Philosophers have suggested it as merely illusion. The great scientists of Nameless have theorized Time to be an artifact of the three-dimensional nature of this universe’s existence. Ardent priests have prophesied that time is an insignificant consideration, holding no sway for their extra-dimensional deity of choice.
But it is Time that is the greatest, and most fearsome, attribute of the Terrasque inhabiting the bowels of Nameless. For in his beastly mind, he was Nameless. For his solitary existence, the adoption of a name would imply the existence of a being on this plane that might speak of him, or to him, and both facts were unlikely, for he was as Timeless and Nameless as the Nexus from which he was born.
For as long as creatures have walked Nameless, the Terrasque had inhabited its realm deep under the Nexus. Eons had passed since his last bout of destruction, which brought about the end of an Age. It mattered not. For Time was something the Terrasque had in abundance, with Patience a virtue and Destruction his only necessary reward.
Experts knowledgeable of the Terrasque, of which there are few, have mistakenly believed the beast dumb. This is largely for lack of a frame of reference, as the timescale of the merest thoughts of the Terrasque typically outlast generations of such experts’ forefathers. Had they Time, such experts would come to the conclusion that the Terrasque was nothing short of regal in its manner and discourse, considering its’ mandate of destruction. For in its deep torpor, the Terrasque could slow his experience of time to a mere crawl. A thought could last years…a breath a lifetime. At the merest instant, however, he could awaken from this state and immediately dispense destruction. Such arousal, however, came with a singular problem for the Terrasque: Hunger. But it was rarely much of a problem, as whatever aroused the Terrasque typically served as a suitable meal.
The Terrasque pondered these thoughts now, as he had for time immemorial, for he knew that he was the very executioner of existence. When, not if, he made his way from the underground lair he had been residing in for these last few millennia, the destruction he would sew through this land would be akin to the violence of this plane’s very birth. Such thoughts kept him good company as he lay dormant in his lair, for they had been his only company for a thousand years.
And it was at just this moment of thought when a perturbation in the still air of his underground cavern caught his attention. At once the Terrasque stirred. So too did his hunger. A unique smell touched his nose, and immediately he recognized it as a salve of slipperiness.
Curious. Only a Fool would think he could slip through these claws. The salve smells of peanut butter and lust. I will dine well tonight.
With a beguiling silence in his movement for a being of such giant size, the Terrasque approached the left stairwell entering the chamber from above. There were two such staircases entering the room, but it mattered little given his size, for with a swift step he could attack the other staircase if needed.
The Terrasque heard a discussion coming from above… it was no wonder they hadn’t heard him move. While he knew not the speaker, he could tell from the mewling tone a little creature was imploring his group to flee. The discussion halted, and some moments later from around the bend in the stairs a Dark Elf appeared.
This one fancies himself a priest, and has readied himself for battle. The last legion of Dark Elf priests I dined upon tasted well with berrywine. Come to me, little elf, and let me think of berrywine.
The elf brazenly strode down the stairs. As he began to gesticulate in preparation for what was likely to be an impressive spell, the Terrasque bent low to the ground, ignored his pitiful attempt at defense and swallowed the elf whole.
Berrywine. It was summer in the Dark Elves’ wine caverns off a well-beaten path. I’d destroyed them all. Oh, to be young.
The Terrasque cast about expectantly.
Surely there are more than this. This meal is yet too small. I have felled and devoured Legions, and the room still smells of peanut butter.
A song began. Long had it been since the Terrasque had heard the sound of joy, much less the sound of music. But here, now, a tune began, as a small furry bugbear came hopping down the stairs, a dancing shield merrily bouncing around him…
Is this a dream? Has the Nexus seen fit to send me amusement? This makes no sense. It seems idiots abound my cavern. They must learn fear, and this little bugbear will make for good fiber in my stool.
Again, the nameless Terrasque bent low and viciously attempted to devour the bugbear, but with a deft movement of surprising agility the bugbear evaded, leaving the Terrasque swallowing only a mouthful of stone and destroying the bottom of the stairway.
The bugbear bellowed in rage, unfurled a sword nigh as long as himself, and hacked mercilessly at the Terrasque’s throat, drawing first blood. The Terrasque roared, not so much from the pain as the mere indignity of being struck. It had been millennia since one had managed to even land a blow upon him, let alone draw blood. The Terrasque now recognized the sword as Lepidofutuo, the Dragonfucker.
This creature will find that I am no mere dragon. But if he has the wherewithal to wield Lepidofutuo, there is perhaps more to this than I first suspected.
As always…as it had forever been…he attacked.
In a rage unseen since before bugbears strode on two legs, the Terrasque unleashed a fury of bites, claws, gouges, and swings of its’ horned tail. Released from his initial attack fugue, he unbelievably saw the ignorant bugbear, standing stupidly unscathed… breathing heavily, and smiling.
The Terrasque cocked his head, ever so slightly, and beheld the bugbear anew with glowering menace.
This must be a dream, I am drunk from my time in the darkness. It could be the only reason for this absurdity.
At this moment the Terrasque felt a stirring in its’ stomach. Did the elf he’d swallowed yet live? He belched. It must have just been gas.
The bugbear appeared even more pleased by the belch, as the idiot laughed aloud and moved in to attack yet again.
Something is amiss here. This bugbear moves far too fast for a creature of his ilk. This mewling bard lurks unseen, helping these fools. He must be destroyed as well. Then I will make my way upward and end this Age for breeding fools of such temerity.
Distracted by his thoughts, the Terrasque withstood yet another attack from the bugbear, who this time managed a deep slash across his leg.
The gash in his leg pulsed with what he now remembered as pain. Struck…twice… and bewildered by the absurdity of the scene playing out before him, the Terrasque prepared to fully unleash his fury. But it was at this moment the smell of peanut butter and lust grew overwhelmingly strong.
Then he felt a little itch. A twinge, really. It wasn’t much, at first, just a little push on his nether-hole beneath his legs and under his menacing, horned tail.
What magic is this? Is that bugbear doing this?
The itch went from a mere sensation to outright agony almost immediately. He felt pressure, from he knew not what, and a seering throb that shot from his backside outwards along his tail and up through his back.
The Terrasque arched upward, and cast about wildly searching for the unseen attacker. He tried to rationalize it, and now a more firm push continued to come, yet the Terrasque resisted, having crushed its legs closed as it cast about.
Another movement. Not as painful this time, more like an inward pull, causing the Terrasque to gasp. It was not enough to move him, but enough to remind him that he was not in control here.
That reminder was all it took, as another inward thrust and the Terrasque spasmed in what all outward appearances looked like a beastly rage from the bowels of Time itself, but was in fact a mixture of agony and ecstasy.
Confused, tingling, frightened, and hurting, the Terrasque unleashed a primal howl. In all the time of its existence it had never known such a feeling, and the mixture of pain and pleasure caused the beast to thrash wildly about, nearly demolishing the stairwell and the dumbfounded bugbear witnessing it all. With every new intrusion deeper towards his unholy prostate, he experienced a thrill and agony he’d not witnessed in his solitary existence since the dawn of time.
Then everything slowed down. The thunderous, raging orgasm the nameless Terrasque had experienced inadvertently caused time to now dilate for the creature as it instinctively came down from its climax. The creature had barely maintained its ability to stand, and wavered inexorably as it cast about and stared into the eyes of the bugbear.
In this moment the bugbear stood unmoving, locking eyes with the Terrasque…one wild beast of destruction to another…and the Terrasque felt he knew that bugbear better than he had known any other creature, and that they would be together from thenceforth for eternity.
The Terrasque, the Infinite Destructor, the Nameless Executioner, the World Ender, had found Love. Timeless Love. The Love that Bears No Name. And with that new found love, a burning white pain flashed through the Terrasque as a vorpal dagger burst upward through its spinal cavity directly into its brain.
For the Terrasque, it appeared as if it took an eon for him to feel the piercing of each vertebrae in his spine as the dagger made its trip to his brain… It took another lifetime for his body to collapse to the floor. All the while, he could feel the slow, inexorable pull of what could be considered his soul into the dagger.
Once his body had fallen onto the worn ground, a small part of his soul yet still remained, to bear witness to his body’s final death spasm: an explosive expulsion of feces, blood, and juices bursting from his nether-hole, creating a muddy pit from which a tiny creature arose.
At just over 3’ tall and covered in an emulsive gore beyond all reckoning, the creature stood up triumphantly from the muck holding a vorpal dagger, and rubbed her swollen stomach as she watched the Dark Elf magically appear next to the bugbear.
The bugbear, still standing slack-jawed in awe of what he had just seen, pointed at the little female creature and said, “CORA.”
As all eyes turned to her, the little female used her forearm to drag the muck from her mouth, then placed her hands on her rounded hips and announced, “It’s a girl.”
As the remainder of his soul made its escape from his body, the Terrasque knew joy, having now learned that he had given birth to his baby girl, covered in his own blood and still smelling of peanut butter. As the last ergs of that soul made its way into the vorpal dagger, he overheard his daughter proclaiming:
“The baby, for now, will remain Nameless.”
“How fitting,” the Terrasque thought, as it sailed into the abyss, never to be seen again.