I

Journal of Æon,

Chronicler of Solera’s Flora

Third Cycle

Journal entry #001

How I know all of this is a mystery I am trying to unravel. My memory is blank, except for the shrill whistle that almost ruptured my ears as I awoke. The noise overwhelmed my senses, forcing me to shield my eyes. The safety of my mind was quickly compromised, as all I could see were runes being etched into it, creating blaring horns and screeching hums. The conglomerate of runes then quivered and echoed with life. What is going on in my head?

Journal #002

As I roam the landscape of Solera, looking for an answer to this now ear-numbing headache, the waters and air hum with a humbling robustness, creating a rush of intense sine waves and shaking the core of the world. The waters gurgled with anticipation at my feet, begging me to join the harmonious symphony starting across the cosmos. I reluctantly joined in, looking at the sky and adding that grating and screeching hum to the world’s orchestra. An uneasy feeling began to wash over me as I look back at the ground, my head pounding. Something wasn’t adding up; I had been here before.

Suddenly, the hum quickly morphs from an elongated chirp to a moan echoing across the clouds. Howling with fear and anger, the sound slowly turns into a voice before quickly fizzling out. Solera became silent— not even the wind could be heard. My body froze as a cold, chilling feeling quickly found its way up my spine. The ground and air start to hum an ominous note. As the note reverberates in my head, I hear the word “target.” A rule has been broken, and now Voir stirs.

Journal #003 

The sound is indescribable. The constant, agonizing thumps of these colossal howls rattle my entire skeleton. As I stuff various flora into my ears to subdue the pain, I catch a glimpse in my peripheral vision—heaping mounds of shadow, coalescing into what appears to be a spectrum of vibrant crystalline violet. Its sheen and glow are so beautiful and blinding that I can’t help but follow its path, absolutely entranced.

The violet shade soon turns jet black, pooling into a deep blue as the shadow moves closer to me. Before I can even blink, a chilling rush follows a searing pain in my spine. The pool of jet black and blue sinks a sharp, serrated hand into my flesh, seizing hold of my spine.

(runic language for: “Stay put, Outlier, the priests must see to it that you are taken care of”). 

The shade lets out an ominous screech, shaking the very trees and combining with the deafening howl of what could only be Voir. 

Journal #004

I try to escape, but my body continues to lie limp on the ground. Helplessly, I search for something to grab onto, a way to escape, but there’s nothing. The shade, now revealing its grotesque beak and soulless voids for eyes, gripped my spine even further. The blade-infused hands rubbing themselves into the bone only force me to twitch in pain and let them dig in even more. My cries are only gasps for air as this eagle-shadow-like monstrosity crushes my body, watering the emerald-tinted soil and flora with the saturated pink liquid pooling out of me. As my vision blurs, the undergrowth in my ears falls out, and I hear a deep and low chatter growing louder as if it's crawling into my ears. I try to look up, the beast is now in the company of various other shapes/runes. Every last one of them quivering with a high-pitched hissing sound that cut into my brain. Curdling with a low, encroaching moan that shook my very being, they started to inch closer and closer to me.

Laughing, they were laughing.

Journal #005

The hideous, pretentious laughter is all I hear when I wake. I desperately scramble for something to defend myself, but I am alone—alone in what appears to be a cell, barren and void of any bedding. All I can do is curl up for warmth and think about what will transpire now that I've been captured by those runic entities. Were they like the beast, too? A collection of symbols and sounds, burning and screaming until a physical form is created? Whatever they are, my next confrontation with them will have to wait. My spine is still screaming in hot flashes of discomfort. I try to ignore the pain, but it’s to no avail.

As I prepare to die here, a sudden rush of air pushes my entire body toward the door. I try to resist, but it pushes me again—this time harder—throwing me into the barren, ironclad bars of the cell. My bones feel like they're breaking, and my spine cries out, but all I can do is lie there. The air pushes my head against the bars.

(Runic language for “get up”)

A collection of air trills at me, flashing runes and popping sounds as if it’s about to implode in my face. To please this sense of urgency, I try to stand on my feet but fail, hitting the stone floor and bruising my body further. The air throws me against the bars again and again until I hear a loud thud and the clanging of iron on stone. I’m free! My body was completely unscathed. How? As if the runic collection of air read my mind, it approaches my face with sizzling pops and squelches.

(Runic language for “there is so much more for us here on Solera, we can escape, we can escape Solera and Voir itself.”)

The runes quiver as they sense my excitement. Before I can question it further, the symbols slowly shift, forming a new phrase and creating an eldritch-sounding sequence. The pops and blips begin to morph into sustained notes, quickly fluttering into a beautiful melody. I can’t help but join in with the monotonous hum I had created earlier. The drone collides with the spheres of air, quickly morphing and blending. The sounds grow louder, more distorted, like a machine screaming to life. As the climax of the sounds arrives, the runes take shape in a way I’ve never seen before, and then—everything turns white.

(Runic language for “ODDSPHERE”). 

II

Journal of Hastis,

Chemical Analyst of Solera’s Waters

Fourth Cycle

Journal #010

The sky over Solera has always shimmered with an iridescent luster as though the very air itself were imbued with life. It is a world of strange and beautiful symmetries, where the flora stretches impossibly towards the heavens and the fauna murmurs in languages beyond comprehension. But it is not the world of Solera that has occupied my mind, it is something else. A discovery. A truth that sings through the labyrinth of leaves and branches—something I now know cannot be unlearned.

It began with a scroll. A simple thing I stumbled upon while walking the ancient and uncharted groves of the Elders, my usual route to my lab. The scroll was wrapped in the silk said to be woven by the iridescent Ku’ai, the rare starlight moths living within Solera’s bark, whose cocoon threads were said to contain knowledge at the cost of being a new host. On the parchment within, symbols were etched—unfamiliar yet resonant. The sequence of runes hums rather louder than the other runic texts we use. The high-pitched resonance grew, making my eyes twitch at the initial transient. As it pulsed rhythmically throughout my whole body, a sudden nauseating feeling washes over me.

These symbols—they were showing me a creation. A beautiful entity at the heart of Solera, so beautiful and yet horrifying. 

(Runic Language for: “SCHISMA”)

Journal #011

My work has not seen any improvement. The symbols I discovered in the Elders’ grove have begun to reveal themselves in my dreams, taking all my mental energy to try and comprehend. It is not mere coincidence, I know. I feel an inescapable force pulling me deeper into the threads of the unknown. There is no denying it now—this is not just a series of forgotten characters; these are pathways. Pathways to something that should not exist.

The runes, I now believe, are tied to Voir, the Cosmic Sea God. It is said that it holds the waters of creation within its vast, infinite form, a being of terrible power who keeps the stars in their place. Solera is in question of being a mere dream of Voir, a theory many of my team are trying to prove as mere superstition. But these runes—these symbols—do not speak to the orderly nature of Solera. No, they call for something else, something sinister. There is a presence within Solera and Voir, in the space between the stars. An intelligence. An imposition.

(Runic Language for “MUSIC OF THE SPHERES”)

Journal #012

I try to transcribe the symbols into the air. The same strange hum I felt before now courses through the room with an intensity I can no longer ignore. The walls of my chamber vibrate faintly, as though the very stones themselves are trembling in recognition of what I am trying to summon. The air grows thick with the scent of ammonia, a presence I cannot place but feel is watching. My pulse quickens. The runes burn in my mind.

In my deepest meditation, I see fragments: vast plains of blackened stones beneath a sky of swirling colors—of suns that twist into spirals of impossibility, of seas that churn not with water but with ideas—alien, ever-shifting concepts that rearrange themselves at the whim of a cosmic gurgle.

(Runic Language for “Voir”)

Journal #013

I have found it—the precise alignment. It was not an instinctive understanding, no; it was born from the whispers in the air, from the vibrations of the earth beneath my feet, from the cadence of Solera’s living song. The plants here, their leaves and flowers, grow in fractal patterns—echoing something ancient, something hidden in the structure of the universe itself. I cannot help but wonder whether the Flora of this planet is not simply growing—it is reaching, as though the roots themselves are attempting to touch the fabric of reality beyond what is visible.

I have etched the sequence of runes upon the very surface of Solera. They are woven into the fabric of its essence now, thrumming beneath the groves, beneath the grass, beneath the very sky. And, as I did so, the runes began to quiver with gushes of low hums and moans.

The stars shifted. The hum in the air grew more pronounced, a rhythmic pulse, rising and falling. I could feel it—the moment when the membrane of space thinned. The waters stop, and the air grows silent. Voir is waking.

Journal #014

There is an undeniable pull now. The air has grown thick with anxiety, as though the very atmosphere itself is taut, waiting for the first rupture to tear it apart. The runes no longer quiver; they levitate, twisting into monstrous patterns, their wailing hums reverberating as if they are signaling something—or someone.

At times, figures flicker at the edges of my vision, shapes that dissolve before I can comprehend them. There is no certainty in them, no fixed form—only movement. It is as though these fleeting shapes and runes are alive.

Journal #015

The thought gnaws at my mind like a creeping fever. There are certain runes—those forbidden and ancient—that, when combined, do not simply merge but warp reality itself. They twist the fabric of the cosmos, bending time and space into a grotesque mockery of their former states in Solera. The consequences of such unions are incomprehensible, for they do not follow the laws we understand, nor the boundaries that should keep us whole. A single misstep, an accidental joining, and the very essence of being could unravel. The runes pulse with a malevolent intent, as if they are eager to meet, to entwine, to bring forth some nameless terror that has slumbered beyond the edges of reality, to welcome the runic orchestra being created and devour its creation. Again and again.

Journal #016

I witness it all now—the sounds, the ceaseless, shifting sounds of Solera. The very symbols and runes, drawn and etched into the ancient tomes of our libraries, have created and destroyed life without a shred of remorse or understanding. They are indifferent to the weight of their consequences. A low, guttural resonance pulses beneath the air, a deep, reverberating echo that grows louder with each passing moment, swelling as these thoughts take root. Not even my mind is safe from this intrusion, for it calls to me with an impossible, haunting melody—one that winds through my consciousness like a serpentine whisper, slithering through every thought, twisting and tightening. And in the stillness of that call, I glimpse the true creator of our world. It is nothing but an insignificant insect in its eyes, small and pitiful. Yet, it gazes back at me with an utter disdain, as if I am no more than a fleeting speck in its vast, unfathomable existence. Solera is but a mere experiment to it—a realm where Voir’s seas churn in eternal, restless turmoil, and (Runic language for Nyarlathotep)’s chaos spills like poison, creating a horrifying, beautiful, and insatiable unholy union.

Journal #017

It is happening. The reality of Solera—its beauty, its serenity—is slipping, unraveling at the edges. The flowers wither, their once-vibrant forms warping into grotesque shapes, their petals curling like something not of this world, like the tendrils of an impossibly distant nightmare creeping toward us. The waters of Voir, too, grow strange—not calm and infinite, but churning with erratic, unpredictable waves that pulse like the beat of some unholy, alien heart.

I do not know how much longer I can endure this. I feel the pull of the runes in my mind—persistent, tugging, urging me toward a precipice I dare not approach. Yet, I am paralyzed by the dread of what will come should I draw the final lines. The earth trembles beneath my feet, the very soil alive with a chaotic energy I fail to describe, as if it, too, is aware of the impending rupture of this (Cycle).

I am no longer certain I am still within the bounds of Solera. Perhaps I have already crossed into (Runic language for Nyarlathotep’s) domain, where reason and reality crumble like dry ash. Perhaps (Runic language for Voir’s) is coming to witness the union, and if the visions I have seen are true,

I fear it is already too late.

(Runic Language for “NYARLATHOTEP”)

Journal of Kael Reyl,
Miner of Solera’s Uncharted Realms
Sixth Cycle

Journal #008

As I pull myself from the cavern, I look up at this beautiful world and cannot help but dream of its beauty. The smell the flora created was a heavenly treat from being nose deep in sulfur-infused caves, drawn by a strange sensation in the air—an instinctive pull that neither logic nor reason could have quelled. The planet, bathed in its near-constant twilight, emanates an unsettling yet intoxicating light. Its flora was so unlike anything I had seen. Returning home was as blissful as ever. The walk back only further blossomed my love for this world. Such glorious light and chirping of the emerald glass create such intense feelings of ecstasy that I promptly swing the moss curtain over and settle in my home with that illustrious book. The local scholars who gave this to me say it is written by a lost soul called Æon, a figure known only in runes etched in the ancient books of Solera, yet I had not expected to find his works so heavily entwined with theories of a madman. He spoke of shadows and beasts lurking in every corner of Solera, controlling every inch of our life. How they congregate beneath the caverns and summon a god by the name of Voir whose eye is the very ocean of Solera. These shades only had one goal in mind: to breed chaos. What that means, I do not know, but I would be lying if I were to say I am not captivated. The theory here is so intriguing, and the thought of a secret tomb, holding the secrets of these Cycles.  I must seek this out for myself. Journal in hand, I make my way back to the cave. As the night begins the air and flora around me get destructively quiet, the silence almost ringing as I go deeper and deeper into the cave.

(Runic Language for “MAJEST AMONGST THE STARS”)

Journal #009

Æon’s madness, as it is called, has spread deeper into my thoughts. I can no longer think about the runes without feeling them burrow into my mind. Each time I descend further and further into the eerie rocky void, there is a ripple, a subtle shift. It is as if the universe knows I am looking. Is this how Æon disappeared?

I can’t stop now, and as I fall deeper into the cave, the air around me quickly changes. 

Journal #010

I….. I must keep….. Moving.

I see the symbols even when I close my eyes, glowing faintly in the darkened spaces of my mind.

In the depths, I have seen it. A vast expanse of black, swirling stars and distorted suns, spiraling into nothingness. And in the center, an entity—a shape that is no shape at all. It moves between what should be real and what is not, flickering in and out of perception. It sings. Or perhaps it plays, in the most terrible way, a sound that crawls beneath the surface of my thoughts, a hum of chaos, so alien and incomprehensible it shreds the very fabric of my understanding.

This presence is not new to Solera. I can feel it in the air, in the vibrations that pulse from the earth itself. The plants—the flowers—are beginning to wither, their petals curling as if they are being drawn into themselves, like forgotten things pulling away from reality.

I cannot stop now. I must know.

(Runic Language for “ENDLESS MIST”)

(Runic Language for “HOWLER IN THE DARK”)

Journal #012

The hum grows louder. It fills every corner of my mind, pressing upon my senses like a tangible weight. Solera is no longer a place I recognize. The once vibrant flora, now muted, twisted into dark reflections of their former selves within these caves. As they whisper of a knowledge too vast for my fragile human comprehension, the runes begin to sing again, but not in a melodic manner, rather a very dissonant, piercing vibration that only serves as a torturing assault on my eardrums. 

I feel it now—a presence behind me, behind my very thoughts. It is no longer the subtle hum of vibration but something more—something that shapes the world around me. I see figures moving in the periphery of my vision, shifting in unnatural ways. They are not alive, yet they are not dead either. I can’t help but feel that I am not alone here.

I can no longer ignore the truth: The runes are not a gateway—they are a prison, and I am inside it.

(Runic Language for “NAST MAJEST”)

Journal #013

I can no longer deny the truth: the entity has already emerged. It is not bound by the realms of Solera nor the dimensions we know. It exists between the spaces—between Voir’s seas and the churning chaos of Nyarlathotep’s will. I now understand the purpose of Solera’s lush flora, the intricate harmony of its ecosystem: it was always meant to act as a vessel, a containment.

But now, it is no longer contained.

I can feel the presence everywhere—the runes are no longer mere symbols; they are scars on the universe, etched across the very soul of this world. Nyarlathotep is here, pulling at the strands of time, and in his wake, everything is unraveling.

I have made a choice. I must complete what AEon started, for there is no turning back now. The world trembles, and I tremble with it

III

Journal of Ga’huuo,
Scholar of Solera’s Ancient Tombs
100th Cycle

Journal #063

The world of Solera is a place of profound beauty—a planet saturated with life, where the flora thrives in every conceivable hue. The air is thick with the scent of blooming ferns and delicate flowers that defy every known law of biology, growing taller than any tree upon Earth, their roots twisting like serpents beneath the earth. It is an illusion of tranquility, a harmony of existence, for none of us can ever comprehend the subtle intricacies of the loop that binds us.

I have recently met with the sages of the Verdant Order, who possess an enigmatic knowledge of the tides that govern not just the oceans but the very flow of time itself. Their eyes hold the weight of a thousand years, yet they are blind to the truth that persists just beneath their reality. They speak in riddles of the Cosmic Sea God, Voir, who, according to legend, is the eternal protector of Solera, weaving the fate of all things within the folds of his vast, watery realm. They believe that he watches over us with benevolent patience, guiding the flora and fauna to their fullest expressions.

I, too, once shared such blind reverence. But now, in the deepest recesses of my heart, I feel a creeping doubt. Something stirs within the waves that crash against the verdant shores, something unseen yet omnipresent. The sages speak of a great power beyond Voir, an entity whose influence cannot be comprehended by mere mortal minds. They speak of Nyarlathotep—an Outer God of chaos whose very name elicits a shudder in the air itself. They say that Voir unknowingly answers to him, a servitude veiled in the guise of divinity. But how can one serve without knowledge of their master?

The loop, the ever-repeating cycle, seems to have woven itself into the fabric of my very being. I have lost count of the days, for they all blend. There is no ending to this journey, no beginning. We are all locked in an eternal dance, unaware of the vast forces tugging at our very existence. It is said that the sentient life on Solera—the sylvans, the blossomers, the waterfolk—live in a perpetual state of bliss, for they cannot comprehend the cyclical nature of time. But I am different. I remember. And yet, I cannot escape. I fear the truth of Nyarlathotep lies just beyond the veil, waiting for the right moment to break through, unraveling the dream that Voir has cast upon us.

Journal #064

The land grows darker now. A shadow hangs over the Black Forest, a pall that was not present in the years before. The trees, once vibrant in their myriad colors, now shimmer with an unnatural sheen, as though each leaf carries a fragment of something ancient, something not of this world. The forest itself has become sentient, whispering in a language that I cannot understand. The wind seems to carry fragments of forgotten knowledge—glimpses of truths that cannot be allowed to fully manifest.

I ventured into the depths of the Black Forest today, following the faint whispers that seemed to call me, urging me deeper into the labyrinth of twisting roots and vines. The further I walked, the more the world around me distorted. The flora—once bright and welcoming—now pulsed with a sickly radiance, as if every plant was feeding on something malevolent lurking beneath the surface. The air became thick and oppressive, and the sound of my footsteps began to echo unnaturally, repeating in patterns I could not fathom.

It was there, in the heart of the forest, that I encountered an ancient monolith, its surface etched with strange symbols. They seemed to writhe beneath my gaze, shifting with each blink. The stone was cold to the touch, yet its aura radiated a palpable warmth, an unsettling mixture of conflicting energies. I dared not touch it for long, but I could not tear myself away. I felt it calling to me, pulling at the very core of my being, as though it sought to implant its knowledge within me.

What I saw was a vision—not one of comfort, but a swirling vortex of colors and patterns, shifting and bending in ways that made my mind ache. I could hear whispers, incoherent at first, but slowly, slowly, their words became more distinct. The whispers spoke of Nyarlathotep, of his plans for Solera, and of Voir’s unwitting servitude to this harbinger of entropy. It spoke of the loop—the endless repetition of time, the unbroken cycle that we are trapped in, never to escape.

What frightened me most was the realization that the loop is not a mere cycle of time; it is a prison. We are all prisoners in a never-ending cycle of existence, and I fear that those who believe Voir to be the god of this world are unknowingly worshipping their jailer. My thoughts, now, are clouded with dread. It is no longer a question of whether Nyarlathotep exists—it is a certainty. And I fear that the time may be drawing near when the loop will break. When Voir’s hold on us will falter, the true nature of Solera will be revealed.

But what will become of us when the veil is lifted? What will become of me?

Journal #065

I have journeyed to the Crystal Caves, deep beneath the mountains of Ferra-Tor, in search of the ancient texts that the sages of the Verdant Order have long guarded. These texts are said to contain the forbidden knowledge of Solera’s true nature, though I fear that even the sages themselves do not fully understand what they protect.

Inside the caves, I found the ancient carvings that depict the Cosmic Sea God in his full, terrifying glory. Voir is not a benevolent deity, as the sages would have us believe. No, he is an enforcer—a puppet at the mercy of Nyarlathotep’s chaotic will. The carvings show a great serpent, its body coiled around the very heart of Solera, its eyes gleaming with the cold emptiness of the void. I saw, too, the dark shapes of the Outer Gods—vague and incomprehensible, stretching their tendrils through the fabric of existence, their influence permeating every corner of reality.

And there, in the deepest recesses of the caves, I uncovered a forbidden text, one that was not meant to be read by mortal eyes. Its words are written in a language that seems to warp the mind, each symbol a glimpse into the madness that resides just beyond our reality. But I deciphered enough to know that Nyarlathotep is not content to merely manipulate Voir. No. Nyarlathotep is the architect of the loop, the one who binds Solera to its endless cycle of repetition, ensuring that the knowledge of the truth will always be forgotten, that no one shall ever remember the horrors that lurk in the spaces between moments.

I have begun to see the signs of the loop’s unraveling. The world trembles at the edges of its reality. The whispers are growing louder, more insistent. There is no escaping it now. The cosmic tide rises, and with it, the end of Solera's eternal cycle draws near. I can only wonder what awaits on the other side. Will we be free of this prison, or will we simply fall into a new and more terrible reality?

The loop is breaking. And I fear I have become its harbinger.

Journal #066

I am trapped in the darkest corners of Solera. The world around me dissolves, and the very air seems to fragment into shards of space-time, collapsing and folding in on itself. The loop... it is no longer a cycle of repetition, but a spiraling descent into oblivion. The memories of previous loops flicker before my eyes, but they are distorted, twisted beyond recognition. The endless loop is not just time—it is the very fabric of our existence, unraveling at the seams.

I can hear Nyarlathotep’s laughter in the distance. It echoes through the void, a sound that chills my bones and warps my mind. The time for the loop to end is approaching. The false god Voir, unknowingly enslaved, will soon relinquish his dominion over Solera. But what will rise in his place? What will become of the world once Nyarlathotep’s true influence is unleashed?

I am no longer sure of what is real. I can feel the fabric of reality slipping through my fingers, like sand falling through an eternal hourglass. And as the world crumbles, I am left to wonder—was Solera ever real to begin with?

The loop has ended.

And with it, everything.

(Runic Language for “END OF CYCLE”)