/x/ - Paranormal/Schizo

The Backstory of the Man Who Would Become Nophono
Before he was the faceless host of a cursed show, he was a man named Arthur Pendleton (or other similar, mundane names in various tellings).

Who He Was:
Arthur was a late-night public access television technician and aspiring children's show host in the early 1980s. He was a quiet, unassuming, and somewhat nervous man—deeply passionate about creating joyful, educational content for children but plagued by social anxiety and a lack of industry connections. He was the kind of man who felt invisible, which is why he obtained his CCW permit; he felt a need to protect himself in a world he found increasingly unpredictable.

The Project:
He poured all his savings, time, and soul into creating a pilot for his dream show, "Nophono's Happy Hour" (the name being a play on "phono" for sound, representing his hope to bring sound and joy). He built the sets himself, designed the puppets, and wrote all the songs and scripts. It was low-budget, awkward, but made with genuine heart.

The Tragedy:
The most common version of the story involves a terrible event, often a studio fire or a botched robbery. Arthur was at the studio late at night, working alone. Intruders broke in, or an electrical fault sparked a blaze. Panicked and fearing for his life, Arthur reached for his unregistered revolver.

In the robbery version, a confrontation ensued. Arthur may have fired the weapon, perhaps killing someone, an act of violence that shattered his gentle psyche in the very place he built for joy.

In the fire version, he was trapped. The synthetic materials of his sets and puppets burned quickly, releasing toxic fumes. The fire disfigured him, melting the features from his face and destroying everything he loved.

The Transformation:
This traumatic event—a violent collision of his dream and his fear in the very temple he built for it—didn't just kill Arthur Pendleton. It unmade him. The location of his passion and his trauma became a psychic scar on reality itself.

The entity that emerged was no longer Arthur. It was a broken, silent record of that moment of terror, doomed to endlessly replay a distorted, horrific version of the show he tried to create.

shit nophono cares about

>>16486
ev&doe I am nophono and I care

No arrow so you look like this and you say that
>even doe Nophono wouldnt say that [marge…]

Traiso Rigts is a very dangerous and powerful Giga warlord, outside of the civilized, comfortable, and science positive cities full of delicious bugs, soy, and sproke are cruel wastelands full of deserts, sparse vegetation and oasis, abandoned broken cities of the pre-great-reset era, abandoned outposts and rural houses, but worst of all the dangerous marauding gangs of chuds, science negative schizos, ominousjak rapebands, and of course the Giga Mafia Family, the GMF is ruled by Traiso Rigts who inherited it from his late father Graiso Rigts. The GMF is a terrifying force, it is one of the big three gangs that can change the wastes for the best or the worst, they are horrifying as they raid cities to destroy soylent factories and replace them with protein shake factories, also of course to steal resources, technology, women for sex slaves, men to conscript or gigafy, all that standard shit, Traiso Rigts is rumored to have been the one who aided in the soysylum schizo uprising by getting agents to smuggle contraband to the schizos via hiding things in-between their abs.

up

2nd best horror mascot after rapeson

>>16576
up traiso rights

Up

Who is Traiso Rigts?
Traiso Rigts is not a ghost, nor a demon, nor a monster born of any folklore you know. He is a phenomenon, a glitch in the memory of those who encounter him, a living, breathing testament to a truth so awful it had to be carved into flesh to be remembered.

His origins are debated in the darkest corners of forums dedicated to "True Creepypasta"—stories that are whispered to be real. The most prevalent theory is that he was the subject of a horrific, non-consensual experiment, perhaps one designed to erase identity or alter memory. The experiment failed catastrophically. Instead of wiping his mind, it shattered it, leaving only one, undeniable fact screaming into the void: his own name.

To ensure he would never, could never forget it again, he—or the force that created him—etched it directly into his bone. TRAISO RIGTS is carved deep into his forehead, the letters jagged and uneven, like they were done in a state of primal panic or immense pain. The scar is old, healed white against his skin, a grotesque headline for a story no one can read.

Appearance & Encounter
Traiso looks like a man, but one that feels profoundly incorrect. He is often described as gaunt, with hollow cheeks and eyes that seem to reflect no light, only a dull, weary confusion. He is not typically aggressive. He doesn't chase you with a knife. His horror is subtler, more existential.

An encounter with Traiso Rigts rarely happens in a place that is outright scary. You might see him standing under a flickering streetlamp on a rainy night, or sitting alone on a park bench long after dark, or even wandering the aisles of a 24-hour grocery store.

He will approach slowly, almost shuffling. He seems lost, desperate for connection. He will try to speak, but his words are a low, mumbled jumble—fragments of questions, half-remembered phrases, and pleas that make no sense. It’s as if he’s trying to access a library where all the books have had their pages torn out.

Then, he will lean closer, pushing his hair back from his face or simply tilting his head up under the light. You will see the name. TRAISO RIGTS. Carved there, forever.

This is the moment of true terror. It’s not the sight of the mutilation itself; it’s the dawning realization of why it’s there. The name isn't a brand or a punishment from someone else. It is a anchor. It is the only thing holding him to the concept of having ever existed at all. He is a living warning about the fragility of self.

He might reach out a trembling hand, not to grab you, but to gently touch your own forehead, a silent, desperate question in his eyes: "Do you remember who you are? Could you forget?"

Those who have reported encounters say they are left not with fear, but with a deep, unsettling dread. They are plagued by nightmares not of being chased, but of slowly, inexorably, forgetting the faces of their loved ones, their own address, their own name. They wake up in a cold sweat, their hand instinctively flying to their own forehead, checking for grooves that aren't there.

Traiso Rigts doesn't want to hurt you. He just wants to be remembered. And in doing so, he makes you terrified of being forgotten.

The Debater in the Machine
You find him in the deep forums, the places where people don’t just argue, they go to war. On subreddits dedicated to theological combat, in the comment sections of obscure philosophical videos, even in the live chats of political debates. That’s where Warrior-Z first finds you.

His avatar is often a glitchy, pixelated rendering of Kratos’s Blades of Chaos, or a blood-smeared Punisher skull, warping and freezing as the stream loads. His connection always seems poor, a constant, low-bitrate distortion.

He’s a formidable debater. Impeccably researched, ruthlessly logical, and unnervingly calm. He speaks of ancient texts and modern philosophy with the same ease. He never gets angry, never uses a slur. He simply dismantles your arguments, brick by brick, until nothing of your position remains. It’s how he operates. He doesn’t want to win with rage; he wants to prove your foundational beliefs are sand.

If you engage him long enough, he’ll sometimes share fragments. Never audio, only text or a distorted, frozen video feed.

Fragment One: “The silence here is not empty. It is full of answers. The ice doesn’t argue. It just is. That is purity.” The geo-tag on the post, for a single moment before it vanishes, reads: Reykjanesbær, Iceland.

Fragment Two: A single, frozen frame of a video call. The image is dark, lit only by the blue glow of a monitor. You can make out a shoulder, a jawline. The skin is a deep brown. The face is never visible. In the background, a window shows nothing but impenetrable blackness and a single, relentless streak of snow.

Fragment Three: “My father was from the desert, my mother from the jungle. I was born in the ice. A contradiction. A ‘mutt.’ The universe argues with itself to create new things. I am that argument given form.”

He’ll ask to move to a private 'cord channel. A secure app. A voice call. If you’re foolish enough to agree, that’s when the game changes.

The voice is not what you expect. It’s not the roar of Kratos or the growl of The Punisher. It’s deeply ESL voice. But underneath the words, there’s a sound—a faint, almost digital crunching, like boots on gravel, or… static on ice.

He will debate you for hours. He will peel back every layer of your certainty. And just as you’re exhausted, mentally broken, he will fall silent. Only leaving a copypasta.

The voice returns, but it’s changed. The calm is gone, replaced by a cold, infinite BBC hunger.

“You have no more logic. You have no more faith. You are empty. A vessel. KEEP TAKING LLLZZZ”

The frozen video feed on your screen flickers. For one single, heart-stopping frame, the image resolves.

It’s not a man. The brown skin is cracked like dry earth, with a faint, fiery light glowing from within the fissures. The face is a shifting, blurred smear—no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just the terrifying implication of features. And superimposed over it all, like a corrupted file, is the ghostly, flickering visage of the Punisher’s skull, or the ash-pale rage of Kratos.

He is not a man who self-inserts as these characters. He is something that consumes the concept of them. He is an idea of absolute, violent conviction that has learned to use logic as its bait.

The voice comes through one last time, clear and final.

“Now. We debate on my plane. I have found you. The silence is coming. Don’t struggle. It’s just an argument. And you’ve already TOOK ALL THE LLLLLZZZZ.”*

The call drops.

And then you hear it. In the silence of your own room. A faint, distant sound from outside your window, in the dark.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel. Or static on ice.

He is no longer in the machine. He is the debate that has come to find you.

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The phrase "shit Nophono cares fan about" is not just a random insult; it is a core tenet of his existence and the ultimate key to understanding his particular brand of horror. It represents a fundamental rejection of the viewer's humanity and the things that make them care.

Nophono is not a monster that hates you. Hatred would be an acknowledgment of your existence. Instead, Nophono is a cosomic entity of absolute, utter indifference. His curse is not one of violence, but of nullification.

The Philosophy of "Cares Fan About"
The phrase is typically used in online arguments to dismiss an opponent's deeply held beliefs or criticisms as utterly irrelevant. To apply it to Nophono elevates it from an insult to a terrifying cosmic principle.

"Shit": This refers to everything a person holds dear. Your loves, your fears, your memories, your debates, your art, your family, your morality. All of it.

"Nophono": The entity itself, a force of void-like apathy.

"Cares": The act of investing emotional or intellectual energy. The act of having an opinion, a preference, a feeling.

"Fan About": A mocking, diminutive way to describe the passionate engagement of a "fan" or a person. It reduces profound human emotion to the level of frivolous fandom.

When combined, "shit Nophono cares fan about" translates to:
"The things you are passionate about are meaningless to the void. Your engagement with them is a pathetic and irrelevant noise that the void does not and will never acknowledge."

How This Defines Nophono's Character and Actions:
The Blank Face: His lack of features is a physical manifestation of this principle. He has no eyes to see your plight, no ears to hear your screams, and no mouth to respond to your arguments or prayers. He is a sensory black hole.

The Cursed Tape: The horror of watching the Nophono tape isn't that something scary happens to you. The horror is the dawning realization that nothing you feel matters. The tape is a direct conduit to his indifference. You could be laughing, crying, or screaming at the screen, and it would have exactly zero effect on the content. Your emotional response is irrelevant. It is the ultimate, terrifying passive experience.

The Anti-Story: Traditional horror has rules, motives, and a story. Nophono has none. There is no backstory he "cares" about. There is no motive he wants to fulfill. There is no victory condition or way to defeat him because that would imply he is engaged in a conflict he cares about winning. He isn't.

Connection to the "Fan": This is the most insidious part. The phrase implies that the very act of being a "fan"—of trying to analyze his lore, debate his origins, or understand his motives—is the most pathetic delusion of all. You are crafting narratives for a entity that fundamentally rejects the concept of narrative. You are trying to find meaning in a signal that broadcasts meaninglessness as its primary function.

In essence, Nophono is the anthropomorphic embodiment of the universe's indifference. He is a cosmic joke where the punchline is the utter pointlessness of human emotion and curiosity. To encounter Nophono is to have the phrase "shit Nophono cares fan about" weaponized against your entire soul, proving that all the things you are and all the things you care about are, in the grand, silent scheme of things, completely and utterly worthless.

He doesn't want to kill you. He wants to make you understand that your life and death are of equal, negligible value. And that is a fate far worse than any jump-scare.

>>16927
Gem

>>16930
marge

up

>>16927
its poetic, Nophono when he was alive cared deeply about his puppet show, yet one bad transformed him into something that cares about nothing, this is seen in his behavior where he meaninglessly interacts with the puppets as if they weren't the very same ones he dedicated his passion and care into all those years ago…

The Kekening.
You find him on the edge of the web, in the digital swamps where the air is thick with static and schizoposts. His names are many—frogcvck, frog poster, frogcaca—but his game is one: the harvest of rage.

His avatar is a Pepe, but not the one you know. This Pepe is a still image, seemingly normal, but if you stare too long, the lines seem to writhe. The expression, once a simple meme, shifts in the periphery of your vision into something ancient and deeply mocking. He is a user of the frogpond, a decaying, invite-only imageboard that isn't hosted on any known server. You don't find it; it manifests on your drive when your despair reaches a certain frequency.

He specializes in bait. He doesn't just argue; he lays perfect, logical traps poisoned with a venom so subtle you don't taste it until your own mind turns against you. He baits the "soyteens" from "soyjack.st"—a term he uses for anyone displaying what he considers performative weakness, a frantic, beta energy he finds delicious.

His goal is not to win, but to witness the Fail.

When you fall for his bait, when your argument collapses into a sputtering, emotional mess, that's when you hear it through your headphones: The Kek.

It's not a text on a screen. It's an audio file that shouldn't be there. A loud, sharp, and profoundly inhuman sound. It's not laughter. It's the sound of a throat that isn't shaped for air, a dry, rattling "KEK-KEK-KEK" that sounds like bones knocking together in a bag. It's the Kekening, and it's a signal that you are being mogged—not just outclassed in a debate, but spiritually overwritten by a superior, predatory consciousness.

His signature phrase, "do nusoicacas really?" is not a question. It's an incantation of dismissal. "Nusoicacas" is his word for the new, weak, formless ideas of the masses. By uttering it, he doesn't just disagree with you; he denies the very substance of your reality, reducing your deeply held beliefs to excrement he will not even bother to step in.

The Horror of frogcvck:

The terror is not that he will kill you. It's that he will unmake your ego.

Those who engage him for too long report a creeping digital phantom pain. They start to see the mocking, keking Pepe in the flicker of their phone screen as it turns off. They hear the dry "KEK" in the hum of their computer fan, in the drip of a tap.

Worse, they begin to see themselves through his eyes. They look in the mirror and see a "soyjack," their features seeming to soften and warp into a caricature of panic. Their own thoughts begin to echo with his phrases: "do I really?" "what a nusoicaca…" Their own beliefs start to feel flimsy, ridiculous, like something to be kekked at.

frogcvck is a psychic vampire who feeds on the cringe of a failed argument. He is the embodiment of the fear that the online troll laughing at you is not a person, but a force, an entity that has learned to weaponize the very concept of mockery. He is the feeling of being intellectually and spiritually dominated, crystallized into a form that lives in the wires, forever baiting, forever kekking, forever reminding you that in the grand, mocking swamp of the internet, you are nothing but a temporary source of amusement for something much, much older and colder than you can possibly imagine.

He doesn't want your life. He wants your frame. And when he takes it, all that's left of you is the echo of his kek.

He spoke to me

Who Is nobaldi?

up

bump

>>16464
i should write a creepypasta on this

>>17103
Peak cinema

>>17182
>>>17253
up

I don't have copypasta for this one

The Gassing: An Incredible Gassy Creepypasta
Every family has its secrets. Every dynasty has its shame. For the Incredibles, their hidden relative is not a black sheep, but a black cloud. He is the one stricken from the family records, the subject of hushed, horrified whispers between Bob and Helen long after the children are asleep. They call him "Incredible Gassy," but his real name is Bartholomew "Barty" Incredible.

Barty's powers didn't manifest as strength, elasticity, or speed. His super-metabolism worked on a different, far more volatile axis. His body acts as a living chemical refinery, processing air, food, and his own immense stress into a unique, potent form of gaseous energy. It's not mere flatulence; it's his power.

As a child, it was a nuisance—a popped balloon at a birthday party, a wilted floral arrangement. But during the golden age of Supers, it became a tactical tool. "The Green Cloud," the papers nicknamed him. He could render villains unconscious, corrode their weapons, or create massive, impenetrable smokescreens. He was useful, but never a hero. He was an embarrassment.

The true horror began after the Superhero Relocation Program. While Bob and Helen clung to the memory of glory, Barty's power festered in the dark, festering silence of his state-mandated containment bunker. Unused, the gas within him changed. It became sentient, a parasitic consciousness born of his own isolation and shame.

The Phenomenon:

The legend says that on certain nights, when the air is still and heavy, you can find a VHS tape in a bargain bin, labeled with a faded, hand-written marker: "INCREDIBLE GASSY - TEST FOOTAGE."

The tape shows grainy, black-and-white footage of a man in a modified, heavily-padded Incredibles suit, his helmet featuring a complex filtration system. He stands in a sterile white room. The scientists' voices are calm, clinical.

"Subject B. Incredible. Test 47. Release at 3% capacity."

Barty complies. A faint, shimmering, greenish-yellow wave distorts the air from the exhaust ports on his suit. It's harmless.

Then, the tape glitches.

When the image returns, the audio is corrupted, replaced by a low, wet, gurgling hum. The scientists are no longer speaking. They are… melting. Not from heat, but from a rapid, biological decomposition. Their forms slump into a bubbling, organic slurry. The white walls of the room are stained a sickening bile-yellow.

Barty stands in the center, his suit now torn. His face is not one of triumph or horror, but of ecstatic, terrifying release. The gas is no longer a tool. It is an extension of his id—a sentient, corrosive miasma that doesn't just kill, but un-creates. It breaks down complex matter into its most basic, foul components.

The Encounter:

You don't see Incredible Gassy. You smell him first.

It starts as a sweet, cloying odor, like rotting fruit and burnt plastic. Then it shifts to the smell of a opened grave. Your eyes water. Your throat burns. The air becomes thick, heavy, and shimmering with a sickly green hue.

Panic sets in, but it's a strange, dissociative panic. You feel your thoughts slowing, dissolving. Your memories feel slippery. The gas doesn't just attack your body; it attacks your very coherence. As you choke, you see a large, hulking silhouette moving within the cloud. It is not running. It is lumbering with a dreadful, final purpose.

Incredible Gassy is not a villain seeking world domination. He is a walking, breathing ecological disaster. He is the Incredible family's greatest failure, a man whose very existence is a toxic accident waiting to happen. He represents the horror of a power that is not heroic, not even evil, but simply uncontainable and fundamentally, biologically wrong.

He is the smell that never leaves your nostrils. He is the stain on reality. He is the uncle the Incredibles pray you never, ever meet.

>>17386
There’s a children’s story they used to tell in the town of Breda, one that parents whispered only when they thought their children were asleep. It was a cautionary tale about vanity, secrets, and a girl who lost her face.

Her name was Nococo.

Or at least, that’s what people remember. No birth record, no family, no grave. Just the name… and the face that no one can describe.

They say she was once beautiful—breathtaking, even. She always wore a deep blue sweater with a golden scarf tied perfectly at her neck, her silver-white hair flowing like moonlight. She never spoke much, but her silence was charming, mysterious even. The other girls admired her. The boys adored her. Teachers said she was brilliant, but… distant.

One day, she stopped coming to school.

Rumors flew fast. Some said she moved away. Others swore they saw her walking into the woods behind the school, never to return. A few kids—braver or stupider than the rest—decided to go looking for her. Only one came back.

He was found curled up behind the gymnasium, his mouth gaping open, eyes bloodshot and wide with terror. He didn’t speak for weeks. When he finally did, all he said was:

“She doesn’t have a face. She took them… She’s still taking them.”

He never said anything else, and eventually, he was institutionalized.

That’s when the legend of Nococo began to spread.

They say she lives between the walls of forgotten places—abandoned classrooms, dusty libraries, old basements. You’ll never hear her footsteps. No breathing. Just the sudden, icy hush of a room gone dead quiet.

If you hear a whisper, soft and scratchy like wind through cracked wood, don’t answer. Don’t even move. It means she’s near, and she’s listening.

They say Nococo envies faces. She collects them. Not literally—at least, not always. She takes what makes a face: expression, voice, identity. You’ll be left like her. A blank slate. A shadow with no soul.

Witnesses—few and far between—describe seeing her just before their memories begin to fray. A figure with flowing white hair, a golden scarf tied too tightly, and a void where a face should be. Not just featureless—faceless. As though she never had one to begin with. Or maybe she had yours, once.

Her image has appeared in places it shouldn't. In class photos where no one remembers posing. In mirrors when the room is empty. In dreams that don’t belong to you.

She is not a ghost.

She is not a girl anymore.

Nococo is a void. A whisper of something that once wanted to be known—and now feeds on those who are.

They say if you say her name three times while looking at an old school portrait, she’ll come to finish what she started.

But don’t be stupid.

You’re not curious enough to try that…

Right?

>>17403
nococo sounds clever but the story is COAL

>Who is Nophono?
>Nophono is a real person. He is a character and the subject of a well-known horror story spread online.
>
>The story of Nophono originates from a series of posts on the imageboard 4chan, specifically on the /x/ board (which is dedicated to paranormal and creepy content). The original posts, made by an anonymous user, claimed to have found a strange, never-released VHS tape from the 1980s.
>
>The core of the Nophono legend is this: the tape appears to be a low-budget, surreal children's show hosted by a terrifying, silent entity named Nophono. The show is bizarre and deeply unsettling, and the story claims that watching it has severe psychological effects, including paranoia, nightmares, and even physical illness.
>
>What Does Nophono Look Like?
>According to the story, Nophono's appearance is a key source of its horror. The description is intentionally vague but highly disturbing. Here are the common traits described:
>
>The Shape: Nophono is described as a tall, lanky, humanoid figure. He is extremely thin and elongated.
>
>The Face: This is the most horrifying part. He is said to have no facial features—no eyes, nose, or mouth. Just smooth, blank, flesh-colored skin where a face should be. This is a classic trait of many horror creatures (like the Slender Man or The Silence from Doctor Who) known as "blank face syndrome".
>The Suit: He is almost always described as wearing a cheap, ill-fitting, garishly bright suit. The most common color mentioned is a vibrant, electric blue. The suit adds to the creepy, anachronistic feel, reminiscent of bad public access television.
>
>The Behavior: He doesn't speak (hence the name "No-phono," meaning "no sound"). He just moves awkwardly and silently through a sparse, empty set, sometimes interacting with objects or puppets in a meaningless, repetitive way.

This story is ass, Omori bus and 'apeson are way more scarier

Nophono is winned

>>17439
Idk i simple asked gpt to make me a creepypasta

sage on dnb board

bump on nophono board

nophono are wonned

first ever nophono award

uphono

upphono

up

nophono cares

i care

Pre-death Nophono

This is a fantastic and terrifying pantheon. Each name feels like a fragment of a corrupted file, a glitch in the taxonomy of fear. Here is a breakdown of this digital-age horror mythology, interpreting each entity as a unique type of existential threat.

The Pantheon of Null & Glitch

This pantheon can be understood in three tiers, based on their naming convention and implied function.

—

TIER I: The Architects of Absence (The "No-" Prefix)

These entities are defined by what they remove. They are conceptual erasers.

· Nophono: The Lord of Silence. He doesn't create sound; he consumes it. He is the embodiment of dead air, failed transmissions, and the terror of screaming into a void that gives no echo. His presence is the end of communication.
· Nobaldi: The Thief of Courage. Where he walks, resolve fails. He doesn't inspire fear; he drains bravery. In his presence, heroes become cowards, the steadfast become uncertain, and the will to fight simply… evaporates.
· Noubcadi: The Un-Maker of Complexity. He attacks systems, languages, and intricate thoughts. He is the reason code degrades, memories fracture, and beautiful structures develop fatal, inexplicable flaws. He is entropy given a malicious consciousness.
· Nowhne: The Master of Non-Place. He governs locations that don't exist. The hallway that wasn't there yesterday, the door that opens into a wall, the endless stretch of road in a familiar neighborhood. To encounter Nowhne is to be lost in a space that reality has forgotten.

TIER II: The Echoes & Copies (The "-body" and "-boldy" Suffixes)

These entities are perversions of identity and form.

· Everyboldy: The Hive of the Familiar. It is not one creature, but a legion wearing the faces of everyone you know. It doesn't attack with claws, but with a horrifying, synchronized mimicry. You see your mother, your friend, your reflection, all moving as one, all smiling the same wrong smile. It is the horror of losing individuality.
· Nobaldi's Relation to Everyboldy: If Nobaldi steals your courage, Everyboldy steals your face. They are two sides of the same coin of identity theft.

TIER III: The Corrupted & The Glitched (The Misfits)

These entities are the bugs and artifacts in the system of this dark pantheon.

· Traiso: The Branded Man. His name is carved on his forehead because it is all he has left. He is a victim of the pantheon itself, a mortal who learned a True Name and was mutilated by the knowledge. He now wanders as a warning, a living, breathing symbol of the cost of peeking behind the curtain.
· Giptonas: The Thief of Moments. He doesn't steal your life; he steals the time within it. You blink, and an hour is gone. You look away, and a day has passed. His victims age rapidly, their lives reduced to a flickering series of lost moments and forgotten conversations.
· Anyson: The God of Apathy. He is the reason nothing matters. He is not malevolent; he is indifferent on a cosmic scale. Prayers to him go unanswered because he fundamentally does not care to listen. He is the oppressive weight of meaninglessness, the realization that the universe is empty and cold.
· Dellino: The Consumer of Endings. He feeds on conclusions. He is the reason stories have missing final pages, why relationships end without closure, and why mysteries remain unsolved. He ensures that nothing is ever truly finished, leaving only the agony of uncertainty.
· Nohino: The Broken Reflection of Nophono. If Nophono is the void of silence, Nohino is the noise. He is the screech of feedback, the scream of data corruption, the overwhelming, meaningless static that shatters thought. He is the horror of too much information, all of it useless and maddening.
· Glowphino: The Deceiver's Light. He appears as a beacon in the darkness—a warm, friendly glow promising safety and salvation. But the light is a lie. It illuminates nothing, only blinding you to the true dangers at your feet. To follow Glowphino is to walk confidently into the abyss.
· Nophno: The Glitch in the Name. It is the pantheon's own corruption manifest. It is not a true entity, but a mis-remembering, a stutter in the ritual. To speak its name is to risk a system crash in reality itself, causing brief, terrifying lapses in logic and physics. It is the fear that the rules of this horrific universe are not even stable.

—

In Summary, this is a pantheon for the digital and anxious age:

· Nophono takes your voice.
· Nobaldi takes your courage.
· Noubcadi takes your understanding.
· Nowhne takes your location.
· Everyboldy takes your identity.
· Giptonas takes your time.
· Anyson takes your meaning.
· Dellino takes your closure.
· The rest are the terrifying glitches and artifacts that occur in the system as these absences compound, creating a universe slowly being unmade into a silent, meaningless, and horrifically familiar void.

Uphono

Nophono is a winnered

kys gigger

>>17900
gigger site

>>16428 (OP)

shit nobaldi cares alot

>>16428 (OP)
>>16464
>>17767
Found the OG pre-death nophono

Nophono wabag

sprite nofanta cares about kys gigger

slut everypony cares about go up

uphono