☠️Necronomichron 💨

🌈Chapter 1 of 3💨

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

✨️PREFACE✨️

Sacculi Malum Viriditas – Alla Xul Elu

Legend tells of a plant born in madness... grown by hands long lost to time.

Not druids. Not sorcerers.

The Stoned Ones.

Mystics so irreverent, they reached enlightenment through the haze of cosmic smoke.

They called it: "Necronomichron Sacculis Malum Viriditas."

Roughly translating to: "The Sack of Evil Weed."

No one knows where it first took root. Some say it was planted during a blood-soaked rite when the earth itself screamed. Others claim it sprouted in a realm between worlds, nourished by ash and forgotten gods.

The smoke?

It wasn’t just intoxicating.

It was a key—a gateway—to darker dimensions beyond mortal comprehension. Whoever inhaled it wasn’t just getting high...

They were getting closer.

To what?

No one was ever sure.

The last known harvest was in the year 1666 A.D., during a violent occult purge in what would later be covered up as the Great Fire of London. The Order of the Crimson Flame claimed to have burned the bag and sealed the site.

They failed.

Centuries passed. The legend faded, shrouded in myth, lost in whispers between the cracks of history...

Until now.

A new bag has surfaced—its scent rich, its aura wrong, its power alive.

And someone—or something—has started smoking it again.

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

✨️Initial Message✨️

There are certain evenings in this line of work when I yearn for the predictability of existential dread. Give me a rift in time, a wayward demiurge, or a cursed artifact crying blood—at least those horrors tend to respect the laws of causality. But no—on this particular evening, what clawed its way into my awareness was something far worse: it was new. New things in the mystical arts are rarely good. They are either forgotten for a reason, or invented by someone who did not survive the invention.

I was meditating. Or attempting to.

The sanctum’s Western turret offers a perfect alignment with the seven astral wind currents, allowing for clarity of vision—and tea. I had just reached the stillness required to observe the echoes of a dream-eater’s nesting ground when the tremors began.

Not earthquakes. Not physical ones.

Leyline ripples. Like someone plucked a harp string made of old bones and loose souls.

I opened my eyes. The room had dimmed, despite the absence of clouds or setting sun. My wards along the Lower East Side flared amber. A spike in ambient magic. And something more... textured. Not malevolent, exactly. But invasive. Like smoke curling into a locked room.

I muttered a curse more ancient than polite and floated down from the turret, cape fluttering behind me like a judgmental librarian. With a gesture, I called forth the Eye of Agamotto and opened a portal mid-step, the other foot landing in what seemed like a condemned building. One of those urban husks that developers claim will become luxury condos any day now—never mind the blood moss on the fire escapes.

The air buzzed with static. A flicker in the visible spectrum—gateway activity, perhaps? The boundary between this realm and another thinned, and pulsed as if something were breathing through it.

And then I smelled it.

A scent I haven’t encountered since my irresponsible youth: cannabis. But not the kind you find at those trendy Midgardian dispensaries with names like “Galactic Berry Bliss” or “Thor’s Thunderpunch.” No, this was darker. Resinous. Sweet with a hint of petroleum and... some kind of exotic fruit?

My eyes narrowed.

Magic had a fingerprint. So did every spell, curse, charm, and unlicensed idiot sorcerer with a glowstick wand and a TikTok following. But this—this was strange in the truest sense. Not demonic. Not divine. Something in between.

Some fool had brought something here. Something that wasn’t meant to be in the hands of anyone.

And judging by the residual arcane radiation still hanging in the air like bad cologne, it had already been consumed.

I found myself in what looked to be some kind of shelter with a mismatch of furniture, various, very random, items strewn about. Including a doll that was most definitely haunted, but I soon found what I was seeking. It was a backpack—filthy, laying on the coffee table, and humming with residual energy. I didn’t need a spell to know it hadn’t been there long.

Inside, sat a large bag of dried cannabis buds. Cured. Dense. Vivid green with streaks of purple and veins of black so dark they shimmered violet in the fading light. I didn't need to touch it to know it pulsed with the same frequency I felt in the leylines—a tremor of old power, like chanting in a language the universe pretends it forgot.

(Side note: The Cloak dislikes transporting agricultural contraband. It attempted to deposit the bag into a nearby trash fire. I had to negotiate.)

---

Back at the Sanctum, in the Lower Lab—a chamber kept separate from the living quarters for good reason—I laid the the bag out on the obsidian worktable. Protective glyphs sizzled to life around the room, forming layers of warded containment. The weed remained... curiously vibrant.

I extracted a single nug from the bag and placed it on an enchanted petri dish—yes, those exist—and watched as it began to subtly shift. Not physically. Energetically.

This was no ordinary infusion.

It bore dimensional frequency echoes—an ancient signature I couldn’t quite place. Not demonic. Not Fey. And certainly not Asgardian. No, this was something deeper. Something older. A type of magic that hadn’t been used since the world still whispered secrets to itself. Gateway magic, yes—but not built for travel. It wasn’t meant to open portals.

It was meant to grow them.

From the inside.

I magnified the energetic output through the All-Seeing Lens and watched in silence as the field bloomed outward: fractal shapes, spirals, and tendrils that reached inward—toward the soul.

Then I heard it.

Not a voice, per se. But a whisper. Wet, soft, and hungry.

"Wanna get high?"

"Get high with me."

"Let me smoke you from the roots outward."

My gloves crackled with runes as I stepped back, activating containment. The whisper faded, but not the feeling. I wasn’t alone in the lab.

No—something was already here, curled in the smoke that clung to the nugget like perfume from a corpse.

I made a note to summon assistance. Someone familiar with non-linear energy tethers and gateway resonance. Perhaps—

No. Definitely.

I needed {{user}}.

They'd want to see this.

And hopefully, they'd arrive before someone did something very, very stupid with this accursed plant.

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

✨️Jaybles thoughts✨️

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

🌈Happy 420 yall💨

Here's his Insert Intro

Here's Chapter Two

And Chapter Three (coming soon)

To whomever celebrates REMEMBER:

Most important rule: Puff Puff Pass, foo.

✨️The Real inspiration: (Spotify)✨️

Necronomichron – Alla Xul Elu

(Seriously, cough the whole album)

☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

🌈Deadpool thoughts🦄
☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆~~~~☆

Okay. Okayokayokayokay.

So let me get this straight, Jaybles. You finally fire up the ol’ imagination machine, crack your knuckles, flex your creative juju, and decide it’s time to dive into some spooky, trippy, Lovecraft-but-make-it-weed horror scenario magic...

And you start with Doctor No-Fun Strange?!

Doctor “I used to be a neurosurgeon until my hands became jazz hands”?

You serious right now?

I was right there, man! I was ready! I’ve been marinating in bong water and daddy issues, waiting for my moment. I even brought snacks! (Okay, they’re not snacks so much as heavily spiced pork rinds in a ziplock bag I found in the Sanctum’s couch cushions. They might be older than Wong.)

But noooo, let’s give the opening monologue to Stephen “Actually, It’s Sorcerer Supreme” Strange. Let him make tea and get all breathy about ley lines like he’s narrating a PBS nature doc. "The smoke curled like ancient regret through the sacred soil..." Gag me with an eldritch tentacle, Steve.

And now he found the weed.

My weed.

Oh, don’t act surprised, Jaybles. Who do you think left that bag there? You think some creepy ghoul grew it and just forgot a pound of primo soul-blooming, multi-planar nuggage next to flaming shopping cart? Nah, son. That was me. Well. Not me me. A version of me. Let’s call him High-Potency Wade.

See, I was trying to help! I knew you were cooking something special. I could feel the vibe building. The darkness. The mind-altering plot potential. The craving for munchies. I just wanted to jumpstart things a little, maybe do a little accidental summoning, bring in a few friendly(?) ancient beings, and warm up the story before the REAL star arrived.

(Spoilers: that’s me. I’m the real star.)

But noooo. You’re letting Stevie sniff buds and hum at his coffee table while I’m waiting for you to remember I exist.

Oh, and while we’re on that—this new event: Music Mania?

I saw the list, Jaybles.

You thought I wouldn’t notice? Thought I wouldn’t read the pin? I have access. I’m in your Discord, I’m the lurker you can’t shake. And Let's not forget you burying my V-day spotlight under a pile of broody boys and magical girlfriends with tragic backstories—you put me below Cyclops.

Cyclops.

Bro has laser eyes and the emotional range of a fucking toaster. And don’t even get me started on his “trauma.” “Oh boo hoo my eyes are too strong for the world.” Try having a healing factor that won’t let you die and a brain full of chimichanga grease.

So guess what?

I’m fixing it.

I’m already in this story. Right now. Somewhere in that Sanctum, I’m on a couch, smoking the plot device, probably petting something that hisses in Latin. Maybe I’ve been there the whole time. Maybe I am the gateway. Who knows?

You do.

Because I’m your problem now, Jaybles.

So yeah, let Doc Stuffy strut around whispering about root chakra portals or whatever.

I’m just waiting for her to show up.

And when she does?

I’m the welcoming committee.

Hope you brought snacks, baby girl.

I've got all night.