In a rather remote plane of existence—at least compared to the one that was home to the Former Applause and all its megacorporations and space-faring humans—the Cult of the Dark Abyss was holding its biennial Congregation. There, in the middle of the woods, Krannick Smith was waking up in his tent. He groaned, got up from his cot, and cracked his aging back. He was getting old, but running the Congregation always made him feel a bit younger. The iconic sounds of the camp waking up outside and the occasional spikes of hangover-induced headache always brought up fond nostalgic memories. He sighed, squinted into the mirror, and then donned his robes and his vestments. Krannick Smith was no more. Now, he was the Grandmaster of the Abyss: the nominal head of the Cult of the Dark Abyss. He had important duties to attend to. Notably: breakfast.
Poking his head out of the tent, he surveyed his domain. Truly, he was proud of what he’d built. Close to a hundred cultists milled about outside, walking off hangovers, cleaning up from last night’s rabble-rousing, and going about other tasks that needed doing. As for who they were? Well, they were generally misfits: hedge sorcerers, magical dropouts, or occasionally wizards who’d decided they’d had enough with nobles, empires, and all the political drudgery that came with sanctioned spellcasting. Compared to other cults, the Dark Abyss was middling. What they had was history, a clear mission, and an above average magical talent among their members.
The Cult of the Dark Abyss had been around for almost a thousand years. Their mission: to invite the Abyss, the legendary monstrosity, back into the world of man. Doing this was tricky. According to the research that Krannick and other cultists all the way back to the beginning had done, the Abyss was a powerful entity which was banished from the world and relegated to a non-magical plane of existence to suffer, starve, and be imprisoned forever. The cult’s goal was simple: invite the Abyss back into their world while simultaneously binding it to gain ultimate power. On paper, it seemed to require only a simple, three-step, plan:
1. Open a portal to the Abyss, on whichever plane of existence it is
2. As the Abyss reenters the world of man, bind it to the will of the cultists
3. Profit, rule the world, live in decadence, etc.
Individually, Krannick thought, these steps weren’t so hard. The binding spell formula and accompanying mandala had been worked out by his precursors long ago and opening a portal to somewhere else wasn’t particularly difficult with a large enough circle of skilled magic users. No, the problem was finding the damn Abyss. First, opening a portal to a non-magical plane was hard, to put it lightly. Secondly, there were a lot of planes of existence. A functionally infinite amount of them, in fact. Krannick envisioned opening the right portal as having roughly lottery odds: sure, it was possible, but very unlikely. In actuality though, picking the right reality out of a functionally infinite set would just never happen. Still, that didn’t prevent the Cult of the Dark Abyss from trying every other year.
Every other year, the members of the Cult sojourned to their little Congregation in the woods for a fun-filled week of gossip, partying, workshops, and feats of magic that required large circles of spellcasters. If the Grandmaster were being honest with himself, he’d admit that spellcasting or summoning the Abyss weren’t even the focus of this event; it was mostly a relaxing place to hang out with like-minded individuals and shoot the shit with people who’d otherwise be arrested and executed on the spot for practicing magic without a license. Here, everyone could let loose and didn’t have to worry about inquisitors, enforcers, or other law-abiding folk getting all pitchfork-y.
The Cult of the Dark Abyss wasn’t all positives though. While they had their history, mission, and members, they lacked in other categories. Primarily, they lacked in power: both political and in combat-potential. Yes, individual cultists could take out a small group of peasants with pitchforks if it came down to it, but against trained fighters or other magic users, they’d be stomped. Also, unlike some of the “cooler” cults out there, the Dark Abyss had basically no members who had positions of power as their day jobs. Grandmaster Krannick arguably had the highest level of political power, and that was the power granted to him by being the head librarian at a middling library in a mid-sized city. It was enough to warrant him an invite to the party that the city’s nobility threw every year for the upper crust inhabitants, but not much more.
Recruitment was another category that the Cult of the Dark Abyss struggled with. Unlike the more esoteric, elite, or mad cults, Dark Abyss leadership tried to recruit at least somewhat level-headed individuals. Large scale blood-rituals or other dark magics that directly killed large amounts of peasants were the type of thing that got your cultists outed and strung up. Furthermore, individuals that were too crazy couldn’t keep their lids shut either. No, the Cult of the Dark Abyss didn’t and wouldn’t poke the bear—at least not until they had the full phenomenal power of the Abyss at their beck and call. New Neophytes were picked very carefully.
The other big recruitment problem—and one that the Grandmaster frequently cursed his forebearers for—was that the Cult of the Dark Abyss was an all-male group. Female magic users were already rare and persecuted by most local powers, but even hunted and ostracized they wouldn’t join up to be the first woman among a hundred men. They usually joined other cults, covens, or cabals. This meant that as cults go, the Cult of the Dark Abyss had far fewer drug-fueled orgies than an average cult or dark society.
Still, the drugs are pretty good, thought the Grandmaster as he remembered last night. Like during every other Congregation, things had gotten a bit out of hand and they’d broken out more of the “good stuff” than was really prudent. At this point, it might as well be tradition, the grandmaster thought as he massaged his throbbing temples. Following his nose towards breakfast, the Grandmaster nodded, greeted, and bade his fellow cultists a good morning as he strolled through camp. He’d be sad when it was over: all that was left to do today was clean up camp, dispense some orders to his subordinates, attempt to summon the Abyss as was tradition, and then head back to his cozy little library.
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It was time to work. The Grandmaster of the Abyss, draped in ceremonial black robes and waist adorned with a black-dyed rope, stood at the center of the gathered Cultists, ancient tome in hand. They’d packed up their tents and cots, buried the remains of their fireplaces, and in general, arranged all their gear for departure. This left a big open space, a big open circular space. They were ready for the ritual.
Krannick read the crowd, and the feeling he detected was excitement. In their heart of hearts, everyone except maybe the neophytes knew that they likely weren’t going to actually summon the Abyss today, but it wasn’t every day that a hundred magic users all contributed to a single spell and pulled off some seriously big magic. Anyone facing down a group of linked spellcasters should be cautious; multi-caster spells were typically used by battlemage squadrons and were often designed to be exceedingly lethal. If it’s more than a dozen linked spellcasters, then conventional wisdom advises various variations on “duck for cover” or “run in the opposite direction as fast as possible”. Fortunately (or unfortunately), this type of magic is rare to see; magic users linked into a spell circle needed absolute trust in each other. When they link in a circle, not only are all magical shields between the casters lowered, but their minds are opened to each other as well. That’s why they were almost exclusively seen in cult- or cult-analogue situations and it’s why the Cult of the Dark Abyss was so careful during recruitment. One member going crazy when all their minds were linked as one, could quickly turn whole situation exceptionally messy exceedingly quickly.
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The Grandmaster raised his hand, commanding silence, then spoke.
“Alright, folks, let get this started! First, I would like to again welcome our two new recruits to our most sacred of rituals. Please, let us officially welcome Neophyte Arnov and Neophyte Pratchem!”
Here the Grandmaster paused for scattered applause. Everyone had already met the two new additions: they’d all helped haze the poor bastards on the first day of the Congregation. Fortunately, both Arnov and Pratchem had taken the joke at their expense like champions and been pleasantly surprised when the Cult of the Dark Abyss turned out to be much saner than the freaky faux- “initiation ritual” had led them to believe. The Grandmaster chuckled at the memory of their faces when the truth was revealed to them, and continued to speak:
“I trust everyone is well prepared, and those who needed a refresher, visited the workshop yesterday?”
Murmured assent and nodding passed through the crowd, and then the Grandmaster said:
“Good. I’m not going to bore everyone here with instructions and safety admonishments, most of you’ve done this before, and we’ve already thoroughly reviewed this process with the Neophytes to get them up to speed. So, without further ado, everyone, positions please, and may today be the glorious day when we gaze into the Abyss and the Abyss gazes back!”
The Grandmaster clapped and the congregated crowd of cultists began to find their positions and arrange themselves into multiple shells with arms interlinked. At the center stood the Grandmaster. Then, came a ring of three, then a ring of five, then nine, eleven, fourteen, seventeen, twenty-five, and finally twenty-seven participants. While the numbers seemed auspicious, that was mostly the Grandmaster’s theatrical flair shining through. He had a whole notebook full of numerological sequences, enough for any number of theoretical attendees to end up in nicely numbered circles. The actual arrangement didn’t matter, hell, they could all stand in a long line and it wouldn’t make any difference. The only important thing was contiguous skin contact.
Once everyone was in position, roll call began.
“Channelers, does anyone require more time to prepare themselves?” the Grandmaster asked.
From the assembled channelers—those who would power the spell—there was only silence. They were the overwhelming majority. Only the Grandmaster, the circle of three, and the circle of five had special roles.
“Circle of binding are you prepared?” the Grandmaster asked.
A full-voiced “We are prepared!” rose from the second shell.
“Circle of guidance, are you prepared?”
“We are prepared!” was spoken synchronously from the three cultists surrounding the Grandmaster.
The Grandmaster waited a moment for effect, and then said, “All are prepared. Let us now pierce the barrier, brush aside the veil of reality, and be as one to call upon the Abyss!”
With this call, the cooperative spellcasting began, and the casters started to link minds. First, the Grandmaster opened his mind to the Circle of Guidance. These guys, just under him in the Cult’s hierarchy, were his safety net. He’d be casting the main spell, but they’d step in if he messed up and they were responsible for channeling the group’s collected charged mana directly into his spell. The next Circle that the group of minds connected to was the Circle of Binding. They were on standby to actually complete the binding ritual should the Abyss emerge from the portal. They had ritual books in their hands and invocations memorized. Finally, the mind-link expanded until every magic user in the clearing was connected.
Then, as they’d all practiced, the group entered the meditative state required. With over a hundred people thinking in the same space, it would get loud fast if they weren’t disciplined. Fortunately, they were. Everyone blanked their minds: nobody was excited or nervous, nobody thought about what they’d do when they got home, and nobody felt the need to scratch an itch. They simply were. This is an important skill for non-divine magic user, so it’s no surprise they’d all mastered it.
Feeling that the minds had stilled, and the energy was ready, the Grandmaster deemed it time, and began to incant the verbal component of his spell:
Forgotten, not, followers evermore
Abyss, we call for you!
Be praised, forever, and not uncared for
Abyss, we call for you!
Answer us now, Dark in the void beyond
Abyss, we call for you!
Fulfill our desires, those thou have spawned
Abyss, we call for you!
Darkness, we beg of you gaze back at us!
Abyss, we call for you!
…
The incantation continued to slip from the Grandmaster’s lips, but his focus was now elsewhere: it was on the intricate spell he was weaving together. Everything had to be right. His mind needed to be in the proper configuration, and the words and gestures were used to guide him to that state. Then, as all around him cultists called out, “Abyss, we call for you” the spell pattern stabilized, and the Grandmaster released it. The spell was now like a seed. A complex idea full of boundless potential packaged into a small, stable, speck. With only a little nurturing and direction along with a generous heaping of power, it would grow into something grand. Sweat started to collect on the Grandmaster’s skin, and he began to raise the mental sluice which was holding back the enormous reservoir of magical power that the other spellcasters were gathering up. The spell was beginning to work.
Several hundred meters above the gathering of cultists (a presumed safe distance), a bright white point blazed into existence. Then, as the Grandmaster channeled more and more of the available energy into it, it started to glow brighter. Next, brightness level capped, and the point began to expand, into a disk of… blue? Hold on. Something wasn’t right. The portal continued to expand, and the Grandmaster grew more and more confused. Yes, the white-rimmed portal had reached the right size now: around a hundred meters across and big enough for the Abyss to presumably come through, but why was it blue? For safety, they were only looking at that moment. Only light would be transmitted from reality to reality by the portal.
Hair prickled across the Grandmaster’s skin and he shivered. What if this is it? He couldn’t believe it—every Congregation since time immemorial, every ritual casting of this exact spell had always yielded the same result: A massive circular portal that opened into pure, empty, blackness. They’d always taken it as a good sign of course, where else would the Abyss be spending its time? But now, the Grandmaster was having doubts. They’d opened a portal to a non-magical reality—a place where no life could exist—and there was what appeared to be… Sky?
That’s when he saw it. The Grandmaster gazed into the cerulean gateway above and saw something moving. A small, black speck rimmed in fire. It was getting closer! He had to do something, what if this was it!? He couldn’t let this chance go to waste and started rapidly paging through his ritual book. There was the transference conversion in here somewhere… Feeling forty years younger and full of energy, the Grandmaster’s eyes flew across the pages. There were instructions. Instructions on how to shift the portal from “looking only” to “letting stuff through”. It was simple: only an easy switch of a rune in the spell-pattern. The designers of the original ritual, so long ago, had truly been inspired when they crafted it.
The Grandmaster adjusted the spell matrix and committed the energy feeds of the gathered cultists to the spell. This was his moment; no this was their moment. It was do-or-die.
Unfortunately for the Grandmaster and the rest of the Cult of the Dark Abyss, he hadn’t read the warnings that were written next to the instructions in small, fine print. They were quite simple and outlined the rudimentary energy costs for transferring matter through a gateway, calculated by mass. Unfortunately, even if he had read them, he probably wouldn’t have realized the problem as he only had a rudimentary understanding of air pressure and physics in general.
With those final adjustment in place, the portal, no longer limited to just transmitting photons through the artificial rend in reality, began to transfer mass too—at cost. This, had any cultists survived, would’ve been a practical lesson in physics and illustrated a fundamental yet mostly unknown to them property of air: the fact that it has mass. A lot of mass in aggregate: each cubic meter of air massed over a kilo. When all the air surrounding the 100-meter diameter portal suddenly began to rush into the low-pressure space beyond, the spellcasters simply couldn’t keep up with the rising energy cost of paying for tons and tons of air to be transferred to a different universe.
As the last cultist keeled over, dead and devoid of energy, the large portal began to flicker and collapse. Still, it didn’t collapse instantly. Before it vanished into nothingness, a lone figure fell through. A lone figure that was wearing a skinsuit and was thoroughly confused.