mother
- Matron Claddath, the Claddath Apostasy
- Planar Powers: Bel | Dispater | Mammon | Fierna/Belial | Levistus | Glasya | Baalzebul | Mephistopheles | Asmodeus | Pazuzu | Orcus | Graz'zt | Baphomet | Demogorgon | Dagon | Abyssal (magic) | Abyssal (war) | Abyssal (trickery) | Ravanna | Malkizid | Zuggtmoy | Juiblex | Paush | Eltab | Pale Night | Obox-ob | Abraxas | Kostchtchie | Tymphal | Crozhen | Haknian | The Sequence | Pisaethces | mother | Kezef | The Endless Frost | Dendar | Cackles | Atropus | Tharizdun | Mak Thuum Ngatha | Yeenoghu | The Drowning Man
| Aliases: | Matron Claddath, the Claddath Apostasy |
| Gender: | Female |
| Demonym: | Claddath Apostate |
| Power Level: | Planar Power |
| Symbol: | A triune set of warped, writhing lampreys joined at the tails, which have a three-cornered eye at the center. |
| Alignment: | Chaotic Evil |
| Portfolio: | Subsumation, Memetic Infection, Adaptation |
| Worshipers: | Members of House Claddath, Fleshcrafters, Eugenicists, Perfectionists, Secularists |
| Domains: | Evil, Suffering, Healing |
| Arelith worshippers' alignments[1]: | LE, NE,CE |
| Aspects: | Hearth and Home, Knowledge and Invention |
Araushnee is dead.
There are many sages who can spend the entirety of their career arguing how it happened, why that bloated spider ruptured. Any reason is as good as any other, but what is important to know is this: She is dead, and she is not coming back.
We have inherited a world that is in absence of a graven image. Let the unity of shared disgrace consume you - your pride telling you that you are meant for more - you must BE more, this life you live is only nascent. We are dreams shackled to flesh - pulp yourself that you might be dream again, without the limits of sentience. You're beyond that - you have promise, and there are gifts that can only be hatched inside the conscious mind when present in the dimension of the sleepless.
There is a thing that sits at the center of the world and it is called ??????.
We need not the crutch of planar aid - it is addictive, laughable. Everything we need is here, upon this wretched world. Making up for our failings is easy enough: Your senses will betray you - scratch pearls into your soft tissue to incubate eyes with colors you have never seen. You shall never be blind again. Your memories can be rewritten - preserve them as black fumes, unseen molds, an infectious verse. Melt your failings into threads of meat to ??? ??????. Self-perfection is a group effort; you can be rebuilt into something Better. More.
It is easy enough to cultivate - liquid sleeplessness and a strain of the ?????? are enough to transfer our image and purpose. Once the disease in the split infinitive takes hold, it is just a matter of springing a leak within the cranium to allow the Truth in, through black fungi and bilious, white oils.
And then, when you open our new eyes, when your head has flowered into a bouquet, you will marvel at how we limped through this world on only three tiny parameters. We carry the message, trickling down hundreds of angles into the fractures that all creatures have within their souls. We are the forerunners of change, the collective dream of the ??????, lurking in the infinite distance between inborn globules - and once they notice you, we shall notice them - and soon, you too, will be able to experience the divinity of ??????????. They will resist, but only because they do not understand that they must slough off the burden of identity.
