The fight had been spectacular, as skirmishes between these half-brothers always are; anyone bearing witness to it would easily say that much. Cthulhu had been fair torn from his watery tomb/prison several leagues off Dunedin, the sea itself parting in a detonation of air and yellow light that no amount of seismology would be able to explain. Human satellite photography may have been able to glimpse, within that space created, an unimaginably furious lashing of semigelid tentacles and impossible energy and broken, misshapen, thoroughly alien masonry; and all of that pulling in on itself and vanishing into a tight, purple-black rhodopsin-hole before the water rushed back in a mere few beats later. That is, if any images managed to survive. But who would believe them?
The fight raged through a sideways sliver of realities, somehow plummeting precipitously upward, until it broke
THROUGH MINDS AND SKIES AND DREAMS AND VISIONS AND COUNTLESS SUNSETS AND SUNRISES AND MIDNIGHTS AND MOONS AND STARS AND CLOUDS, TIGHTLY LAYERED UPON EACH
( ... )
As the skies part, Nyarlathotep tilts its head to the side and waits, darkness pooling at its feet, spilling over and underneath the hardened chitin of its throne like ink spilt across a blanked page. It has a grim sense of exactly the type of game the King in Yellow is trying to play, and the absurdity of it amuses it to no end.
"You could hAve br0000ught it without the FIREworks, dear King," it says, the words rising up in cacophony, too-many voices for too few words, echoing out and out, attempting to give solidarity in a world where none exists.
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The fight raged through a sideways sliver of realities, somehow plummeting precipitously upward, until it broke
THROUGH MINDS AND SKIES AND DREAMS AND VISIONS AND COUNTLESS SUNSETS AND SUNRISES AND MIDNIGHTS AND MOONS AND STARS AND CLOUDS, TIGHTLY LAYERED UPON EACH ( ... )
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As the skies part, Nyarlathotep tilts its head to the side and waits, darkness pooling at its feet, spilling over and underneath the hardened chitin of its throne like ink spilt across a blanked page. It has a grim sense of exactly the type of game the King in Yellow is trying to play, and the absurdity of it amuses it to no end.
"You could hAve br0000ught it without the FIREworks, dear King," it says, the words rising up in cacophony, too-many voices for too few words, echoing out and out, attempting to give solidarity in a world where none exists.
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