An Invitation to the Black Theater

It was a world that no longer existed, a realm of fantasy and dreams far detached from the universe.

A place now only known as the Dreamlands, remnants of a grand old civilization, reduced to a mere fairytale no longer within the memory of mankind. The world of the Old Ones—fantastical creatures which were imitations of gods, illusionary Foreigners from beyond the stars who defied all physical laws and defiled reality, and of course, within the Dreamlands where they resided was the capital city in which their king sat unmoving.

A world of complete darkness—

A world where nothing existed—

A world of isolation and illusions—

The Jet-Black Kadath.

That which once was the home of the old gods no longer spoken, an infinite capital city that lost its light. Only pure black remained in the stagnant world where time no longer flows—a dimensionless universe beyond the confines of space and time. The absolute domain of the faceless king with no name, the grand ruler who once reigned over All of Creation itself. He still sat unmoving, on his throne of jet-black that stood at the edge of all things, infinitely spiraling upwards beyond Heaven as it towered over the cosmos.

His sight and power reached to the very edges of Creation, throughout the infinite myriad of possibilities and impossibilities—worlds; universes that existed and those that did not, realms of nothingness, abstract worlds devoid of matter, and those beyond human minds. His boundless darkness encompassed everything—the hearts of humans, the deep blackness of space, the nothingness between worlds, and even within the deepest void where not even 'nothing' could be—they were all within his domain of darkness, within his sight and power, his infinite 'hands' and 'eyes' stretching throughout every inch of its black.

The king was attributed countless names, and yet, none of them held any meaning to he who had no face nor form; an illusionary monarch confined to his throne, he who lost his name, no longer able to touch the world he once ruled over.

Yes, those names such as;

The Dark Lord.

The Supreme One.

The Devil of Nacht.

The Lonely King.

The Black Heaven.

The King of Fantasy.

Mephistopheles.

Outer God.

And of course—

The Crawling Chaos, Nyarlathotep.

All fantasies had emanated forth from him; the Old Ones, the Great Old Ones, the mythical races and creatures that came from beyond, and even the Outer Gods—they were all merely byproducts of his existence. A king of fairy tales, of mere illusions and fantasies that had no place in the world; those without form, without time, and without fate or destiny—wandering creatures that existed purely as non-existent tales, illusions dreamt up by the king, becoming fantastical hallucinations that mankind chased after. The humans yearned for those fantasies, they reached their hands out to those possibilities—they wished to claim the power of those beings, and yet, every single one of them merely fell prey to the writhing black.

But even so, the king himself yearned for something. He yearned for light; for the precious days long gone to return once more. He held his hand out to the past, but his isolated self that was chained by his own mind and doubts could never reach it, and therefore—he could only avert his gaze from the light and thus remained alone, knowing only pitch-black darkness that had no warmth. And to this day, the king still sat unmoving on his throne, merely observing all worlds in solitude as his writhing darkness and countless fantasies wander the infinite worlds in search of the 'light' that would one day save him.