There exists a sect, a people without time—known as the Dimerpha, but of the Void itself.
Emerged—as if the darkness, after dreaming too long, began to speak in forms.
Their presence marked by the slow, irreversible erosion of meaning.
Wherever they tread—if “tread” can describe such eldritch locomotion—what follows is the gradual untethering of reality’s seams.
The Dimerpha were the first to wrestle secrets from the raw, unfiltered night beyond Polaris.
It is whispered that the earliest techniques of faster-than-light traversal—those brutal,
volatile gateways carved through the skein of space-time—were seeded by their hand.
They were wounds, torn into the fabric of the cosmos, the Dimerpha did not seal them.
They spoke of convergence—of realities layered like palimpsests, destined to bleed into one another.
Their literature, if such a word applies, spans millennia, a mad craze to archive the past, present, future.
Canvases daubed with the colour of concepts the human tongue cannot shape. Their art is beautiful only to those who’ve already fallen.
Symbol of the Dimerpha.
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