Eldritch Terrors Mythology Novels & Stories

scoffed Walter. “Witchcraft…?” muttered the astonished Gerald. “Indeed! To be more precise, Daryl’s using the ancient witchcraft technique—that originates from the Northern Dessert—that goes by the Witchery Skypit Art! Since witches went extinct ages ago, the art should no longer exist! With that said, who the hell is Daryl…?” muttered the flabbergasted Walter…

So he can only try to buy some time. The creature speaks once more: ??? - WhAT aM I? WeLL, TheY CaLLeD Me LoTs Of tHinGs... BuT ThEy uSuaLly CaLL mE "ThE CrAwLiNG ChAoS". AnD iT DoEsN't MatTer wHy yOu coMe HeRe, I JuSt wAnt To EaT YoU. Issei finally knew what this thing is, it is the "Nyarlathotep" known to many by its epithet The Crawling Chaos, is an Outer God in the Cthulhu Mythos.

The sky was falling. No metaphor. No prophecy. No riddle spun by the mystics of the high courts. It cracked like brittle glass, the Veil splitting wide above Eldoria. And through that jagged wound, twilight poured like ink, dripping void-stuff and half-formed horrors onto a city that once believed itself immortal. Rivers of shadow slithered down from the heavens, not water but writhing bodies, creatures made of tooth and scream and memory long lost. Their cries echoed with the voices of those they had consumed, a cacophony of pain recycled into terror.

A sharp, stabbing pressure filled the temple—like reality itself bending. And then— A form erupted from Elias’ chest. It wasn’t like Azazel’s or Thal’rean’s elegant manifestations. This one was monstrous. Liquid shadow made flesh, with no eyes, no face—only shifting glyphs that whispered in forgotten tongues. Tzareth. He howled. Lucian’s nose bled. Dorian fell to one knee, clutching his chest. Kai growled low, trying to shield them with his energy. But Gabriel and the Oracle stood firm.

Lira's veiled form shuddered convulsive, third-eye pulsing erratic white-probe tendrils lashing invisible—wincing recoil as our diad-resonance repelled like oil on venom-water, voice sibilant-echo dripping dark prophecy: “Surface-vein harmony holds... but abyss stirs ravenous. Hunger evolves symbiotic—personal now, scenting variables' sweet blood like rut-scent. Deeper nexus demands blood-tithe, heirs' essence to crown the void. Quarantine imperative—separate bindings in silver cages, anchor confiscate for the greater... devouring good.” Before Thorne could bellow guttural retort—hackles rippling full berserk-threat, claws gouging earth bloody—Elara's crystal flared blinding violet-storm cat

“What the fuck is that?” I sigh loudly. He is marching into Morvathuun, and he has no idea what is waiting for us on the other side. “It is a Draaghul Craven.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “What do they do?” “They are birdlike carrion feeders, with decayed human faces and glowing violet eyes. They are the bottom feeders of the Dark Realm, but if you see them, something scarier is lurking nearby.” He steps back. “So they are like a bad omen?”

The moment the door shut, Cedric Phillips turned to me and said, “Austin Belmont is suspected to be part Druid wolf and is being monitored for any unbecoming behavior.” Rolling my eyes, I frowned. “He is my marked mate, so nothing is going to come from it. He won't go rogue or cause any issues by going on a crazy killing spree,” I asserted, and he gave me a rude grunt. “You know what a druid wolf is, Miss Gibson?” Nodding nervously, I explained that I learned about them from my pack school, but he furrowed his brow and then shook his head. “Don't lie to me. I'm well aware that druids are extremely rare wolves and not a subject of study in your prior classes,” he growled, causing me to swallo

'Flee, Rhea'" The sound of my father, Draven, bounced between the leafless branches. There I was, back when I was young, dashing through dark fog that slithered low on the earth. That sickness had its own way of moving, not like fever or cough, but more like something starved, draining green from trees and warmth from fur, turning wolves hollow. One after another, those I’d grown up with dropped. No wounds opened. Just bodies shrinking, cracking like brittle parchment, sight fading as though some unseen force tugged their inner fire downward into silence. Yet this time, the dream felt off. Before, terror had locked my attention straight ahead, now, without choice, my eyes lifted skyward. Up

"Anything about the bodies. The draining. The empty wolves." "That's very specific." "The killer is specific." She pulled a book from the shelf and opened it and the pages were yellow and the ink was faded and the binding was cracked. She held it up to the candlelight and squinted at the words. "Blood rites," she read. "The art of draining life force for power." "That sounds promising." "It sounds terrifying." She sat on the floor and crossed her legs and Ember curled in her lap. I sat across from her and watched her read. Her brow furrowed and her lips moved silently and her fingers traced the lines of text.