Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Deep South Iconoclasm

The sky is ripe and pink over the stinking swamp, bubbled sweetly from below by a slow frog chorus. The scene is broken only by the water parting to allow a mass of slimy purple-black tentacles, reeking of sour chemical release even over the fetid odor of the swamp, to sprout forth and grope themselves around the nearest patch of solid roots.

Every single member of the Cult of Cthulhu evacuated the swamps a day later, their celestial deity now nothing more than a long forgotten fairy tale.

The Valdrott pissed a corrosive, inky, black liquid that ate away at the ancient god’s shrines, melting away the stone like candle wax...

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