End of Meal Report. Also, Cthulhu...
Ok, so the shiny livejournal newness will wear off and I'll eventually write once every thirty months, but for now, humor me. Meal was ok. Overordered as usual. Fortune cookie said: Be daring. Try something new.
Burn in hell, Peking Noodle Company.
Anyhow, here's some stuff born of a thread on www.rpg.net which was talking about how the Cthulhu Mythos was sort of... tired. It wasn't scary, it had lost its unknown aspect, and was now McCthulhu. SO, people started writing about something to take up the same mental space as the "Cthulhu Mythos".
Here's what I wrote. I took out any other posts, coz I don't have the poster's permission, and I'm a narcissist.
Ya know, I once thought that the old movie "Prince of Darkness" was moving in this direction.
"You will not be saved by your false god, plutonium."
Seems a little cheesey now, but hey.
I'm more interested in horrors of science and perception. What if the new Mythos consumes the way you see things. Suddenly the world makes a lot of sense.
What if the world is full of this new Mythos, but we've become jaded too it, as it works its will. What about all that spam... the ones with a few words and then gobbledigook? Is that something trying to communicate, or a spammer losing it to something else.
Horrors of mathematics... what if there is an Anti-Life Equation, and it wants to be discovered, wants to be solved.
Space telescopes: are there signals we never get told about?
Today a word is missing: You know it, but everyone else seems to think you're crazy. It was in your favorite book, but when you read it now, the word is missing... it's a common word... but no one agrees with you.
What would eat words?
There is a thing in cities that looks for a name. The name is important, the name is a key. It hunts at night, by day appearing as piles of innocuous bricks scattered in alleys. At night the legs come out, the eye opens... and it hunts for the word. When it finds a person, it eats their words, their language, leaving them a mumbling, babbling wreck. People think they've gone crazy, but they've just had their language consumed. The thing has not yet found the word.
But someone has to have it. Perhaps that hacker. Perhaps that university professor. Perhaps the old man on the edge of town who worked too long at the radio telescope... the man who has a morbid fear of rubble and refuse.
Today I reinvent myself with mathematics. I have worked out the electrical output of the brain. The formula is here. I have tattooed it on my skin. I have other formulas. They are correct, and they improve myself. Each day I chant them, and each day I feel the new formulas take over my body. They hum with new truth as I refute the old truth of my body and mind's limitations. I will be the seed of the future. I will tattoo my children thus. They will be more true. In my dreams we see the future unfold, and there is a word. The Word - a word unuttered, a word that is a key that unlocks, that opens the future like an incomprehensible flower. Our family of Truth will walk forward, and the Truth will be on our lips... tattooed there. The Word will open the way, and our new bodies and minds will sing with it. In my dreams new cities are built by walking bricks that speak to us the Word. Our bodies will be new, our arcology will sing to us, and the future will be good.
Three asterisks to split
Today I build my god. These three asterisks are the beginning of the new god. I reject the religions and differences of the world. I now make my own god. Today it is three asterisks. I print them out and eat them as my communion. The laser printer's ink is holy as it dissolves within me. The new god is born.
Today I improve my god. I have put the asterisks on every surface of my home. The house is devoted to him - I have checked out a book on feng shui, and modified what seemed pertinent - from the old teachings will the refined god arise, all bad ideas expunged. I write of him, I give him a secret name. He will make my life important. The three asterisks will be The Three Asterisks. This street, of his birth, will be The Street. I will not be me, I will be Priest, and Beloved.
Today his temple is built. The house is in perfect alignment, and my god has become so much more than three asterisks. I live and sleep with my god around me. I know his secret name. I go to work in the public library, I do my job, but I sing his praises as I do so. My real job is midwife to the new god I have created. My real job is to be his first and only priest. I feel him stir within me, within me but apart.
Today a man came looking. Tatoos peeked beneath his clothes and on his lips. He was waiting for me, watching for me, and as I passed him on the street, he tasted the air. He tastes my new god.
Today I call in sick to the library. My god needs me. Three asterisks - a humble beginning. In the house we are protected, but we see him outside. The tattooed man. Piles of bricks are on the street - I do not know why.
Today he waited again. He pretends to wait and wander about the house, but we know. My god groans as he gets near. The arrangement of the silverware was the clue. It told me to go and kill the tattooed man, the infidel, the foreign divinity - for when my god grows strong, when I have brought more believers to him, there will only be room for one god in this world. But now he is a babe, a newborn. Three asterisks. From the divine arrangement of the house I have been given a steak knife. I will skin the tatooed man, and give his skin unto my growing god. I will look up a suitable prayer of sacrifice - perhaps something from the East?
Today we will have holy war.
If I run a Cthulhu game:
Cthulhu will be a flickering stream of blue light that splits and reconnects as it slowly passes through the air. Those that are touched by it are... off, somehow. Not quite right. They dream of him, of it, of the blue light that comes and goes. At night it flickers behind their eyes. The light becomes more beautiful everyday. More beautiful than a human can stand. Perhaps trepanning will fix the painful beauty?
The fuck? - my players will say. "That's not Cthulhu!?!"
Oh, but it is now.
The hounds of Tindalos. They look like dogs. But they never eat. They seem to have no home, and this is true. Their home is gone gone gone - a fancy that fell out of a story told in days past, and they do not understand this one. So they hid, in the skin of the slave race they made so long ago, the canine lineage imagined specifically to keep an eye on YOU, the inheritors of the real world. And when the call goes out, they will rise, and die for the greater glory of Tindalos - the unperfected, uninvented city, the city of the barrow hound. When the teeth and claws kill the city's inhabitants, the city will be a step closer to perfection. When the dog-slaves themselves die after all the carrion is gone, the city will finally be perfect, and the Tindali can come forth from the skins of the slaves they made SO long ago, and revel in a life now free of the imagination of meat.
And the players will say "But I plastered over all the corners in the house, and these stupid dogs just ate me when I took out the trash."
And I say "Yes. They're the hounds of Tindalos."
The Shoggoth is an ever-expanding bubble wherein the laws of physics revert to their true state. We live in the untrue state, a bubble of buggy physics that is slowly being fixed by the shoggoths. When finally it is done, and the pain subsides, we will have forgotten all our meat-lives, and become painfully beautiful blue light that slowly splits and reconnects as it passes through space. We will have become better, become what we truly should have been all along, were we not trapped in this abhorrent bubble of glitchy physics. Plato had it right. Do not run from the shoggoth! It will set you free! Do not cling to this physical sham! We are glorious light!
And my players will say "We're not playing Call of Cthulhu!"
And I'll say "We're not playing *your* call of Cthulhu. This is what you get for making me run all the fucking games!"
BWAHAHA-ha-ha---haaaaa. Current Mood: awake