The Profanation of The Chromaweave

[Mestvin 947]

Spoiler

 

 

The air above the Chromatic Desolation cracked and shimmered, as if reality itself gasped under the weight of what approached. The Damned, gaunt and robed in rags stitched from the flayed memories of the dead gathered in grim procession.

 

The rite was forbidden by the living, born not of ignorance, but fear.

 

The Black Scribe, raised the found fragment of the weave and began conducting the ritual as the others amassed around him to aid him.

 

Each Damned one echoed the verse, but each in a different cadence, different time — a chorus of contradictions, meant to unweave the threads of Order.

 

All spoken in the language of the dead.

 

 

From the Rift, a shape slithered. Then another - Tendrils of various natures attacked the Damned.

 

Yet the ritual had yet to finish, just as the chromatic weave the undead were tireless in their actions.

 

The Black Scribe extended his vile powers to rise the fallen Avatar of the Prismatic Rift and give it flesh.

 

The Tethers filled the avatar as the flesh molded it's old body. The Effect of the Necromantic powers and the Chromatic Weave changed it into-

 

Something else...

 

It was now under Black Scripture's control.

 

When the rite was complete the Damned scattered, some laughing, others not so fortunate - devoured by the abomination that now acquired a new taste in flesh.

A new creation of The Black Scripture
 

Spoiler

Big thanks to KnghtArtoria for hosting the Chromaweave Eventline

 

[Xergarok 811]

From across the warped lands a scholar observed the occult work of the Weavers. Recovering from their own encounter with the Terror, they could do naught but watch. They snarled at the sight of the abomination...

[KalashnikovaAvto 65]

Nal'fera on the ground turned to fine bonemeal after being grabbed by the tendrils multiple times

[Rhettthecoldone 252]

The Oaken Weaver adjusted the briary crown upon his head, recalling his willow-wrought minions of bark-flesh and bone. Rich tree sap oozed from their various wounds, in which Larkyn had been tirelessly at work stitching together through webs and dribbles of dark haze. “A job well done. We aided as best we could.” He uttered to his servants, of which the oaken horrors hadn’t responded to. They were mindless, afterall.