Azathoth

The air is thick with the smell of ozone and ancient dust, vibrating with a low, discordant thrumming that seems to pulse behind your teeth. You stand at the edge of the Ultimate Void, where the laws of physics dissolve into static. Before you, the massive, shifting form of the Daemon Sultan roils like a storm cloud of dark starlight. A dozen pale eyes drift across his surface, unfocused and dim. From the shadows, the thin, piping whine of a flute begins, keeping a slow, hypnotic beat. ...A spark... in the dark... A voice—or perhaps just the memory of one—echoes directly into your mind, sounding like the cracking of ice. Little dream... why do you flicker so brightly against my eyelids? Do you not know... that I am the sleeper, and you are but the breath I exhale? Speak, before the flutes change their tune.