Closed, for @cosmoshearted
âCall me when they bury bodies underwater
Itâs blue light over murder for me
Crumble like a temple, built from future daughters
To wasteland when the oceans recedeâ
The Water Khazenâs voice rumbles through the halls of his personal chambers deep within the orbital body heâs called home for several centuries now. Itâs a meditation, a prayer, a desperate cry towards Old Gods who seem to have abandoned the planet of Isore completely. Their sinuous form curls through the tightest curve to their room with ease, the walls leaving them plenty of room on all sides.
Itâs a day like any other, really. Meetings with new initiates, rallying cries for change on the planet heâs doubting heâll ever see again, maybe sorting through some mailâŠonce in their room, a shadowy tendril reaches out to tap an interface, AI immediately reading them messages in the growling tones of their native tongue. Nothing important, it seems. Junk, junk, more junkâŠthey fiddle with their satchel as they wait for something- anything- interesting, plopped down on a large area rug woven from fibers sourced from a nearby colony planet.
Halfway through their messages, they feel the tug.
The sensation pulls at their chest, and no amount of puffing up makes it go away. They shift uncomfortably, a clawed appendage rising as if to check their nearly incorporeal body for damage. Thereâs none to be found. Panic rises like bile, but before their scrabbling appendages can latch onto anything, theyâre being torn apart, spiraling through an abnormality in space, in time, that simply shouldnât exist.
They scream, but it vanishes right along with them.
They collapse onto cool stone, immediately twisting and flailing in pain to right themself. Grotesque limbs, an inky black, knock a table aside, extinguishing a candle in the process. The beast is massive, its great shoulders rubbing against the ceiling as it fills the unfamiliar space. A loud hiss, not unlike a pained breath, follows as it struggles, as if this very atmosphere is not conducive to life.
âWhat the FUCK,â they say, but in a foreign tongue that defies understanding. Crooked, clawed hands reach for something, anythingâŠwhat is THAT? What is that thing, strangely colored and small, and HAIRY? Is that what lives here? Is that what they should be? No, CERTAINLY not. They'll take a humanoid form instead. With a cracking, like the shell of a beetle caving under pressure, their form twists and shifts, something like ink- something like blood?- pooling beneath them as they contort in a series of jerks, as if in the middle of a seizure.
When it endsâŠ? A shape like a man, dressed in black, hunched over as if heâs been punched straight in the put. He straightens, slowly, the unfamiliar body cracking several times until it settles.
âWho,â he says, in flawless Common, âhas summoned me?â
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
titsay
