Mu'un

With the recurrence of Demon Ages, history had long been fractured, imperceptible to even the enduring Elven--or Aelven, as they were once known, kingdoms. Contrary to the sterile, noble culture of their people, Aelven society was defined by its intrinsic connection to nature. Before the construction of mighty Aelf'ahlnohma, there was no standardised governance within the forests of Branda, and much like the Beastkin, Aelvens most often found themselves forming disconnected tribes with varying beliefs and ways of life. While not impervious to the erasing tides of Demons which the world suffered for millennia, their fleet-footedness and aptitude for stealth allowed them to evade the total erasure of their kind, though not without terrible loss.

When the Aelven tribes were united under a single, nameless ruler, a religion closely related to modern worship of the Goddess of Light emerged--one which dichotomised the world's twin moons as heralds of good and evil; Aeme'sin--White Luna, and Aeme'klen--Black Luna.

Of particular note was the origin of the term 'Black Luna', which was the first of the two to enter the sphere of public worship. It was not a term coined by the Aelvens, or indeed by any of the world's denizens, but something intrinsically understood by those regarded as exceptional scholars. As the Aelven tribes began to merge towards the end of a Demon Age, when the legendary Hero had already defeated the Demon King, the threat of Mu'un was known ubiquitously among that developing civilisation as an alien force not to be tampered with, but even so, a coalition of scholars from differing tribes could not help but be endlessly intrigued by the phenomenon. And so, with the threat of Demons muted but still fresh in their minds, they departed for one such site--where Demonkind had emerged from underground, soiling the landscape with wide, steaming sinkholes.

Those scholars, of whom there were 12 in total, knew well the dangers of such a brazen approach, and at first were resolved to study the 'birthing grounds' from a distance. However, only a few hours of middling research passed before discussions began on methods to potentially reduce or nullify the effects of Mu'un on the body. It was known at that point that only the densest of materials would protect one from its sickening touch, and that the rudimentary smelting of Elven silver, an act only performed by the most exceptional smiths of the time, would not fulfil such a role.

Simply put, those scholars desired not only to approach the holes, but to plumb their depths in an effort to conclude any kind of rational origin to Demonkind. The boiling, shimmering air lended a kind of forbiddance to the holes, as if to say that no mortal creature would be allowed within, but that untouchable confidence only served to embolden the scholars, who at that point had already convinced themselves of the fact that at least one of them would be throwing their life away in the pursuit of knowledge that day.

Only three requirements were necessary to satisfy their shared curiosity--a long length of rope, something sturdy to anchor it to, and a willing participant who would most certainly die from the experience, either from gross negligence, the touch of Mu'un, or the terrible heat which rose up from the bowels of the earth. It should be noted that within the late period of Aelven society, the powers of magic had yet to be channelled by any mortal hand, making resurrection an impossibility. However, the harsh conditions of the Aelven Weald, where most tribes had established themselves, fostered a mind unperturbed by death, and more concerned with one's contributions to greater society.

Therefore, little time passed before a candidate emerged, to which there were precisely zero objections. Armed with more rope than sense and an iron piton, the determined young scholar marched shamelessly towards the cluster of sinkholes, feeling the tremendous heat emanating from below as he hazarded a peek into one which was particularly flush against the soil. As the wafting heat assaulted his face, there was neither a taste nor odour which accompanied it. Though, as if in reaction to something present in the air, he felt an unpleasant prickling on his skin.

By that point, he was already dead--the sickness of Mu'un had most assuredly taken root in his body, but in that serene moment when the thought occurred to him, he felt a renewed zeal to see the purpose of his sacrifice realised, and quickly set about hammering the piton into the crack of an exposed rock face nearby, securing the rope with a tight knot. He gripped the coarse length with not a single thought dedicated to ever resurfacing, and then, bracing his legs against the uneven walls of the sinkhole, he began to descend.

An Aelven disposition was not suited to the uncomfortable warmth rising up from the bowels of the earth, and before a minute had passed, his forehead was covered in beads of sweat. An impenetrable darkness soon began where the low morning sun could no longer reach, and before long, he couldn't see the rope in front of his face. Even so, he had expected to reach the bottom long before the thin pinprick of light above him had shrunk to a miniscule flash in the distance. The leading theory among his peers was that Demons were naturally subterranean creatures, somehow affected by the presence of the Demon King and forced out into the world. But how did that explain why the Demon King could control them? Why would a group of cave-dwelling creatures have developed such ferocious predatory instincts, and why were they so large? Was it possible that a network of subterranean caverns housed a diverse ecosystem of carnivorous animals?

Too many unanswered questions. Too many variables and inconsistencies to consider. Discovering the origin of Demonkind would be the first step in getting rid of them completely. No more ages of darkness, no more Heroes, no more Demon Kings. History would no longer be erased and rewritten. A future unconstrained by the limitations of that cycle--it was a dream held by all who had the displeasure of experiencing it. Further and further, that young researcher slid. Just how long was his rope? The thought of losing his grip in the darkness and plummeting to the bottom of that godless hole filled him with apprehension. The heat grew unbearable. With every breath he took, his chest burned with a caustic pain, and the prickling in his skin came to overshadow his sense of touch. The fathoms of the sinkhole defied all expectations. He hadn't reached the bottom--he had the distinct feeling that he was nowhere near the bottom.

Exhaustion piled on, and like so many others who had given their lives for knowledge, he struggled to rationalise the weight of his findings against his own desire to survive. Utter blackness, with only a faraway shaft of light to convince him that he hadn't plummeted into the depths of Hell, surrounded by an unending heat. Of course, he hadn't even begun to worry about the trial of climbing back out. His colleagues wouldn't dare stray close to the sinkholes lest they be stricken with Mu'un themselves.

His breathing had become ragged and uncontrolled, grip slippery with sweat against the coarseness of the invisible rope--the only thing still connecting him to the surface. He wasn't particularly surprised when the combination of exhaustion and hopelessness loosened his grip to the point of desperation, that he dared not allow himself to descend any further. Minutes spent hanging, making no progress, barely a fraction closer to the bottom. He was almost certainly at his literal wit's end at that moment. A few more feet, and his legs would slide past the bottom of the rope and leave him hanging for dear life with two hands. Only, he didn't quite have the pleasure of running out, for when his exhaustion reached a peak, he could maintain his grip no longer.

He fell. Like weathering a sandstorm, hot, rushing winds buffeted his face. He didn't scream--he barely had the strength to. Rather, his train of thought was completely bewildered. He expected to hit the bottom at any moment, but as seconds passed, there was no such end. Only the heat, which ballooned to an insufferable intensity as he fell, was any indication that he yet lived. Those seconds turned into minutes--impossible minutes. Just how deep would it go? Shortly after that question graced his passing mind, it was answered, and for the briefest of moments, he was allowed a sight that, had he survived to tell the tale, would have driven him to the edge of his sanity.

It was an ocean. A steaming ocean beneath the earth. A fathomless cavern lit with an aquamarine glow which seemed to run endlessly towards the subterranean horizon. It would have been a strangely beautiful sight, were it not for a detail that moved it from the fascinating to the utterly eldritch. Indeed, it was so mortifying a sight as to convince that scholar, who could feel the searing heat of the cavern burning his flesh, that he truly had discovered the underworld.

Sticky. Sticky. Chewing--ever-chewing masses. Like the whales and Krakens of the open ocean, they rose as behemoths from the burning-hot sea. Sticky--ever so sticky. Like army ants, they moved as a whole. Tipping stalagmites. Only a fraction of the entire mass, sleeping gently within the ocean's cradle. Was that his fate, too? Was he to become a -----?

Burning hot. Mercifully, he felt his consciousness slip, but could not deny that failing to report such a discovery--failing to mention the mere existence of the shivering ------ ------- rising from the surface of that water, would be his greatest failure. Endless roars. Roars of pain. They shed one-another like overgrown skins. The ocean ------- them. It was their ------

Death. His last words were not coherent. Strange mutterings and half-baked conclusions. His findings would never be published. Only a footnote of his tragic death would be recorded in the inconclusive writings of his colleagues, who remained ignorant of the full truth which had been revealed that day.