Part III--Sturm und Drang
The moment was now, waiting was filled, but nothing was ready. The cosmic energies of countless planes, in their unceasing, cyclic ebb and flow, again approached the interlude that happened only once every 5000 years. The weakest point in all the cycles came together, and for a brief period the impenetrable barriers destabilized. The Gates of Haven could be forced...with the proper tools. The moment that should have been the triumphant culmination of five millennia of evil cunning came tauntingly, mocking the Nameless One in his failure. He should have been on Haven, seated in his ghastly Hall, feasting on the flesh of his writhing victims, enjoying the music of their screams. Instead the Sovereign Lord of Hell sat brooding, hatching plans of cruel vengeance, contemplating eternities of unspeakable agony for his enemies, planning eons of horrendous torture for his allies who had proven themselves so incompetent, and racking his anguished succubus until her bones dislocated and her flesh split open. (It was so much more satisfying to torture an immortal who couldn't escape the agony by mere death.) Perhaps it was this optimism, this ability to find some joy even during times of hopeless desolation that also allowed him to see a solution. His minions had stolen the Cup of Zinghe from the elves; the Prayer Beads of Estoc waited for him, calling to him, as they had since he created them; and the Necronomican rested safely in the Forges of Malevolence. If he forced the Ultimate Sacrifice he could collect the remaining Artefacts himself! As long as they were in his possession before the portal closed he could remain on Haven...and how could puny mortals stand against his devastating power? He smiled complacently at his screaming concubine and tightened the rack another notch.
His summons went out, searing the minds of his highest priests, binding them to his will, compelling them to gather together. They travelled North on icy winds to the Forges of Malevolence, where the vilest weapons of foul magic were created. There, almost at the top of the world, the mountain of fire drove upward into the bleak winter-grey sky, an angry, swollen abscess, its centre hollowed where lava had spewed forth like pus from an ulcer. Its very existence besmirched the arctic plain. The frigid winds scoured the ground, stripping away her coverlet of snow to leave her bare and desolate, and howled around the summit, wailing of loss and despair. Within this Citadel of Evil the Dark Priests prepared their abhorrent ritual.Eighteen priests gathered then separated into three groups, six plus six plus six, forming three concentric circles. The inner ring held to each other tightly, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads touching, and began their deep meditation, attuning to each other and to their fiendish Lord. These six were the most powerful; they were the most evil, with blackened souls almost as putrescent as the Nameless One's own. The next ring formed around the first, facing outward with their hands on their hips and arms linked like the loops in a chain. They too began the process of attunement. These were the priests renowned for their intellect; their finely honed, cold perception focussed outward, seeking to pierce the entirety of knowledge. The third and final ring, composed of the strongest, brawniest, most virile warrior priests, encircled the other two as grim faced guardians, their broad backs forming a wall of protection, as they gripped hands and began their own meditations. The lesser priests and acolytes formed around these six plus six plus six as an army, vigilant against any external threat. They didn't know why they'd been called, they didn't know the face of their enemy or where a threat might arise, but they had their orders and obeyed them without hesitation. The chanting began, thin and thready, growing into an eerie intense keening that rose up to the very heavens, the sound obscuring even the banshee winds. The sound, indescribably loud, continued to grow until the very air shivered. The pale winter sun wavered in the sullen sky and slowly, slowly, a dark and brooding Presence made itself known. The innermost ring of priests coalesced, flowing and blurring into an insubstantial black wraith, resonant with evil. The next ring elongated, stretched and thinned, merging into the inner neural network of the borning apparition. Next came the outer ring, mutating into the arms and legs, chest and back of the colossus. Energies flared and scintillated around the being, then cleared as his hateful laugh rang out. Where eighteen men had stood only moments before now stood the Nameless One, Greatest of all Avatars with Soul, Mind, and Body, reborn on Haven. Twelve feet tall he towered, with the attributes of all of his consumed priests combined and manifest within him. With mighty strides he entered the Forge. A pallid wretch trembled in the shadows, falling to his knees as the Nameless One approached. "Your Beads, Master," he whispered hoarsely in a voice barely audible as it emerged from his crushed and ruined larynx. The pathetic tortured creature that had once been a jaunty rogue named Patch stretched upward to return the Beads of Estoc to their maker. The Nameless One took them, smiled, and granted Patch a great boon: the evil god didn't kill him. Penetrating deeper into Forge he gathered up the Cup of Zinghe and the Necronomican. The three Artefacts melted into his very flesh, became part of him, just like the priests who were sacrificed, whose bodies and souls were transformed into the cruel deity. As each Artefact was assimilated he grew stronger, fiercer, more formidable...soon he would be invincible!