[closed for alnair brood]

[sistershoggoth]

CHARACTERS: Alnair
WHERE: ...In your mind.
WHEN: Inevitably.
SUMMARY: It dreams.
WARNINGS: Death, gross, aliens, body horror, stuff. It's a nightmare.

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

Clear water, ghostly at the surface with an icy mist, colors purple and green diffused through the condensation. The atmosphere thick, amaranthine, turning the light of some unearthly star the color of scum, fractals of strange rainbows curling as mist stirs. Pale fingertips reach from below, a blossoming of pale hair beneath the surface, a frigid web of it beneath the leaden depths.

A hand reaching but sinking, grappling, dragging.

Deep down into the dark heart of a world pregnant with too many eyes, too many teeth. They roll maddeningly, in time with the frantic orbiting of their wild, uncouth globe. Snickering. Laughing, so vile and fetid, glutted only upon corpses dragged down into the suffocating wet. Strangled in the sleekness of their inescapable musculature. Eyes upon eyes rolling with laughter so vile. Teeth upon teeth flashing so fetid.

A madness that pours through your mouth, that pours through your mouth...

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

...that pours through your mouth, so bloody, so red, gums bleeding, eyes bleeding, skies bleeding, blood rushing to a poor upside down head. Feet bound, useless, and tied to the bleeding sky.

A pit of red corpses below, stewing bloody in their own wretched juices, every inch crushed, rent. Except for their faces. All their pretty faces, open bloody mouths and open bloody eyes.

Hang, hanged man, undying. Hang, hanged man, suspended. Hang, hanged man, impotent.

Disembodied laughter, so human, warped at the edges, so fetid, so vile. Laughter. Applause. Adulation arises, and from within It squirms. Caresses organs and their lack, twines to the staircase of a crooked, wretched spine. Crawling from stomach to throat, fleshy musculature unwinding from the mouth, a kind of tongue, sickening to taste.

Jaw stretched, it goes on and on and on, the infection reaching out to suckle on red. It pours from your mouth, it pours from your mouth....

ť̸̨̛̪̘̮̣̄̿̈́̃̎̓͑͟h̢̬͇̲͍̤͓͙̣̔̉̍̓͐̈́͘ͅị̸͉͈̭̖̰̫̆̾̿͒̾͝͡͞ș̡̨̪̱͚̝̺̔̀̇̎͐͠͝͠ ḑ̶̲̞̹̮̲̳͒̆̈́̆̈̈́̂̈̕͟r̶̢̺̣̲̼̩̂̋̉̽̆̓͛̀̚ȇ͓̦̘͕̟̣͖͓́̓̄̔͆͜͟ǎ̧̝̠͛̓̄̽́͒͘͘͢͜͡m̴̡̜̟̤͍̯͚͛̋̀͘̕'͈̪̪͕̭̤͔̠̝́̽̌̂͂̀s̶̭͎̰̫͓̳͎̗̃͐̽̇̅͑́̀̎͞ ạ̭͖̳͖̺̯̻̈̓͊̀́͟ v̸̢̟͓̖̠̰͖̮̥̠̌͂͗͒̊̾͂̽͘ḯ̸̫̼͎͎͕͊̂̎͞͠ţ̶̡̛͍̯͔̦͛̅̈́̒̈́̑̕͞ͅä̧̲̰̣̠̪͈͓́̆̊̏̂̈͜͝͞l̴̗̠͓̯̫̮̂̏̄̓̃̐͢͞í̡̠̲͕̰̻͒̎͛̊̊̆͐̍̈́͜ͅt̰̖̠͕̣͉͍̩͆̀̏͐̇̈́͝͡ỵ̸̲̬͇̝͙͕͆̿̽́͋ w̵̧̰̺͖̠̟̎͊̈̓̿͜i̷̧̫̯̝͙̙̮̼̽͊̅̓̕͟ţ͓͚͍̜̳́͒̍̈́͆͂̅̃̉h̨̖͇̱͚̺͆̈́̔́̐ͅ f̴̭͕̲͖͖̝͔͆̌̀͆̈́́̍͑i̸̢̝̺̲̪̠̥̠̩͖͋̀̈̌̊̌l̸̤̖̯͎̫̈́̃̽̕͘a̧̘̘̪͕̪͍͑͛̐̀̒̐͐̀́̏ͅm̵̧̬̘̲̝͍̺͚̈̈́̅̑̒͢ͅe̵͖̳̱̗̭̩̊̃̉̎̀͟ņ̟̟̮͈̰͇̪͕̬̈́̒̃͊̉t̢͚͕̠̩̊̔̌̆̽͌͋̌͟͝s̴̲͍̜̼͎̙̲̔̉̾̄͋̀̕ a̷̧̭͚̘͙̯͇̠̬̋̉̊̀̂ṡ̵̛̫͖̮̦̖̦͕͇̘̓̃̇͐͢͠ f̵̢͔͙̩͚̘̍́͑͡͞i̶͇̫̗̞͎̠̍͐̐͂̀͘ṋ̸̛̬̱͈̼͐͂̇̿͛̚̕ė̸͉͓͉̹̱͉̝͙̝̤͑͋̍͛͑̔̄͠ a̡̩̲̠̠͙̟̓̌́̌̆͜s̬̪̬̯̩̲̈̎̑̀͌̅̑͘͢͜͞ ȧ̰͖̥͍͙͈̓͋̓̀̄̔̾̚͠ ş̴͓̻͈͚̩̠͈͍͐͌̂͆̑͂̂͌͘͞p̗̺͎͓̏̾͐̈̇̚͜ͅi̡̛͚͉̗̗̰̣̤͗̄̑́͟͜d͓̥̺͚̝͚̬̤͌̀̒͘͘͟͠ę͙͇̯͎̥̉́͐̅̕r̘̭̱̪̯̟͐͒̄͂͘͞ͅ'͇̺̠̟̺̳͕̲̺̭̏̓͋̇̑̑͛͡͠s͚̟͙̞͙͇̝͍̩͑̒͗͐́͋ w̱͔͕̲̟̟̔̀̀̊̕͘͠ę̶̛͖̯̪̝̌̒̊̋̌̚͜b̛̯̪͍̘̹͚̳̞̝̾͆͌͗̌͜,̴̧͖͖͈̬͓́͂̉̈̀͡͠͠͡ p̸̛̛͚̜̗̲͚̥̊̇̊̿͋̑͘͜ơ̷̫̖̦̰̳͎̓̑̋̏̀̓̌͠͠ủ͍̺̺͖̩̰͛̓̋̑͟͝r͎̖̣̤̖͇̀͛̎͌̑̎̕͠ t̡̨̝̣̘̳̖̙̔̊̌̍͜͞͠ͅh̴͕̗̬̪͒̽̈̓̓̈́̐͟͞ͅr̷̢̠̮̺̰̝̔͂̇̔̿̆̈͘͞o̥̥͎͙̫̫͈̓͐͊̓͘̚͡͝u͓̙̗̹͛͌̆͊͒̔͒͆͜͝͝g̨̞̹̲̳̀̀̇̆̿͆h̸͚̪͎͎͆̀̈̆̒̐̔͜ y̴̪̬̳͍̯̘̐͗̓̃̍̿̅͜͠o̸͔͉̲̣͐̇̒̍͑͢ṵ̴̘͓̱͈̖͑̊̿͊̒̚r̢̲̝̺̠̓͐̃̏͑͂͆̏̉̚͢͟ͅ m̴̪̥͙̩͚͉͇̽́̂̀͜͡͞o̴̦̤̪̳̰̥͛͗́̒̿̚͞ű̴̥͙̞͚̳̹̓͂̌̿̓̔̆͢͡ͅt̢̛̘͚̭͕̜̝̔̎̎͑̌̈̃̍͝ḫ̸̨̦̙͍̮͕̐̇̄͆͆́́͢͝,̷̡̮̞̫͚̣̻̜͋̈́͑̾̕ t͉̠̫̺̟͕̀͐̋̒̅͘͟ĥ̡̧̲͇̬̘̖͚̐̑̋͘͟͟a̭͙͕͎̼̬̠̗͒̏̓̆̃̅̃̕̚͘t̴̛̛̯̫̭̳̖̖͕̜͍̊͒̓̃̇͌̑̑ p̵͉̯̼̩̀̿̄̀͑ͅờ̸͈̮̠̱̖̥̩͔̣̓̐̏̀͂̕͢͡͞u̗̫̗͔͉͈̟̻̹̓̀̇̓̿͒̄̑̂̋r̡͍̫̜̱͈̤̼̄͑̄̊̾͘͟͠͠ͅ t̷̛͙̳̤̼̙́́̽̈́̀͢͟͡͝͡h͔̤̳̹̿́̀̑̿̆̏̓̏͢͡r̸͉͔̥̲͎͕̉͌̋̂̊̒̇́͢͝͞ö̴̜̭̗͈͕̂̍͊͑͐̀ù̢̱̼͙̩̰̣͆̎̀̔͋̿̃̆̚ͅg̤͚̹̭͎̖͖͋͒̃̾̋͢͜͡h̡̨͚͙̬̾͂̈͘͠͞͝ y̴̢̢̡̛̘͎͎̞̥̽́͒̃́o̷̹̗͙͂̍̽̅̿̾̍̈̽͢͢͢ȕ̢̥̩͚̹̰̺̝͇̖̈́̀͛̇͘͠r̺̭͔̩̳̿̿́͛͐̈ m̷̡̡͎̣͍͕͒̓̈̔̓̄ͅo̤̻͇̦̼̮͒̊̂͟͡͝ų̸̨̻̤̳͓̹̗̘̆̓͊͊̔̀̎̍͊͟͞t̛̛̞̭͍̦̮̩͚̥̃̓̌́̿̏ͅḩ̠̣̣̣̟͇̝͎̾́͛́̀̄͑͛̈

You are the infection. You are the corpse. You are the laughter, battered and bouncing in every helpless direction in a vast empty space from which you will never escape. You are the screaming. The eyes. The eyes. The teeth. And sorrow pours into your mouth.

Burning.

God help you, it burns.


this dream's a vitality with filaments as fine as a spider's web, pour through your mouth, that pour through your mouth

Comments

[sistershoggoth]

"Me?" the voice sounds surprised, because Noctis knows as well as it does: "Nothing, I'm dead."

Laughter. Echoing, painful, wet and hacking laughter. The corpses laugh with it. The girls below. Noctis's friends and family above. All laughing, cartoonish, grotesque.

None of this is real. It's just a dream, and suddenly everything is breaking apart into fractals of flesh and bone, deteriorating around him until there is only the dark.

A great hole in existence where there is nothing, no shapes, no sounds, no sensations.

[somnifacient]

Laughter echoes around him, piercing his mind, rending him as useless as he feels. The struggle against that which holds him back is a futile effort, and even as his world tears apart in sharp edges, relief doesn't come to him. Darkness envelops the reverb of dread resounding throughout flesh-coated walls, and he's released into the nothingness.

To Noctis, who comes a world of where dawn threatens to never peek over the horizon ever again, this is just as terrifying as the corpses that had dangled above his head. It is in many ways worse, because it represents what would come of his failures -- nothing short of a world that withers in the dark, as the gods wordlessly watch their own creation die.

Fingers tighten into a fist. He can't see, he can't hear, he can't feel, but he's cognizant of his being. But this is not unlike floating in a vast, empty sea, and Noctis feels his dread amplify in the quiet. He reaches out, grasping at something, anything.

[sistershoggoth]

There's just her. The nothing that is everything, enveloping, just as smothering and ill-conceived as her monstrous servitors. Her embrace is not warm, it is only strong, certain in its vast crush. Gravity in the face of immense density. She consumes him, swallows him. Earth devouring soil. Flesh devouring blood. Consumption, spoiling, entropy. Darkness.

He is of her.

And in the nothingness where not even his body exists there is her slow, vast heartbeat...