"The worst part? They're the frackin' foot soldiers of the Flux..."

              - Sgt. Skinner, grim-faced.

Many believe the tainting influence of the Flux to be solely subtle and slow working, akin to a poison. However, the Flux also contains the capabilities of tremendous strength and terrible destruction. The avatars of this devilish might and power are known as Wreckers: each of them a massive, walking hill of a beast capable of leveling entire towns and fortresses completely on their own.

He glided silently along the vacant halls, his movements smooth and direct. The slithering halls and vaulted rooms slid past in a stead succession. About twenty minutes into his intuitive path the atmosphere changed subtly. He felt more aware, his senses heightened by an invisible but powerful presence in the air. His skin bristled on its own accord and his breathing shallowed. Some primal function of his being mixed anticipation and fear into a heady mix, which grew as he moved further through the queen’s manor. It was as though smokeless incense burned along his throat and nerves, creating an ethereal longing that made him aware of his own mortality. Life and death hung in the windless air.

At last, the vision of the endless catacomb receded at a gossamer curtained entrance. Twin braziers of spectral flame warded the entrance, living fires that impressed vigilance and discretion on all under their grey-blue light. A haunting, beautiful music called to him from beyond the veil, causing his heart to ache for everything blissful in the broken worlds. The invigorating aroma further spurred him to move under the lamps’ revealing illumination, through the soft caresses of the silk partitions, into the hall of the Weaver of Despair. The room was striking, with its narrow base and widening sloped walls that curved into a magnificent dome. Dazzling iridescent threads wove a dizzying pattern overhead, the queen’s own design, her private home. Ornamental cocoons, exotic baubles, and hidden clefts adorned the overhanging rooms, a veritable inner manor within her catacomb kingdom.

The Private jolted as if struck with water. The shadow within him swallowed the light of the dawn, which felt more fantasy than reality now in this state. Fluid, warm and viscid, enclosed around him, his body confined in a cramped envelope. Confusion fell upon him like an overturned bookshelf, each brick of sensory data striking against all he remembered and knew. The fight was over and the party, his ragtag troop, and the cave monstrosities lay as a ruined heap around him. Now they were gone, replaced by the liquid sheath and cloak of darkness. He was alone and something in his subconscious told him he had been this way for a long time.

The return of feeling made him slowly aware of other oddities. His jaw felt longer, and split, maybe due to a forgotten punch from those towering brutes. His shoulder blades moved as though disjointed...or double-jointed. He could not be sure in this cocoon. At the mentally intoned word cocoon, his skin crawled as his independent spirit began to thirst for freedom. He found his knives came into his hands at this desire, balanced and eager to liberate their owner. He thrust through the thick barrier, the edges cutting cleanly through to the empty void beyond. The warm fluid spilled down to the floor below, oddly silent as it splashed into the unknown. He pressed the silken edges away and leaned out of the husk, realizing where he was, and retched. He hung suspended in a spiderweb cocoon, probably some creature’s intended meal.

I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness... -H.P. Lovecraft, "From Beyond"

The Flux. Insanity incarnate. To many, the Flux is merely an abstract energy source that causes bad things to happen and that occasionally opens rifts into realms beyond our own. A conduit used by the Externals to worm their way into the triune universes of Earth, Ai, and the Great Machine. However, the Flux is much, much more than just that. The Flux is also a diabolical power that possess the potential to taint the souls of men and twist their bodies into utter abominations. Usually these things are flukes; abberant events which are the predictable outcome of injecting such an unstable and warping energy source into a world populate with fragile, fleshly beings.

Alias: Corpsetaker, Flamerot
Race: Manus Unguis
Aspects: Body 8
Sex: None; Height: 1.7 m; Weight: 500 kg

"Heheheh... All things end! All things fall apart! And we are there to feast!"

The nature of the Flux is constant change. Inconsistency is consistent within the Flux. New horrors are being unleashed in the various realms of existence all the time, forcing those within them to fight a constant war against an unintelligible enemy. The most recent horrors to appear out of the Flux are the Slime Lords.

Named for the disgusting slime that constantly excretes from their bodies, Slime Lords are massive hydra-like beings with an unfathomable sentience, an insatiable hunger, and burning desire to destroy everything. These foul beasts rule over the lesser Flux creatures as demi-gods, collecting followers and demanding sacrifices.