Tip of the IyseBurgh

In The Beginning

Session zero, campaign one

Myst parts, reality coalesces, thought congeals.

A tiny thought, draped in minute flesh-weave, walks with titans. Great beasts of mind rending implausability roar and tussle for bragging rights. Some clash in epic displays of violence while others lurk in shadows, voyeristically absorbing the tableau before them.

Our diminuative protagonist finds within itself a wellspring of power and ability. It’s adaptation to the surrounds, indeed it’s very survival, is limited only by it’s imagination and conviction behind itself. Piqued by curiosity, our fledgling Thought-To-Be stretches itself and launches into the air, born on wings made of itself, held aloft on thought.

The tapestry laid before us is like a nasty cheese-dream. Forests of purple tendrils, mountains that are simultaneously gargantuan and piddling, huge monsters of dispicable description roaming about. Our tiny friend sets down in the purple forest and takes it all in.

A wandering beast of fell kin discovers our Thoughtling and seeks to fill his gut with it’s immense ability and power. A shifting battle ensues, where our protagonist grows to substantial size, sprouts wicked spines (including on the penis….that was detailed SPECIFCALLY) and is succesful in warding off it’s would-be devourer. When victory shines yet new, attention is drawn to the surrounds. The trees in the near distance are paling, bleaching of colour and fading into the semi-present; becoming background, devoid of identifying character.

Our still-stories tall protagonist shrinks down and searches cautiously for the source of the [[Un-becoming Stain]]. A creature, crowned with multiferous heads, races forward through the purple forest. As he travels his elongated necks whip out, tentacle-like, and the related jaws latch on to anything that happens by. A great squelching and gulping heralds the ColourDeath. Each head is unique; some serpentine; others vague, shadowy forms with hints of definition; others still composed completely of flickering energy, their luminescent endevoures passing visciously through the surrounding matter, sparks spraying in an explosion of RealityTheft. No two heads look alike. And this creature, this nightmare, deviates from his haphazard sojourn and makes a clear line RIGHT FOR OUR THOUGHT-FRIEND!!

Naturally our clear thinking friend takes flight and beats a hasty retreat (wouldn’t you??).

Resting upon a perch of stone in/on a nearby quasi-mountain, it observes the GrayscaleWound as it journeys ever closer. Could it still be searching for out tiny friend?? Intentions still obfsucated, it watches on. Deep in reverie, it is startled by great tremours and ear shattering sounds of violence.

Poised astride/behind/inside the distant ladscape are three monolithical effigies; one the body of a man yet a face made of stone; another with a face constantly rouletting through combinations of birds/beasts/fish; the third’s face a mass of writhing, dark hued tenticles. The three stand, oblivious to the sudden stillness everywhere as all eyes fixate upon them. They observe each other, recognising kindred and kin, then the one with the mineral visage reaches out to strike the beastface standing next to him. He in turn lunges to throttle the throat below the tenticle-mass, and he moves to force his thumbs into the eyesockets of the rock-faced one. bq.They begin to tear each other apart.

Seas of ichor with continents of flesh rain down onto the now paniked beasts assembled directly below. The land begins to bleed and tear in places that should not exist. Tremours give rise to earthquakes that become huge rifts in the quiet medows, lakes and rivers ripple with after effects and break their banks, beasts beat down others frozen in awe at the spectacle in an attempt to excape the reality-fuck that plays out before all.

Our protagonist watches on as literal rips dance across the skyline, leaking a fluid of deep unlight onto mountaintops that are foaming and effevescing into bubbles of dirt that float away, bursting occasionally and showering those below with tonnes of rubble and detritus. It is a hallowing sight.

It launches once again into the air and emplores the Titans to halt their galdiatorial display. It screams and decries itself hoarse, to no avail.

No.

There is an impact.

The tenticle masked one imperceptably inclines it head. Has it heard the shouts of dispair? Does it realise the damage wraught from their fisticuffs?? Is there yet hope???

Our protagonist takes heed of this recognition and digs deep within, calling forth a great flow of life to effect a change. Two full, red lips emerge on it’s chest, a corpulently erotic display. The lips part, yellowed teeth exposed as a sinuey tongue extends, and a vile retching echoes out across the violated valleys below.

It begins with a gurgle, from deep within, and is punctuated by a violent stab of bile and gore spewing forth out of the glistening lips. Our thought-friend gives all of himself, every ounce of matter that comprises itself and all the potential rich energies within. It gives it all abd sends it out to the tenticle mantled one. The liquid-life pours into the titan, vitalising his yet uncut flesh and mending the kilomteres long rends gifted by his brethren.

And still out friend gives of himself.

The tenticle one deflects his brothers, calming them with gestures, supressing their rage with grappling whipls from his lithe face. The battle quickly reaches stalemate and time stands still. A moment passes inside of a decade….when a visible shudder runs though the wrestling brothers and they release each other. Peace settles over the land like the echoes of gunfire.

A glance at themsellves; at their kin; at the devestation before them; and the stone faced one begins to crumble, sifting back down into the dirt at his feet.

The beast/bird/fish faced one scatters into the dark corners of reality, marked only by the sound of scurrying feet, flapping wings and flicking tails.

The tenticle faced one turns to out protagonist, still giving of itself although now it runs like a trickle towards the solitary giant. The forrest of tenticles sways as the titan bows his head in thanks. He reaches out a welcoming hand and gestures….

Our protagonist follows the rivulet of life that still extends out to the monolith. It’s limpint flight a pitiful reflection of it’s former soaring delight. As it draws near the flow of life-juice runs dry; the thoughtling fades, losing it’s definition as it melds into the palm stretched out like a mile wide obelisk. The thoughtling passes through Reality, shucking it like wet clothes, and into another realm beyond and inside and beside the place it had been.

It Begins…

Comments

BasementKadava

I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.