Ton . Danny ' s Works

An ancient bio-symbol given form, Ze=Iglos is a living sigil, etched across its own asymmetrical, crystalline carapace. Its body is composed of glowing hieroglyphic plates, slowly rotating around a core that flickers like a dying starfish heart. Its limbs defy symmetry; some end in cipher-like claws, others split into subliminal symbols that imprint onto the ocean floor like a ritual tattoo. Wherever it moves, meaning itself breaks down—language, math, time—no longer function. It does not destroy with force. It unwrites.

In the heart of a drowned future metropolis, illuminated by decaying neon and glowing abyssal towers, a notorious alien pirate crew descends from their barnacle-encrusted void cruiser. Clad in corroded armor patched with synthetic sea-beast hide, they move through the ruins with predatory precision. Their captain, a towering figure with a biomechanical eyepiece and a spine of exposed cables, wields a gravity-forged anchor-saber, while his crew of amphibious mutants and cybernetic looters tear through what remains of the city. They do not steal for riches. They collect secrets—and they know this city hides a slumbering god beneath its core.

A gargantuan deep-space vessel, resembling a fusion of a cathedral, a crustacean, and a war relic, sails through the stars and under the oceans of drowned worlds. Its crew—a mix of alien outcasts, exiled AI minds, and hybrid monsters—live by a single rule: “Take from the old gods before they wake.” The ship’s core is sentient, whispering heretical truths, guiding them to places even empires fear. At its helm, a ghostly navigator with an abyssal mask steers through temporal rifts, seeking the next city to plunder—or sacrifice.

In the ruins of a collapsed oceanic cathedral, a towering, emaciated figure draped in threadbare ceremonial strands of bioluminescent fiber drifts silently. Its face is hidden behind a broken, transparent mask, from which a single red ring of light radiates like a halo, flickering with the voices of the damned. Its chest bears a gaping cavity, within which a mass of twitching, alien tongues writhes. When it speaks, it does so in the voices of those who drowned seeking forgiveness. Its arms extend into long, silvered needle-limbs, not to harm, but to record sins directly into the ocean floor. Each confession ends with silence. And a new mark carved into its spine.

Floating above a trench of rotting holy scrolls, this being resembles a jellyfish-shaped high priest, its upper body humanoid and adorned in decaying religious regalia made of transparent scales and coral-thread. Its lower half is a massive, pulsating veil, trailing streams of glimmering ink that rewrite the sea’s memories wherever it passes. The Liturgist speaks in echoing psalms, reshaping reality according to a scripture long since lost. Each syllable spoken unravels the identity of those who hear it, until their minds become blank pages—ready to be rewritten.

Lurking at the bottom of an unmapped trench, this entity resembles an enormous, grotesque anglerfish fused with a single, bulbous eye that dominates its entire face like a deep-sea telescope. Its eye protrudes like that of a monstrous goldfish, the iris formed from swirling, bio-metallic rings that spin in unnatural directions. Translucent fins drift slowly through the pressure-crushed water, trailing luminescent threads that resemble neural pathways. Encircling its bloated form is a slow orbit of severed limbs, ossified organs, and alien symbols, suspended in the abyss as if frozen mid-formula in a cosmic equation. It does not swim—it drifts with ominous calm, gazing through time and memory. Any creature that meets its gaze is struck by a moment of unbearable clarity, a surge of pure truth so overwhelming that it collapses the mind into permanent stillness. No blade or bomb can harm it. It does not need to fight. It already knows how everything ends.

Resembling a colossal, translucent sea slug, this abyss-dwelling entity drifts slowly through the crushing darkness of the ocean’s deepest trenches. Its gelatinous body glows faintly with cold starlight hues of violet and icy blue, casting eerie luminescence across the ruins of forgotten civilizations on the seafloor. Upon its back lies a massive crystalline womb-like chamber, within which hundreds of faceless alien embryos float in silent, dreamlike suspension. Ominous tendrils extend from its body, releasing hypnotic pheromones that seep through the currents, luring the desperate and the broken into its presence. In exchange for a chance at rebirth, it demands offerings of flesh, memory, and identity. None know what transformation occurs within the chamber—but those who return are forever changed, hollow-eyed, and mute, bearing an unsettling serenity.

Towering in the hadal depths like a drowned god of ruin, this monstrous figure wears the ragged semblance of a legendary pirate captain—but grotesquely enlarged and mutated beyond comprehension. Its skeletal frame is wrapped in a decayed admiral’s coat, overgrown with kelp and coral, while a massive, cracked bell-helm engraved with alien oceanic runes obscures its face. Faint pulses of abyssal light flicker from within the helm, echoing a toll no ears can hear. From its bloated abdomen gapes an enormous, vertical maw lined with rows of jagged, lamprey-like teeth. A once-grand pirate ship is caught halfway inside, its hull crushed and masts splintered, slowly pulled deeper by writhing tentacles that spill from the mouth like digestive feelers. Its right arm ends in a massive naval cannon—rusted, blood-stained, and bolted directly into torn flesh. Its left hand clutches an anchor the size of a small tower, encrusted with bone, barnacles, and sunken chains—wielded like a great hammer of the deep. Below its torso, humanoid form gives way to a mass of thick, octopus-like limbs that root it to the trench floor, writhing in restless silence. It does not walk. It creeps like a nightmare. It does not speak. Its presence tolls like the end of memory itself. Those who hear the bell vanish—not into death, but into erasure. They are unremembered. Unwritten. Swallowed by the captain who devours not flesh… but legacy.

Lurking in the pitch-black depths of the ocean trench, this hunched, crab-like priest crawls solemnly across the seabed, its chitinous shell fused with rusted bells, coral thorns, and encrusted chains. Shrouded in the weight of forgotten prayers, it follows in the wake of its master—Bell-Naive—echoing the silent toll that erases names from the world above. The creature’s massive back is lined with rows of eyeless, human-like faces, twisted in eternal whispers. Their murmurs—unintelligible, mournful—resonate through the pressure-thick water like the last memories of drowned souls. In its clawed hands, it clutches a staff made from the shattered mast of a lost ship, the tip ending in a barnacle-covered tuning fork that vibrates with inaudible resonance. Wherever it crawls, history unravels. Wherever its bells hum, memory fades. It does not preach. It tolls for those who no longer exist.

Beneath the lightless pressure of the abyss, atop the decayed deck of a long-forgotten galleon, looms the spectral form of Ilvaarn—once a legendary pirate admiral, now a fused relic of the sea and its silence. His upper body retains the grandeur of command: clad in barnacle-crusted armor and a tattered officer’s coat, its gold thread faded to green with algae. His face is gaunt and deathless, bound in an ornate, jewel-studded bandana that drapes down like a funeral cloth, hiding hollow eyes that once stared down fleets. His lower half has transformed into the coiling tail of a deep-sea beast—scaled, ridged, and crowned with sweeping fins that sway like banners in the still water. His body merges with the shattered ship beneath him, planks and beams tangled with coral and spine, as if he is both captain and coffin. Gripped tightly in both hands is a massive, barnacle-encrusted wooden ship’s helm—a captain’s wheel long stripped of purpose. One hand clutches the edge as if steering, while the other steadies the heavy shaft. It is no weapon, but a symbol—a cursed relic of control lost to the abyss. From its spokes, seaweed trails like ribbons, and within its cracks dwell whispering barnacles that repeat forgotten orders in garbled tongues. Ilvaarn does not walk. He drifts like judgment, guided by a helm that no longer turns. He does not speak. But all tides shift when he passes. Where he steers, memory drowns.