OCCULT - 1784 CE

Part 1:

In the embrace of the Siberian wilderness, I watch a solemn procession make its way through the heavy snow. Their figures are enshrouded in dark vestments and they march with the purpose of forgotten secrets and arcane paths. From a distance, my gaze follows them, tracing their journey towards a place of legend— an obsidian temple, spires clawing at the clouds. A place long concealed from the world via unyielding mountains and spells cast in a long-lost tongue.

Rumors from those in the know speak of the ancient structure, nestled amidst the white expanse of the North, as a place where the veil between the known and the unknown, the seen and the unseen, wears thin. Via the clues left behind by ancient tomes, I found the path that these cultists would take and discovered their allegiance to an enigmatic entity they call the Melas Aigos.

Drawn by the allure of a prophecy foretelling the appearance of a black crescent moon in the year 1784, they ventured forth on a pilgrimage. They believe a gateway, a path to realms beyond, will open and allow them to commune with their eldritch god. Myths told by Siberian shamans, guardians of ancient wisdom, whisper of the dangers of such quests—of spirits that walk the shadowed path between worlds, warning those who seek to breach the divide. So I followed them, eager to see what their occult practices might bring.

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Part 2:

Upon their arrival at the temple's ancient foot, the figures cast long shadows across the pristine snow, a mirror to the gathering darkness in the sky. A moment of silence blankets the group and I hold my breath as the air is pierced by their unified chant, a plea seeking to bind mortal ambition to divine will. It is then that I see the tenebrous moon rise from behind the temple, its watchful gaze now casting a baleful light upon the scene. 

The alien and chilling glow bathes the mountainside in an ethereal pallor as the cultists' incantations swell, their voices a symphony that beckons the void between the stars, vibrating with the malice of untold ages. As the chant reaches its crescendo, the night itself trembles as the ground resonates with a dormant yet potent power. The sky responds as a fissure tears through the veil and reveals a pulsating portal aglow with energies that defy earthly laws. They believe that the promise of knowledge, power, and the ultimate transcendence of mortal limits is upon them. Yet as the portal widens the air grows heavy with the scent of forgotten magics and decay.

Part 3:

The breach cracks and from it step forth creatures of darkness and twisted features. I recognize them from the texts as the offspring of Melas Aigos. In their rapture, the cultists do not see the horror of their actions. It is only as these beings turn upon them, bleating from their maws, that the acolytes realize their grave miscalculation. For their god’s true nature is the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, and their invocation has unleashed her spawn upon the world.

I watch as the mountain peak is consumed by the caprine avatar of Shub-Niggurath, the temple and its congregants devoured by the nightmarish progeny they summoned. Left in their wake is a barren scar and me as a silent witness to their folly and the fleeting breach between worlds. This desolate mark stands as a testament, a warning against hubris.