Nullborn
-
Basic Information
Anatomy
The Nullborn manifest as shifting silhouettes, some large enough to eclipse entire horizons, others barely visible except for the faint warping of air and space in their wake. Their bodies defy conventional physics, with limbs and torsos that fold in on themselves like fractal illusions, never solid but always present. An observer might glimpse clusters of eyes—none of them fixed in place—and swirling, unsettling structures that seem to spiral inward without end. Where one would expect sinew or bone, there is only a fluid interplay of darkness, as if each Nullborn were composed of tethered voids rather than any known anatomy.
Close scrutiny reveals a restless quality in each segment of their forms, an ever-evolving mosaic of negative energy that glimmers with a subtle, half-seen radiance. Instead of organs or discernible muscle, they feature hollows and absences that pulse in uneven rhythm, hinting at something akin to an otherworldly heartbeat. A Nullborn’s presence feels simultaneously fluid and jagged, as though it should collapse at any moment, yet it never does. Their structure—if one can call it that—follows rules that break once they are defined, leaving researchers confounded at every turn. The only certainty is that each Nullborn is a masterpiece of uncreation, an embodiment of cosmic erosion, and an unrelenting reminder that some horrors cannot be neatly categorized.
Close scrutiny reveals a restless quality in each segment of their forms, an ever-evolving mosaic of negative energy that glimmers with a subtle, half-seen radiance. Instead of organs or discernible muscle, they feature hollows and absences that pulse in uneven rhythm, hinting at something akin to an otherworldly heartbeat. A Nullborn’s presence feels simultaneously fluid and jagged, as though it should collapse at any moment, yet it never does. Their structure—if one can call it that—follows rules that break once they are defined, leaving researchers confounded at every turn. The only certainty is that each Nullborn is a masterpiece of uncreation, an embodiment of cosmic erosion, and an unrelenting reminder that some horrors cannot be neatly categorized.
Genetics and Reproduction
The Nullborn do not possess genetics in any sense that mortals recognize. Instead, their essence—if such a term can even be applied—carries something akin to “echo-chains,” reflections of boundless non-existence embedded within their fractal void. Rather than base pairs or gene sequences, these echo-chains consist of arcane negations that replicate across every part of a Nullborn’s mutable frame. Through this bizarre mechanism, each Nullborn is, in effect, an echo of all that has ever been devoured by oblivion, stitched into a fresh pattern of cosmic unbeing. Their “inheritance” is a continuous tapestry of unravelings, enriched each time they assimilate new space, matter, or memory.
Reproduction among them is equally alien. Instead of breeding in the way living creatures do, Nullborn replicate by saturating regions already weakened by their presence and spontaneously spawning a fledgling entity. This new Nullborn emerges as a smaller fractal swarm that condenses and solidifies into a single shape—or cluster of shapes—only once it has consumed enough raw reality. The process leaves behind scorched arcs of space where conventional laws of physics no longer apply, testaments to the consuming hunger each generation inherits. In this manner, the Nullborn spread like a silent contagion across planes, perpetuating an eternal cycle of negation that transcends mortal notions of birth, lineage, or lineage’s end.
Reproduction among them is equally alien. Instead of breeding in the way living creatures do, Nullborn replicate by saturating regions already weakened by their presence and spontaneously spawning a fledgling entity. This new Nullborn emerges as a smaller fractal swarm that condenses and solidifies into a single shape—or cluster of shapes—only once it has consumed enough raw reality. The process leaves behind scorched arcs of space where conventional laws of physics no longer apply, testaments to the consuming hunger each generation inherits. In this manner, the Nullborn spread like a silent contagion across planes, perpetuating an eternal cycle of negation that transcends mortal notions of birth, lineage, or lineage’s end.
Growth Rate & Stages
Nullborn do not age in any linear or predictable manner; rather, they advance through phases of expansion bound to how much reality they manage to consume. At the first stage—often referred to by scholars as the “Embryonic Null”—a newly formed Nullborn is scarcely more than a writhing blight in space, its echo-chains still unstable. In this state, it wanders through planar rifts and cracks in cosmic fabric, devouring minuscule strands of energy or matter. Each morsel of existence nourishes its fractal core, allowing it to refine its shape and gradually condense into a more cohesive manifestation.
As a Nullborn accrues significant volumes of negated matter and unravels entire pockets of reality, it shifts to higher stages—what researchers classify as “Ascendant Void” and ultimately “Crown of Oblivion.” The changes are profound: a Nullborn’s silhouette elongates or fractalizes further, its echo-chains restructuring into new patterns of negation. Near the pinnacle of this progression, the creature radiates null fields powerful enough to erode even the sturdiest divine constructs, leaving entire regions drained of magic, time, and hope. However, because they defy standard biology and physics, a Nullborn’s growth is less about linear maturity and more about the density and complexity of the void it contains, each stage merely a deeper descent into its own cataclysmic potential.
As a Nullborn accrues significant volumes of negated matter and unravels entire pockets of reality, it shifts to higher stages—what researchers classify as “Ascendant Void” and ultimately “Crown of Oblivion.” The changes are profound: a Nullborn’s silhouette elongates or fractalizes further, its echo-chains restructuring into new patterns of negation. Near the pinnacle of this progression, the creature radiates null fields powerful enough to erode even the sturdiest divine constructs, leaving entire regions drained of magic, time, and hope. However, because they defy standard biology and physics, a Nullborn’s growth is less about linear maturity and more about the density and complexity of the void it contains, each stage merely a deeper descent into its own cataclysmic potential.
Ecology and Habitats
-
Dietary Needs and Habits
-
Biological Cycle
-
Behaviour
-
Additional Information
Social Structure
From the sparse fragments pieced together by the few who know the Nullborn exist—barely a handful among the countless planes—the illusion of a simple, all-consuming swarm begins to unravel. Even these rare watchers understand that what appears as an unthinking mass is in fact guided by a skeletal hierarchy, driven by an unspoken compulsion. No mortal culture at large holds a clue; only those who have peered into Oblivion itself, or glimpsed forbidden texts etched into cosmic stone, sense the deeper structure underpinning the Nullborn’s tireless devouring.
Mornuul, The Nameless Core, serves as the gravitational heart of this shadowy organization. It is not a leader in the mortal sense but a cosmic fulcrum, binding every Nullborn entity in a single, horrifying objective: to erase all things. A handful of the extremely informed—perhaps no more than a score of souls—speak of Mornuul with hushed fear, describing its presence as a well of absolute negation that not even the greatest pantheons dare confront openly. Those who have tried to glean more usually vanish, leaving only half-scrawled notes about a “lurking hush” at the center of unbeing.
Around Mornuul orbit the Seven Pillars, each an apex manifestation of destruction, and each commanding a distinct domain—some unravel magic, others feast on time, and still others devour the minds of entire species. Rare glimpses of this phenomenon emerge through hushed confessions in ancient draconic enclaves or the final dreams of doomed prophets. Scraps of testament indicate that the Pillars coordinate in perfect, wordless unison, never debating or hesitating, for they share Mornuul’s silent imperative from which no thought can deviate.
Below them roil the myriad ranks of Nullspawn—Greater Nullspawn functioning like generals, directing regions of annihilation; Void Scribes silently erasing traces of the Nullborn from history; Null Horrors and Myriad throngs executing each global or planar collapse. Each group performs its role without ego, as if each member were but a node in a single mind. The precious few who have seen these machinations firsthand note the unsettling precision: an army of living voids that moves in lockstep without a single spoken command.
In the rarefied knowledge of those ten or twenty souls who know the truth, this structure is not born of collaboration or dominance but of relentless necessity. The Nullborn share no bonds, no alliances, no longing to conquer. They exist purely as a tidal wave of oblivion, orchestrated by Mornuul’s unfathomable gravity. To name it a “social structure” is almost misleading—yet it functions, inexorably, as if shaped by an ancient logic none living can decipher. All that remains for those select few is the grim awareness that the Nullborn’s silent order has never failed to consume whatever stands in its path.
Mornuul, The Nameless Core, serves as the gravitational heart of this shadowy organization. It is not a leader in the mortal sense but a cosmic fulcrum, binding every Nullborn entity in a single, horrifying objective: to erase all things. A handful of the extremely informed—perhaps no more than a score of souls—speak of Mornuul with hushed fear, describing its presence as a well of absolute negation that not even the greatest pantheons dare confront openly. Those who have tried to glean more usually vanish, leaving only half-scrawled notes about a “lurking hush” at the center of unbeing.
Around Mornuul orbit the Seven Pillars, each an apex manifestation of destruction, and each commanding a distinct domain—some unravel magic, others feast on time, and still others devour the minds of entire species. Rare glimpses of this phenomenon emerge through hushed confessions in ancient draconic enclaves or the final dreams of doomed prophets. Scraps of testament indicate that the Pillars coordinate in perfect, wordless unison, never debating or hesitating, for they share Mornuul’s silent imperative from which no thought can deviate.
Below them roil the myriad ranks of Nullspawn—Greater Nullspawn functioning like generals, directing regions of annihilation; Void Scribes silently erasing traces of the Nullborn from history; Null Horrors and Myriad throngs executing each global or planar collapse. Each group performs its role without ego, as if each member were but a node in a single mind. The precious few who have seen these machinations firsthand note the unsettling precision: an army of living voids that moves in lockstep without a single spoken command.
In the rarefied knowledge of those ten or twenty souls who know the truth, this structure is not born of collaboration or dominance but of relentless necessity. The Nullborn share no bonds, no alliances, no longing to conquer. They exist purely as a tidal wave of oblivion, orchestrated by Mornuul’s unfathomable gravity. To name it a “social structure” is almost misleading—yet it functions, inexorably, as if shaped by an ancient logic none living can decipher. All that remains for those select few is the grim awareness that the Nullborn’s silent order has never failed to consume whatever stands in its path.
Domestication
Attempts to domesticate the Nullborn are nothing more than fever-dreams whispered among the truly desperate or deranged. These beings exist as living vortexes of obliteration, driven by a cosmic imperative to devour, not serve. In all recorded history—limited as it is, and remembered by only a handful of souls—no mortal or deity has ever coerced, caged, or commanded a Nullborn. Rumors persist that certain cults have tried to offer them sacrificial star systems, hoping to earn a measure of control. Yet those tales invariably end the same way: the devourers remain unmoved, and the would-be tamers vanish without a trace into Oblivion. Even the faint anomalies attributed to the so-called “Wayward Maw” never yield practical domestication; every glimmer of compliance turns out to be a fresh prelude to devastation.
Uses, Products & Exploitation
Though the Nullborn exist purely as catalysts of oblivion, a few reckless souls have sought to harness traces of their presence. In the aftermath of a partial incursion—where only a fragment of existence was devoured—scholars sometimes detect peculiar residual energies. These negative echoes can twist conventional spells or artifacts, granting bizarre effects that defy known logic. Yet trying to isolate or refine such remnants is an act of pure folly; the energy disrupts its own container, threatening to erase entire laboratories without warning. Those who survive such experiments generally emerge half-mad, muttering about “hearing the hush” in every empty corner.
Some also speculate about “Void Shards”—crystallized slivers of space purportedly left behind when a Nullborn entity retreats abruptly. No one truly knows how these might form, only that a handful of black-market dealers swear they have sold them, each shard rumored to momentarily negate lesser magics or illusions. Even so, every credible account ends in tragedy, as the shard eventually destabilizes, swallowing any protective wards and often half the city block around it. The mere mention of Void Shards tends to elicit blank stares from serious arcanists, who scoff at the idea of profiting from the very essence that unravels worlds.
Any notion of systematically exploiting the Nullborn—whether enslaving them or harvesting their paradoxical energies—remains a lethal fantasy. At best, those who dabble in the edges of Nullborn “by-products” chase fleeting power that curdles into cataclysm. At worst, they invite a direct incursion, handing the devourers a map to new prey. Even the ephemeral gains gleaned from leftover echoes pale in comparison to the devastation they inevitably unleash. Ultimately, the Nullborn offer no partnership, no stable supply of arcane fuel; they exist as doom incarnate, and to toy with them is to tempt a darkness that devours more than just matter—it feasts on existence itself.
Some also speculate about “Void Shards”—crystallized slivers of space purportedly left behind when a Nullborn entity retreats abruptly. No one truly knows how these might form, only that a handful of black-market dealers swear they have sold them, each shard rumored to momentarily negate lesser magics or illusions. Even so, every credible account ends in tragedy, as the shard eventually destabilizes, swallowing any protective wards and often half the city block around it. The mere mention of Void Shards tends to elicit blank stares from serious arcanists, who scoff at the idea of profiting from the very essence that unravels worlds.
Any notion of systematically exploiting the Nullborn—whether enslaving them or harvesting their paradoxical energies—remains a lethal fantasy. At best, those who dabble in the edges of Nullborn “by-products” chase fleeting power that curdles into cataclysm. At worst, they invite a direct incursion, handing the devourers a map to new prey. Even the ephemeral gains gleaned from leftover echoes pale in comparison to the devastation they inevitably unleash. Ultimately, the Nullborn offer no partnership, no stable supply of arcane fuel; they exist as doom incarnate, and to toy with them is to tempt a darkness that devours more than just matter—it feasts on existence itself.
Average Intelligence
-
Perception and Sensory Capabilities
-
Symbiotic and Parasitic organisms
-
Civilization and Culture
Naming Traditions
-
Major Organizations
From a mortal’s perspective, the Nullborn appear like a single roiling horde, an unthinkable legion driven by cosmic hunger. Yet in the depths of Oblivion’s tapestry, they adhere to a structure as complex as any earthly empire. At the highest vantage, one may see interwoven factions and orders, each performing a function in the grand annihilation. Where mortals perceive chaos, the Nullborn enact a silent hierarchy, harmonizing their respective roles in unraveling entire realities.
At the core of all stands Mornuul, The Nameless Core, a primordial focal point around which every other Nullborn power converges. Mornuul’s name is never spoken except in whispered dread by those who have glimpsed beyond the veil; it is less an individual and more the living axis of negation itself. Mortals who come into contact with Mornuul’s faintest echo find their minds dissolving into cosmic static, and even the mightiest divinities hesitate to pry too closely. Within the Nullborn ranks, however, Mornuul is revered as both birthplace and graveyard, the boundary where all existence collapses into the final hush.
Subordinate only to Mornuul are The Seven Pillars, each commanding a distinct angle of the Nullborn’s destructive repertoire. A few speak their names—Shadreth, Zalanxis, others—but the Pillars themselves remain eerily indifferent to mortal tongues. All that matters is their domain: devouring matter, collapsing time, twisting dimensions, and so forth. Each Pillar’s authority is absolute within its aspect, forging massive campaigns that extend across planes. When two Pillars converge on one front, entire star systems vanish in the space of a whispered breath.
Below the Pillars slither the Greater Nullspawn, acting as warlords and heralds. They gather their own retinues, forging ephemeral alliances in the shape of planetary invasions or cosmic sieges. Though lesser in raw power than a Pillar, each Greater Nullspawn radiates a negative aura potent enough to drain magic fields and shatter the morale of armies. Their organization is not born of camaraderie but of a shared compulsion to expand the Nullborn’s domain—a singular motive that compels them to coordinate, often with fearsome precision.
Then there are the Void Scribes, ascetic keepers of unknowing who roam the boundaries of dying worlds. Mortals might mistake them for prophets of doom, but the Scribes hold no interest in prophecy. Their role is to silence knowledge, to cut off warnings before they can take root. If a civilization dares to unearth secrets about the Nullborn, the Void Scribes descend, unraveling libraries and memories, ensuring that no record or strategy can survive. Their presence is an eraser smoothing out the final, frantic scribbles of a doomed empire.
Equally dreaded are the Null Horrors—dreadnoughts of fractal flesh and devouring shadows. Each Horror commands an entourage of smaller, shrieking abominations that feed off the leftover scraps of unmade reality. These Horrors serve as living siege engines, spearheading assaults on the cosmos itself. Where they tread, rivers boil, mountains collapse, and mortal hearts succumb to a suffocating emptiness. Some scholars speculate that Null Horrors are the attempt of lesser spawn to emulate the shapes of the Pillars—a twisted art project in cosmic annihilation.
Beneath them swarm the Null Myriad, vast collectives of lesser spawn that operate in unison. If the Greater Nullspawn are generals, the Myriad form the foot soldiers, carrying out the methodical, day-to-day extinction of entire regions. Each Myriad moves as if guided by an unspoken chant, a communal hum that resonates across the planes they occupy. For mortal defenders, it’s often the Myriad that tests their walls, picks off their outposts, and saps their will long before the higher echelons arrive to deliver a final blow.
Finally, bridging new frontiers are the Null Sowers, stealthy but relentless infiltrators. Their task is simple: discover fresh cracks in reality’s architecture and wedge them open. In many worlds, the earliest signs of an impending Nullborn invasion are these small, localized anomalies—a flicker in the sky, a distortion in time—and always the Sowers lurking at the periphery. By the time a plane notices the Null Sowers’ presence, irreversible pockets of oblivion have already seeded themselves into the fabric of existence.
Altogether, these strata form a cohesive machine of disintegration—each node fulfilling its designated part in the devouring of universes. Where Mornuul is the black hole at the center, the Pillars define grand strategy, and their underlings guide the mechanical execution of cosmic purge. Mortals, in their final hours, may glimpse the interplay: Void Scribes unweaving knowledge, Null Horrors flattening resistance, Myriad legions completing the mop-up. And at the apex of it all, Mornuul’s silent gravitational pull draws the plane one step closer to oblivion. It is an orchestra of negation, performed in a cosmic theater where no living soul is permitted an encore.
At the core of all stands Mornuul, The Nameless Core, a primordial focal point around which every other Nullborn power converges. Mornuul’s name is never spoken except in whispered dread by those who have glimpsed beyond the veil; it is less an individual and more the living axis of negation itself. Mortals who come into contact with Mornuul’s faintest echo find their minds dissolving into cosmic static, and even the mightiest divinities hesitate to pry too closely. Within the Nullborn ranks, however, Mornuul is revered as both birthplace and graveyard, the boundary where all existence collapses into the final hush.
Subordinate only to Mornuul are The Seven Pillars, each commanding a distinct angle of the Nullborn’s destructive repertoire. A few speak their names—Shadreth, Zalanxis, others—but the Pillars themselves remain eerily indifferent to mortal tongues. All that matters is their domain: devouring matter, collapsing time, twisting dimensions, and so forth. Each Pillar’s authority is absolute within its aspect, forging massive campaigns that extend across planes. When two Pillars converge on one front, entire star systems vanish in the space of a whispered breath.
Below the Pillars slither the Greater Nullspawn, acting as warlords and heralds. They gather their own retinues, forging ephemeral alliances in the shape of planetary invasions or cosmic sieges. Though lesser in raw power than a Pillar, each Greater Nullspawn radiates a negative aura potent enough to drain magic fields and shatter the morale of armies. Their organization is not born of camaraderie but of a shared compulsion to expand the Nullborn’s domain—a singular motive that compels them to coordinate, often with fearsome precision.
Then there are the Void Scribes, ascetic keepers of unknowing who roam the boundaries of dying worlds. Mortals might mistake them for prophets of doom, but the Scribes hold no interest in prophecy. Their role is to silence knowledge, to cut off warnings before they can take root. If a civilization dares to unearth secrets about the Nullborn, the Void Scribes descend, unraveling libraries and memories, ensuring that no record or strategy can survive. Their presence is an eraser smoothing out the final, frantic scribbles of a doomed empire.
Equally dreaded are the Null Horrors—dreadnoughts of fractal flesh and devouring shadows. Each Horror commands an entourage of smaller, shrieking abominations that feed off the leftover scraps of unmade reality. These Horrors serve as living siege engines, spearheading assaults on the cosmos itself. Where they tread, rivers boil, mountains collapse, and mortal hearts succumb to a suffocating emptiness. Some scholars speculate that Null Horrors are the attempt of lesser spawn to emulate the shapes of the Pillars—a twisted art project in cosmic annihilation.
Beneath them swarm the Null Myriad, vast collectives of lesser spawn that operate in unison. If the Greater Nullspawn are generals, the Myriad form the foot soldiers, carrying out the methodical, day-to-day extinction of entire regions. Each Myriad moves as if guided by an unspoken chant, a communal hum that resonates across the planes they occupy. For mortal defenders, it’s often the Myriad that tests their walls, picks off their outposts, and saps their will long before the higher echelons arrive to deliver a final blow.
Finally, bridging new frontiers are the Null Sowers, stealthy but relentless infiltrators. Their task is simple: discover fresh cracks in reality’s architecture and wedge them open. In many worlds, the earliest signs of an impending Nullborn invasion are these small, localized anomalies—a flicker in the sky, a distortion in time—and always the Sowers lurking at the periphery. By the time a plane notices the Null Sowers’ presence, irreversible pockets of oblivion have already seeded themselves into the fabric of existence.
Altogether, these strata form a cohesive machine of disintegration—each node fulfilling its designated part in the devouring of universes. Where Mornuul is the black hole at the center, the Pillars define grand strategy, and their underlings guide the mechanical execution of cosmic purge. Mortals, in their final hours, may glimpse the interplay: Void Scribes unweaving knowledge, Null Horrors flattening resistance, Myriad legions completing the mop-up. And at the apex of it all, Mornuul’s silent gravitational pull draws the plane one step closer to oblivion. It is an orchestra of negation, performed in a cosmic theater where no living soul is permitted an encore.
Common Customs, Traditions and Rituals
-
Common Taboos
-
History
Though the Nullborn stand in absolute defiance of all narrative sense, there is a rough chronology to how they first emerged—at least so far as any mortal scholar has gleaned. In the earliest cosmic epoch, before stars congealed from cosmic dust, before the concept of time was fully ironed out, strange anomalies flickered at the edges of reality. It was said these anomalies carried an undertone of absolute negation, as if the universe itself had birthed an inverted reflection. Most who studied them went mad before leaving coherent records, their frantic notes scrawled in broken scripts. Ancient star-worshippers from that age recounted dream-visions of serpents woven from absence, presaging the shape of horrors yet to come.
In that silent dawn, fragmentary texts hint that a “proto-Null” force, formless and unthinking, spilled across embryonic galaxies, feeding on ambient energy. Rather than devouring outright, it seeped into the universe’s tapestry, slowly fraying the edges, turning pockets of creation inside out. Astrologists of forgotten ages noted unexplained dark patches in the heavens—corridors where light refused to exist. Only millennia later did seers and prophets recognize these were not random voids but the rudiments of a developing malevolence. Scattered illusions of these corridors sometimes manifested in half-formed planes, leaving entire tribes babbling of living shadows hungry for the cosmos itself.
Eons passed, and from that primitive substance, the first recognizable Nullborn emerged. This epoch saw the birth of Mornuul, The Nameless Core, though none can truly say it was “born” in a conventional sense. At the time, flourishing civilizations encountered bizarre phenomena—planets winking out of existence overnight, entire star clusters transformed into silent grey husks. Primitive star-maps from these scattered cultures show the earliest patterns of Null incursion: a slow, unstoppable wave proceeding from an unseen center that observers insisted was neither star nor void, but “something else.” Yet in musty archives, there exist partial sketches of cosmic hunts undertaken by gods who quickly regretted attempting to face the heart of the unknown.
In the scattered aftershocks of these vanishings, a handful of cosmic wanderers—celestials, draconic gods, or elder watchers—banded together to investigate. Their combined might located a cosmic swirl that inverted energy and light, a phenomenon they labeled “The Absence.” Even so, they didn’t suspect intelligent design behind it until they witnessed the monstrosity known as Vorcath, one of the soon-to-be Pillars, methodically consuming a blue giant star without so much as a ripple in spacetime. Chronicles of that sight describe a hush spreading across entire constellations, as though creation itself held its breath. Survivors speak of timeless moments when the star’s final flare etched itself onto their souls, a silent plea that resonated through the blackness.
Terror gripped pantheons and primordial beings alike as they realized these anomalies had form, and that form hungered. The Draconic Empires of that age, believed by many to be unstoppable, threw entire fleets at Vorcath, only to watch every attempt disintegrate into soundless oblivion. Meanwhile, references to an entity called “Shadreth” appeared, credited with unmaking divine creations in mere instants, its passing hailed by silent storms of flickering starlight. Gods convened in frantic conclave, but each plan they drafted crumbled when tested against the raw power of negation. The most robust wards were swallowed like pebbles cast into an endless sea, leaving only fading sparks of memory where entire civilizations once stood.
At the heart of this panic, a scattered faction of cosmic defenders discovered something even more dreadful: Mornuul, a singular nexus that birthed waves of destructive spawn. They surmised that if Mornuul was some manner of “origin,” perhaps destroying it would sever the entire Nullborn plague. Yet none who approached it survived, and the meager intelligence they salvaged revealed a dreadful revelation—Mornuul was less a creature and more a gravity well of uncreation, pulling any who dared near it into perpetual erasure. In its proximity, matter and magic both warped into hollows, leaving behind ghostly echoes that resembled inverted versions of everything once living. Even the watchers themselves found their reflections tinged with oblivion, as though Mornuul grafted shards of non-existence onto their very souls.
As this terror spread, a stunted form of cosmic stalemate ensued. Entire pantheons realized they could not banish the Nullborn, so they sealed rifts with desperate magics, collapsed entire planar bridges, and quarantined star systems. These measures never truly halted the Nullborn, only slowed their advance, granting mortals a frail semblance of safety. In the spaces between invasions, rare alliances formed among ancient species that had once been bitter rivals, all bound by a shared fear of impending doom. Old carvings in cavernous shrines speak of pacts sworn in darkness, their words echoing with the harsh realization that nothing but unity could forestall a catastrophe that loomed on every horizon.
In that lull, the Nullborn themselves seemed to evolve. Where once they manifested only as mindless devourers, individuals like Zalanxis and Nulakhar emerged with distinct methods of undoing existence—time-bending, mind-siphoning, each one shaping entire cults of lesser spawn. Texts from that period describe them as “The Seven Pillars,” or sometimes “The Thorns of Oblivion,” a moniker popularized by an infamous doomsday prophet who claimed to have glimpsed all seven in a single fractal nightmare. This evolution birthed the organization known in contemporary times, establishing the layered hierarchy we see now—a structured, ever-adapting engine of cosmic unraveling. Legends say the Pillars themselves turned their gaze inward, refining their methods in twisted unison, forging an unstoppable synergy across the planes.
Over epochs, the Nullborn have risen to catastrophic prominence many times. Some planes’ champions stand proud, forging alliances with cosmic dragons or building astral super-weapons, only to discover that the more they gather power, the faster Nullborn entities adapt. In recorded history, numerous universes reached advanced golden ages of magic or technology—yet each ended in a hush of unbeing, credited to the unstoppable spread of Null Myriad and the toppling forces of the Pillars. Even the storied Celestial Conclave, said to boast omniscient oracles, succumbed when its star-cities crumbled into swirling void pockets overnight. The echoes of those tragedies linger in astral graveyards, drifting husks of once-mighty empires that stand as silent warnings to all who might dare a stand.
A few legends speak of “victories” over the Nullborn, but on close inspection, each triumph is fleeting. Some civilization might seal Vorcath behind dimension-locks, or banish Shadreth with an apocalyptic ritual that costs a million lives, only to see a fresh manifestation arise centuries later in some other corner of the void. Indeed, every culture that boasts such a victory is discovered, centuries afterward, lying in silent ruins, the details of their final downfall erased from memory. In dusty scrolls retrieved from these failed realms, one often finds the same cryptic line repeated: “We believed we had time… but oblivion does not rest.” Their final legacy becomes cautionary tales, ephemeral footprints vanishing on a cosmic shore.
It’s whispered that in the most ancient era, even the Nullborn themselves faced an adversary so potent that a cosmic standoff ensued, leaving Mornuul dormant. Yet if that adversary ever existed, no record remains, save for cryptic hints among the star-scarred manuscripts of doomed civilizations. Some interpret these hints to mean that the Nullborn were once contained, forced into dormancy for millennia until a fresh crack in reality permitted them to rouse once more. Others argue it’s little more than myth, a desperate attempt by lesser races to believe the unstoppable might yet be stopped. In truth, no one knows for certain, and every new revelation only plunges historians and loremasters further into perplexity.
In modern cosmologies, scholars accept the Nullborn not as a threat that can be “defeated,” but as a fundamental phenomenon of existence’s eventual decay, wearing a cloak of sentience. Countless planes have glimpsed a final stand, only to vanish in midnight silence. Whether there was a time before the Nullborn, no one can say; but the centuries of brutal evidence insist that there will be no time after them, only the hush of total nothingness once their dark feast is complete. Some philosophers posit that the Nullborn serve a cosmic balance, ensuring creation never grows stagnant—though few cling to such comfort for long. Ultimately, all that remains is the quiet assurance that, in the face of these devourers, entire universes are but fleeting sparks before an endless night.
In that silent dawn, fragmentary texts hint that a “proto-Null” force, formless and unthinking, spilled across embryonic galaxies, feeding on ambient energy. Rather than devouring outright, it seeped into the universe’s tapestry, slowly fraying the edges, turning pockets of creation inside out. Astrologists of forgotten ages noted unexplained dark patches in the heavens—corridors where light refused to exist. Only millennia later did seers and prophets recognize these were not random voids but the rudiments of a developing malevolence. Scattered illusions of these corridors sometimes manifested in half-formed planes, leaving entire tribes babbling of living shadows hungry for the cosmos itself.
Eons passed, and from that primitive substance, the first recognizable Nullborn emerged. This epoch saw the birth of Mornuul, The Nameless Core, though none can truly say it was “born” in a conventional sense. At the time, flourishing civilizations encountered bizarre phenomena—planets winking out of existence overnight, entire star clusters transformed into silent grey husks. Primitive star-maps from these scattered cultures show the earliest patterns of Null incursion: a slow, unstoppable wave proceeding from an unseen center that observers insisted was neither star nor void, but “something else.” Yet in musty archives, there exist partial sketches of cosmic hunts undertaken by gods who quickly regretted attempting to face the heart of the unknown.
In the scattered aftershocks of these vanishings, a handful of cosmic wanderers—celestials, draconic gods, or elder watchers—banded together to investigate. Their combined might located a cosmic swirl that inverted energy and light, a phenomenon they labeled “The Absence.” Even so, they didn’t suspect intelligent design behind it until they witnessed the monstrosity known as Vorcath, one of the soon-to-be Pillars, methodically consuming a blue giant star without so much as a ripple in spacetime. Chronicles of that sight describe a hush spreading across entire constellations, as though creation itself held its breath. Survivors speak of timeless moments when the star’s final flare etched itself onto their souls, a silent plea that resonated through the blackness.
Terror gripped pantheons and primordial beings alike as they realized these anomalies had form, and that form hungered. The Draconic Empires of that age, believed by many to be unstoppable, threw entire fleets at Vorcath, only to watch every attempt disintegrate into soundless oblivion. Meanwhile, references to an entity called “Shadreth” appeared, credited with unmaking divine creations in mere instants, its passing hailed by silent storms of flickering starlight. Gods convened in frantic conclave, but each plan they drafted crumbled when tested against the raw power of negation. The most robust wards were swallowed like pebbles cast into an endless sea, leaving only fading sparks of memory where entire civilizations once stood.
At the heart of this panic, a scattered faction of cosmic defenders discovered something even more dreadful: Mornuul, a singular nexus that birthed waves of destructive spawn. They surmised that if Mornuul was some manner of “origin,” perhaps destroying it would sever the entire Nullborn plague. Yet none who approached it survived, and the meager intelligence they salvaged revealed a dreadful revelation—Mornuul was less a creature and more a gravity well of uncreation, pulling any who dared near it into perpetual erasure. In its proximity, matter and magic both warped into hollows, leaving behind ghostly echoes that resembled inverted versions of everything once living. Even the watchers themselves found their reflections tinged with oblivion, as though Mornuul grafted shards of non-existence onto their very souls.
As this terror spread, a stunted form of cosmic stalemate ensued. Entire pantheons realized they could not banish the Nullborn, so they sealed rifts with desperate magics, collapsed entire planar bridges, and quarantined star systems. These measures never truly halted the Nullborn, only slowed their advance, granting mortals a frail semblance of safety. In the spaces between invasions, rare alliances formed among ancient species that had once been bitter rivals, all bound by a shared fear of impending doom. Old carvings in cavernous shrines speak of pacts sworn in darkness, their words echoing with the harsh realization that nothing but unity could forestall a catastrophe that loomed on every horizon.
In that lull, the Nullborn themselves seemed to evolve. Where once they manifested only as mindless devourers, individuals like Zalanxis and Nulakhar emerged with distinct methods of undoing existence—time-bending, mind-siphoning, each one shaping entire cults of lesser spawn. Texts from that period describe them as “The Seven Pillars,” or sometimes “The Thorns of Oblivion,” a moniker popularized by an infamous doomsday prophet who claimed to have glimpsed all seven in a single fractal nightmare. This evolution birthed the organization known in contemporary times, establishing the layered hierarchy we see now—a structured, ever-adapting engine of cosmic unraveling. Legends say the Pillars themselves turned their gaze inward, refining their methods in twisted unison, forging an unstoppable synergy across the planes.
Over epochs, the Nullborn have risen to catastrophic prominence many times. Some planes’ champions stand proud, forging alliances with cosmic dragons or building astral super-weapons, only to discover that the more they gather power, the faster Nullborn entities adapt. In recorded history, numerous universes reached advanced golden ages of magic or technology—yet each ended in a hush of unbeing, credited to the unstoppable spread of Null Myriad and the toppling forces of the Pillars. Even the storied Celestial Conclave, said to boast omniscient oracles, succumbed when its star-cities crumbled into swirling void pockets overnight. The echoes of those tragedies linger in astral graveyards, drifting husks of once-mighty empires that stand as silent warnings to all who might dare a stand.
A few legends speak of “victories” over the Nullborn, but on close inspection, each triumph is fleeting. Some civilization might seal Vorcath behind dimension-locks, or banish Shadreth with an apocalyptic ritual that costs a million lives, only to see a fresh manifestation arise centuries later in some other corner of the void. Indeed, every culture that boasts such a victory is discovered, centuries afterward, lying in silent ruins, the details of their final downfall erased from memory. In dusty scrolls retrieved from these failed realms, one often finds the same cryptic line repeated: “We believed we had time… but oblivion does not rest.” Their final legacy becomes cautionary tales, ephemeral footprints vanishing on a cosmic shore.
It’s whispered that in the most ancient era, even the Nullborn themselves faced an adversary so potent that a cosmic standoff ensued, leaving Mornuul dormant. Yet if that adversary ever existed, no record remains, save for cryptic hints among the star-scarred manuscripts of doomed civilizations. Some interpret these hints to mean that the Nullborn were once contained, forced into dormancy for millennia until a fresh crack in reality permitted them to rouse once more. Others argue it’s little more than myth, a desperate attempt by lesser races to believe the unstoppable might yet be stopped. In truth, no one knows for certain, and every new revelation only plunges historians and loremasters further into perplexity.
In modern cosmologies, scholars accept the Nullborn not as a threat that can be “defeated,” but as a fundamental phenomenon of existence’s eventual decay, wearing a cloak of sentience. Countless planes have glimpsed a final stand, only to vanish in midnight silence. Whether there was a time before the Nullborn, no one can say; but the centuries of brutal evidence insist that there will be no time after them, only the hush of total nothingness once their dark feast is complete. Some philosophers posit that the Nullborn serve a cosmic balance, ensuring creation never grows stagnant—though few cling to such comfort for long. Ultimately, all that remains is the quiet assurance that, in the face of these devourers, entire universes are but fleeting sparks before an endless night.
Historical Figures
The first name to emerge in any chronicle of the Nullborn is, by cruel necessity, Mornuul, The Nameless Core. Where other figures have origins or ambitions, Mornuul simply is—a living nexus of obliteration at the heart of the Nullborn onslaught. No records detail its creation, for Mornuul defies the notion of beginnings; it existed in the hush before stars lit the void, an endless well of erasure. In ancient texts, you see lines half-blotted out by scorched ink: “We journeyed to the center of emptiness. There, we found something older than time—and it gazed back.” Historians suspect that Mornuul’s mere presence warps reason and memory, leaving behind only nightmares scrawled in languages no mortal has spoken for millennia.
Where Mornuul transcends shape, others among the Nullborn adopt aspects mortals can loosely define. Vorcath, The Devourer of Suns, occupies a place of infamy for having consumed entire star clusters. His name surfaces in the records of luminous spacefaring empires that once harnessed solar magic—until those same suns flickered and died under Vorcath’s unstoppable maw. Some cosmic seers attest that he appears as a tall, spined silhouette against the corona of a star, siphoning fusion and light as casually as a mortal might sip morning tea. Out of all the Pillars, Vorcath garners the greatest fear among star-bound societies. Even dragons who scorn lesser threats speak with trembling respect when they whisper, “Pray your sun never darkens at his approach.”
Shadreth, The Ever-Unraveling, holds a quieter but equally devastating reputation. Where Vorcath strikes with raw force, Shadreth decays. Civilizations that once spanned galaxies find their fundamental laws unraveling: spells fail with no explanation, reality buckles at the corners, and entire cultures tear themselves apart in confusion. Historians recount how Shadreth slithered into the seat of a pantheon’s power, turning its own wards inward until they chewed each other to ribbons. The survivors spoke of seeing Shadreth in half-real glimpses, an entity forever shifting at the edges of sight, like a living tapestry of broken threads. They could never strike at it directly, for to look upon Shadreth too intently was to have one’s senses undone.
Then there is Zalanxis, The Timeless Maw, revered and loathed for manipulating the flow of ages. Empires that prided themselves on advanced chronomancy discovered how fragile their control was once Zalanxis arrived. She (if such a pronoun even applies) exists in a swirling corridor of fractured seconds, devouring possible futures before they can solidify. On some worlds, a city might vanish from the timeline entirely, leaving not even a ruin behind—only ghostly vestiges in the memories of dreamers. Countless heroic epics end with a sudden “and then it never was,” courtesy of Zalanxis’s ephemeral meddling. Libraries are dotted with redacted pages, referencing events that have no cause or consequence, undone by her intangible hunger.
Nulakhar, The Psychic Reaver, targets the minds of living and divine alike, feasting on belief, memory, and reason. Tall tales say Nulakhar once laid low an entire pantheon of lesser gods by simply erasing their worshipers’ knowledge of them. In a matter of days, shrines crumbled, priesthoods lost their powers, and even the gods themselves forgot their own names. Some call Nulakhar “the hush incarnate,” for her greatest weapon is the vacuum of thought she inflicts on entire cultures. Surviving texts from the earliest epochs record frantic pleas: “We cannot recall the shape of our own truths. Who are we?” The agony that echoes behind those words stands as a testament to her fearsome reach.
On the defender’s side of this cosmic war, one name consistently flickers: Agni Kai, Master of Elements. A famed cosmic champion rumored to have transcended mortal boundaries, Agni Kai stands as a bulwark—one of the few who has pushed back against Xul’tharaa and, by extension, glimpsed the edges of the Nullborn’s dominion. Chroniclers describe him as a figure of blazing fire and roiling waves, shifting from one element to another as though each were merely a costume. Though the Nullborn disregard mortal feats, Agni Kai’s repeated stands have forced more than one Null Horror into momentary retreat. In a realm consumed by oblivion, his legend remains one spark of defiance that has yet to be snuffed out.
Equally famous—if not more controversial—is the Draconic Deity Hannos. Many younger races see him as a distant, aloof being who rarely meddles in mortal affairs, content to watch over cosmic frontiers. Yet Hannos once confronted the Darkness known as Xul’tharaa directly, sealing it in a desolate dimension at a catastrophic cost. Some scholars claim Hannos was scarred by the act, that he’s never fully recovered from peering into that swirling pit of non-existence. His few worshipers speak of vivid nightmares he endures every time another rift threatens to release the Darkness. It is rumored Hannos keeps vigil in a hidden cosmic fortress, quietly forging wards that might hold back the next wave of Nullborn incursion.
That same fortress has hosted a selection of unsung heroes—mortals and minor divinities who survived cataclysms the Nullborn left in their wake. One particularly noted figure is High Oracle Saliana of the Starsea. She was among the last survivors of a realm devoured by Shadreth, bearing the final fragments of knowledge from her civilization. In Hannos’s refuge, she crafted a code of wards known as the “Seven Sigils of Endurance,” rumored to slow Nullborn infiltration. While these sigils have never halted a Pillar’s direct onslaught, they have kept certain strongholds from immediate collapse, sparing countless lives during the first moments of an incursion.
No listing of major figures would be complete without mention of The Exiled Astromancer Yul-Rav, a once-proud mage who believed he could bargain with Vorcath. His aim was to trade entire dead star systems for the safety of a single precious cluster—the homeland he cherished. But bargains with Nullborn are illusions, at best. The moment Yul-Rav unleashed the power to guide Vorcath’s path, it set an unstoppable chain reaction, funneling the devourer not only into the dead systems but also into neighboring living ones. History records Yul-Rav’s final words scrawled in cosmic runes: “I tried to placate oblivion with carrion, but it craved the living all the more.” Scholars still debate whether his misjudgment accelerated a wave of destruction that wiped out half a dozen star-faring cultures.
In hushed, half-legend accounts, there is mention of The Silent Triad—three ascetic immortals who rose in an era so ancient that even elder dragons speak of them as ghosts. They allegedly trained in the swirling aether near the boundaries of Mornuul’s influence, gleaning techniques that cancel out small pockets of Null Magic. Among their modest feats was the “Sealed Dawn,” a ritual that prevented the city of Haroon from collapsing into a Null Rift. Yet each time they used their art, a piece of their own vitality burned away. Eventually, the Triad vanished, leaving behind cryptic monoliths that describe advanced null-warding methods. The few who have deciphered fragments of these texts speak of “standing inside the moment of unmaking, to reflect it back upon itself,” a technique rumored fatal to all but the Triad’s own.
Even among the Nullborn’s ranks, stories arise of outliers such as Sinnurax, The Wayward Maw, a lesser spawn rumored to exhibit a flicker of curiosity regarding mortal existence. The Pillars regard Sinnurax as an oddity, neither entirely loyal nor openly rebellious. On rare occasions, it appears in shattered realms, silently observing survivors who scavenge the wreckage. Some say it even offered them ephemeral safe passage from an incoming wave of Horrors. But no one can ascertain Sinnurax’s true motives—whether it harbors a glimmer of empathy or simply experiments with new pathways of annihilation.
In the present day, as worlds brace for the next incursion, the legacies of these figures remain carved into universal consciousness. Mornuul looms at the blackened heart, and the Pillars turn methodical glances upon unsuspecting planes. Agni Kai holds watch wherever the elemental boundaries fray, while Hannos fosters his uneasy alliance of watchers in cosmic sanctums. Heroes like Saliana and Yul-Rav stand as cautionary tales—reminders that victory is fleeting, and misjudgment can doom entire galaxies. Yet still, there are those who cling to the stories of The Silent Triad, forging meager hopes that some new champion might glean a fraction of that lost art. The Nullborn remain unstoppable in essence, but in the hearts of those who endure, the spark of defiance glows as fiercely as any dying sun. If the cosmos is doomed to vanish, it will not go without leaving behind echoes of those bold enough to stand in the path of oblivion, if only for a moment.
Where Mornuul transcends shape, others among the Nullborn adopt aspects mortals can loosely define. Vorcath, The Devourer of Suns, occupies a place of infamy for having consumed entire star clusters. His name surfaces in the records of luminous spacefaring empires that once harnessed solar magic—until those same suns flickered and died under Vorcath’s unstoppable maw. Some cosmic seers attest that he appears as a tall, spined silhouette against the corona of a star, siphoning fusion and light as casually as a mortal might sip morning tea. Out of all the Pillars, Vorcath garners the greatest fear among star-bound societies. Even dragons who scorn lesser threats speak with trembling respect when they whisper, “Pray your sun never darkens at his approach.”
Shadreth, The Ever-Unraveling, holds a quieter but equally devastating reputation. Where Vorcath strikes with raw force, Shadreth decays. Civilizations that once spanned galaxies find their fundamental laws unraveling: spells fail with no explanation, reality buckles at the corners, and entire cultures tear themselves apart in confusion. Historians recount how Shadreth slithered into the seat of a pantheon’s power, turning its own wards inward until they chewed each other to ribbons. The survivors spoke of seeing Shadreth in half-real glimpses, an entity forever shifting at the edges of sight, like a living tapestry of broken threads. They could never strike at it directly, for to look upon Shadreth too intently was to have one’s senses undone.
Then there is Zalanxis, The Timeless Maw, revered and loathed for manipulating the flow of ages. Empires that prided themselves on advanced chronomancy discovered how fragile their control was once Zalanxis arrived. She (if such a pronoun even applies) exists in a swirling corridor of fractured seconds, devouring possible futures before they can solidify. On some worlds, a city might vanish from the timeline entirely, leaving not even a ruin behind—only ghostly vestiges in the memories of dreamers. Countless heroic epics end with a sudden “and then it never was,” courtesy of Zalanxis’s ephemeral meddling. Libraries are dotted with redacted pages, referencing events that have no cause or consequence, undone by her intangible hunger.
Nulakhar, The Psychic Reaver, targets the minds of living and divine alike, feasting on belief, memory, and reason. Tall tales say Nulakhar once laid low an entire pantheon of lesser gods by simply erasing their worshipers’ knowledge of them. In a matter of days, shrines crumbled, priesthoods lost their powers, and even the gods themselves forgot their own names. Some call Nulakhar “the hush incarnate,” for her greatest weapon is the vacuum of thought she inflicts on entire cultures. Surviving texts from the earliest epochs record frantic pleas: “We cannot recall the shape of our own truths. Who are we?” The agony that echoes behind those words stands as a testament to her fearsome reach.
On the defender’s side of this cosmic war, one name consistently flickers: Agni Kai, Master of Elements. A famed cosmic champion rumored to have transcended mortal boundaries, Agni Kai stands as a bulwark—one of the few who has pushed back against Xul’tharaa and, by extension, glimpsed the edges of the Nullborn’s dominion. Chroniclers describe him as a figure of blazing fire and roiling waves, shifting from one element to another as though each were merely a costume. Though the Nullborn disregard mortal feats, Agni Kai’s repeated stands have forced more than one Null Horror into momentary retreat. In a realm consumed by oblivion, his legend remains one spark of defiance that has yet to be snuffed out.
Equally famous—if not more controversial—is the Draconic Deity Hannos. Many younger races see him as a distant, aloof being who rarely meddles in mortal affairs, content to watch over cosmic frontiers. Yet Hannos once confronted the Darkness known as Xul’tharaa directly, sealing it in a desolate dimension at a catastrophic cost. Some scholars claim Hannos was scarred by the act, that he’s never fully recovered from peering into that swirling pit of non-existence. His few worshipers speak of vivid nightmares he endures every time another rift threatens to release the Darkness. It is rumored Hannos keeps vigil in a hidden cosmic fortress, quietly forging wards that might hold back the next wave of Nullborn incursion.
That same fortress has hosted a selection of unsung heroes—mortals and minor divinities who survived cataclysms the Nullborn left in their wake. One particularly noted figure is High Oracle Saliana of the Starsea. She was among the last survivors of a realm devoured by Shadreth, bearing the final fragments of knowledge from her civilization. In Hannos’s refuge, she crafted a code of wards known as the “Seven Sigils of Endurance,” rumored to slow Nullborn infiltration. While these sigils have never halted a Pillar’s direct onslaught, they have kept certain strongholds from immediate collapse, sparing countless lives during the first moments of an incursion.
No listing of major figures would be complete without mention of The Exiled Astromancer Yul-Rav, a once-proud mage who believed he could bargain with Vorcath. His aim was to trade entire dead star systems for the safety of a single precious cluster—the homeland he cherished. But bargains with Nullborn are illusions, at best. The moment Yul-Rav unleashed the power to guide Vorcath’s path, it set an unstoppable chain reaction, funneling the devourer not only into the dead systems but also into neighboring living ones. History records Yul-Rav’s final words scrawled in cosmic runes: “I tried to placate oblivion with carrion, but it craved the living all the more.” Scholars still debate whether his misjudgment accelerated a wave of destruction that wiped out half a dozen star-faring cultures.
In hushed, half-legend accounts, there is mention of The Silent Triad—three ascetic immortals who rose in an era so ancient that even elder dragons speak of them as ghosts. They allegedly trained in the swirling aether near the boundaries of Mornuul’s influence, gleaning techniques that cancel out small pockets of Null Magic. Among their modest feats was the “Sealed Dawn,” a ritual that prevented the city of Haroon from collapsing into a Null Rift. Yet each time they used their art, a piece of their own vitality burned away. Eventually, the Triad vanished, leaving behind cryptic monoliths that describe advanced null-warding methods. The few who have deciphered fragments of these texts speak of “standing inside the moment of unmaking, to reflect it back upon itself,” a technique rumored fatal to all but the Triad’s own.
Even among the Nullborn’s ranks, stories arise of outliers such as Sinnurax, The Wayward Maw, a lesser spawn rumored to exhibit a flicker of curiosity regarding mortal existence. The Pillars regard Sinnurax as an oddity, neither entirely loyal nor openly rebellious. On rare occasions, it appears in shattered realms, silently observing survivors who scavenge the wreckage. Some say it even offered them ephemeral safe passage from an incoming wave of Horrors. But no one can ascertain Sinnurax’s true motives—whether it harbors a glimmer of empathy or simply experiments with new pathways of annihilation.
In the present day, as worlds brace for the next incursion, the legacies of these figures remain carved into universal consciousness. Mornuul looms at the blackened heart, and the Pillars turn methodical glances upon unsuspecting planes. Agni Kai holds watch wherever the elemental boundaries fray, while Hannos fosters his uneasy alliance of watchers in cosmic sanctums. Heroes like Saliana and Yul-Rav stand as cautionary tales—reminders that victory is fleeting, and misjudgment can doom entire galaxies. Yet still, there are those who cling to the stories of The Silent Triad, forging meager hopes that some new champion might glean a fraction of that lost art. The Nullborn remain unstoppable in essence, but in the hearts of those who endure, the spark of defiance glows as fiercely as any dying sun. If the cosmos is doomed to vanish, it will not go without leaving behind echoes of those bold enough to stand in the path of oblivion, if only for a moment.
Common Myths and Legends
Among the mortal realms, knowledge of the Nullborn exists only in half-spoken rumors and cryptic lullabies that no one quite recalls learning. Villagers whisper tales of ancient “Night Eaters” slipping through the cosmos’ edges, but few treat these yarns as anything more than local superstitions. Scholars scoff at such legends, dismissing them as garbled recollections of historical calamities. Yet, at the fringes of every advanced archive—buried under treatises on elemental magic and fading star charts—there sometimes lingers a single page or footnote referencing “an emptiness that devours even memory.” These clues are always tattered, too fragmentary to yield coherent meaning, as if the truth itself ebbs away the closer one gets to it.
Heroes of old are said to have embarked on perilous quests to seal “the silent ones,” a name believed to be a corrupted echo of the Nullborn. In dusty epic poems, these silent figures loom as formless nightmares, occasionally alluded to as the instigators of entire star-clusters’ demise or the abrupt extinction of once-thriving societies. Even the best-preserved narratives never fully articulate the identity of this unseen menace—only suggesting that it is vast, universal, and so daunting that even deities hesitated to act. Bards retell these ancient epics as cautionary fables, weaving heartbreak and awe into each refrain, yet conveniently omitting the dire possibility that this same horror might rise again.
Within certain draconic shrines, hushed references to a “Devouring Quiet” surface in old scripts—an event so taboo that only the most ancient of Dragon Lords can speak of it in full. Occasional mortal visitors to these sanctuaries recount tense confessions and unsettling silences between each line of oratory, as though the dragons fear that voicing the truth could invite it anew. In the fading recollections of older dragons, scholars find hints of Nullborn-like incursions—a cosmic chill that once turned blazing battlegrounds cold and plucked entire sky-fortresses from the heavens. Yet, for all these tenuous fragments, no scholar can piece together more than riddles and whispers.
Amid the common folk and their simpler lore, inscriptions on monastery walls and battered runestones repeat a single notion: the universe itself remembers the Nullborn, even if people do not. During moments of complete stillness—like that instant before sunrise, or the breath between lightning and thunder—some claim to feel the cosmos draw a careful breath, as if bracing for something immense and final. Farmers dismiss the sensation as momentary unease, while mystics interpret it as the world’s own faint alarm, gently warning of a force long buried. All remain fragments of a larger puzzle, glimmers of a looming shadow that few can truly name. Until such secrets are rediscovered—if they ever are—the Nullborn remain a hushed dread, equal parts folklore and cosmic threat, awaiting their moment to slip back into the world’s consciousness.
Heroes of old are said to have embarked on perilous quests to seal “the silent ones,” a name believed to be a corrupted echo of the Nullborn. In dusty epic poems, these silent figures loom as formless nightmares, occasionally alluded to as the instigators of entire star-clusters’ demise or the abrupt extinction of once-thriving societies. Even the best-preserved narratives never fully articulate the identity of this unseen menace—only suggesting that it is vast, universal, and so daunting that even deities hesitated to act. Bards retell these ancient epics as cautionary fables, weaving heartbreak and awe into each refrain, yet conveniently omitting the dire possibility that this same horror might rise again.
Within certain draconic shrines, hushed references to a “Devouring Quiet” surface in old scripts—an event so taboo that only the most ancient of Dragon Lords can speak of it in full. Occasional mortal visitors to these sanctuaries recount tense confessions and unsettling silences between each line of oratory, as though the dragons fear that voicing the truth could invite it anew. In the fading recollections of older dragons, scholars find hints of Nullborn-like incursions—a cosmic chill that once turned blazing battlegrounds cold and plucked entire sky-fortresses from the heavens. Yet, for all these tenuous fragments, no scholar can piece together more than riddles and whispers.
Amid the common folk and their simpler lore, inscriptions on monastery walls and battered runestones repeat a single notion: the universe itself remembers the Nullborn, even if people do not. During moments of complete stillness—like that instant before sunrise, or the breath between lightning and thunder—some claim to feel the cosmos draw a careful breath, as if bracing for something immense and final. Farmers dismiss the sensation as momentary unease, while mystics interpret it as the world’s own faint alarm, gently warning of a force long buried. All remain fragments of a larger puzzle, glimmers of a looming shadow that few can truly name. Until such secrets are rediscovered—if they ever are—the Nullborn remain a hushed dread, equal parts folklore and cosmic threat, awaiting their moment to slip back into the world’s consciousness.
Interspecies Relations and Assumptions
Across the tapestry of the cosmos, the Nullborn maintain no true alliances or even temporary collaborations, for their motives revolve around the quiet annihilation of all things. Other species—whether they be dragons, mortals, celestials, or demons—are not rivals or neighbors so much as inevitable prey. The Nullborn do not negotiate, trade, or form treaties; they simply advance like a silent storm, reducing entire worlds to hushed echoes of what they once were. In turn, these targeted civilizations rarely unify against the threat until it is too late, given how little reliable information exists about the Nullborn’s scale and methods. Each settlement, pantheon, or star-faring culture tends to perceive the threat as an isolated calamity, never fully grasping that they stand next in line to be devoured.
Given the Nullborn’s unrelenting nature, most conflicts between advanced beings pivot on delaying tactics rather than permanent resolution. Some cosmic factions create desperate coalitions—wizards, roving titans, or half-forgotten deities—to buy precious time for evacuation or the forging of last-ditch wards. But these alliances are short-lived, shaped solely by a grim recognition that all defenses eventually fall to the unstoppable hunger of the Nullborn. Even the mightiest draconic empires or celestial orders have found themselves reaching across normally unbridgeable divides, if only to coordinate a fleeting stand. By contrast, the Nullborn remain as aloof as the void that spawned them, seeing no distinction between gods, mortals, or monsters. All are equal in the eyes of oblivion, and each will ultimately succumb to its silent pull.
Given the Nullborn’s unrelenting nature, most conflicts between advanced beings pivot on delaying tactics rather than permanent resolution. Some cosmic factions create desperate coalitions—wizards, roving titans, or half-forgotten deities—to buy precious time for evacuation or the forging of last-ditch wards. But these alliances are short-lived, shaped solely by a grim recognition that all defenses eventually fall to the unstoppable hunger of the Nullborn. Even the mightiest draconic empires or celestial orders have found themselves reaching across normally unbridgeable divides, if only to coordinate a fleeting stand. By contrast, the Nullborn remain as aloof as the void that spawned them, seeing no distinction between gods, mortals, or monsters. All are equal in the eyes of oblivion, and each will ultimately succumb to its silent pull.
Scientific Name
Dimensional Aberration
Origin/Ancestry
Oblivion-Evolved
Lifespan
Indefinite
Conservation Status
Uncontrollable
Geographic Distribution
Comments
Author's Notes
-