N E K R I L I A

Day 4

    The workers gather at the outpost as usual, but the camaraderie that normally accompanies the start of the day feels fractured. In the past, the crew would joke with one another, trading quips about the harsh weather or their evening escapades at the tavern. This morning, however, a heavy silence hangs over the room, broken only by the occasional scrape of chairs or the clink of coffee mugs on the table. Wacian enters, scanning the room. His coworkers are there, but something feels off. Anders, who normally leads the group in loud, boisterous conversations, sits at the edge of the table, hunched over and muttering under his breath. His finger drags through the frost on the table's surface, sketching what appears to be a crude rune. The motion is repetitive, almost mechanical, and his face is blank, as though he isn’t entirely present.

"What's that you're drawing?" Wacian asks, trying to inject some normalcy into the moment.

    Anders freezes, his finger hovering mid-drag. He looks up at Wacian, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "I... I don't know," he stammers, his voice cracking. Then, with sudden intensity, he snaps, "Why does it matter?" His outburst is so abrupt and out of character that the other miners glance over uneasily.

Magnus, usually the calm and pragmatic one, tries to diffuse the situation. "Take it easy, Anders," he says, though his tone lacks conviction. Magnus himself looks paler than usual, his hands fidgeting with his thermos. He avoids eye contact, his gaze flicking nervously toward the windows as if expecting something—or someone—outside.

Johan, a younger worker, chuckles nervously in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Must be the long nights getting to you, huh? Makes people see things that aren’t there." But his laugh dies quickly when Anders glares at him with an intensity that sends a shiver through the room.

    In the past, the group’s conversations had been lighthearted, their banter helping them face the grueling work ahead. Now, the usual social bonds feel frayed, stretched thin by an undercurrent of something unspoken. Even the outpost itself seems to reflect the mood: the walls feel closer, the air heavier, and the usual creaks of the old structure seem louder and more intrusive. As Karl arrives and begins the briefing, Wacian can’t help but notice that several workers aren’t paying attention. Some stare blankly into their mugs, while others rub their temples as if fighting off a headache. One worker, Torvald, keeps glancing at his hand, tracing faint, glowing lines on his palm that no one else seems to see. Wacian shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his unease growing. Something intangible is pressing down on the group, and it’s not just the sinkhole or the harsh conditions. This tension is different—an almost primal discomfort, as though the air itself is saturated with a presence none of them can name. For the first time since arriving at the outpost, Wacian finds himself doubting the safety of their work. Whatever is happening here, it’s starting to take root not just in the mine, but in the people themselves.

    As Karl’s voice drones on in the background, Wacian’s attention drifts to the faint hum of the room—a sound he isn’t sure is even real. It feels like the walls are subtly vibrating, though no one else seems to notice. He glances around, observing the other workers. Their faces are pale, drawn tight, and their movements feel disjointed, like puppets on frayed strings. He wonders if anyone else feels the same oppressive weight, the same gnawing unease that’s been building in him since the first descent into the sinkhole. And then it hits him—this isn’t just about the mine anymore. The odd behavior isn’t confined to the workers. He remembers the tavern last night: the elder’s cryptic warnings, and even the unsettling silence of the streets. It’s as though the entire town is caught in a web of tension, fraying at the edges with each passing day. Lost in thought, Wacian shifts in his seat, and a sharp, uncomfortable heat against his thigh jolts him. He frowns, patting his pocket and feeling the small, smooth shape of the rune stone he had picked up days earlier. He had completely forgotten about it. Now, though, it’s hot—uncomfortably so, as if it’s been lying near a fire. He pulls it out and stares at it, turning it over in his hand. The faint engravings on its surface seem brighter now, glowing faintly with an amber hue. A chill runs down his spine. It doesn’t make sense—rocks don’t just heat up. For a fleeting moment, Wacian wonders if he’s losing his grip, if the paranoia that’s gripped the others is starting to sink its claws into him. He clenches the stone tightly in his fist, ignoring the heat as it burns against his palm. Glancing around the room again, wondering if anyone else has noticed the oddities, the whispers at the edges of their perception. Or maybe they have noticed, and they’re just pretending everything is fine, hoping that by ignoring it, the growing unease will somehow go away. But he knows better. Whatever is happening isn’t going away. It’s spreading. And he’s starting to think that it’s not just the mine they need to worry about—it’s the town itself.

    Abruptly, Wacian realizes he’s standing at the rig’s control box deep inside the sinkhole. The rune stone is clenched tightly in his hand, its faint warmth radiating into his palm. His thumb idly traces the intricate engravings on its surface, almost as if guided by an unseen force. The machine before him roars, its vibrations coursing through the metal platform beneath his boots. His brow furrows. He doesn’t remember walking over here. Worse, the rig was already running when he arrived. He looks at the controls—every dial, every lever is perfectly calibrated, the rig humming at optimal capacity. Yet, something about its rhythm feels off, too precise, too alive.His attention is drawn back to the rune stone, its faint glow casting shifting shadows on the control panel. He hesitates, unsure why, but then finds himself scanning the stone over the rig’s surface, as though compelled by some deep instinct. The moment the stone hovers above the primary drilling console, the entire machine lurches violently. The drill below them shifts into overdrive, its grinding roar echoing through the cavern like a beast unleashed. Sparks erupt from the drill head, illuminating the dark walls of the sinkhole with flashes of red and orange. Wacian stumbles back, gripping the control panel for balance as the platform beneath him vibrates wildly. He looks at the rune stone, now blazing hot in his hand, the glow so bright it sears his vision. It feels as though the stone is reacting to the rig—or perhaps the other way around. The drilling grows faster, more erratic, the sound climbing to an almost unbearable pitch.

“What the—?” he mutters, his voice swallowed by the cacophony.

Over the comms, a static-laden voice cuts through the chaos. “Wacian! What the hell is going on down there?” It’s Karl, his tone sharp and accusatory.

Wacian fumbles to respond, pressing the comm button on his collar. “I-I don’t know! The rig—it’s gone haywire!”

“Shut it down! Now!” Karl barks, his voice crackling with urgency.

Wacian’s hands fly to the controls, but the machine resists him. Every attempt to power it down is met with a mechanical whine, the rig refusing to obey. He glances up at the ceiling of the sinkhole, half-expecting Karl to activate the remote override. But nothing happens.

“Why isn’t the override working?” Wacian shouts into the comm.

“It is working!” Karl snaps. “Something’s interfering—get out of there before it blows!”

    Hesitating, his eyes darting between the rig and the stone in his hand. The glowing engravings seem to pulse in sync with the rig’s movements, as though feeding into the machine’s frenzy. A thought flickers in his mind, unbidden and chilling: It’s the stone. It’s amplifying the drill. The ground beneath the platform trembles, small fissures snaking outward from the base of the rig. Dust and loose rocks cascade from the walls, the cavern groaning like a living thing. Wacian backs away from the control box, his breath coming in shallow bursts as the rune stone in his hand burns hot enough to sear his skin. Suddenly, a low, wet sound cuts through the chaos—a squelching, like flesh dragging over metal. Wacian freezes, his eyes snapping back to the rig’s control box. Tendrils, dark and glistening with a fungal sheen of embers burning out, are snaking out from the seams of the machine. They writhe and twitch, their movement unnervingly deliberate. Before Wacian can react, the tendrils lash out, wrapping around his wrist and yanking his hand toward the control panel. He cries out, the rune stone slipping from his grasp. The fungal appendages seize it midair, their slick surfaces pulsating as they envelop the glowing artifact. The heat in the air dissipates instantly. The trembling stops. The rig’s roaring overdrive fades into a steady, familiar hum, as though nothing had happened. The fungal tendrils retreat back into the machine, leaving no trace of their intrusion. Wacian stumbles back, clutching his wrist and staring at the now-quiet control box. The rune stone is gone, consumed by the rig—or whatever had taken hold of it.

“Wacian, what’s going on down there?” Karl’s voice crackles over the comm, irritated but unconcerned. “You’ve got the whole system stalling up here.”

Wacian fumbles for the comm button, his voice shaky. “I... I don’t know. It... it’s fine now.”

“Just a hiccup?” the foreman asks, his tone already dismissive.

“Yeah,” Wacian mutters, his eyes still fixed on the control box. “Just a hiccup.”

    The other workers glance over, shrugging off the incident. Equipment malfunctions weren’t uncommon in the sinkhole, and a few muttered curses about faulty systems are the only acknowledgment of the moment. To them, it’s business as usual. But Wacian can’t shake the image of those fungal tendrils. He presses his hand against his thigh to stop it from trembling. Whatever had just happened, he knows it wasn’t normal. And yet, as he looks around, he feels an unsettling isolation. Nobody else saw it. Nobody else felt it. And now, the rune stone—his only proof that something was deeply wrong—is gone. Wacian leaned against the wall of the sinkhole, his breaths shallow and uneven. His gloves were slick with sweat, and his pulse thundered in his ears. The drilling rig hummed steadily behind him, back to its normal, rhythmic operation as if nothing unusual had happened. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see those strange fungal appendages again, but the rig was just a machine now, its levers and gears coldly indifferent. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but the others hadn’t seemed to notice his absence. That was a small mercy. If they had seen him holding the runestone to the control box—or worse, if they had seen the tendrils—they’d be calling him crazy. Or maybe worse, they'd start asking questions he didn’t have answers to.

"Wacian! You alive over there?" a voice called out. It was Magnus, one of the younger miners, with a broad grin and a streak of dirt across his face. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Wacian forced a laugh and waved him off. "Just catching my breath."

Magnus chuckled, turning back to the others who were clustered around the storage crates, checking their tools and joking about the day’s haul. Wacian pushed himself off the wall and headed toward them, his boots crunching against the gravel floor of the sinkhole.

    For the next couple of hours, the crew settled into a steady rhythm. The miners rotated shifts between drilling, hauling debris, and checking equipment, their banter filling the cavern with an air of normalcy. But for Wacian, everything felt slightly... off. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing but the shadows cast by their helmet lamps. And then there was the smell—a faint, acrid scent that clung to the air like smoke. No one else seemed to notice it, but it made Wacian’s stomach churn. As the shift dragged on, Wacian found himself paired with Elias, an older miner who’d been working the sinkhole since it first opened. Elias was usually chatty, prone to sharing long-winded stories about his glory days in the mines. But today, he was quiet, his face drawn and pale.

“You alright, Elias?” Wacian asked as they worked to secure a cable around a heavy slab of rock.

Elias didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hesitant. “You ever get the feeling this place doesn’t want us here?”

Wacian froze, his hands tightening on the cable. “What do you mean?”

Elias shrugged, avoiding Wacian’s gaze. “It’s just... sometimes I think we’re digging up something we’re not supposed to. Like the earth itself is telling us to stop.”

Wacian swallowed hard, his thoughts flashing back to the tendrils and the runestone. “It’s just a mine, Elias. Nothing more.”

“Maybe,” Elias muttered, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe that.

They finished their task in silence, the only sound the distant hum of the drill and the occasional clatter of falling rocks.

    Shift was nearing its end, the workers began packing up their gear and securing the machinery for the night. The air in the sinkhole felt heavier than usual, thick with an unspoken tension. Even the chatter among the crew was subdued, their voices hushed as if they were afraid to disturb something lurking in the shadows.Beginning its slow ascent the elevator trudged, the cavern walls seemed to close in around him, the faint echoes of their movements chasing them upward. Wacian stared at the floor, trying to focus on the mundane rhythm of the machinery and ignore the nagging sense that something was very, very wrong. When they had reached the surface, the sun was low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape. The cold air bit at his face, sharp and bracing, but it was a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere of the sinkhole. Wacian watched as the crew dispersed, some heading straight to their homes while others lingered to chat or light up cigarettes. He lingered for a moment, unsure if he was ready to go home just yet. His thoughts were too tangled, his nerves too raw. Maybe Jarsen would have some answers—or at least a distraction.

    With that thought, the snow crunching under his boots, he veered toward the house. Jarsen had always been an odd mix of old-world knowledge and modern ingenuity. He was the local electrician, responsible for much of the sinkhole’s wiring and systems, yet his home was cluttered with books and relics his mother had collected during her years as a professor of Nordic folklore. If anyone could help Wacian make sense of what had happened, it would be Jarsen. The door to Jarsen’s cabin creaked open before Wacian could knock, revealing the man himself—broad-shouldered and perpetually dusted with a faint layer of sawdust and grease.

“Wacian,” Jarsen greeted, his voice warm but tinged with curiosity. “What brings you by? You look like you’ve seen a draugr.”

Wacian chuckled nervously, stepping inside. The cabin smelled of cedar and faintly of burnt wiring. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with tomes on Norse mythology, engineering manuals, and an assortment of other oddities.

“Something happened today,” Wacian began, lowering his voice as if the walls might overhear. “Down at the rig.”

Jarsen raised an eyebrow, pouring two mugs of hot coffee. “Another breakdown? Or worse?”

“It wasn’t just the rig,” Wacian said, taking the mug and wrapping his hands around its warmth. “It was... I don’t know how to explain it. I had this rune stone—from my family’s relic room... It started heating up while I was near the control box. And then...” He hesitated, unsure how to phrase what had happened without sounding insane.

“Go on,” Jarsen urged, leaning forward.

Wacian swallowed. “The rig started going haywire.” The image replayed in his mind like a loop, the tendrils snatching the stone from his hand and retreating back into the machine as if the rig itself had claimed it.

“It wasn’t just some glitch,” Wacian said, breaking the silence. “The rig—Jarsen, it took the runestone. Like it was alive. Like it needed it.”

Jarsen, hunched over a mug of coffee, raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me the machine just... ate it? And now it’s fine?”

Wacian nodded. “It’s like nothing happened. The others didn’t even notice. But I swear, Jarsen, the rig wasn’t acting normal before that. And the stone—it was reacting before it got taken. Heating up in my pocket, like it knew something was about to happen.”

Jarsen leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “Wacian, you realize how insane that sounds, right? Machines don’t just... do that. And that stone—wasn’t it some kind of family heirloom?”

Wacian let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s been in my family for generations. My mother always said it was a protector, something tied to the old gods. I never believed it—until today. There’s something about that stone, Jarsen. Something... alive.”

“That sounds like something my mother used to talk about,” Jarsen said, his tone measured. “Old stories of stones that acted as conduits between realms. They weren’t just artifacts—they were catalysts. Bridges to something... other.”

Wacian’s stomach twisted. “Other?”

Jarsen shrugged. “It’s just folklore. But still... the tendrils, the heat—there might be something more to this. I’ll dig through my mother’s notes, see if anything comes up. In the meantime, be careful. If the stone’s gone, it might not be the end of it.”

Wacian stood, his unease gnawing at him. “Thanks, Jarsen. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Wacian,” Jarsen said, his tone cautious, “whatever’s happening, don’t go back down there without thinking this through. If the rig reacted to the stone, who knows what else it’s capable of?”

Wacian nodded but didn’t reply. As he stepped out into the cold evening air, the phantom weight of the runestone still lingered, a reminder of how much he’d already lost—and how little he understood about what was coming.

    Walking home was uneventful, but as Wacian neared his cabin, a strange sound caught his ear—a faint, discordant melody drifting through the night. It was a piano, though the tune was sloppy and drunken, the notes stumbling over one another like a clumsy dancer. Wacian froze, his breath hitching. There was no piano in town—at least, not one anyone played. The sound was coming from his cabin.He quickened his pace, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. As he reached the door, the music stopped abruptly, leaving only the eerie silence of the night. Wacian pushed the door open cautiously, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. His father, Lars, was slumped in his chair by the fire, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. The television blared an old western, the gunfire and shouting grating against the quiet.

Wacian frowned. “Dad?”

    The man didn’t stir, his snores deep and guttural. Shaking his head, Wacian turned off the TV and draped a blanket over his father. The piano music still echoed faintly in his mind, though the room was silent now. Exhausted, he climbed the stairs to his room and collapsed onto his bed. Sleep came quickly, but it was anything but restful. In his dream, Wacian was someone else. He saw through unfamiliar eyes, his surroundings a surreal, chaotic mess. He was stumbling through a dense forest, but the trees were wrong—their trunks twisted and gnarled, their branches dripping with a viscous, glowing sap. The foliage above was a deep, unnatural crimson, the color of Arctic Bramble, casting the forest in an eerie, blood-red light. The air was thick and oppressive, each breath feeling like a weight pressing down on his chest. The figure he inhabited moved with a frantic energy, their footsteps uneven as though they were being pursued. Shadows darted between the trees, indistinct shapes that seemed to flicker in and out of existence.The sky above was an impossible swirl of colors, greens and purples bleeding into one another like spilled ink. It was both beautiful and horrifying, a cosmic canvas that defied logic.The figure stopped abruptly, their gaze lifting to the sky. Wacian felt their panic, their desperation, as though it were his own. And then, without warning, the dream shattered, and he woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest.

N E K R I L I A

    Another long, grueling shift had finally ended, it doesn’t even seem like yesterday the operation broke through a relatively small new ice pocket loaded with nekralite. Workers gathered in the common hall a small, weather-beaten building that served as their dining area, bar, and escape from the biting cold outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and the faint, earthy aroma of the permafrost that clung to their boots. Wacian sat at one of the worn wooden tables, nursing a mug of frothy ale. Around him, the other miners were talking in low tones, their voices muffled by exhaustion. The laughter that typically followed the end of a shift was notably absent, replaced by a subdued tension. The sinkhole seemed to hang over them even here, its strange, yawning presence casting a shadow on their thoughts.
"To another day down the hole," grunted Bjorn, one of the older miners, raising his mug half-heartedly. A few workers echoed the toast, but most just sipped their drinks silently. 

    Across the table, Erik, a wiry, sharp-eyed man, had been staring at the patterns in the wood grain of the table for several minutes. His brow furrowed deeply, and he traced his finger along the lines, muttering under his breath. Wacian frowned, watching him.
"Erik," Wacian said, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. "What are you doing?"
Erik looked up sharply, as though startled out of a trance. "It's... nothing," he said, but his eyes darted nervously back to the table. "Just the grain of the wood. Doesn't it look strange to you? Like... it keeps going deeper, like it’s twisting in on itself."
A few of the other workers glanced over. Bjorn snorted, trying to laugh it off. "You're just tired. That hole's getting to you. Happens to all of us if we stare too long." 

    But Wacian could see the unease in Bjorn's eyes, the way his hand tightened around his mug.
"He's not the only one," another voice piped up. It was Anders, a quiet, steady worker who rarely spoke unless he had to. "I swear the sinkhole’s changing. The edge—when I looked at it today, it didn’t seem right. Like it wasn’t a circle anymore. More like... something else. Something bigger."

The table went silent. Even Bjorn didn’t offer a joke this time.
From another table, Magnus, a broad-shouldered miner with a booming laugh, suddenly slammed his mug down. "Enough of this nonsense!" he barked. "You lot are just letting your heads play tricks on you. The sinkhole’s just a hole. You all need to stop acting like scared children."
"Then why have you been covering the windows in your cabin?" Wacian asked quietly, his tone cutting through Magnus's bravado like a blade. The room turned to look at Magnus, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"It’s the light," Magnus muttered. "The way it reflects off the frost. That’s all."
"No," Anders said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s not just the light. It’s... something else. I’ve seen it too. In my dreams, the frost... it moves. Like it’s alive."
The tension in the room grew thick, and for a moment, no one spoke. Wacian looked around the table, noticing how pale and drawn some of the men looked, how their eyes darted nervously toward the door or the windows. These weren’t just superstitions or fatigue—this was fear, raw and real.
Bjorn broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "Well, if the frost is alive, maybe it’ll start mining for us. Save us the trouble."
A few chuckles followed, but they were weak and forced. The room’s unease remained palpable.
Wacian drained his mug and stood. "We’ve all had a long day. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another shift, and we can’t afford to fall behind." His words were steady, but his mind was racing. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t just in the sinkhole. It was creeping into their minds, into the camp itself.
    As the men dispersed, Erik lingered at the table, staring once more at the wood grain. Wacian placed a hand on his shoulder. "Get some sleep," he said firmly. "And stop looking for patterns where there aren’t any."
But as he left the hall, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that Erik wasn’t wrong—that something was twisting beneath the surface, unseen but undeniable.

Day 3

    The mornings began as always—quiet and bitterly cold. The miners gathered their tools, trudging out into the frost-laden darkness. The pale glow of the sun barely pierced the overcast sky, casting long, shadowy fingers across the camp. Wacian pulled his scarf tighter against the icy wind as they descended toward the hole. Something about the air felt different today. Not the chill—it was heavier, almost oppressive, like a silent pressure pressing down on them. Wacian glanced at the others as they moved in small groups, boots crunching in the frost. Some were talking quietly, but many trudged forward with a vacant, hollow look in their eyes.

    Wacian caught sight of Erik standing alone at the rim, staring down into the abyss. His helmet was cocked slightly to the side, and his posture was tense, as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.

“Erik,” Wacian called out, his voice firm but not unkind.

Erik flinched and turned toward him. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “It’s deeper today,” he muttered.

Wacian frowned. “What is?”

“The sinkhole. It’s... it’s not just a hole. It’s growing. Changing. Can’t you feel it?” Erik’s voice was strained, his words coming in quick, uneven bursts.

Wacian stepped closer, placing a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “It’s the same as it was yesterday. You’re tired. We all are. Come on, let’s get to work.”

Erik hesitated, his gaze darting back to the sinkhole. “You don’t hear it, do you?” he whispered.

“Hear what?”

    Erik didn’t answer. Instead, he shook his head and shuffled toward the equipment station, muttering to himself under his breath.

The creaking elevator platform groaned under the weight of the miners as it began its slow, shuddering descent into the sinkhole. The air grew colder and denser with every meter they dropped, carrying with it an earthy, metallic tang that clung to the back of their throats. The dim sunlight from above faded quickly, replaced by the harsh glare of the floodlights mounted along the walls of the shaft. Shadows stretched and twisted in unnatural ways, playing tricks on the eyes. Gripping the railing tightly, Wacian’s gloved fingers dug into the cold steel. The rhythmic clatter of the chains pulling the platform downward was steady but unnerving, each jolt a reminder of how precarious their journey was. The walls loomed around them, a patchwork of jagged ice and exposed rock. Crystals of frost glittered like fractured glass, but they seemed oddly... wrong. Their shapes were sharp and chaotic, like shattered mirrors trying to reassemble into something alien.

“Hold on tight,” Bjorn muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Platform’s been acting up. Last week, it stalled halfway down."

    The memory of the incident sent a ripple of unease through the group. Getting stuck in the freezing shaft with no way up or down was a nightmare none of them wanted to relive. Wacian remembered the frantic radio chatter and the hours it had taken to get the miners back to the surface. It wasn’t just the cold that made the descent dangerous—it was the sense that it was alive, waiting for an opportunity to claim them. As they descended, Wacian caught a glimpse of Anders out of the corner of his eye. The man was muttering under his breath, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the railing. The sound was faint, almost drowned out by the clatter of the elevator, but it grated on Wacian’s nerves.

“Anders,” Wacian said, his voice steady but firm. “What are you doing?”

Anders didn’t look up. “Just counting,” he murmured. “Keeps me grounded. One, two, three, five, seven…”

“Primes,” Anders said without looking at him. His voice was distant, almost mechanical. “They’re safe. The others... the others aren’t safe. Too many angles. Too many pieces.”

Wacian exchanged a wary glance with Bjorn, who stood nearby. Bjorn gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable.

“Anders,” trying again, keeping his tone calm. “What do you mean, ‘safe’?”

Anders finally looked at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “The primes don’t fit. They don’t belong to the pattern. The pattern can’t use them.”

    Below them, the faint glow of the worksite came into view—a sprawling, makeshift network of floodlights, scaffolding, and machinery clinging to the sides of the sinkhole. The noise of drills and hammers echoed faintly, a reminder of the relentless work that awaited them. Before Wacian could press further, the platform jolted to a stop at the bottom of the sinkhole. Anders muttered something under his breath and wandered off toward the drilling station. The others exchanged uneasy glances. Wacian’s stomach churned. The air in the shaft felt heavier than it should have, pressing against his chest like an invisible weight. As the platform jolted to a stop at the bottom, Wacian exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding... But the unease didn’t leave him. This wasn’t just a workplace—it was something else entirely. Something that watched and waited, biding its time.

   The team began unloading their tools from the supply crates near the narrow crevasse at the worksite's edge. Wacian could feel the weight of the earth above pressing down on him, the sheer height of the walls creating an oppressive sense of isolation. Working quickly, uncoiling cables and checking the integrity of the drill bits. His breath formed brief, fleeting clouds that vanished into the cold air. The chill seeped through his gloves, numbing his fingers as he tightened bolts and inspected the rig. Distant rumbling of other drills echoed faintly, their vibrations reverberating through the frozen ground. Minus the noise, there was an unnatural silence around the crevasse itself, a void that seemed to swallow sound.

    Wacian glanced over his shoulder and saw Anders standing a few meters away, motionless, staring at the jagged fissure in the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Wacian asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he straightened up.

Anders didn’t respond immediately. He was hunched slightly, his gloved hands hanging limp at his sides. His helmet lamp cast a faint glow into the crevasse, but the light seemed to be swallowed by the inky darkness.

After a long pause, Anders finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. “It’s deeper than it looks,” he muttered. “I thought I heard... something.”

Wacian frowned and took a step closer, the frost crunching beneath his boots. The crevasse yawned before them, its edges sharp and uneven. A faint draft emanated from its depths, carrying with it a peculiar scent—earthy and damp, but tinged with something sour, almost metallic.

“Probably just the wind,” Wacian said, though he could feel the unease creeping into his own voice. He leaned over the edge, shining his helmet lamp into the void. The beam illuminated little more than fractured ice and frost-coated rock before being swallowed by shadow. “We’ve got a lot to do, Anders. Let’s not get distracted.”

Anders finally turned his head, his pale face partially obscured by the shadows of his helmet. “It didn’t sound like the wind,” he said quietly, his eyes darting back to the crevasse. “It was... different. Like a voice, maybe. Low, like it was... calling.”

Wacian stared at him for a moment, unsure how to respond. Anders wasn’t the type to spook easily—he’d always been steady, pragmatic, and unshakable. Seeing him this rattled set Wacian’s nerves on edge.

“It’s just your mind playing tricks on you,” Wacian said, forcing a chuckle that felt hollow even to him. “We’ve been down here too long. Let’s get this rig set up and get out of here by the end of the shift.”

Anders hesitated but finally nodded, though his gaze lingered on the crevasse as if he expected something to emerge from its depths. He shuffled back to the equipment pile, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man trying not to draw attention to himself.

    Wacian stood there for a moment longer, staring into the crevasse. The draft from below seemed to grow colder, biting at his face, and the faint, sour scent made his stomach turn. He shook his head and turned away, muttering under his breath.

“Just the wind,” he told himself. But as he bent back down to secure the drill, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something deep within the crevasse was listening.

Wacian tightened the last bolt on the drill and straightened up, stretching his aching back. The weight of the equipment and the bitter cold gnawed at him, but it wasn’t the physical discomfort that lingered in his mind. As he stepped away from the rig, his thoughts wandered, piecing together the fragments of unease that had been gathering over the past few days.

Something’s wrong here.

    He crouched near a crate, pretending to check his tools while letting his gaze drift around the worksite. The other miners moved like shadows, their figures bent under the weight of their gear and the monotony of the job. Most of them looked fine—tired, cold, but fine. And yet, every so often, Wacian caught flickers of behavior that didn’t sit right

    

    Magnus, staring at the rock walls with a strange intensity, as if the veins of frozen dirt held secrets only he could decipher. Anders, whispering about voices in the crevasse, his normally steady demeanor fraying at the edges. Even Erik, who had always been quick to laugh off danger, seemed quieter lately, his jokes carrying a hollow edge. And what about me? Wacian leaned back against the crate, exhaling slowly. He wasn’t immune to the creeping dread. Ever since they’d broken through that frozen pocket last week, he’d felt it—a tension in the air, a hum just below the range of hearing. It wasn’t constant, but it was there, lurking, like the faint vibration of a machine running somewhere far away.

He’d told himself it was nothing. The sinkhole was a strange place, after all. The cold played tricks on your body, and the isolation got into your head. It wasn’t unusual for workers to get a little jumpy down here. But this was different. The dreams had started three nights ago. Not nightmares, exactly—more like... fragments. He’d see shapes that didn’t make sense, angles that bent the wrong way, and patterns that spiraled endlessly in his mind even after he woke. He’d brushed it off as stress, but then there were the numbers. Wacian frowned, rubbing his temple. He hadn’t told anyone, but every time he glanced at the timer on the drill or the readings on the gauges, the numbers seemed wrong. Not broken, just... wrong. He couldn’t explain it. The digits looked fine, but when he tried to make sense of them, his stomach churned, and his mind recoiled.

Maybe it’s all in my head.

He thought about the elder’s words from the other day, the cryptic warnings about stirring things that should stay buried. He’d dismissed it at the time—just the ramblings of an old man clinging to superstition. But now, as he sat in the shadow of the crevasse, the words gnawed at him.

The ground remembers. The ice holds its secrets. And we are intruding.

Wacian glanced toward the crevasse again. Anders was avoiding it now, keeping his distance, but Wacian could still feel its pull. It wasn’t just a crack in the ground—it was something deeper, something alive.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus. The job wasn’t going to do itself, and he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. But as he stood and grabbed his wrench, he couldn’t help but glance at the others.

How many of them were feeling it too?

And if they were, how long could they keep pretending everything was fine?

Something’s wrong here, he thought again, gripping the wrench tightly. And I don’t think it’s going to stay hidden for much longer.

As the sun reached its zenith, though its light barely penetrated the sinkhole, Wacian took a break near one of the drill rigs. That’s when he heard it—a soft, low chuckle.

Turning, he saw Erik sitting on the frozen ground, his helmet discarded beside him. He was laughing quietly to himself, his shoulders shaking with each breath.

“Erik?” Wacian called, approaching cautiously.

Erik looked up at him, his grin unnaturally wide. “It’s all wrong,” he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling glee. “The angles, the lines... they don’t make sense. But they’re perfect. Don’t you see? It’s beautiful.”

Wacian crouched down, trying to meet Erik’s gaze. “What’s beautiful?”

Erik gestured vaguely at the walls of the sinkhole, his hand trembling. “Everything. The way it fits together. The patterns... they’re speaking to us, Wacian. You just have to listen.”

Wacian felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. He reached out to grab Erik’s arm, his voice firm. “Snap out of it, Erik. You’re not making sense.”

For a moment, Erik’s smile faltered, and he looked at Wacian with something resembling clarity. But then he shook his head and pulled away, returning to his soft, unsettling laughter.

    By mid-afternoon, the unease was palpable. More miners were beginning to act strangely—muttering to themselves, flinching at shadows, or staring blankly into the distance. Wacian found himself constantly checking on his team, trying to keep them focused on their work. But every interaction left him more unsettled. As the day came to a close, the team gathered at the base of the elevator for the ride back to the surface. The usual camaraderie was gone, replaced by a heavy silence.

    Glancing around at his coworkers Wacian noticed Magnus was nervously fidgeting with a rock in his hands, muttering under his breath. Erik was smiling faintly, his eyes unfocused. Even Bjorn seemed distant, his jaw clenched tightly.

As the elevator ascended, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that the sinkhole was watching them, its silent presence pressing down on them like a weight. The day was over, but the unease lingered, growing stronger with each passing moment.

Bjorn, who had always been the strongest and most reliable of the group, was now working with unnerving precision, his movements mechanical and deliberate. When Wacian asked if he was alright, Bjorn simply nodded and muttered, “Just listening.”

By the time the shift ended, Wacian noticed that the camp was splitting into two groups: those who seemed unaffected and were trying to maintain a sense of normalcy, and those who were slowly unraveling. The afflicted miners weren’t openly hostile, but their behavior was becoming more erratic, their minds slipping further into strange obsessions and fears.

As they rode the elevator back to the surface, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that the sinkhole was watching them. He glanced at Erik, who was staring at the frost-covered walls of the shaft with a serene, almost blissful expression.

“It’s just the beginning,” Erik murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Wacian clenched his fists, a deep sense of unease settling in his gut. Something was happening to them—something they couldn’t see or understand.

here's some stuff for a story I am working on

N E K R I L I A

1.WARM AND WET

Day 1

    Outpost Veigr—named for the old Norse word for “strength”—were used to such harshness. They were all sons and daughters of the north, descendants of seafarers and storytellers who had braved even harsher landscapes centuries ago. For the men and women of Veigr, mining was more than a job; it was a legacy, another way to wrest treasures from the frozen earth as their ancestors had once wrested survival from the sea. Yet, beneath the camaraderie of their shared heritage, there lingered unease.

    “Steel yourself against the cold.” Stoves laid in the corner of each cabin and remained lit throughout the frigid nights, which barely prevented the frost from building. Workers slept in layers, woolen undershirts and thick socks doubling as both pajamas and the base layer for the day’s work.

    Air was sharp, dry, and bracing, making breaths feel like inhaling ice shards, on the skin it was razors tipped with glass, deep and sharp with every breath, the sun? It never truly rose in the winter months; instead, a faint, gray twilight painted the snow-woven landscape in timbres of shadow and frost. Sharpness greeted the miners before they even stepped outside their homes, seeping through the walls of the clapboard structures and biting at exposed skin like an ever-present predator. Inside the small, dimly lit cabins, the miners stirred awake to the sound of the communal bell tolling from the outposts’ the mess hall—a slow, heavy clang that carried through the frost-choked air.

    A hunched man wrapped in furs, sat in his usual spot by the long house’s hearth. A carved staff resting against his knee, his face was a road map of wrinkles, eyes pale yet piercing, as though he could see the woven tapestry of fate tangled around each worker. Before setting out, it was customary for the workers to pay their respects to Lintel, the village elder.

“Back to the sinkholes today,” one of the miners said, their voice tinged with unease.

Lintel nodded slowly, his fingers brushing the carved runes etched into his staff. “The Helgróf watches,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that demanded attention. “Take care, for it is not their time to wake.”

The locals called the sinkholes "Helgróf"—Hell’s Graves. The word carried weight, an unspoken warning, though no one dared to voice it aloud.

The miners exchanged uneasy glances. None of them fully believed the elder’s warnings—at least, not outwardly. His words had a way of settling in the mind, nagging at the edges of thought like a splinter.

Yja, the medic, lingered a moment longer. “Not their time to wake?” she asked quietly.

The elder’s gaze bore into hers, his expression grim. “You cannot fight them. Only respect them—and hope they find you worthy.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the fire, leaving Yja and the others to ready themselves for the day ahead.

    The cold seemed sharper than usual as Wacian made his way through the narrow, snowy path to his family’s house. He had forgotten his father’s lantern—a tool that, while outdated, had always given him a sense of reassurance when descending into the sinkhole. It wasn’t unusual for miners to go back for forgotten gear, but the walk back alone always felt longer than it should.

    Reaching his cabin, Wacian pushed the door open and was immediately greeted by the warmth of the small wood stove crackling in the corner. Setting his gloves down on the table, the first inhale smelling faintly of pine and smoke, as though the past lingered here more strongly than anywhere else in the house. Wooden shelves, carved by his grandfather, lined the walls and displayed objects that had been in the family for generations. The dim light from the high window illuminated just enough to cast soft shadows over the treasures. An iron-framed lantern rested on a low shelf, polished but well-worn, its glass stained amber from years of use. His father had carried it on his long shifts, claiming it was lucky.

    Wacian ran his hand over the iron lantern, its smooth metal cool against his palm. He paused for a moment, glancing toward the old slate engraving. Propped on the shelf beside the lantern was a small piece of slate, engraved with angular Nordic runes. His grandmother had always said it was a piece of “frettasteinn,” a foretelling stone, meant to guard against poor omens. Above the shelf hung a harpoon, its wood handle splintered with age and its head rusted but still sharp. It had belonged to his great-grandfather, a sealer who braved the icy fjords. He had always called it “Havdyrsknív”—the Sea Beast’s Knife. Sometimes he wondered if his own life would leave anything worth adding to the shelves, or if his family’s legacy would end here, in the shadow of Veigr’s mines. Breaking his meandering thoughts

A voice boomed from the main room, rough and biting. “WACIAN!” hoping to avoid his father’s detection… he braced himself. “What are you doing in there? Wasting time staring at ghosts?”

Wacian exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the lantern’s handle. “Just grabbing something I need,” he called back, keeping his voice as even as he could manage.

“Then move faster! You’ve got work to do,” Lars barked, the sound of his heavy boots creaking on the wooden floor growing louder.

Wacian turned toward the doorway just as his father appeared, towering and broad-shouldered even in the dim light. Lars’ gray hair hung in unruly strands around a face weathered like driftwood—lined with age, but harder than the Arctic wind.

“I don’t have time to stand around and babysit you,” Lars growled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You think you’ll survive the sinkholes with your head in the clouds, dreaming about useless trinkets like that?” He gestured roughly toward the shelves.

“They’re not useless,” Wacian said quietly, his voice firm despite his father’s glare. “They’re part of who we are. You kept them for a reason, didn’t you?”

Lars snorted. “I keep them because your mother did. Don’t think for a second that staring at them will make you stronger. Out there, the only thing that keeps you alive is your wits and your back.”

Wacian clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. He had long since learned that arguing with his father was like shouting into a blizzard. He grabbed the lantern and tucked the rune stone into his pocket.

“I’m going,” he said, brushing past Lars toward the door.

As he reached the threshold, Lars’ voice cut through the air like a knife. “Don’t lose yourself out there, boy. The land doesn’t care about you. And it sure as Hel won’t give you a second chance.”

Wacian paused, his hand on the door frame. He didn’t look back. “I know,” he said simply, stepping out into the cold.

The door closed behind him, muting the warmth and the tension of the house. Wacian exhaled, watching his breath bloom into the frigid air before fading away. His father’s words echoed in his mind, though not for the reasons Lars might have hoped.

    He looked back at the small cabin, its windows faintly glowing against the gray sky. For all his father’s harshness, the man had never taken the relics down, never sold them, never tossed them aside. Deep down, Wacian wondered if Lars feared the same things he did—the land, the stories, the weight of history pressing down like the cold.

    Lantern in hand, Wacian began the walk back to the sinkholes. Wind had picked up, stirring the snow into faint eddies that danced across the ground. Veigr’s landscape stretched out before him—endless white, broken only by the dark ridges of the distant mountains and the jagged edge of the sinkhole looming on the horizon. The crew was already gathering near the equipment sheds, their forms little more than silhouettes in the faint light. Wacian adjusted his scarf and started back toward the group, the lantern clinking softly at his side.

    Walking back felt less lonely this time, though he couldn’t quite shake the sense that the land itself was watching. It was a foolish thought, he told himself. The sinkhole was just a hole. These relics were just objects... and yet, the weight in his pocket reminded him that his family had once believed otherwise—and maybe, in some small way, he still did too.

At this stage, the sinkholes appeared deceptively lifeless. The jagged edges of the largest pit loomed ahead, carved by frost and erosion. Mist clung to the ground like a veil, obscuring the depths, and the distant howling wind seemed almost like a warning.

Still, something felt... off.

    Yja, walking at the rear of the group, paused to glance over her shoulder. A faint vibration hummed through her boots—not enough to draw attention but enough to make her frown. She dismissed it as the distant rumble of machinery but couldn’t shake the unease that clung to her. The others were quiet, their focus entirely on the task ahead. The air was heavy, not just with cold but with a subtle pressure that none of them could articulate. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath.

When they reached the sinkhole, the mist cleared just enough to reveal the first signs of something unusual: faint, branching patterns etched into the ice at the edges of the hole. They looked almost organic, like veins or roots frozen in place.

“What’s that?” asked Leif, crouching to inspect the markings.

“Just ice fractals,” Anders muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Fractals don’t glow,” Freya said, her voice low. She pointed at the faint green shimmer coursing through the patterns, like bio luminescence trapped in the ice.

The group exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. After all, it was their job to dig—and dig they would.

Have yet to upload a portfolio piece for this sculpt yet, but could not wait to start test prints to see how it looks. Started with a small solid version, then scaled up 500% and hollowed the big boy out. I also got a wash/cure station, and that is why there is visible white kind of 'gunk' on the larger one... I overcured it, but in a way I like it better lookin this way, gives it character :)

Getting through a bulk of my creepy sculpts from Nekro-land, this addition is a flesh beast that was originally inspired from v2 midjourney imagining using various Kentaro Miura stylings, here is the original render...

Lots of more physical problems with this print, initially created a small solid version that almost came out perfect minus some adhesion issues when it was near completion, and *lots* of small crevices in which the resin just wasn't curing and I couldn't reach it with any tools, thought I could use bare hands to get in some areas.. ya, that works, [do not ever bare hands handle fresh resin prints or wet prints] but contact dermatitis isn't fun or healthy lol.

Not being deterred by some irritated skin I waited a couple days hollowed out my model, added some drain holes, supports, and sliced 'er up. Printed this out overnight and it did manage to come out perfect--it's about 2.5x scale as my original print.

After a somewhat successful print, I let hubris get the best of me and tried a more difficult one... Hollowed it out, this time put some drain holes because in the previous print I learned uncured resin definitely gets trapped inside the hollowed models and can cause... issues, long term with model stability.
I'm not sure what exactly caused the failed area of this print, the rest of it looks great but somehow the lower torso got messed up adhering to the legs causing a 'shearing' effect to happen, causing the bottom half to be detached--and somehow it corrected itself and printed the rest of it no problem.

After semi-failed print I scaled down the model a tad and printed this out as a full structure, not hollow. Came out perfect.

After doing a handful of calibration prints to make sure everything checked out, i began printing one of my own models, hollowed it out, sliced it, and started print. It looked great from the vat until I scraped it off the next morning and noticed there was some issue curing a portion of a starting layer which eventually corrected itself--here are some photos of da boi

Notes; i did not put a drain hole in this model, ignorance is bliss :). this led to me poking a hole in an unstable portion of the model filling it with water, and draining it repeatedly until it was cleaned out. Although the print is technically a failure, im considering it a success all things considered.

Kordycinekrilia Parasitica - (cordycep/nekromorf/parasite)

Origin: Arctic Methane Sinkholes

4 classes of 'Nekroles' with 3 grades of each, increasing of complexity as grades increase.

Micro +++
Macro +++
Invasive +++
Symbiotic +++

Nekrole; (sinkhole/nekhole/nekROLE)
any area with Kordycinekrilia Parasitica spawning occuring


Nekroles can be multi-class and can be categorized as such, contradictions also are possible.

e.g.
Micro Invasive
Macro Symbiotic
Symbiotic Invasive
Invasive Symbiotic

Spontaneous biome adaptation has also been noted to happen in timespans as small as 8 hours.

Some areas of geological influence are stable although it seems to appear that almost all Kordycinekrilia Parasitica colonies goal is to reach full envrinomental assimilation and control.
in worst case scenario a nekrole is allowed to progress to Grade 3 in all known areas of progress and what usually is some kind of malformed glump abberation with primitive brain functions, at minimum,
can and will emerge, when that happens the categorization becomes a full on necrotic morphology monstrosity and a scientific marvel, nekromorf.

Environmental Symptoms;

usual bodies of water tinting in hues closer to crimson or golden spontaneously
gelataneous bubbles on liquid surface "Blod Bubbla"
oozing earth "Bleeding Earth"
drunken forests (large scale)
peat bogs that *crunch*
frozen 'dripping' mushrooms that appear to have icicles coming off of them.

Onset;
Upon noticing symptoms onlookers can often confirm for themselves if a nekrole is underdevelopment. The base species that causes much, if not all of the environmental changes/mutations can be easily spotted
in areas of terrain depression/sinking where fungus and bacteria will thrive. Once a sinkhole has developed this triggers massive amounts of spore release from the mushrooms, which have spores that are designed to 'sink' if below a certain elevation
and temperature, ensuring more than effecient propagation among the newly formed hole. Colony growth is dependent on substrate and temperature, because the methane exhaust emitting through permafrost cracks causes a warming to occur, the deeper these
nekroles go, the warmer it is, allowing for exponential development and growth.

Theories have been suggested that a perhaps undiscovered species of animal may have been infected with this 'plague' and died off in the permafrost, being dormant up until methane warmed the surrounding areas and venting occured.

Witnesses report that sporing events are easily confused with localized blizzards or light snowfall, often leaving many people to exposure of inhalation, which has no apparant short-term or long-term health effects?

A major double edged sword that has occured within the science community is that these holes are going quite deep, very rapidly, revealing and confirming much of what science has speculated, but allowing some rediscoveries of species coinsiding with others at periods of time previously impossible,
while at the same time major decomposition is occuring on all the evidence--this has caused a sort of gold rush in some communities of thought.


Exotic Species;

4 known mega-fauna mutations have been found in remote ghost towns across the globe

mines of america(ore gorger)
sinkholes of mexico(torrent of vicsera)
permafrost crevice (leads to entire sub-layer biome created by mega fauna)
great escarpment in south africa (apex predator, more dangerous than the rest)

exotic species of mega fauna have adopted the name of 'angels'in a sinister context.

brainstorming ideas and world building for the monsters and things that come out of my mind. blog posts will probably be more akin to journal posts or sketchbooking, enjoy

I think I figured out an origin point for all the nekro stuff im making, like world building wise so natural sinkohles in the arctic, they are happening more and occur because they are on some kind of micro-fault line that doesnt involve any of the tectonic plates but has alot of geological activity happening on it, shifting etc. Ok, that shifting causes small fractures in permafrost which like all cracks/fractures they just keep expanding and becoming larger, more break off points etc. We have fossil fuels under that permafrost that would otherwise be trapped and not released, those fractures allow methane to be released, heats up the permafrost creating thermal chimneys allowing more and more methane to come out thats all real science fast forward to my own speculative sci fi future, entire forests and areas have been completely submersed under either water or in bog type conditions, the poles are basically giant sink holes that look like craters. bunch of climate change crazy weather happens cuz of mass amounts of methane heating globe, our planet is actually coming out of an ice age, so its gonna heat up anyhow(real science) kind of take a 'thing' approach and a primodrial fungi (nekro fungi) doesnt exist in the permafrost but it's a new species that is created through modern waste slurry mixing with ancient decay the end game for all of it is humans are replaced or assimilated or some other incredibly dark fate