In the sector neighboring the now-purged nursery of Shub-Niggurath, the void was trembling, releasing vibration that produces sounds only gods can hear.
It was a dry, papery sound that rattled against the edges of the soul, sounding less like a voice and more like the frantic scratching of insects behind a wall.
The space here was heavy, like a heaven pressing you down to the ground; a stagnant atmosphere that clung to the skin of any immortal foolish enough to linger.
And at this moment, Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, moved through the ranks of the integrated pantheons like a viral thought, an infection of the psyche that needed no physical contact to spread.
He did not possess a fixed form; he was a shifting silhouette of a thousand masks that flickered in and out of existence with every blink.
