The chamber of the Grand Plains Council yawned vast and dark, carved from the very heart of Genesis Peak, whose blackened stones had weathered the centuries beyond mortal ken. Mist did creep upon the flagstones, curling 'bout the feet of the elders as if it were alive, and shadows, long and restless, did slither along the runed walls, trembling to the hum of latent power therein.
At the chamber's centre lay the survivor, ensnared within a cocoon wrought of runes and binding arts. One eye closed, one arm at rest, yet the hollowed void within his soul did press upon all present as a palpable chill, gnawing at the bones and the mind alike.
The eldest of the council rose with measured solemnity, his voice deep and echoing, carrying through the vaulted chamber like a bell tolling for doom:
"Hearken, ye assembled, for we speak not of name, nor of appellation, nor of that which none may utter. To name it is to court madness; to speak of it aloud is to tempt the void. We speak only of deeds, of portents, of the peril that hath come upon us."
A hush fell, heavy as stone. Even masters of Genesis Peak, veterans of eons and battle beyond reckoning, did quail beneath the weight of the unspeakable.
"It hath struck," spake a younger elder, voice quivering yet resolute, "and hath hollowed a mortal wholly, yet spared his flesh and left him alive to witness. He is as shadow made flesh; his cultivation unmarred, yet his soul sundered and hollowed, as though some unseen hand had carved him of his essence alone. And yet… none may utter its name."
The chamber shivered. Mist thickened, curling about the contained survivor like serpents, and the runes along the black stones did faintly pulse, as though in recognition of the dread power that lingered therein.
"Then what may be done?" spake another, voice trembling with the weight of fear. "How may we prepare against that which is beyond mortal ken, that which may rend the soul whilst leaving the body whole? We are naught but men, and yet we are charged to stand."
The eldest's gaze swept the assembly, grave as the night upon the moors, shadowed with centuries of foresight:
"We debate methods, we gather knowledge, we fortify our cultivators. We honour the survivor, for he alone hath beheld the unspeakable, and yet lives in body, if not in spirit. Its name shall not pass these lips, nor the lips of any who sit this council. To do so is to invite folly, to invite undoing. We speak of its acts, of its shadow, of its reach—but never of its true appellation. Let silence guard thy tongue as thy life itself."
The chamber did seem to shiver beneath the weight of his words. Shadows deepened, the mist thickened about the survivor's form, and all present felt the chill of absence, the hollowed air that spoke of a power unspoken yet absolute.
"Thus shall we act," the eldest spake at last, voice low, deliberate, "in caution, in silence, and in preparation. Speak we of what it hath wrought, of what is to be done, yet never of that which cannot be named. And let our prayers go forth, that the Grand Plains endure the coming tide."
The mist swirled as though in response, and the shadows twisted long and restless upon the walls. Outside, upon Genesis Peak, the wind did moan through the blackened stone like a dirge, carrying the weight of the unspeakable presence that had hollowed a man and spared his flesh.
Even in silence, even without a name, its power was absolute.
The council sat in grim silence, their faces etched with the weight of the unseen threat. Mist wove through the chamber like living serpents, curling about the feet of the elders, whispering faintly of fear, and shadows clung to the vaulted walls as if in sympathy with the dread that filled the hall.
The eldest councilor's voice rang out, grave and deliberate:
"Hearken well, ye who are assembled. The name—its syllables—may not pass thy lips. To do so is to invite calamity, not merely upon thy mind, but upon the lands and all who dwell therein. The sect from whence it springs hath bound it by oath and sorcery, and none may utter it. Those who trespass are unmade, or worse, swallowed by the void of their own folly."
A younger elder, brow furrowed, spoke in a whisper:
"But, elder, how shall we deliberate strategy if we cannot name our foe? How may we counsel without the word?"
The eldest raised a hand, stern and unyielding:
"We speak of deeds, of acts wrought in darkness, of hollowing strikes that unmake the spirit whilst leaving flesh whole. We speak of shadow, of reach, of witness, yet never the name. To utter it is to offend the being itself, to draw its gaze upon our mortal council, and to tempt annihilation. Mark this well: it is forbidden not by whim, but by the law of that sect, by power older than our comprehension."
Another elder, voice trembling yet resolute, added:
"It is writ in the sealed codices of the ancients that the utterance is an affront. None may speak it save those who dwell within the highest echelon of that sect. Even to hint is perilous. To act without this knowledge is dangerous, yet to name it aloud is death most certain, or worse still, madness beyond bearing."
The chamber grew colder, mist thickening to the knee, shadows lengthening unnaturally. Even the survivor, contained and hollowed, seemed to pulse faintly with the echo of that unspoken presence. A single twitch of his remaining arm sent ripples across the runic cocoon, as if he too sensed the council's dread.
"Then we speak only of acts," said the eldest, voice steady as obsidian. "We debate strategy, not appellation. We honor the witness, though broken, and prepare our cultivators. We fortify our lands. And we guard our tongues, for to betray the name is to draw the sect's ire upon the Grand Plains, and to invite calamity of a magnitude none among us may withstand."
A murmur of assent swept through the assembly, tempered with terror. Even masters of centuries and cultivation beyond reckoning felt the weight of the law imposed by an enemy they could neither name nor fully comprehend.
"Let it be decreed," the eldest continued, "that the name shall remain sealed. No word, no whisper, no scribe's ink shall dare record it. All counsel must be in shadow, all strategy in deeds and acts alone. Let prudence and fear guide us. Let none dare utter the forbidden word, lest the wrath of the sect descend upon us."
The mist thickened further, shadows danced unnaturally across the walls, and the survivor's hollowed form lay as a silent testament. The council knew: to speak the name was to risk the wrath of a being whose power exceeded mortal comprehension, a force whose judgment was absolute, unseen, and unyielding.
Even without the word, the dread was complete. Even in silence, the threat of the forbidden presence weighed upon every elder, a shadow upon their souls, and a reminder that some powers were beyond even the Grand Plains' understanding.
Written in Silence
The council remained seated in the vaulted chamber, the shadows long upon the black stones, the mist coiling about their feet like serpents of smoke. Even the runes etched into the walls pulsed faintly, as if in uneasy awareness of the peril they deliberated.
The eldest councilor's gaze swept the assembly, deep as the void of a starless night. His voice rang with authority, slow and deliberate:
"Hearken well. The name of that which hath hollowed the soul of the survivor may not be spoken. Nay, not in council, nor in hall, nor to mortal ear. Yet, for the sake of record, for the edification of those who follow in our stead, it may be written—sealed within the ink of codices, guarded by wards, and locked in the vaults of the highest order. Only there may it exist, bound in shadow, lest it tempt the mind or draw the ire of the being itself."
A younger elder, trembling though seasoned in war and cultivation, dared to speak:
"But elder… to write it alone—is that truly sufficient? The very sight of its letters may sway the mind, may awaken its gaze?"
The eldest councilor inclined his head slowly, grave as the stone beneath their feet:
"Even ink, when guarded by the wards and seals, is safe. The letters themselves are but shadow, bound by our art and vigilance. To speak it aloud is to summon calamity; to write it, hidden from the eyes of the unworthy, is to preserve knowledge for the generations that follow. None here shall see it, none shall utter it. It shall remain sealed, lest the wrath of the sect descend upon this realm."
Another elder, a master of mystical law and chaos cultivation, raised a finger and spoke with caution:
"Then it is writ, and only writ. No tongue shall betray it. No syllable may pass mortal lips, for even the utterance risks the ruin of mind, soul, and body. The survivor bears witness; he hath felt the hollowing force. He carries the echo. Let our words be of deeds, of shadow, of the threat, and of strategy. But the name itself—sealed in ink alone, and there let it remain."
The chamber was thick with tension. Shadows pooled in corners, mist coiled about the runes, and even the survivor, contained yet present, seemed to pulse faintly with a hollow reminder of the power they could not name.
"Then it is agreed," the eldest continued, voice solemn as a funeral bell:
"All counsel shall speak of deeds wrought, of portents, of hollowing strikes, but never of the forbidden name. It may be inscribed in ink, bound by wards, and locked away in secrecy, accessible only to those whose eyes are deemed worthy. To speak it aloud is to tempt wrath beyond mortal reckoning. Guard thy tongue, guard thy mind, guard thy soul. This is the decree of the Grand Plains Council."
A murmur of assent swept through the chamber, tempered by fear and reverence. Even masters who had withstood centuries of battle could feel the oppressive weight of the unspeakable presence. The council knew: to betray the name aloud was to summon doom; even in secrecy, it demanded utmost vigilance.
The survivor lay silent, hollowed yet whole in body, a grim testament. The elders knew that the codices would hold the name, but only as shadowed ink on parchment, guarded by wards, sealed within the sanctum of secrecy. No living tongue would dare speak it.
And thus, the council prepared, balancing strategy, vigilance, and fear, while respecting the law of silence—knowing that the Hollow Night's unspeakable force pressed upon them still, unseen and absolute.
The Weight of Silence
A heavy stillness hung over the chamber, thick as a storm-cloud, pressing upon the minds of the assembled elders. Every breath seemed labored, each inhale a draught of shadow that clung to the chest like iron chains. The weight of the unspeakable force—the being whose name none dared speak—sat upon the council as a tangible presence, cold, oppressive, and unyielding.
The survivor, cocooned in runic containment, lay at the chamber's centre. Though his body was unmarred, though his cultivation remained untouched, his hollowed soul radiated a power that none could endure for long. Even the most stalwart masters of Genesis Peak felt the pressure, as if the air itself had grown thick with dread.
One elder whispered, voice trembling:
"The weight… it presses upon the mind. Even in silence, even in secrecy, it is felt. The codices may hold the name, locked away, guarded, but the presence—its shadow—remains. It touches the soul like frost upon stone."
Another elder, hands clenched upon the dais, nodded grimly:
"Aye. The survivor bears it, and through him we feel the measure of what lies beyond mortal ken. We plan, we prepare, we debate—but the weight is relentless. It bends the mind, presses the spirit, and chills the heart. Even the faintest thought of that which cannot be named gnaws at the edges of comprehension."
The eldest councilor, voice deep and measured, spoke again, carrying the full weight of centuries:
"We are mortals. We walk upon stone, breathe air, and yet we confront that which dwelleth beyond mortal understanding. The weight is absolute. It presses upon our souls, and we feel the hollowing echo through the survivor. Yet we endure, for endurance is all that is left. We speak of deeds, of shadow, of acts wrought in silence. Strategy and prudence are our shields against that which presses ever upon us."
Mist coiled tighter in the corners, and the runes along the walls pulsed faintly as though acknowledging the presence of the unutterable. Shadows twisted unnaturally, creeping toward the survivor's form, yet retreating as if fearing the council's vigilance.
"We are weighed not merely by knowledge, but by its absence," another elder murmured. "We know what hath been wrought, yet cannot name it. We feel its power, yet cannot confront it openly. This is a burden beyond measure, a shadow that shall press upon our minds for all our days."
The eldest councilor's gaze swept over the assembly, grave and unyielding:
"Let the weight guide us, yet not break us. Let it temper our caution, sharpen our vigilance. We honor the witness, though hollowed; we guard the codices, though sealed. And we act in silence, in shadow, and in preparation. For the weight is heavy, the threat unseen, and the wrath of the forbidden… absolute."
A silence deeper than death fell upon the chamber, and all present felt it: the crushing, relentless pressure of the unspeakable, the burden of secrecy, the shadow of that which none may name. Even the air seemed to quiver, and the survivor's hollowed presence throbbed like a dark heart at the centre of it all.
The council knew, in that oppressive stillness, that the weight would never leave them. And they would need all their cunning, all their mastery, and all their courage to withstand.
The chamber of the Grand Plains Council lay heavy in silence, vaulted high as the heavens themselves, carved from the black heart of Genesis Peak. Mist coiled like living serpents about the flagstones, curling about the elders' feet, swirling in eddies that whispered of dread and shadow. Shadows pooled in the corners, long and restless, as though the stone itself shivered beneath the weight of the unspeakable. Runic glyphs etched into the walls pulsed faintly, faint as dying stars, their glow wavering in resonance with the minds of those assembled.
At the chamber's center lay the survivor, contained within a cocoon of runes, body unmarred yet hollowed within. His single eye, though closed, seemed to pulse with the echo of what had sundered his soul, and even the air trembled at the presence of that which none dared name. Every elder felt the chill press upon their minds, a weight of shadow and void heavier than the stones themselves, heavier than centuries of battle or cultivation.
The eldest councilor spoke, voice deep and slow, each syllable striking as if hammered upon obsidian:
"Hearken, ye who sit in counsel. The name of that which hath wrought this hollowing may not pass mortal lips. It is forbidden, sealed by power older than the mountains, bound by wards beyond reckoning. To speak it aloud is to summon wrath, to tempt the ruin that hangs ever upon this world."
Mist rose higher, curling about the black pillars, and the shadows along the vaulted arches twisted unnaturally, creeping toward the survivor's cocoon as if drawn by the hollowed echo of his soul.
Another elder, face lined with the years of a hundred battles, whispered, voice trembling:
"Yet even in silence, the weight presses. Its shadow is upon us, felt as frost upon the bones, as stone upon the chest. We speak of deeds wrought, of hollowing strikes, of the witness before us—but never the name. We may write it in ink alone, sealed by wards, that generations yet unborn may know what must not be uttered. Even thus, the presence is felt, unyielding, absolute."
The eldest councilor inclined his head, eyes shadowed with centuries of foresight:
"Then it shall be writ, in codices guarded by wards and shadow, yet never spoken. Strategy shall guide us. Cultivators shall train in senses beyond seeing, scouts shall move unseen, and wards shall gird every peak and pass. We act in silence, in shadow, in vigilance, for the wrath of the unutterable is relentless. Its reach is beyond comprehension, and none shall endure it lightly."
Mist thickened in the chamber, winding about pillars and stone like ghostly serpents. The survivor's hollowed presence pulsed faintly at the center, a blackened heart of warning, reminding the council of the force they could never confront openly. Shadows stretched across vaulted ceilings, trembled along the runes, and even the torches flickered as if in fear.
"Let prudence temper our courage," the eldest concluded, voice echoing like a funeral bell, "let vigilance sharpen our will. Let the witness remain honored, the codices sealed, the forbidden name inked and locked away, and let none dare speak it. For the weight of silence is upon us, and the wrath of that which cannot be named is absolute, eternal, and unyielding."
A hush, deeper than the stillest night, fell upon the chamber. Mist coiled, shadows danced, and the blackened stones themselves seemed to sigh beneath the weight of unseen presence. Outside, Genesis Peak rose like a sentinel over the Grand Plains, its jagged ridges bathed in ghostly moonlight, winds moaning through the stone like a chorus of lost souls.
The debate had ended. Strategy was laid. Precautions were made. Yet the chamber's air remained heavy, the shadows restless, and the survivor's hollowed soul a grim testament to the unutterable. The council knew, in that oppressive stillness, that the weight of the unseen, unnamable force would never leave them, pressing upon their minds and hearts like eternity itself.
And thus, the Grand Plains prepared in silence, in shadow, in fear, knowing that some powers could never be named, never understood, and never truly defeated by mortal comprehension.