(no subject)
It's hard to tell what the shape is that tumbles into the Nexus - if "shape" is even the appropriate word. Is it a mass of writhing tentacles? Is it an endless array of arthropod limbs, creeping and clattering over every available surface? It may, instead, be best described as an inky black stain on reality - ever-shifting, ever-twisting, ever-hating.
Its like has not been seen before in this part of the multiverse, but the face, standing out starkly from the murky blackness, is familiar to some - the voice, even more so, once you discount the hollow tones, the bile, the intonation of a dead soul. The twisted grin is for one man; the malice is for all of existence.
"I made you an offer once, Norman Osborn," says Nyarlathotep. "Tell me, does this meet with your satisfaction?"
Its like has not been seen before in this part of the multiverse, but the face, standing out starkly from the murky blackness, is familiar to some - the voice, even more so, once you discount the hollow tones, the bile, the intonation of a dead soul. The twisted grin is for one man; the malice is for all of existence.
"I made you an offer once, Norman Osborn," says Nyarlathotep. "Tell me, does this meet with your satisfaction?"