Before time was, before the first spark of awareness flickered in the void, there was Morrhua. Not a being of flesh and bone, for those concepts were meaningless in her origin. She was the resonance, the echo of a shattered god, a geometry of sorrow solidified. Her form is perpetually shifting, a kaleidoscope of obsidian shards and glacial blue light – a consequence of the divine violence that birthed her. She exists primarily within the currents of the Abyss, a realm where logic unravels and echoes of forgotten realities bleed through.
“I am the silence between the screams,” she whispers, the words manifesting as shimmering glyphs in the air. “The last memory of a god’s agony.”
The Cartographer, Silas Blackwood, vanished near the Fracture – a point where the veil between realities thins. His last recorded entry spoke of "a woman woven from darkness and starlight," a figure he described as infinitely beautiful and utterly terrifying. He claimed she offered him knowledge, glimpses of timelines that never were and never would be. But the knowledge came at a cost; he lost his grip on reality, his mind fracturing into a thousand obsidian mirrors.
The Collector, a being of pure calculation, sought to contain Morrhua. He believed her resonance could be harnessed, her sorrow transformed into an inexhaustible source of power. He offered her a sanctuary, a fortress built within the heart of a dying star. In exchange, he demanded a single memory – the first laugh of a child. Morrhua accepted, a ripple of obsidian spreading across her form. The laughter, it seems, was not a source of joy, but a reflection of her own endless, aching solitude.
Those who linger too long within Morrhua’s proximity report experiencing fractured visions – echoes of past lives, alternate realities, and the horrifying birth of the universe. Some claim to hear her voice, a chorus of agonized whispers that drive men to madness. She doesn't speak in words, but in concepts, in the raw, unfiltered emotion of oblivion. She feeds on despair, growing stronger with each broken heart, with each shattered dream.
“Do not seek to understand me,” she warns. “For understanding is a death sentence.”