes, their gaze piercing and unmistakably fixed on Greg's small, insignificant form.

He stood paralyzed, his mind as still and silent as his body, capable only of gaping up at the incomprehensible creature before him. The cat (if he could even call it that) watched him in return, ancient and patient and utterly inhuman.

"F̴̘̠͔̆̽̌̓̕ë̷̙̻̙̦́͒͌̃̕͠a̴̢͚̤̺͇͌̋͜r̷̢̨̛̰̪̯̱͓̬̠͌͜ ̶̛̠͍̖̘͕̳̫̽̓n̷̼̟̝̰̒̐̏̍o̴̢͕̟̲̼͔̣̊͛̍t̵̥̝̣̫͉̗̽͆̇̄̕,̸̰̦͍̓̄̄͘ ̶̛̯͚̭̹̖̈́̒͌͘".

A voice, deep and resonant yet soft as a whisper, wormed its way into Greg's skull. It was both soothing and terrifying, beautiful and horrific, setting his teeth on edge and making his skin prickle with goosebumps. He found himself breathing again, ragged gasps that he distantly realized were more reflex than necessity.

"Fo̶̡̩̫̺͚̦̱̮̓͌̀r̶̡̧̡̛͖̤̙͚͕̟͋̀ ̵̛͉͍̥̦̤̤͖͗̆̏̑̽ţ̵͙͍͙̥͍̣͖̃̎̒͊̊ĥ̶̨̰̮̙̬̻̈́͊͜ô̸̢̗̱̝͖̝̹͒̃͆u̶͙̳̯̖̭̬̠̇͌̈́̕͠g̵̛̰̳̳͖͔̝͙̊͝ḣ̵̢̤̙͓̖̣͕͚̝̈̆̕ ̶̧̦̜̮̖̹̯̩͂̓͌͌͛y̴̙̹̻̳͍̻̘͌͌͊̕͘͠ỏ̶͓̭̯̞̟̩̻̜̈́͒u̴̧̢̪͓̪̜̠̮̔͊͒̓̕ ̸̢̢̤̺̼̳͉̱̱̽̊̏͊̈́ą̵̛̰̮̖̩̪̦̹̺̒͊̿̽͌̈́r̶̻̯̖̳̤̜̠̰̦̂̓̔̕͝ͅę̸̤̦̬͖̪̼̬̂͐͆̔͑̕ ̷̧̤͕̩̱͉̺̈́̿̒̂̿d̵̲͙̣͇̰̩͌͗̈́̄̚͘͜͠ẻ̴̢̢͙̜̲͓̺̼̻̈́̿͘a̷̜̜̭͖̺̮͖̬̒͂̊̋͘ḑ̴̙̝͍̬͙͎̦͒̐̾̈́͘,̴͚͚̖͍̤̋͊̆ ̸̢̬̻̼͇̮̼̠͚͖̆̈͂̎I̷̝̦̰̝̝͓͍̺̿̂̚̚ ̶̙͇͚̱̙͓̫͛͠ş̵̨̘̪͓̪̦͖̟̬͔͊͋̂͗͘ţ̵̫̦̠̥͔̤̲̦̍͋̋͋̚i̷̢̨͇͙̣͚̰̭̒͑̒͋͌͝l̷̨̫̩̭̫̘͔̦̏̎̋̈́͝l̴̜̭̟͉̫͖̖͊̃̒̽ ̵̡̧̖͔̣̳̟̠̈́͛̏h̶̨̥̦͇͇̘͎̜͚͊͒͜ạ̴̛͇̤̻͖̦̣̓͝v̶͇̦̜̙͉̥̼͋̋͒̑̊̊̔͝ė̴̛͕̙̞̪̠̣̦̖ ̴̧͖̗͇͔̥̼̜͎̺͐̿͋̊̚̕n̵̹̬͒͋̓̏̒͘͝ͅȩ̸͍̼̺̹̜̙̭̪̌͛̍̍̂e̷͙̝̥̗̹̙̓͜d̸̟͙̜̺̝̟̯͖̿͗͌̽̓̕ͅ ̸̬̩͍͓̗̻̣̊͛͂̋̈́o̴̧̗͓̣̬̦̠͐͆̎͛̈́̇͝f̶̨͙͎͙̝̯̞͔̈́͜ ̸̩̭͓̰̣̪̼͚̓̈́y̴͍̭̤̦͓̝̬͛̿̈͗͋̂͜ơ̴̢̗̞͎͓͍̟̔̔͘͠ủ̵̫̠̼̤̙͓̤̫̔̔̕,̵̡̥̦̗͓̲̟̓̋̋̾̽ ̷̜̯̹̳̟̥̓̏̐̔͌l̶̥̜͖̲̪͓̖̈́̓̈͛į̵͍͙͙̙͔̦̟͈̂͗̃͘t̶̢͖̠̻̥̼̯̭͎̍̌͜͝t̵̛͖͈̦̠̜̰͋̈͐͌̈l̴̝̓̒͠ȅ̸̡̹̯͎͚̠̬̈́̆̒ ̶̧̜̣̣̯̰̻̍̾̅͆͂̕l̷͚̙͖̣͖͇̤͊͋̈́̾̍a̷͔̗̞͒͌̆͗͊̅m̷̥̲͖̤̭̺̠̼͉̐̿̿͗̂b̷̙͍̣̟̠͓͛̆͛̾̕͠.̵͎͈͎̝̗̜͗̿̇͂̆̕"

Greg's gaze snapped downward, desperate to avoid the magnetic pull of those terrible, mesmerizing eyes. But in doing so, he found himself staring at two more creatures flanking the central behemoth.

More cats, these ones smaller - though still at least half again as tall as Greg himself. Their fur was pitch black, their faces expressionless and cold as they regarded him with unblinking stares. The one on the left wore white robes with a single red flower on the front, its eyes concealed behind a veil like its larger counterpart. Its companion was clad all in black, one eye the same bloody crimson, the other milky white with a jagged scar bisecting its face.

"What the fuuuuuuuuuuuck," Greg breathed, the curse dragging out into a trembling, disbelieving whisper. This couldn't be real. It couldn't. He had to be hallucinating, or dreaming, or... or something. Anything but this.

But the oppressive, otherworldly presence of these beings was impossible to deny. It pressed down on him like a physical weight, smothering and inescapable. Greg's heart raced, his palms slick with cold sweat as primal, instinctive terror clawed at his insides.

He was in the presence of something ancient. Something powerful. Something so fucking scary he literally stopped breathing he didn’t even realize it.

I'm dead. I'm actually, literally dead and this is... what? Hell? Purgatory? Some fucked up cat-god afterlife?

The thoughts flickered through Greg's mind in a panicked jumble, his breath coming in rapid, shallow pants. He couldn't seem to look away from the trio of felines, his eyes darting from one to the next as if trying to make sense of the impossible.

But there was no sense to be made. 

No logic, no reason, no comforting explanations. Just a bone-deep, soul-shaking certainty that he was in the presence of beings so far beyond him that he might as well be an ant beneath their paws.

They want something from me. Need me for something. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…

Greg's mind reeled as the impossible reality of his situation crashed over him in relentless waves. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, high and hysterical, bordering on sobs, eyes watering all of a sudden.

“Oh my god, I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m fucking dead. What the fuck, they killed me. I’m dead. I’m deaaaaaad.” The words spilled out of him in a manic rush, his voice rising in pitch and volume with each repetition.  "Why am I dead? HAHAHHAHAHAHA! Why!?"

He threw his hands up above his head, gesturing wildly at the incomprehensible absurdity of it all. Tears streamed down his face, but he couldn't tell if they were from the force of his laughter or the crushing despair that threatened to swallow him whole.

"Okaayyyyyy, and I don't even know where the hell I am?" He spun in a slow, unsteady circle, taking in the endless expanse of white mist and the looming, otherworldly figures that dwarfed him so casually. "Is this... is this Hell?"

He glanced back up at the giant cat, the monstrous being regarding him with a patient, almost indulgent smile as he continued his manic spiral. Its blood-red eyes glinted with ancient, unfathomable knowledge, the weight of its gaze pressing down on Greg like a physical force.

"Creatures of your likeness are not the first to walk this Earth," it spoke, its voice resonating through Greg's bones, "and will likely not be the last. Your ideas of the afterlife are yours alone."

Greg blinked. 

Once, twice, his brain struggling to process the cryptic non-answer.

Then another burst of unhinged laughter tore from his throat, the sound sharp and jagged in the oppressive silence. "Ohhhhh, great, love that. Real helpful. I'm in cat hell. Fucking fantastic."

"Are you finished, little ape?" The being's tone held a hint of impatience now, a subtle warning that Greg was treading on thin ice.

But he couldn't seem to stop himself, the words pouring out of him in a manic, unstoppable flood. "I'm dead, aren't I? Isn't that like, the ultimate definition of finished?" He snorted, the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "What else is there?"

"Do not joke with me, fleshling." The cat's voice dropped, low and dangerous, sending a shiver of primal fear down Greg's spine.

"Hehehehehe..." Greg's laughter trailed off into a series of shaky, hiccupping breaths as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the violent tremors that wracked his body. "S-sorry, just... never been dead before, you know? It's a lot to take in."

"Very few have." The being's tone was dry, almost amused, as if Greg's existential crisis was nothing more than a mildly entertaining diversion.

Greg swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet that terrifying, mesmerizing gaze. "Y-you said... you said you needed me for something. Before."

"Yes, little lamb." The cat inclined its massive head, chains clinking with the movement. "The hairless apes of your kind who walk the Earth may be young, but they too have fallen to the whims and teachings of The Old Faith. They wish to return the world to what it was, to restore their Masters to their former positions. Your sacrifice was part of their attempts to hasten these events."

Greg's brow furrowed, confusion momentarily overriding his fear. "Masters? What Masters? What even is The Old Faith?"

"I am no schoolmarm to answer your questions, fleshling." The being's voice held a hint of disdain, as if Greg's ignorance was a personal affront.

"Then what are you?" Greg demanded, a spark of petulant defiance flaring in his chest. He flinched back as the smaller cats flanking the central figure shot him warning looks, their eyes glinting with barely restrained menace.

The giant cat rose to its full, terrifying height, chains rattling and groaning in protest as dark blood dripped from its skeletal arms. It raised them high above its head, the gesture both grandiose and unspeakably threatening.

"I AM THE ONE WHO WAITS!" Its voice boomed like thunder, shaking the very foundations of the strange, misty realm.

Greg cowered, any hint of bravado fleeing in the face of that overwhelming display of power. He nodded frantically, his head bobbing like a puppet on a string. "G-got it. You're waiting. Loud and clear."

The being settled back on its haunches, regarding Greg with an inscrutable expression. "And I have need of you, little lamb. Rather than allow your soul to be corrupted and scattered to the four winds as fuel for the rising Magick of the Faith, I plucked you from their grasp and summoned you to my realm."

Greg's heart pounded against his ribs, hope and dread warring in his chest. 

"I offer you life," the cat continued, its voice low and hypnotic, "As a curse or a gift, however you view it. As my vassal. And power above any mortal. In return, you must start a cult in my name and destroy the Old Faith before it can return to power."

Greg's mouth went dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he tried to process the enormity of what was being asked of him. A cult? Destroying an ancient faith? Him, Greg Veder, awkward nerd and terminal fuck-up?

It was insane. Impossible. 

But what choice did he have? It was this or... or oblivion. Nothingness. The end of everything. And being honest, he really didn't want his mom to cry.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he forced himself to meet the One Who Waits' terrifying, expectant gaze.

"I... I'll do it. I'll be your vassal, or whatever. Just... just send me back. Please."

The cat smiled, slow and satisfied, like a predator that had just snared its prey.

"Excellent. Take the Red Crown. It does me no good chained as I am, but to you, it is my sign of command. Strike fear into the Faith and command the Loyal. Let us begin."

Greg watched in a mixture of awe and terror as the cat-being raised its skeletal arms once more, the chains that bound them clanging and rattling with the movement. It began to chant in a language that Greg couldn't even begin to comprehend, the guttural, discordant syllables grating against his ears and sending shards of pain lancing through his skull.

What the fuck is happening? His thoughts raced, fragmentary and panicked, as he fought the urge to clap his hands over his ears, to block out that terrible, mind-rending sound.

As the chanting continued, rising in volume and intensity, Greg's attention was drawn to the crown perched atop the being's massive head. It was a relatively small thing compared to the rest of the creature, a two-pronged circlet of ebony black that seemed to devour the light around it, like a hole torn in the fabric of reality itself.

And set within that lightless void was a single, slitted eye, its sclera a glowing, malevolent red.

Greg's breath caught in his throat as the eye suddenly shifted, the slit-pupiled gaze roving back and forth as if searching for something. Or someone.

Is it... is it looking at me?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the crown began to move, detaching itself from the cat-being's head and slowly descending towards Greg. Flames the color of fresh blood flickered to life around it, casting eerie, dancing shadows across the misty white landscape.

Holy shit, is it getting smaller? Greg's eyes widened in disbelief as the crown continued its inexorable approach, shrinking and shifting until it was no longer a monstrous, eldritch thing, but a simple cap of black metal, just the right size to fit a human head.

My head, Greg realized with a sudden jolt of awareness. It's coming for me.

He wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but stand there and let that thing touch him. But his body wouldn't respond, his muscles locked in place as if he'd been turned to stone. All he could do was watch, helpless and horrified, as the crown settled gently onto his blond hair, the metal icy cold against his skin.

For a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no sensation, just an eerie, expectant stillness.

Is... is that it? He glanced up at the thing on his head. Did it not work? Maybe it's just a really ugly hat or someth-

Greg's thoughts cut off abruptly as a surge of raw power exploded through his body, searing his nerves and setting his blood aflame. It was agony and ecstasy all at once, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, a pain so exquisite it verged on rapture.

He could feel himself changing, his once-frail body reforging itself cell by cell, atom by atom. Skin knitted back together, smoothing over cuts and bruises until it was unblemished and perfect. Muscles swelled and tightened, thrumming with newfound strength. Bones hardened and popped pleasantly.

And his eyes... Greg could see the shift, his vision sharpening and clarifying until the world around him stood out in impossible, crystalline detail. Colors became richer, more vibrant, edges and shadows thrown into stark, razor-edged relief.

But most striking of all was the red. That hellish, hungry crimson that had once been confined to the cat-being's eyes now bled into Greg's own, washing away the cool blue of his irises until they glowed like embers in the dark.

He was floating now, his body buoyed by the sheer, overwhelming force of the power that coursed through him. The filth and gore that had once stained his clothes and skin sloughed away like old snakeskin, leaving him clean and whole and new.

Around his throat, a collar of black leather snapped into place, the clasp shaped like a grinning skull wrought in tarnished gold. And from that collar unfurled a cloak the color of freshly-spilled blood, trimmed in purest white, settling around his shoulders like a king's robe.

"GO FORTH, MY LAMB," the One Who Waits intoned, its voice a rumble that shook Greg to his very core. "AND PUT THEM TO THE SLAUGHTER."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

In the blood-soaked warehouse, the cultists stared in slack-jawed disbelief as the body on the chopping block moved.

It was impossible. The boy's head had been cleaved from his shoulders, his life ended in a single, brutal stroke. They had all seen it, all borne witness to the sacrifice that would fuel their dark magicks and hasten their Masters' return.

And yet, impossibly, obscenely, the pieces of Greg Veder's corpse were knitting back together before their very eyes.

Flesh, bone and sinew reconnected, the ragged, gaping wound at his neck sealing over like it had never been. His head settled back onto his shoulders, the skin smooth and unblemished, not even a scar to mark where the axe had fallen.

And then, as if to mock the very laws of nature, the boy's body began to rise, lifted by an unseen force until it hovered a full foot off the ground. A fierce, unholy red light blazed from his eye sockets, bathing the cult's makeshift temple in a bloody glow. Strange, guttural chanting filled the air, the words alien and painful to the ear, evoking primordial horrors best left forgotten.

A crown with two simple prongs appeared on his head in a flash, a single glowing red eye tracking the cultists with a sinister slitted black pupil. The boy's clothing changed, a cloak of deep, arterial crimson unfurling from his shoulders, a collar of black leather clasped tight around his throat. And on that collar, glinting in the eerie light, was a pendant shaped like a leering golden skull.

"YOUR SACRIFICE HAS BEEN FOUND WANTING," a voice boomed, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was deep and terrible and so very, very angry.

"YOUR BLOOD WILL RUN AND YOUR SOULS WILL SHRIEK AND STILL IT WILL NOT BE ENOUGH TO APPEASE THE HUNGER OF THE LORD YOU HAVE DEFIED."

The cultists fell to their knees, some weeping, some praying, all of them trembling in the face of something vast and merciless and utterly, utterly beyond their ken. The executioner rushed forward, axe at the ready and swung at the floating boy, responding the only way he knew how.

The crown on his head shifted in a blur of motion, flowing into the boy’s hand as it transformed into a simple sword with a glowing red eye on the pauldron. He burst forward, still in the air and meets the headsman that sent him off the mortal coil, and swings.

Unholy steel met the wood handle of the axe and the latter failed horrendously, cleaving both the axe and the headsman’s neck in two.

As the executioner’s body hit the floor, head and weapon following it a moment later, Greg - or the thing that had once been Greg - smiled.

"Hoooooooly shit," he breathed, his voice at once achingly familiar and terrifyingly alien. "That felt gooooooood."

He touched down on the blood-slick floor, his bare feet leaving smoking, sizzling imprints on the concrete. His once-again blue eyes roved over the assembled cultists, the smile on his face widening into a shark's grin, all teeth and hunger and cruel, vicious glee.

"So," he flashed them a fanged smile, the eldritch reverb gone from his voice. "Which one of you Old Faith fuckers wants to die first?"