The Hunger Without Name
Long before the gods sang the first stars into light…
Before the beasts of old howled across the newborn void…
Before mortals whispered prayers into soil…
They existed.
Not born.
Not shaped.
Not created.
They were the remainder—the rot beneath the roots of creation.
A race, or perhaps a hunger given form, that came to be known in fractured scriptures and crumbling dreams as the Devoured.
But not even that name holds them.
They are a hive, ancient and unsated.
They have no language—only signal.
They have no kingdom—only appetite.
They drifted through the Casmo, that vast realm of collapsed dimensions and broken time, feeding not on matter, but essence—on thought, memory, and soul.
For eternity, they fed on each other, cycling death and rebirth in an endless convulsion of mouths, teeth, and absence.
Until one of them died where it should not have.
On Earth.
In Bassoun.
Near a temple not meant for their kind.
The death of the young one echoed not in sound, but in signal.
A ripple through the hive-mind, like blood hitting still water.
They felt it.
They all turned.
Now They Have a Destination
From the deep places of the universe—far beyond the Casmo, past even the whispering edges of gods—they opened a path.
Not a gate.
Not a rift.
But a leak, subtle and slow. A dark thread weaving its way toward the mortal realm. Toward the place where essence is rich, where souls sing, and where Lwa walk among the living.
Toward Zantrayel.
They do not speak.
They do not rage.
They do not burn.
They move.
They shift as one.
Ten million hungers, bound together in sacred silence.
Each one remembering the taste of the dead hiveling.
Each one learning that outside the eternal starvation…
There is a world filled with food.
The Gods Sense It—But Cannot Understand
Even the gods turn their gaze.
Papa Legba felt something shift at the Crossroads.
Baron Samedi paused beneath the Earth, unsure of the echo.
Erzulie Freda wept in her temple without knowing why.
Ogou Feray's blade dulled for the first time in centuries.
Even Tijan Petro, mad and divine, looked into the dark and whispered—
"What are you?"
But there was no answer.
Because this—this hunger—was not made to answer.
It was made to consume.
The Hive Moves
In the void, they coil like storms.
They feed still—on each other—but now with purpose, conserving energy for the crossing.
Their bodies are wrong—shaped by forgetting, not by design.
Some have a thousand arms.
Some weep black honey from empty eye sockets.
Some pulse with the memories of civilizations they swallowed and forgot.
And some… are still being born.
And they move.
Slow. Certain.
Toward Bassoun.
Toward Zion.
Toward all that lives