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“I shall do your bidding.” Those words spoken eons ago by a barely developed creature to a being older then existence itself forever changed the landscape of time and space.
They now had more then a simple follower, they had a disciple. One who would preach their message and demand the ritual slaughter and immolation of those chosen for the cause.
Millennia of ritualistic scarification and appalling self-mutilation forever changed his appearance. Deep ravines of vertical scars adorn his head, neck, and torso, a declaration of his obedience and loyalty to the Old Ones. Long ago he clawed out his eyes so he should only see that which it was chosen for him to bear witness upon, leaving holes filled with a never ending void of black despair. His ears carved away in another lifetime to ensure that no message other then that of the Old Ones would ever penetrate his decrepit mind. His crooked teeth attest to the many unwilling raw sacrifices he has devoured at the command of those whom he has never seen and never unseen.
His vestments are simpler then other followers, black on black from floor to a high collar. Inverted triangles the deepest green hang at the tips of folds held in place by the bronzed skull of the first sacrifice. He steadies his hoary being upon a cane of silver upon which a glowing stone of green shines pure darkness upon those who find their eyes uncontrollably fixated on it.
The words are not spoken yet they are heard.
They instruct the man who bows before the High Priest of his duty, his mission. He is to be punished for his many intrusions into other realities, for allowing so many to cross over from one domain to the next, for failing to offer appropriate sacrifice and adoration to those who ruled over all.
He has been chosen as protectorate of The Destroying Eye, The Waiting Dark buried deep below the crossings of the ley lines of Kansas, ancient conduits of energy and portals to other realms. Once the Old One was imprisoned and insensible under mount Dunkelhügel, the "Dark Hill", in Germany but upon the death of the final reluctant cultists it was released only to be appeased and bound under a small hill in North America. There a new cult grew one dedicated to its captivity and uncertain rest. They were in need to a new guardian and Flagg had been chosen.
The black clawed skeletal hand reaches towards Flagg, repulsed and in awe he fights the screaming of his mind to run away, to throw himself from the tallest mountain, and welcome the open embrace of death. The outstretched talon strikes his forehead drawing a deep gash, splitting the skin from hair line to the brow of his nose, the warm sticky ichor flows down his face. He licks it from his lips the deep copper taste stained with the pungent fetor of decay. He stares into the dark chasms where the High Priest’s eyes were once held.
He falls forever into the abyss of nightmares and terrors, screaming yet silent as his very being is torn and shredded before being haphazardly stitched together again. When he finds himself again in the realm of our world he is focused on a single feat.
Find the vessel. Find the seed.
"O, woe be the day the enemy descends, mourn we will, for the sake of all that's holy in this universe....
... 'cause the Alley Viper Corps is gonna fuck it ALL up!" - NFC