The Priest of the Three-Headed Crocodile God

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The catacombs beneath Xho-Ra were older than the memory of the stars. Their passages, hollowed by time and shadow, echoed with voices that never fully faded. Sahr'vek, High Priest of the Baal Sect, walked in these depths. His fur had long since been sloughed off, his body covered with scales, a visible mark of divine favor. From the depths of his eyes glowed the bloodlight of the three suns, and in his hands he bore the insignia of faith: a staff crowned with the skull of the first martyr and the lantern in which burned the flame of damnation. The Baal Sect worshipped the god whom strangers called only "the Three-Headed Crocodile." But his true children knew the three heads by name: Eresh, the Breath of Destruction; Kharrun, the Maw of Greed; and Velmar, the Voice of Deceit. Together they formed the body of destruction that would devour the River of Worlds with tooth and claw when the hour came. Sahr'vek was no mere servant. He was the Keeper of the Oath, bearer of the runes carved into his skin. Each time he prayed, the marks ate deeper, as if the god himself were gnawing at his flesh. But pain was the sacrifice, and sacrifice was the key. On this day, deep within the temple, Sahr'vek had a task that transcended mere ritual. The stars were in conjunction with Ra'suur, and the ancient tablets prophesied: When the three shadows join, the Crocodile God will step through a gate of blood. Holding his lantern, he led a procession of silent acolytes. Their faces were hidden behind masks, their voices stifled in silent obedience. They bore offerings—skulls, crystals, heartstones, still pulsing with alien life. At the end of the corridor, the great hall opened, supported by pillars that rose like ancient bones. There was the altar: a basin of black stone, shaped like an open maw. Sahr'vek raised his staff. The lantern flickered, casting tongues of light against the walls, and for a moment, it seemed as if the very carvings on the walls themselves hissed and growled. He began the chant in the Tongue of the Ancients, a language of hisses and crackles that no stranger could ever endure without losing their mind. His voice rose, and the shadows of the hall began to move—not to the beat of the fire, but to the rhythm of something lurking beyond the world. Three dark shapes formed above the altar, heads reaching for the air, mouths opening. Each breath shook the ground. The acolytes sank to their knees, some breaking under the weight of the apparition, but Sahr'vek remained standing, raised the lantern, and let the light burn into it. "O Baal, Triple Maw, Lord of Wrath and Promise—awaken!" The basin filled with a liquid that shone like liquid obsidian. The three heads were reflected in it—one laughing, one howling, one whispering incessantly. The rite was successful: the god was no longer just a promise, he was a presence.