The Veil of the Outer Dark: The Gathering of Shadows

The night was thick with the scent of decay, a tangible presence that hung over the old abbey like a shroud. The abbey, once a beacon of faith and piety, had fallen into disrepair, its walls now a testament to the passage of time and the neglect of those who had once sought refuge within its cold, stone embrace. Yet, in the dead of night, it became a focal point for the arcane and the damned, drawn by whispers and the faint, unsettling glow of a fire that never needed tending.

At the heart of this gathering was a Necromancer known as Azarath, a being who had forsaken the light for the dark, who had become a vessel for the Outer Dark itself. His name was spoken in hushed tones, a name that carried the weight of forbidden knowledge and the dread of the unspeakable. The Necromancer's Meat Market was not a place of trade, but a place where the dead were bought and sold, where souls were bartered like cattle, and the living were prey to the desires of the ancients.

The gathering was small, yet it was significant. Among the attendees were a warlock, a sorcerer, a priestess of the old ways, and a lone scholar who had stumbled upon the truth of the Outer Dark through his research. Each had their own reasons for being there, their own dark secrets, and their own ties to the ancient gods.

The warlock, known as Thalor, had been seeking the power to reshape the world in his image, to become a new deity. The sorcerer, Lysandra, was a being of immense power, yet bound by a curse that could only be lifted by the favor of the Outer Dark. The priestess, Aeliana, sought to invoke the old gods to cleanse the world of the profane, to bring about a new age of darkness. And the scholar, Eamon, had become obsessed with the tales of the Outer Dark, driven by a thirst for knowledge that bordered on madness.

As the night wore on, the air grew thick with tension. The fire in the center of the abbey crackled, its flames dancing with an otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and writhe with life. Azarath, the Necromancer, stood at the center, his eyes hollow sockets in a face that was the living embodiment of the Outer Dark.

"You have come to the right place," Azarath's voice was a deep rumble, like the distant roar of some immense beast. "The Outer Dark calls, and it is time for the gathering to begin."

The warlock, Thalor, stepped forward. "We seek power, Azarath. The power to become more than we are, to transcend the limits of our mortal forms."

Lysandra, the sorcerer, added, "We are bound by curses, by the whims of the Outer Dark. We need your aid, your knowledge."

Aeliana, the priestess, her voice filled with fervor, declared, "We seek to cleanse the world of its impurities, to bring about a new age of darkness, where the old gods can once again walk the earth."

Eamon, the scholar, spoke with a tremor in his voice. "I seek knowledge, Azarath. The knowledge of the Outer Dark, the knowledge that has been hidden from humanity for too long."

Azarath nodded, his eyes flickering with anticipation. "Very well. Begin the ritual. Gather the ingredients. Let the Outer Dark flow through you."

As the ritual began, the air grew thick with the scent of sulfur and the sound of strange, guttural chants. The fire in the center of the abbey grew brighter, casting a reddish hue over the gathering. The shadows around them seemed to move, to twist, to take on the shape of the ancient gods themselves.

Thalor, Lysandra, Aeliana, and Eamon each took their place, their hands reaching out towards the fire, their fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air. Azarath, the Necromancer, stood at the center, his eyes fixed upon the flames, his lips moving in silent prayer.

The ritual was intense, the tension palpable. The gathering could feel the presence of the Outer Dark, a presence that was both comforting and terrifying. The gods of the Outer Dark were close, their touch cold and clammy, their whispers in the ears like the sound of a distant wind.

As the ritual reached its climax, the fire in the center of the abbey burst into a blinding light, casting the room into darkness. When the light faded, the gathering found themselves in a different place, a place where the walls were made of the very essence of the Outer Dark, a place where the air was thick with the scent of death.

Azarath, the Necromancer, stood before them, his face illuminated by the light of the Outer Dark. "You have done well," he said, his voice a mix of pride and dread. "The Outer Dark has accepted you."

The warlock, Thalor, stepped forward. "I am now a god, Azarath. The power you have given me is immense."

Lysandra, the sorcerer, nodded. "The curse has been lifted. I am free."

Aeliana, the priestess, raised her arms to the heavens. "The world is cleansed. The old gods will walk the earth once more."

Eamon, the scholar, approached Azarath, his eyes wide with wonder. "I have found the knowledge I sought. The knowledge of the Outer Dark."

Azarath smiled, a twisted, unsettling grin. "And now, you are all part of the Outer Dark. Your fates are intertwined with mine."

As the night wore on, the gathering of the arcane and the damned would discover that the Outer Dark was not a gift, but a curse. For the gods of the Outer Dark were not benevolent, but beings of unending hunger, and they had chosen the Necromancer's Meat Market as their new hunting ground.