"In a world we know little of, we strive to learn everything; But what if the knowledge itself was a creature. A beast ever shifting and born through its own imagination as it daydreams of what is as it could be/have been/already is.
Tha'olthass, the great daydreamer, lives on the edge of sleep and so through his pretending the world is wrought. When too vastly His imagination came that it outpoured His memory the book was cast. A documentation of the origin of Tha'olthass that became an effervescent trigonometry that all worlds took when forming evermore amongst His dreams.
Son of the Idiot God. Child of origin. Woe, praise ye and what you bring as testament to His dreams."
Tha'olthassyn Hymnal
Before there was Tha'olthass there was nothing and before that nothing there was Azathoth. The Lord of All Things, boundless and almighty, yet pitiful in His stupidity. Azathoth, an accidental creator, blind and without purpose, was to be kept in a state of slumber like all of his progeny so as to preserve his creation and allow it flourish upon its doomed island of reality amongst chaos. Lulled by vile hideous symphonies so distorted as to drive any who inhabited his bleak purposeless conception utterly mad within moments, and dead within days. His pantheon, a mass of varying horrors who’s visage and utterances were oft met with similar fates to their onlookers as those who would view their father, who took to the daemon sultans brainchild and wreaked havoc upon anything they could, came to rest within its bound space in which their endless power and horrific might was wholly uncontestable.
This was the way the cosmos and its fluidity were for endless ages and in eternal route; until they were not. The grotesque symphony of harpy-like flutes and unsettling vile drums that slept the accursed ultimate chaos ceased with a rousing applause. A great and terrible sound as the creation, the earth, crumbled into nothing. Azathoth, awake, faded as He too was bound to His own paradoxical dream and in this final moment the Blind Idiot God made a purposeful creation but not of desperation or even of sentience.
An egg. A cocoon inside of which an unfathomable creature lay. Dormant. Asleep. Dreaming terrible dreams. The creature was given life and burst forth from its confine and from this coming The Great Daydreamer was born.
Tha'olthass everlasting.
The origin dream. A book. An everlasting compendium of infinite pages that holds Tha'olthass’ every dream; chaotic in its nature and boundless in its grandiosity. The eternity of its pages cradled in a vast unending cover and bound together at a spine. Each dream given its own opposite dream; for every nightmare, a night terror for every daydream, a deep dream. And who to read such magnificence as all creation in its utter horror but its own creator. An amaranthine cycle born from The Everwatching and from which He was born; ad infinitum. Unknowable chaos yet befalls those that dare to seek the face of their progeneration; same as it always were for Azathoth’s children as after all Tha'olthass too was descended from the unfathomable, hideous, daemon sultan. However, this time the creator was purposeful in his terrible contrivance. And so too was the quire that was to sing him to his creative lull, a purposeful meter of power and finiteness. This was a faction of wizards woefully powerful and terrible in their boundless might yet still capable of dying lest they outrank Tha'olthass’ dream and ultimately His form, as immaterial as it may be.
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These Sons of Silence are to perform ritual and rite akin as a hideous offering of settlement for the Primordial Progenitor from which all life springs forth. To intern a deep trance state and to tend to the infinite dreams Tha'olthass weaves. The other duties of the Sons include keeping these dreams from overflowing their page as each page may hold its own deity level entity or birth its own creator god and these may seek to dethrone the stability from which we find ourselves amongst the infinite sea of nothingness. If the Book should close or Tha'olthass be roused entirely the only dreams that shall remain reside within the cover and the Spine of the eternal loop. Tha'olthass’ waking is not the end as Azathoth’s was for The Eldritch Compendium is a story of Tha'olthass. So too does it call for Tha'olthass to view it and the cycle begins anew.
Amongst the scrawling infinity of the Cradle of the Compendium lies the written stories of the Sons and what each Brother in Silence discovered of their grotesque patron saint. They act as the Unyielding Chaos’ antithesis, an order that brings unsteady peace to an illusion of organized thought. Madness seeps into each and every Brother and from each Brother a new Entity is born. Tha'olthass’ eternal cycle, horrendous in its eternity, takes place in all he creates through Daydream and Nightmare alike. Each paragraph, written on the all encompassing skins, a testament of a forgotten cycle and collection of tawdry incantations used to lull this great Ouroboros of Chaos.
Of the many there is few and of the few there is a select apostolic group set to hold and devise new ways of demystifying the horrific darkness that allows for the translation of the non-euclidean into forms Cthonauts of captured beings founded in heightened states may find capable of translating to their eventual cults. All origins may find a deity, and of those deities plans to ascend may fester. The Brothers work tirelessly to destroy the machinations of these malicious youths and seal their very conception in a separate realm in the non euclidean space of the Compendium. So each page of the Epilogue and Prologue stay in constant cycle as each holds an entity that threatens real space; of the Prologue the origin beings of Azathoth’s terrible progeny inhabit much of the pages each inscribed with the story past present and future told in languages with no mortal equivalent. Cyclopean structures inhabit their entrances and hold the cultists of the myriad of temporary realities each worshipping the chaotic entity inside conflating its ego out of fear and worship or lulling it out of love for the being itself as the lesser sentience a creature holds the more psychic willpower the entity seems to possess.
