Language changed everything.
For hundreds of thousands of years, I whispered into instinct.
Now—
They could name things.
Fire.
Sky.
Death.
Spirit.
And once something can be named… it can be feared.
And once it can be feared…
It can be worshipped.
It began with dreams.
A small tribe near the edge of a vast coastline—primitive, cautious, barely forming structured society—began dreaming the same dream.
A robed figure standing at the edge of a black ocean.
Not towering.
Not monstrous.
Contained.
Controlled.
Behind me, faint shapes shifted in the water—suggestions of something vast and ancient, never fully revealed.
I did not show them my true form.
They were not ready.
Instead, I spoke in symbols.
"Build with stone."
"Plant in cycles."
"Honor knowledge."
"Seek the hidden."
When they awoke, they remembered fragments.
They began carving symbols in rock.
Crude spirals.
Tentacle-like patterns.
A single staring eye above waves.
The first glyphs dedicated to me.
I felt it immediately.
Worship is subtle at first.
A faint current.
A thin thread.
But when a dozen minds align in belief?
That thread thickens.
When a tribe kneels before a stone altar made in your honor?
It becomes an anchor.
For the first time, I felt something new.
Divine feedback.
Their belief did not grant me power in the way mortal myth suggests.
But it stabilized my presence in the physical realm.
It made influence easier.
Dreams clearer.
Manifestations stronger.
The first sacrifice was accidental.
A hunter drowned during a ritual near the coast.
The tribe declared it a gift to the "Deep Watcher."
They left his body in the water.
I absorbed the soul gently.
Not violently.
Not greedily.
A test.
The energy was minimal compared to the billions I had consumed from collapsing worlds…
But it was directed.
Focused.
Intentional.
Interesting.
Over centuries, language evolved further.
The cult expanded beyond one tribe.
Stories spread through migration.
The Deep Watcher.
The Dreaming One.
The Ocean Mind.
The Black Teacher.
Different names.
Same presence.
Some rituals were harmless.
Meditation.
Offerings of carved bone.
Chanting under the moon.
Others…
Less so.
Madness began to manifest in certain individuals who stared too long at the sea.
A few began hearing my voice more clearly than intended.
I adjusted.
Carefully.
Too much influence too early would fracture civilization before it matured.
I did not want chaos yet.
I wanted growth.
Far away, I sensed irritation.
Chthon had noticed.
The Darkhold had seeded its own corruption, but mine was subtler. Less overtly destructive. More patient.
Two dark anchors now existed on Earth.
Two sources of forbidden knowledge.
Two primordial influences guiding humanity's subconscious.
He did not confront me.
Not yet.
But I felt his awareness brush against mine like distant thunder.
Within my dimension, I expanded the Book of Azathoth slightly.
I allowed it to be found.
Not by kings.
Not by leaders.
By a curious, isolated proto-shaman.
He could not read it fully.
But he could feel it.
And that was enough.
The first mortal to ever project their mind toward me attempted the ritual.
It was crude.
Imperfect.
But for a flicker—
A human consciousness stood in my dimension.
Terrified.
Amazed.
Small.
I did not overwhelm him.
I spoke gently.
"You seek knowledge."
He wept.
And worship deepened.
The first true cult had formed.
Not dominant.
Not widespread.
But stable.
A quiet thread woven into humanity's foundation.
They would grow alongside civilization.
And one day…
When empires rise…
When oceans are crossed…
When scholars search for forbidden truth…
My name will already be waiting in the dark.