Abstractum et Obscurum

Beneath ten thousand feet of earth, under a viscous swamp fat with refuse and half-eaten saints, lies the cathedral of Necromantic Nightmare’s Abstractum et Obscurum. Not built. Not carved. Secreted. The marsh above it writhes, electrically gravid, colossal amphibians gnawing on seasoned fragments of the formerly human, their throats croaking psalms in a language that tastes like rust. The mud vibrates. The air foams. Everything sweats decomposition. Inside, all groans. All sags. All rots. The organ does not play. It expectorates black mire. Each note is a deliberate drowning, lungs filling with tar, a choir of eyeless putrefacts chanting fever-hymns to a god who molted centuries ago. The pews are split ribs. The aisle is a throat. Gigantic white worms promenade with sacerdotal calm, whispering atrocities into the cracks of the wood, glutting themselves on dead-star syrup and damp soot. They do not crawl. They administer. At the altar, a priest with a bifurcated crystal tongue caresses the cadaver of a bird while carving his cheeks with a blade that emits a radiance unknown to physics, unknown to mercy. He laughs. He sobs. He convulses in jubilation, vomiting prayers to anti-time, to retrograde eternities that gnash their teeth backward. Mirrors liquefy. Stained glass hemorrhages dried blood. The architecture rejoices in its own collapse, beams bending like vertebrae eager to snap. Everything celebrates rot as revelation. And beneath the church, deeper still, an immense eye sleeps. Closed. Trembling. Dreaming of hinges. -Sir Kuliktavikt