|02-27-2012, 01:18 AM||#1|
Tank Stand of The GODS
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Diary Entry 1...
A hunger to build ... er, builds inside me.
Nights of feverish dreams torment me, in which I am drawn to a dark and distant city beyond time. Amid a chorus of chanting in a vile, base language from the mouths of a myriad of unnameable madmen, a vision is forced upon me:
Each night I am shocked into wakefulness. This gut-wrenching visage still hovering in my sight.
So I must build.
What little sanity I can wrest from these uninvited attacks is shaken by the Joining:
This profane act leaves permanent scars and deformations on the fabric of my reality:
Yet I must Join. My vision, horrid and shambling as it is, is hammered into the fore of my consciousness with each required repetition.
Diary Entry 2..
Sleep continues to escape me, though I long for a bout of restful silence, my dreams are plagued by the scrawled incantations of the unwell. My comrades at Miskatonic University suggest I put pen to paper, as a palliative.
It is unsuccessful.
As the arcane letters from alphabets long lost to time spread across the page, a compulsion to begin hoarding materials washes over me, until I am subject to a loss of consciousness.
When I awaken, I reel in horror at what I see around me. My senses force the images of the mutilated bodies into my awareness, however so unwanted may they be.
I turn around, and weep as I see the foundation of the terrible altar that haunts my mind.
It's loathsome familiarity shakes the precipitous perch I maintain with sanity.
Driven beyond the point of madness, I screech in pleasure as I wallow in the filth, clawing at the horrid structure in half-reverence, half-madness.
Diary Entry 3...
It is clear to me that the others in the expedition to this fetid locale have become aware of my malady. Just yesterday I was shaken awake by Professor Poplar, whom was later seen fervently whispering to our peers about "Esworp's damned unpublished works."
I knew what I must do - Poplar is to be a participant, willing or not, to my cursed and unbidden compulsion to craft this forsaken altar to the Gods That Sleep.
With strength I did not know possible to possess, I manipulate Poplar's bloodied form into the architecture of my creation, each angle seeming to bend into impossible space. Those parts I cannot use, I give to the sled dogs, who seem to share my distress in the awful disturbances that wash over me.
In my delirium, I chuckle in the knowledge that Poplar's remains have become the meat that gives sustanance to the dogs that haul our expedition closer by the day towards the site, most cruel, of the rancid altar I am creating. A moment of sympathy approaches me, for poor Poplar, whom I spent many a pleasant evening with at the University.
Poor Professor Poplar, I fear that his hand in the Summoning -while crucial- is not exactly of a voluntary nature. His mangled and dislocated remains, now fashioned according to the visions thrust upon me by nameless dieties from beyond space and time, are only the first of many ingredients I am bidden to call upon. May God forgive me for what I am to unleash.
Diary Entry 4...
As our expedition continues the arduous march towards the Pole, under the guise of recovering the "equipment" left amongst what must be the frozen corpses of my post-doctorate staff. Armed with the cart-blanche blessing of the last expedition's leader, I had little difficulty in crafting such a ruse and retaining a cadre of duped explorers.
And, oh, how the need for this ruse haunts me. The polar winds echo with the shrill vocalizations of Professor Poplar, resounding in the memory of his 'contribution' to my 'research'.
With each unwanted bout of my giving in to these tormenting visions, I find that my hands are beginning to move with greater finesse and surety.
While some of the incantations not meant for human hands and minds still give me grief.
While the sun has yet to set here at the tip of the world, and only spins around the camp in a lewd parody, I do feel the diurnal shifts built into my physiology - on the sole account of the visions normally only troubling me at nights back at the University It is with great worry that I consider that my affliction will overcome me during a time where I'm not isolated from the team. Even the sled dogs refuse my company; which is unfortunate, given that I fed them what remained of Poplar.
I regret none of the solitude, for the team's incessant pratling only infuriates me with it's banality. I busy myself with thoughts of exquisite darkness and sublime silence offered to me if my altar to the Gods From Beyond Time is completed according to the visions.
I will indeed meet this Darkness. Lo, for the Darkening comes next.
Record From Field Team 3 found at accident site:
We've decided, as a group, that the leader of the expedition has suffered a inexonerable break from reality. Whether this is from the rigors of the trek, or as result of the unusual incident with Poplar, we cannot know. Last eve, we overheard him speaking in a mix of strange languages; and something about a "capstone".
The context of his nightmarish gibbering implies that it is the cap to something loathsome, but none of us are familiar with the fevered dialects we hear being shouted from his tent.
We cannot know what awaits us- we are led by madness, into more madness, still.
Diary Entry 6...
We've reached the encampment from last year's expedition, and while the rest of the party fritters away their time with pointless funerary services of the deceased, whose bodies are frozen harder than iron, blasted by the ceaseless winds, and mummified, I make use of the time alone to continue my 'research'.
I stumble across the abortive and thoughtless product of the summoning attempt that resulted in the failure of the previous party. It appears to recognize that it and I share the common thread of a dark and unspeakable corruption, and is always visible at the edges of the lamplight. I constantly glance over my shoulder with a start, as it appears to have a manner of hunger in it's eyes.
With the load-bearing foundation of my altar completed, crooked though it may be, I now concentrate on the routing of the fluidic energies, in accordance with the lunatic monks we first met in New Istanbul.
At the time, our translator appeared fixated on the usage of the term 'alignment', which we thought was related to orientation in degrees and pitch. Soon after my visions drove me to murder I realized he was speaking of alignment towards the madness and evil that the monks were renowned for.
Crudely, I laugh to myself when considering, after the horrors I will be responsible for, that I have this matter of alignment well at hand...
My new 'pet' voided itself in a shaking fit of panic when it beheld the completed fluidic mantras. Had the expedition from last season done this part correctly, this monstrosity would have been my end instead of my dubiously-efficacious familiar.
When the party finishes their pointless memorial services, I send them on an errand into the crevasse to return with the previously-unknown alloys reported to have been found therein. The party takes several days, and suffers the loss of a number of dogs before they bring me the artifact for "preservation for the University".
The first-year staff, charged with maintaining my chests of Mesopotamian Wards, are glad to hear me call for the items. My madness prevents me from feeling sorrow for them and their wives back home, for the radiation will certainly soon disfigure them. Ironically, their duty assignment has rendered them as sterile as this detestable continent.
When the first wards are in place, both the radiation counter and the disfigured summon begin shrieking their warnings.
The piercing wails of lamentation crescendo incrementally with the addition of the Lemurian Apparatum.
And abruptly stops along with the biting winds when the Vaiouer Shackles are set in place.
In the chill silence, surrounded by my now-insane cadre of minions and the deformed yet ravening summon, I call upon the last bit of strength and will to being marching the altar to it's resting location. The crew weep openly at the distance required to travel if we are to have everything in place before the solstice. My glare, fueled by the hating, desirous rage of the Gods That Sleep is all that is necessary to goad them into their deathmarch.
I warn them that the last worker to arrive will be the first to be slung into the twisting maw of the apparatus.
Final entry found:
The steppes, whose ice-blasted expanses jut incongruously in the borealian lights, have taken all of the sled dogs, and even some of men who have expressed a type of de-evolution as an effect of exposure to the Device.
How unfortunate that their descent into a biological nightmare did not render them fitting to be harnessed to the sleds.
When they did fall to exhale their last, tortured breath into the ice, those around them would begin looting the corpse for clothing initially.. but as our proximity to the site of the Altar's resting place increased, the researchers discovered a tendency to cannibalism.
Upon our arrival to the creaking butte, little remained of the party, save for myself and the surprisingly robust familiar found at the basecamp some weeks ago. I find that it has a proclivity for the fluidic channels we've placed throughout the site.
The last of the team collapses, broken in body and spirit, as the capstone to the Altar is put into place.
Immediately, I hear an unearthly chanting - made more horrible than any of the predictive nightmares that have plagued me since childhood by way of their reverberation from the Chacoian Array we plundered from the New Mexican deserts last year..
At first, the sounds streams out unintelligibly; a chant of a thounsand madmen with no cadence or meter, I stabilize the flow of the horrid, summoning words with the Revenant, and am temporarily blinded by the illumination.
While blinded, I hear a tearing, ripping sound and a cacophony of screams. As my vision is regained, I see that the portal to the Gods That Sleep has opened.
As the Earth around me shakes with the flow of life force into the portal,
The last of my sanity is taken as well, and I am left utterly insane as I gaze through the portal to the now-unlocked prison of the Gods deep below the sea.
Weeping and clawing at my eyes as I stand before the Altar, my last glimpse before being blinded by the brilliance of the unleashed power reveals the Gods waking at the bottom of the sea begin to step out of the dreaded portal and lay waste to this world.
The Gods eye me with contempt and hunger, for I will be their first mortal victim in a millennium - I do not resist, for I long for my life to be extinguished after these horrors.
|02-27-2012, 02:15 AM||#5|
Planted Tank Enthusiast
YES! this hobby needs moar Lovecraft! Excellent work on the stand too!
|02-27-2012, 02:16 AM||#6|
Planted Tank Enthusiast
|02-28-2012, 05:51 PM||#12|
You wouldnt happen to be a DnD Dungeonmaster would you???? there is only one other person i know that talks like this.... Good job on the stand too
|02-28-2012, 06:19 PM||#13|
For your kind words, you will be amongst the few that are spared when my gods consume this contemptible planet.
|02-28-2012, 06:24 PM||#14|
Planted Tank Guru
Well someone enjoyed their code red mountain dew! very nice stand, different but very well wordered thread.
heres to you epic stand building guy! :thumbup:
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Sump Pimp #8
RAOK Clubber #28
|02-28-2012, 06:35 PM||#15|
Ew, no way. that stuff is terrible for yah.
I just figured that simply describing what I was doing was boring, and most folks already knew it anyhow.