7K Words, and Where Am I Going With This?

In the spaces between worlds, a great darkness stirs. Restless, febrile tendrils probe the pulse of cosmos and feel at the great warm swells of universes like a bandit in the night surveying with fleet fingers the apples of an orchard. They scuttle darkly with endless grace across the bubbles of reality, searching for an opening, a crack of light. Great yellow eyes with bitter ink daubed pupils stir in the darkness, and great hooked beaks gibber great dead sounds, the gongs of its great dread syllables rolling to reverberate through the spaces between the worlds: cthlhu, cthlhu, cthlhu, cthlhu…

In a cold land surveyed by a baleful moon’s glare an ancient ritual is being played from a frayed script: stone pillars as old as the ritual circle, a large slab of Elm hieroglyphed with runic script. On it is chained a howling and cursing maiden, an esteemed socialite formerly of a clean and piously polite disposition, and she is surrounded by a circle of brown cloaked figures who sway in the lit night with the elegance of oaks feeling the wind. Amid jazz hands, their voices are large and lusty:

Brushes of blood and fiery sigils!
Lushes of death and infernal vigils!
Getting together for a dark brew and the occasional virgin
Who might just be you! (intones the virgin chained to the wood)
Who might just be me… (moans the virgin chained to the wood)
Gambling souls like Faust to play at a bad surgeon
No hand unbloodied, no soul untarnished, the unholy few
Esteemed in all things dark and evil, we’re the Druidic Crew!
In our skulls echo occult dreams!
In your horrified pants you cream!
I haven’t any pants on! (weeps the virgin chained to the wood)
Brushes of blood and fiery sigils!
Lushes of death and infernal vigils!
No hand unbloodied, no soul untarnished, the unholy few
Esteemed in all things dark and evil, we’re the Druidic Crew!
The Druidic Crew!
Whoo! Yay! Yahoo!

In eddies of brown hooded cloaks there is a cavalcade of toe touches, spread eagles, front hurdles, pikes, double nines, and high fives. The Arch Druid tuts and the figures settle back into the circle. A solemn silence spreads itself about the circumference of quickly intertwined fingers.

The virgin wails.

A tortured language tears itself from the Arch Druid’s throat and sears the ears of all present. They bravely hold fast against the torrent of violent consonants, their fingers strong like the roots of the ash tree. Gelid vowels, high and cool, seem to encrust the very space within with translucent fairy wings of brittle ice.

Druidic chants in a stone circle painted with the blood of virgins and sketched with hissing green fire ideograms of unspeakable horror that flame from the ground in ghostly brimstone smells. The moon illuminates the guttural sounds of almost unspeakable horror and grants them rank orange smoke shapes with the tenacity of fog and the cruelty of thunderstorms to gather above the wooden slab centering the circle. The Arch Druid raises his arms, and the circle tightens. The ideograms, the code of some poison, half-forgotten magic rise their green smoke in shafts of unearthly light and merge with the floating word shapes.

A vortex swirls silently; the virgin has collapsed from fright.

The vortex spins madly in a retching combination of green and orange and flashes of yellow lightning, the silence broken with a horrendous tearing sound, like flesh rent apart, perhaps of the flesh of the world bulging outwards, opening against its own accord. A yellow light, of diseased skin, ancient evil parchments, a man’s fear, floods the circle, and is momentarily extinguished. It returns, an inky blackness lingering at its center.

Delicate black tentacles give life to the agonized hole’s edges, reminiscent of scurrying insects and reptiles, streaks towards the virgin. She awakes just as the appendages engulf her every orifice to muffle her cries, her farts of terror, groans mutely as they snake up her sexual canal, fills her lungs and stomach. She bursts in a ruddy smoke of an incandescent ecstasy only the freedom from great pain could offer. The circle wavers, gorges rising almost simultaneously into gullets suddenly comprehending the scope of horror they have played into. Few have success containing their meals. Some soil their robes.
“Yes. Yess,” The Arch Druid hisses. “Yesss!”

The smoke dissipates, drifting on the wind. The vortex shudders, the rent in space-time rapidly closing, and the beast, a sizable portion of its bulk already extruded, suffering for the first time in eons, responds mindlessly with lashes of its breadth onto the earth. Everything is uprooted, trees, the stone circle, the nearby mountain. Tremors race rolling crests across the countryside to throw towns as far as a hundred miles away high into the air.

“What? No!” cries the Arch Druid through the coppery taste of terror in his mouth. He has bitten off the inside of his cheek. He can feel it sloshing about against his tongue. He grabs a panicked minion, makes frantic queries.

“What? You said she was a virgin!”
“It was just a lark. We didn’t know it would be like this, boss!”
The Arch Druid angrily slaughters the fool with his sacrificial knife and turns his tattered larynx towards the beast. The dead language fills the air once more. In the howling maelstrom of failure, thirteen druids are plucked up by inky black tendrils and are crushed. A faint rendition of the Druidic Crew is heard thinly through the chaos. It is abruptly cut off, as is the Arch Druid’s incantations.

The hole stops shrinking, but remains lodged open, its circumference almost infinitesimal. The evil presence swells like a balloon, pushing itself painfully through, crushing everything within its bulk, growing, to eventually obstruct even the moonlight.

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