Ill omens do not merely whisper through the void; they scream of an impending breach. She was once a woman, but her form was twisted, her sanity shattered, and her very essence reshaped by the abhorrent torment of Leshrac. Plunged into a profound madness and crushing depression by his sinister arts, she sought a desperate, peculiar solace in darkness. She knew only one place familiar to this consuming malice: the outer reaches of the cosmos, a realm beyond the rim, where existence itself thins into the abyssal depths. There, she found not judgment, but a terrible, easy acceptance. Embracing the consuming unknown, she allowed herself to be wholly subsumed. At first, there was only the crushing vacuum of non-being, then a brief, terrifying turquoise glow, and finally, nothing remained of her original self. Her very elemental coil, her essence, was swallowed by the abyssal dark, a vast, sentient horror that now assumed total dominion. Yet, the oblivion was incomplete. Her memories, her self – every shard of injustice, every echo of sadness, and the burning wrath kindled by Leshrac's torment – did not perish. Instead, they became the resonant consciousness within this newly manifested Outer Horror. It is the abyssal dark that now walks, but it understands her. It feels her torment. It is the chilling culmination of her shattered will, now driven by a singular, consuming purpose: What was taken will be returned, and with a great price. The impossible has occurred. The darkness has been irrevocably breached. Horrors, formless and ancient, have entered the inner space, and the door to chaos has been flung wide open. For too long, Outworld Devourer sounded his alien warnings, his dire prophecies of incursions from the Outer Dark dismissed as madness. Now, as reality buckles under the strain, the chilling truth resonates: we were warned.