The Whispering Expanse, 899 AD

Extract from the account of Brother Aldric, a monk of Santo Petronius Abbey—manuscript recovered 1354 in the ruins of the monastery

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In the Year of Our Lord 899, on the Feast of Saint Michael

We should not have strayed so far into the godless expanse.

Brother Ulrich argued that the only way to prove our devotion was to tread where no man dared walk, to discover the forsaken places and consecrate them in the name of Christ. He convinced Father Dominic of this, his fiery sermons echoing in the chapel’s stone walls with all the fervor of Saint Paul blind on the road to Damascus. They claimed our mission was holy, that the sands of the endless east whispered only because they awaited the Word of God.

I am a monk, a scribe, little more than a lowly servant of the Lord. Yet as we entered this cursed land, and its foul wind began to pull at the corners of my soul like the fingers of some starving wraith, I could only think of the Book of Job: “The dead are in deep anguish, those beneath the waters and all that live in them. The realm of the dead is naked before God; Destruction lies uncovered.”

What we uncovered here was not of God.

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Five Days March into the Desert

Do not believe the lies of men who say the desert is unchanging. It changes with every breath, every shift of the wind’s rancid chorus. The sands writhe, whispering secrets that I dare not repeat aloud. They move with intelligence, reforming the path behind us so that even our souls seem barely tethered to the world we knew.

On the fourth night, Brother Otto vanished silently from his bedroll. By dawn, his footprints led nowhere, devoured by the living dunes. Ulrich insisted Otto was a weak and sinful man whose cowardice doomed him, but I listened absently. I was too distracted by the way the very air hummed, like the voice of eternity bleeding through reality’s seams.

We pressed on, though each day, the burden of my holy task grew heavier. Brother Erwin began muttering prayers in his sleep—prayers I had never read in any book of the Holy Church. They were full of guttural tones and harsh stops that grated upon my ears, as though his dreams spoke a tongue neither born of heaven nor earth.

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The Black Tower Appears

I saw it first. The horizon shimmered strangely as the desert’s heat rolled across my vision, but then it cleared, and there it stood.

The tower was unlike anything I had known in this world. It rose unnaturally from the sands, black and jagged, carved into a shape that seemed like a blasphemy of architecture. It was not meant to be built by man, nor could man comprehend the purpose of such a structure. It was wrong.

Brother Ulrich declared it to be the remains of a forgotten shrine, a temple “abandoned by the pagans who rejected the truth of Christ.” But though I did not dare speak my feelings, I knew this was no shrine. No man had built this place. No gods of wood or stone lived here.

That night, as we camped near its obsidian walls, the winds began to howl in voices that no longer pretended to be the elements. They spoke to us. They spoke INTO us. And our prayers did not silence them. Ulrich lit the blessed incense, but the smell turned rancid almost immediately. He insisted we must enter the tower, for the Lord had sent us here to claim it from whatever power lurked within.

Fool that I was, I followed him.

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The Descent

Inside the tower, there was no warmth, even as the desert remained a burning inferno beyond its walls. We felt the weight of the place immediately—an immense pressure as though the whole of creation bent inward here, coiled into a single knot of raw terror.

The walls bore markings, intricate grooves cut deep into the stone like veins split open by a blade. They glowed faintly, pulsating with a rhythm like a heartbeat—though not like the heart of man. The priests prayed louder. The light from our torches barely pushed back the growing dark.

Then we found the staircase spiraling downward—a maw of stone descending into abyssal blackness. It was colder than death with every step, the walls shimmering with an oily substance that smelled of rot and eternity. Ulrich’s voice carried forward, faith still burning in his chest, yet I could see his eyes falter as our descent pulled us out of time.

Down we marched for what may have been hours or days. Time did not bend here; it shattered.

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The Awakening

At last, we reached the base. And my knees buckled beneath the weight of what we saw.

A chamber stretched out around us, impossibly vast—its ceiling barely visible even as our torches blazed. Black stone formed its floor, carved with the same symbols we had seen above, yet now these carvings moved as though drawn by a living hand. At the center of the chamber was a pit, its edges marked with inscriptions that burned my eyes when I tried to read them. Ulrich fell to his knees, for in the pit…

It stirred.

There was something down there—more presence than being, more concept than entity. A vastness greater than the heavens and far more terrible. Its form reached far beyond reason, folding the geometry of our minds as we looked upon it. I do not know if it had eyes, but it saw us. It pierced us. It burned the image of itself into my soul with such force that I forgot my own name.

And it spoke.

Not in words, but in purpose. A sound beyond sound, a communication that vibrated through my bones and shattered my prayers. It made Ulrich laugh. He threw back his head and screamed laughter that carried madness and hatred beyond anything I imagined he could hold. He cast his holy cross into the pit, shouting praises to the thing that slithered below.

It was not the work of God. It was not even the work of Satan. This was something that predated all understanding, all creation. It forgot God as one forgets a dream.

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Final Entry

I escaped. How, I do not know. My legs betrayed my companions as I ran blind through the darkness, following the dim flicker of my torch back up the spiraling nightmare. Their screams pursued me, drowning in the echoes of the endless black halls, until I stumbled into the desert’s heat once more.

Ulrich is gone. The others are gone. Nothing remains of them save the whispers on the wind.

I write this now, barely lucid, as the sands whisper to me still. They call me back to the tower, promising me knowledge, power, and the truth of eternity. I fear the voice will never leave me.

To whoever finds this account: burn it. Destroy this journal, and if you find the tower, bury it beneath fire and stone. No holy relic, no consecration, can silence the ancient things that breathe beneath the sands.

Do not go seeking the gods of men, for what you will find are the gods of oblivion.

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Summary: Brother Aldric’s 899 AD account reveals a doomed Christian expedition to claim and purify the Whispering Expanse. His party uncovered the black tower and delved into its labyrinthine depths, releasing an ancient, unknowable entity that twisted faith into madness. Only Aldric escaped, leaving behind a desperate warning: the gods buried beneath the sands are not our own.

You might be intrigued by the themes of *The Whispering Expanse*, particularly the concept of ancient knowledge and forbidden places. Speaking of *forbidden knowledge*, you might find it fascinating to explore the idea of forbidden knowledge and its implications throughout history. Additionally, the notion of *Christian monasticism*, as portrayed by Brother Aldric in his account, is deeply rooted in history; learn more about its significance and practices by checking out Christian monasticism. Lastly, if you’re curious about ancient architectural wonders, consider delving into the evolution of towers and their various meanings across cultures. Each of these topics brings a rich context to the chilling tale of Aldric and his ill-fated expedition.