The island's shroud guarantees adventure beyond the psychic fortitude of unlifted homo sapiens. the inked bulbosity legitimate discouragement to idle investigation. Far below, my quarry broods upon its fractured perversions. the hired Portuguese fisherman feels irreconcilable sanity paradoxes tug at the edges of awareness.
My Purpose arises angrily to Chaoss' taint, the arrogant defilement of His favorite plane. eldritch motes consider the cleansing before us, the universes' energies coalescing towards my will. A fisherman's soul and his weathered craft's spirit provide mathereal necessary for the SunSpark, and with a cyan "BAMF", both are immolated in a retina searing globe, steam geysering, flaming gulls pinwheeling to splash...Beneath the crags of oily rock, the Old One recoils from my Illuminated splendor, reconsidering the immediate threat posed by one wielding His mandate.
I guiltily revel in the Form for a blink, recalling epochs of glory in an instant, and then meteoric...flame swathed churning through the brimstone gloom...hanging at the cavern entrance of a contrived Hell. the chittering of lesser servants, precludes the fragrance of self righteous fear, what realizations haunt aware sacrifices? the non-Euclidean labyrinth provides insufficient aegis from my Balefire. Greater Lytches, Arch-Fiends, Pit Wyrms, Schlorogorths, and lonely Succubi smote by iridescent mercury.
down, spiraling down, lower, below the water line, deeper, darker, danker...Why do these Chaos deities prefer the smell of sulfur?
Until Its chamber spans impossibly wide...infinite centered pit...from which the conglomeration of mottled tentacles flowers...matte gold eyes shine briefly...then the assault. by the ton, thrashing severed tentacles crash to the floor...then the response. Despair mentally buffets, and turbulent sadness darkens senses, somewhere a Kris tipped pseudopod awaits its moment. The Glorious Answer flares away shadows, stark too-pure whiteness evaporates the One not fit for honest light.
lacking psychic buttresses, howling implosion commences...the laws of inter-planar physics cannot be denied. rock to liquid, a molten loogey deposits me pinkish to the sun drenched surface.
I need a bowl, and a whiskey.
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