Revelation of Nimuel

BOOK ON THE CALAMITOUS LORD OF STUPOR

COURTESY OF MASTER REGARYA

SCRIBED BY HIGH SCHOLARS OF THE LOST

All chapters, excluding the annotation of our Master Regarya, were writ in an archaic script and language used by our ancestors during and after the Slaughtering of the Lost Temple—known also as the Massacre in the Fifty-first Domain—on the First Year of the Pantheonic Calendar known as the First Year of Alpha. These manuscripts were written roughly eleven million years ago within the Lost Temple or City of the Fifty-first Domain and were translated with the combined efforts and capabilities of the Academia in the Study of the History and Literature of the Lost.

CHAPTERS

REVELATION OF AGALAN I
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, SPRING"

REVELATION OF NIMUEL
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, SUMMER"

INTERMISSION OF ORO
"SINS OF THE UNKINGLY Y'LIAD THE MALEVOLENT"

REVELATION OF AGALAN II
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, AUTUMN AND WINTER"

ANNOTATION OF REGARYA
"THE VANISHING OF THE GREYKING IN HISTORY"

Of all the chapters in this book, the Revelation of Nimuel is the most difficult to translate due to the language Scribe Nimuel used in his writing, which seems to be a far-removed variant of Sumerian that developed in this realm. Scribe Nimuel, though believed to be a victim of the massacre in the village prior to this chapter, began to worship the Stupor God, Greyking Y'liad Elyion, in a state of enlightenment. He describes an idea with two faces, related to the Stupor God, but no mention of a related deity, or idea, in direct connection to the Stupor God is ever mentioned in the history of the Lost's Pantheon. While most consider this an oversight on the scribe's part due to his indulgence in the study of Stupor, the repeated motif of "two" persists throughout his writing. Was it a hitherto unknown idea related to the Stupor God? Or was it a simple delusion?

~ Notation of High Scholar Lemm

REVELATION OF NIMUEL

In the darkest nights of Summer, where two faces of moonlight shine above the peaks of distant mountains, the mind of I is split in twain. I saw on the hill, bathed in blood, flesh melded into a pale blade, a crown of near-death, near-life, whispers of no-dreams, shrieks of misery. Stupor's eyes burn in mine in witness of the Greyking, of pale visage and imposing figure as tall as a tree two-fold. In the skin of I, his Faith of greyflesh burns deep, and at the moment of his departure, I follow the Greyking. In his travels was borne neither life nor death – a harbinger of the plague of greyflesh, vile and holy and mysterious, bereft of all conscience and reason, he would swing that silverene blade which hid a cacophony of lost souls, forced to gorge themselves on their fellowmen and husbands and wives and children. Yet I strayed not far behind his path. I beheld streets painted in red and inhaled the stench of rot and decay. Perhaps this is the Faith of greyflesh, the path in which he treads is the pilgrim's way, the holy embodiment of his birth as the god of stagnance and stupor everlasting.

…

In my dreams, I see two faces. They seem like a painting, surreal and beyond me, transcending all perspective and dimension, as if to mock my very being.

…

It had been many days and nights since I had begun to walk, following behind him upon his path. His killings had not ceased; instead, they had worsened, from cold, clean swings of the blade to abominations of flesh unleashed, boring their way through skin and flesh and bone with ease so terrifyingly primal that I had not the will to look upon the rest of that blood-bathed scene.

I chose to rest in the ruined remains of another desolate village, fortunate to find company in the presence of an elder who had renounced his faith in the gods. What he had seen far overcame the trust he had once held in that council of deities to which his entire life had been devoted, his belief vanished in a bloodbath so grotesque and merciless that his gaze had become entirely blank, like the stupored gaze of one who was blind. The old man bled from his sides and pores; mere cloth held his life intact, and his skin had festered into purple and green, infected with some disease of the blood he had caught in the slaughter that morning grey. I could feel his life waning with every word he spoke, his voice gravelly from gurgling so much blood that it felt regrettable to have been there and yet have done nothing – for there was nothing. What remained of him, I buried under a tree, and continued to follow the Greyking.

Across the Valley of Sunken Kings, where the absence of rain has made the landscape an empty, dry sea, the Greyking sits atop the weary statue of a king, known to neither man nor god, but only to times past and forgotten. He gazes blankly at the azure sky painted with streaks of white, as if staring at an empty canvas on which he, or some other force, has yet to paint. But this moment would last hardly the blink of an eye – before he would continue his aimless pilgrimage. It is here that I question if I truly understand the Faith of greyflesh. Long have I surmised, surely undoubting, that the Greyking sees and senses me, mortal as I am. But I do not understand why he has yet to cut me down.

I follow the Greyking still. How many scores of villages have I seen, utterly uprooted from their foundations of life? How much more will the Greyking take, if not tens of thousands? I have been numbed by the relentless sight of gore and blood in this pilgrimage, holy yet unclean, and I must continue down the path that I have chosen.

Today, for the first time, I heard the voice of the Greyking enthroned . He spoke air and nothing to nothing and air, alone in the forest, calling out to someone in the shadows concealed. But too dumbfounded and stupendously ignorant was I to realize, in that very moment, that it was I indeed to whom the Greyking had spoken, and I dared not reply, but stood as stiff as the woods around me, that too were stilled by his presence alone. Ready was I for the pale blade that would quickly come, and harvest my flesh and life and soul, but that did not happen – not yet. His tone was sad and his face was a mix of blankness and melancholy so far removed from the moment that it could break the heart of any man that would have stood in my place. Each word he mouthed was soft and small and dead, and I could listen with only the utmost strained and forced intent, halting all I had been doing and all that mattered and all that mattered not.

"You, of the shadows, tell me in truth, why do you walk this path I alone tread?"

Perhaps it was the way that he spoke, or something else entirely, but in my bones I knew that if I had made no reply, I would not be writing this string of words. With a heavy breath and shaky tone, I began to mouth still and trembling words. "O great pale king, I am but a worshipper of your will. To walk upon the path you tread, for me, is a way towards truth. For it is only in the stagnance of everything that anything can find peace, a grounded state where none watch over us but you." The Greyking said no more after this, that moment which felt like an eternity. He looked towards me with his sad, blank eyes and vanished, and I did not see him again.

…

In my dreams, I see two faces. They seem real and moving and existent, transcending all perspective and dimension, but I refuse to believe in their form as if to mock their very being.

…

I sit atop this mountain to contemplate the essence of the Greyking. It is said that he once had a throne on a mountain twice as tall as the one I sit on now, in a realm beyond our own, and that he sat on that mountain and was left to rule an empty world. A grey sky now looms over this new domain, much the same as the world from which he came. No life would remain here. The grey sky is Y’liad Elyion.