“I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown…”
-Nyarlathotep, H.P. Lovecraft
Welp, had the first fatality of my Strange Aeons campaign last night. Fortunately, it was only a PC's cohort. Still, they'd grown to love the stuffy, pedantic cleric of Nethys who had followed them through so many dark adventures, always ready with a healing spell or to correct someone's pronunciation... Na Alu, you will be missed. Turns out, two proto-shoggoths was one too many for your delicate all-to-human flesh...
*dances happy prospector dance, but with, like, tentacles*
Everyone in Briarstone.
Except Winter Klaczka and four amnesiac former employees of Count Hasterton Lowls IV.
The Tatterman dropped half the party, stable but dreaming fevered dreams and surely dying soon. The remaining PCs couldn't beat his regeneration. Aided by Winter, they rolled their unconscious companions from the open second-story wall, whence late the oneirogens had spewed their yellow fog. The fall was rough, but not enough to kill the unconscious characters.
The bhole stirred again, its nightmares flaring as Hastur's dream-creature stepped into the waking world. As the Tatterman ripped the flesh from what remained of the Apostles in Orpiment, the earth heaved. The fragile remaining walls of Briarstone toppled. Unseen by the handful of survivors, the ceiling of the chapel dropped, smashing the shrine of Desna.
The Dimension of Dreams forced its way into Golarion. Screams and gibbers and mad visions filled the sky. Briarstone Asylum collapsed on itself. The force of the blast hurled the amnesiacs and Winter to the ground. When their eyes cleared of dust and fog, the century-old complex was gone.
In its place, an arid waste of yellow sand. Fragments of alien architecture thrust up through the drifting dunes. The perpetual rain and chill of Ustalav refused to touch the eldritch blight at the island's heart.
Five survivors made their way to a rowboat, to carry the mad tale to Thrushmoor...
Berti Blackfoot wrote:
There are some things Man Was Not Meant To Know... someday we will learn why people are incredulous when confronted with other people's subjective preferences for leisure time activity... and we will go mad, and flee to the safety of a new dark age...
Between you and me, I can't wait.
John Kretzer wrote:
I thought it was what you said. But then, I'm chaotic, so maybe it wasn't what I thought you said. WILL SOMEONE GIVE ME SOME CHEESE?!