The Whisperer spoke most at the Gathering.
He spoke of the Game, of how He wanted a bigger part. I know not why He wants to play now, He never had an interest before. He broke the Laws, however, in bringing on of his Maenads.
She was turned into one of the Camper in punishment. The Rake was not pleased.
The Pale Prince spoke second, telling us that his Agents were stopped on a mission by the Pharaoh and His cult, the Arms of Ra. The Pharaoh was absent. As punishment, His role in the Game was lessened.
The Eye ranted on and on of His holy judgement. The Empty City shut Him up soon after His rant's beginning.
The last that spoke was the Archangel. He told the Whisperer that His plan for the Game was exciting and would no doubt be a "fun sport."
I am worried. The Lord of the Afterlife is devious, sadistic, evil, and has no respect for humanity. All of reality is the Game to Him. I fear that He has a new rule or two that He will soon implement.
After all, it was He that created the Game.
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Monday, December 23, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
BIRDS DEALERS SWINGING FEAR
The Convocation calls upon me.
Thunder lights the sky, the shrieks of ravens and crows and eagles and hawks and falcons so loud that it shakes the very walls.
Jack stands with them, a contract in his hands. Nyarlathotep sighs in the madness between worlds, The Pharaoh sets his staff on the ground, The Pendulum swings.
It is time.
Know that I go to that Emptiest of Cities, that most massive of Fears, for you. All of you. You, as insignificant and mortal as you are, are important.
Not very important, but important nonetheless.
Without you, another race would have to come into being for the Game. How long that would take is anyone's guess.
I go now to the Empty City for a meeting with the Lords and Ladies of the Realm. I am there to chronicle, to write. I am allowed this laptop and an internet connection, as the Empty City can create anything...including wifi.
The chronicle may come up tomorrow, or in a year. The Empty City dwells in a time not of Earth.
Wish luck to a humble Archivist.
Thunder lights the sky, the shrieks of ravens and crows and eagles and hawks and falcons so loud that it shakes the very walls.
Jack stands with them, a contract in his hands. Nyarlathotep sighs in the madness between worlds, The Pharaoh sets his staff on the ground, The Pendulum swings.
It is time.
Know that I go to that Emptiest of Cities, that most massive of Fears, for you. All of you. You, as insignificant and mortal as you are, are important.
Not very important, but important nonetheless.
Without you, another race would have to come into being for the Game. How long that would take is anyone's guess.
I go now to the Empty City for a meeting with the Lords and Ladies of the Realm. I am there to chronicle, to write. I am allowed this laptop and an internet connection, as the Empty City can create anything...including wifi.
The chronicle may come up tomorrow, or in a year. The Empty City dwells in a time not of Earth.
Wish luck to a humble Archivist.
One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish
To die. To sleep. The beautiful, sweet release of death. Can any of us enjoy this blissful monotony, the ever reaching darkness of true rest?
The Archangel denies us true rest, a peaceful monotony of darkness and sleep.
The Wooden Girl denies us comfort, her strings twined inside us, controlling our every thought and spoken word.
The Eye judges us from the moment of our birth, calculating our rewards and punishments from our very impulses.
The Whisperer goads our bestial rages and lusts, turning us to killers, rapists, monsters like Him.
The Lords and Ladies of the Realm are numerous, so many more so than the 20 something your mythos states.
How of the great Mad God Azazoth, or the Murmuring Madness of Nyarlathotep, bringing their holy insanity unto the worthy?
What of The Pharaoh, the Shifting Sands, the Weeping Willow, the Bleeding Tree, the Ultimatum, the Pendulum, the Lamb, every eldritch abomination that you remain so blissfully unaware of?
THESE are your Gods, your Fears, your Masters. THESE are the point to your terror as you stay awake at night, whimpering as those incessant Whispers sound from your attic, the Compulsion forces you to murder your family, the Azoth drips from the very walls and your ancestors and deceased loved ones appear to you in gas masks, throttling you with cold, dead hands and the mind of a being you cannot possibly comprehend, a being that plays a game with you, everyone you know and don't know, and your children, and your great grandchildren, as pawns.
The Great Game is played, and you will never be a player. You, insolent, arrogant fools that you are, dear readers, aren't even pawns, for a pawn can still win. You are...
You are prey. In an ever going hunt that deals with Gods and Goddesses, Masters and Agents, Timberwolves, Dolls...
And Followers. I am new. I am only one in number, no other has been chosen. I am a Chronicler of the Terror, I write the Scripture of Fear, the Last Word of Insanity.
Come unto me, O young and afraid, for I will lead you to the Game. And whether you die or live or become something not human, something more...Well, They gave us free will, didn't They?
As a great man once said, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. All kinds are needed for the Game. All kinds.
The Archangel denies us true rest, a peaceful monotony of darkness and sleep.
The Wooden Girl denies us comfort, her strings twined inside us, controlling our every thought and spoken word.
The Eye judges us from the moment of our birth, calculating our rewards and punishments from our very impulses.
The Whisperer goads our bestial rages and lusts, turning us to killers, rapists, monsters like Him.
The Lords and Ladies of the Realm are numerous, so many more so than the 20 something your mythos states.
How of the great Mad God Azazoth, or the Murmuring Madness of Nyarlathotep, bringing their holy insanity unto the worthy?
What of The Pharaoh, the Shifting Sands, the Weeping Willow, the Bleeding Tree, the Ultimatum, the Pendulum, the Lamb, every eldritch abomination that you remain so blissfully unaware of?
THESE are your Gods, your Fears, your Masters. THESE are the point to your terror as you stay awake at night, whimpering as those incessant Whispers sound from your attic, the Compulsion forces you to murder your family, the Azoth drips from the very walls and your ancestors and deceased loved ones appear to you in gas masks, throttling you with cold, dead hands and the mind of a being you cannot possibly comprehend, a being that plays a game with you, everyone you know and don't know, and your children, and your great grandchildren, as pawns.
The Great Game is played, and you will never be a player. You, insolent, arrogant fools that you are, dear readers, aren't even pawns, for a pawn can still win. You are...
You are prey. In an ever going hunt that deals with Gods and Goddesses, Masters and Agents, Timberwolves, Dolls...
And Followers. I am new. I am only one in number, no other has been chosen. I am a Chronicler of the Terror, I write the Scripture of Fear, the Last Word of Insanity.
Come unto me, O young and afraid, for I will lead you to the Game. And whether you die or live or become something not human, something more...Well, They gave us free will, didn't They?
As a great man once said, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. All kinds are needed for the Game. All kinds.
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