A corpulent doomsayer spewed forth another dread portent. Gaunt disciples sift for meaning among the vomitus. Sallow blindfolds fail to hide the weeping wounds of their hollowed sockets. “Eyes plucked by their very own hands,” went the rumors. “Saw something they shouldn’t have.”
War-zeppelins rain down fire and brimstone from the sky. Those below rasp profane litanies from their sulfur soaked lungs, cursing God more than any mortal. The dying drown in layers of blood, mud, and excrement; there would be many lies told in their name – lies of glory, of honor and selfless martyrdom. Another wave charges from the trenches, another wave to die to gunfire and alchemical weapons. A row of privileged officers stay behind, ready to open fire on those that refuse their suicide commands.
Black robed mystics gather around a mountain of corpses. Laying hands upon the dead, they chant words belonging to no human tongue in accents thickly Russian. The mountain trembles – the dead would soon outnumber the living.
The Gospel of Truth
He left a gift of candles and scrolls outside the windowless monastery. The Jesuit only wished to understand the heresy. “Take off your mask,” urged the bandage wrapped Perfecti. “And shed that cloak of Demiurge flesh. Its seams have already begun to fray – a soul eager to be born.” Those within walked on phantom limbs and spoke with phantom tongues.
Her Undulating Vastness
An ill omen was ignored in the night. Blame fell on the watchman, whose flayed carcass was hanged from the bow. The sailors prayed before consigning their sacrifice; silent and still, they awaited judgment from the sea.
Their judgement arrived in the form of Echidnean spines, which pierced the hull and anchored the ship in place. Thick tendrils coiled around the vessel and squeezed; the pressure caused iron rivets to burst, shredding anyone unfortunate enough to be within their path.
A throat needed to be slit and none know where to lay the blade. Straws were drawn and drawn again. A gunshot rang from the captain’s cabin, followed by a scent of blood on the wind and screams that never seemed to end.
Those that remained cast aside their straws. They passed around a bottle of whisky, followed by a tincture of cyanide.
The Drowned Kingdoms called and that abyss hid a fate worse than any death.
God’s Blind Spot
Life was cheap in the Great Below but its denizens bred quickly in the darkness. Labyrinthian ruins were known to inspire strange blasphemies throughout Earth’s hollow and Churchmen were sent to combat the spread of heresy.
“The deep colonies were a mistake and the same can be said of this mission,” lamented the Bishop of Grayshade in his letter to the surface. “Not even the Lord’s Light reaches these depths. There are structures here older than Adam. Such ramifications give pause to even the most pious of us.”
Few remembered the Sun but the deep colonists claimed to have found another. It was said to be beyond the fungal forests and the Abyssal Sea – beyond the Pale and their hideous familiarity.