EPISODE 14: Form and Void

By the dawn of the 20th century, a new darkness had taken root. Orem Black, armed with the Book of Amar, had become a prophet of doom, his gospel steeped in ancient and forbidden magic. Alongside him, Joseph and Fredrick Frost, two once-ordinary men, now students of shadow, acolytes of the arcane.

It was Fredrick who understood what had to come next. With full knowledge of the Order of Wormwood’s true mission, he pressed Orem to act, and be on the offensive. If dark forces were meant to rise, and war was inevitable, they would need an army of their own, to defeat the light. Orem used the Book’s vast power to cheat the natural order. He would sow magic into the world, teaching it to any who sought it...or any desperate enough to kneel.

And so, by the winter of 1901, The Knights of the Black Serpent were born. A brotherhood of outlaw mystics, reshaped by dark magic, each hand-fed secrets from the Book of Amar. Crude and unruly, they were not scholars, but soldiers of twilight -- growing stronger with each passing day. Yet, even with an army, Orem faced his most perplexing riddle, uncovering the Processions.

Buried in layered metaphors and indecipherable symbols the ancient prophecies within the Book, meant to ignite a war between the dark and the light, remained maddeningly obscure. What they meant or how they would unfold seem lost to all besides the divine, and perhaps, the damned.

Though Orem had been trained, his mind sharpened by what he learned in the Abyss, even he struggled to grasp the full vision. Frustrated, he unleashed his knights across the globe in search of other magical texts, hoping one, or many, might hold the key to unlocking the Processions. 

It was Joseph who discovered a forbidden path, while reading from the Mysteriorum Libri Quinque, the cryptic writings of John Dee. There was a ritual, an ancient method that might help them unravel the unknown. Throughout history, Oracles were conduits, an “All-Seeing-Eye”, who could glimpse the will of gods and devils alike. But to summon one would require a sacrifice, a living vessel, willing to surrender their body to a spirit that could never leave.

While Orem had built a loyal army, this would demand more than allegiance. It would require someone he trusted beyond measure. Someone whose mind, even in death, was sharp enough, deep enough, to comprehend the revelations to come. To Joseph’s horror...Fredrick stepped forward, volunteering. 

JOSEPH: You don’t have to do this. We’ll find another way. 

FREDRICK: No, son. We’ve been circling this for years. You know what the Processions are. If we fail, it won’t just be us who pays for it.

JOSEPH: You’re talking about erasing yourself. Letting something else wear your face. That’s not sacrifice, it’s suicide.

FREDRICK: All my life, I watched Veera, Banerjee and others in the Order of Wormwood, bend the world with their hands. I envied them. I was jealous of what they provided the world. Now, I have a way to matter. To hold the thing we’ve all been chasing. Even if it breaks me.

JOSEPH: You’ll be dead. I don’t want to lose you father.

FREDRICK: I know that Joseph...but if I can give us even a glimpse of the future, it won’t be for naught. You will walk in Command with Orem.

JOSEPH: But I want you here. Breathing. Arguing. Laughing.

FREDRICK: But this is the path I’m meant to take. Not for glory, not for legacy…but so you and Orem don’t have to walk blind towards destiny.

Joseph, overcome with emotion. Fredrick would wrap his arms around his son one last time.

FREDRICK: Remember me right here. This moment. My arms around you. My heart full. That’s who I am. That’s what I leave behind...I love you, son.

And so, in a dark ritual, beneath a moonless sky, Fredrick Frost, once an accomplished stage magician, father, and a champion of the light...was sacrificed to serve the dark.

In death, his body became a vessel, inhabited by a soothsayer specter, an ancient seer exiled long ago to the void. The spirit took root, permanent and parasitic, animating Fredrick’s lifeless form. 

As words spilled from the Oracle, interpretations of events and dates flowed. Two pieces of the second Procession had already come to pass. The third, its final phase would need to be set in motion. A name was uttered -- Ezath…What, or who that was remained unknown. But the Oracle assured them...time would soon reveal it.

The seer also spoke of a coming Procession, one closer to their present. Tethered to a being known only, as The Eater of Souls. Orem and his army now had the makings of a roadmap to assist the dark in their quest to trigger Armageddon – but like any journey, it would take time.

Fredrick Frost becoming the Oracle - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC

In the hollow blackness of the Abyss, two sparks refused to die. Banerjee and Veera Sarin endured. Time meant little in that place, and suffering came without shape or reason, but still, they held fast. They trained their minds, tempered their spirits, meditated through madness. Side by side, they conjured more light, cutting the darkness further carving out a sanctuary, a beacon in the endless night.

Banerjee, drawing on his command of necromancing, communed with shattered souls and lowborn demons, gaining insight into the dark’s masterplan...They were using Orem and his army to assist in solving the Processions. Aligning fates as far as universal law would allow.  

They also mapped what little they could of the Abyss’s vast expanse. The terrain was unstable, ever changing, yet patterns began to emerge. The void, formless, without edge or shape, had once been something. A realm of reality, now collapsed. And while it defied structure, it bore scars. In those scarred places, the darkness thinned. Sound traveled strangely, as if ricocheting off something buried just beneath perception. There, existence felt fragile, stretched thin. If they could learn to manipulate these fractures, escape might yet be possible.

As they examined a deep scar in the darkness, a sound pierced the silence...it was laughter. Unmistakable, human. Drawn toward it, their flickering light pushed outward, cutting through the gloom. No slithering souls. No wailing phantoms. Instead, they saw a man. A Warrior, broad-shouldered, wild-eyed. His laughter echoing like a song of defiance as he battled beasts of shadow, alone.

TO BE CONTINUED…