A dark shadow streaks across the sky, trailed by a hissing scream. A sudden sense of impending doom overwhelms you as you feel a fist clamp down around your heart. Your pulse races wildly, faster and faster as you shake with fear. The world around you blacks out, leaving only the image of a shadowy figure which stands before you with Her arm in your chest. You feel all of your secrets flowing into the figure: your most shameful moments, your secret fears, the emotions you hold deep within you. You struggle, trying to fight the figure but She clenches Her fist around your heart as you release one last futile gasp. You have been slain by Frai.
@Frai Those secrets and fears are actually rather bountiful. Take care Your head doesn't explode.
Everiine said: The reason population is low isn't because there are too many orgs. It's because so many facets of the game are outright broken and protected by those who benefit from it being that way. An overabundance of gimmicks (including game-breaking ones), artifacts that destroy any concept of balance, blatant pay-to-win features, and an obsession with convenience that makes few things actually worthwhile all contribute to the game's sad decline.
"Oh yeah, you're a naughty mayor, aren't you? Misfile that Form MA631-D. Comptroller Shevat's got a nice gemstone disc for you, but yer gonna have to beg for it."
"Oh yeah, you're a naughty mayor, aren't you? Misfile that Form MA631-D. Comptroller Shevat's got a nice gemstone disc for you, but yer gonna have to beg for it."
The chatter of spinning gears squeals through the aether as a shock of
neon energy deposits Sciomore, the Logician into view.
Sciomore, the Logician stands here imperiously, radiating a flickering
neon energy.
He is a radiant immortal and all in stature. Imposing in presence, the
Logician appears less a god and more a clockwork automaton brought to
full consciousness. Beaten metal wraps around his head like a mask or
hood, keeping whatever visage beneath safe from view
the only opportunity to see a single red eye is between one of three
lenses of black glass that puncture the mask: though this eye shifts
between each of these three intermittently. No mouth, but a mesh of thin
wire surrounds the location of his mouth, a whisper of sound erupting
from it - breathing, his voice, it is not certain. Across his chest is a
breastplate of spinning gears that seem to empower his limbs as both his
arms and legs are riveted with metal joints. Tubes of neon light jut out
from his neck and pierce his shoulders, feeding the rest of his body
with an indeterminable energy source. Despite this mechanical
embodiment, Sciomore finds himself wrapped in a longcoat of black
sheep's wool: the back of which is embroidered with a complex map of the
planes. He is wearing a longcoat of black sheep's wool.
The apple is cold, crisp, and sour as the juices fill your mouth. As you consume the fruit, you glimpse, for a moment, a massive, shadowy figure, Her snow-white hair framing a perfect, icy-eyed visage. Beneath you, a vast, perfect web of silken strands lies - and, for a moment, you realize that you too are part of it, weaver and strand both - and home.
The Logician's single eye flickers with a coruscating energy as He briefly turns his attention away and releases the channeled power in a stream of radiant heat and light.
I don't suppose we could get descriptions of the rest of the Higher Gods in here? I've only been able to see Aelish and Sciomore so far
Here's Luella, Lady of Flowers:
She is a radiant immortal and is breathtaking to behold, the very air around Her shivering with the infinite potential of creation. She comports Herself with an effortless grace, the radiant gold wings that fan from Her shoulders bearing Her petite frame easily. Pale, multicoloured waves, unbound, sweep over Her shoulders and down Her back, framing a face that reveals all the sweetness of youth only to take it away with a keen emerald stare. The perfect canvas of Her body is suggested in willowy limbs and sun-darkened skin, yet despite this She carries Herself with none of the arrogance one would expect. Flowers can be found wherever one looks, upon Her brow, weaving around Her arms, even trailing behind Her in a fragrant retinue. She is wearing an ethereal organza gown possessing the hues of burgeoning spring and a primordial circlet of rose-choked briers.
The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!
She is a radiant immortal and exudes perfection from the gloss of Her ebony hair to the precisely rounded cerulean of Her nails. Tall and voluptuous, She does not simply walk but glides from place to place, long hair flowing in Her wake in never-wilting curls. Across Her arms, virulent barbed vines encase Her like living armour, and Her tawny skin glistens with moisture as if She had just stepped from the ocean. Though of human shape Her angular eyes possess no pupil, iris or sclera - instead, they are full of deep indigo light that dances like a kindling flame, and give Her the unsettling appearance of staring at all around her regardless of where they might be standing. Her features are that most beautiful combination of delicate and striking; dainty nose, plush bowed lips a deep shade of ruby, high cheekbones, long dark lashes and impeccably sculpted eyebrows. Indeed, it is difficult to look at anything but Her, so intoxicating is Her presence. She is wearing thick war robes of oceanic hues.
All that flowing hair reminds me of Eris from Sinbad:
Viravain, Lady of the Thorns shouts, "And You would seize Me? Fool! I am the Glomdoring! I am the Wyrd, and beneath the cloak of Night, the shadows of the Silent stir!"
Since @Rancoura asked for them in the "Simple Questions" thread, and we haven't had the chance to delete them, here are the Higher Gods HELP files:
Aelish, the Creator:
The leader of the Higher Gods, Aelish is a benevolent Creator whose Holy Word banishes all darkness and inspires hope. His wife and advisor is Frai, the Hooded One, while Karagash, the Iron God serves as His military enforcer. Kind and patient, He values those who aspire to the Light of His Word and who would protect Creation.
His symbol is the Holy Light and Word.
Frai, the Hooded One:
Sitting at the right hand of her husband, Aelish, Frai otherwise stands aloof from the other gods. She is known as the Hooded One because none have ever seen Her true form, only a figure cloaked in shadow. Secretive and manipulative, She values hidden knowledge.
Her symbol is a hooded face shrouded in darkness.
Karagash, the Iron God:
The physical fighter of the Higher Gods, Karagash's muscles are quite developed. His aspirations go beyond this, as His loyalty to Aelish finds Him wishing to be a closer adviser to the Creator. The Hooded One's positions stops these aspirations currently.
His symbol is an axe crossed with a two-pronged sword.
Sciomore, the Logician:
The Cosmos are immense and of infinite complexity, and it is in this complexity that Sciomore's interests lie. With sufficient intelligence and focus all things might be understood in their entirety, and this complete understanding allows one to control all reality with but a thought, so believes the Logician. Mastery of existence itself is His goal, and any lesser concerns are utterly beneath Him. Frivolity is anathema to Sciomore, and He feels no compunction in annihilating His distractions or enemies.
His symbol is a map of the planes.
Serane, the Everlasting Beauty:
Almost all that lives within the world has been blessed by Nature's bounty. This gift of Beauty, granted at conception, is finite. What Beauty one possesses is not equal to that bestowed upon another; all are unique in the eyes of Nature. But these gifts, be they plentiful or not, do not flourish by themselves. It is only potential that is given; it is up to all who would honour Nature's gift to achieve that Beauty.
This is what the Everlasting Beauty would see in Her followers: a willingness to strive to achieve their true potential. To reach perfection by ascending to be all that they can be. In this, they serve Nature; they serve Her; they serve themselves.
Her symbol is the mirror, most commonly a clear pool of reflective water.
Luella, the Lady of Flowers:
Whither is the source of true creation? Not held in the hands of light-blinded Fools, or in the creative acts of mortalkind. No, true creation is found in the fecund, wild forces of nature: its rhythms, cycles, and drives. Thus, the ultimate goal of all living beings is to cast off whatever weak shells that leave you numbed to this primal dimension and to become one with the plant and animal kingdoms. In a sense, the true meaning of creation is in the act of de-creating the self, losing oneself to the pagan throes of nature.
The Lady of Flowers offers this possibility and much more, calling all who wish to bring themselves under the thrall of nature's creative potential. Sup from the nectar of the marigold, the rose, and the cypress, and one will find themselves reborn and yearning for the extermination of all that desecrate Her dominion.
Her symbols are manifold, for each flower, plant, and animal holds sacred meaning to Her.
a flame-painted lamp of brilliant copper Short, squat and ornate in design, this lamp presents itself as the bearer of oils exotic and dark. Its entirety is crafted of brilliant copper flame-painted to reveal a plenitude of hues: golds and yellows, blues and greens, with even a tracery of violet and pure white to enhance the beauty of the piece. A lounging dracnari, fat and grinning, emerges in sculpted detail: his belly the chambre trapping oil, his tail curling around as a handle, and his wide, open mouth serving as the nozzle from whence a scented smoke may creep forth.
a fragmented conch lamp Somewhat resembling a small torch, the conch lamp tapers as it narrows, affording the wielder a comfortable grip. Sticking out from the shell with the rest of the horny bits at the top, a burnt wick serves as the functional portion of the lamp. Faint sloshing noises accompany any movement of the shell, revealing the presence of a hidden compartment of fuel. Inspection of the shell reveals it to be, not a single seashell, but rather made from the broken fragments of many different seashells.
an antique lamp of mosaic wonders Restored with a loving hand and attention to detail, this antique lamp betrays its age only through its design: rich, carefully selected colours, bold geometric shapes, and lavish decoration associated with the old Magnagoran style. Rising from a round foundation, the short and squat belly of the lamp is a wide affair with a spout on the right, an elegantly-curved handle on the left, and a raised onyx-crested lid on top. Resplendent with semi-precious opaque stones, the mosaic adorns the entirety of the lamp except where strategically-placed, tiny coloured glass pieces permit light to shine out of the lamp at the upper-most levels while the lower ones reveal murky, sweet-scented oils swimming in the depths of the inner-most chamber. The night-time panorama of Magnagora winds about the belly: grey and black buildings, the gleaming spires of the Palace of Prophets, distant lamps illuminating the gardens, and the magnificent towers of the noble houses which stand out against a slate-blue sky with a silvery moon.
Pitch black coils of hand-blown glass ellipse the base of what appears to be an oil lamp, their still-life slither made three-dimensional by literally hundreds of jaggedly fashioned scales. The base of the lamp also serves as the body of the beast depicted, with wide, taloned feet stretching out to hold it steady and a serpentine neck curling out and back to offer a handle. Black rubies glint darkly from its angular face, and its jaws are parted in a silent snarl, allowing plumes of scented smoke to escape the deep-bellied oil chamber within.
a portly pigeon lamp
Ostensibly a common rock pigeon painstakingly rendered from a hunk smokey quartz, its finer details reveal a more illuminating purpose to its construction. A wick threads it way through the beak, one end twisting deep into the lamp's sloshing gizzard, the other decoratively hanging just off-centre as if a half-eaten worm. An errant bit of crest serves as the handle, curving back to meet the jagged matrix of its flared tail feathers. Redolent smells waft from tiny vents hidden among its plumage, promising a pleasant smoke of afternoon tea and fresh pastries once lit.
The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!
my lamp keeps giving me stuff with black text on a black background EDIT: and I know there's text there because one of the messages has a word in it that I have a highlight trigger on
I'm kinda caught up in stuff at the moment and I can't make the lamp right now. When's the deadline,please? @Drocilla
Viravain, Lady of the Thorns shouts, "And You would seize Me? Fool! I am the Glomdoring! I am the Wyrd, and beneath the cloak of Night, the shadows of the Silent stir!"
Viravain, Lady of the Thorns shouts, "And You would seize Me? Fool! I am the Glomdoring! I am the Wyrd, and beneath the cloak of Night, the shadows of the Silent stir!"
Could the gods divulge as to why Gaudi switched from drunks on trunks? Not that I'm complaining about a nice tramp with a lamp, mind you. Just curious.
Everiine said: The reason population is low isn't because there are too many orgs. It's because so many facets of the game are outright broken and protected by those who benefit from it being that way. An overabundance of gimmicks (including game-breaking ones), artifacts that destroy any concept of balance, blatant pay-to-win features, and an obsession with convenience that makes few things actually worthwhile all contribute to the game's sad decline.
Could the gods divulge as to why Gaudi switched from drunks on trunks? Not that I'm complaining about a nice tramp with a lamp, mind you. Just curious.
I believe there was no particular reason, save for an industrious admin who designed a different "elf on a shelf" scheme.
You greet Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace with a sincere smile. Voice like honeyed silk, Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace says, "We have many treasures in the palace, one such thing a lamp that holds the memories of Gaudiguch like treasures within. Unfortunately, some tramps made off with them." Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace scowls miserably.
Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace says, "If you happen upon one of these girls give them a spank and get my pieces back. I'll make it worth your time and trouble." Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace winks conspiratorially at you.
You reach over and spank a flirtatious tramp firmly on her bum. The exotic scent of sweat-mingled spices threatens to overwhelm you as you watch the dancer upon the stage with rapt attention. Tossing coal-dark hair, she twists and turns as if possessed, the bells at her wrists, hips and ankles pealing an erratic, primitive song with each passionate step. Scarlet veils fall like leaves to her feet, baring inch upon inch of skin to the hot night air. As you look up, her dark eyes catch yours and she winks, the last veil left for you as she flicks it your way. A flirtatious tramp sweeps you across the floor, dazzling you with her footwork.
A glimmer of copper falls from a tramp's hand. You bend over quickly to retreive the piece before it is lost in the sand that dusts the streets.
...alrighty then
Everiine said: The reason population is low isn't because there are too many orgs. It's because so many facets of the game are outright broken and protected by those who benefit from it being that way. An overabundance of gimmicks (including game-breaking ones), artifacts that destroy any concept of balance, blatant pay-to-win features, and an obsession with convenience that makes few things actually worthwhile all contribute to the game's sad decline.
By my count, there were six types of nightmares in the Dame Maeve thing. Here's five of them:
Naught but darkness forms this dreadful silhouette of knight and steed, shape defined solely by the silver light which frames her. Upon her shoulders there rests no head but a blinding disc of moonlight, the unmistakable feeling of judgment accompanying each harsh beam. No matter the angle, her luminous gaze always appears to face the viewer, and her steed always appears to slowly approach, as if by a cruel trick of the light. A dullahan-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
If kept at distance, it could be forgiven if this were mistaken for a noble cavalier riding proud upon his steed, but any illusions decay upon inspection. The steed's unpleasantly slick skin appears blistered and sore ridden, in truth a fungal cage bloated with dead and dying fae, a web of hyphae holding their half-absorbed flesh together within rough approximation of a horse. Atop rides not a chivalrous knight, but bursts the fruiting bodies of this myconoidal monstrosity, its great cap lulling about uselessly as if a man asleep beneath a sun-hat. Two smaller bodies brachiate from the main stalk, their fibrous nodules dragging listlessly along the ground in a blind search for new substrate. A nuckelavee-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
At a glance some potter's ruined cast of an unknown cherubic infant, the cracks which pockmark its dusty clay do not see fit to remain confined upon it, webbing out through the very air irrespective of proper medium. This impossible mandala of geologic decay radiates out from the hollow cavity where one would expect, dare wish, a face to grace this statuette. Gleaming shadows twitch and crawl within its empty visage, a thousand unseen mouths hungrily echoing the same shrill call. A cherub-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
A bulbous protuberance of flesh makes up the bulk of this polypous mass, balanced perfectly atop an impossibly thin lattice of solidified honey, its surface charred black and cracking. Where the dead skin sloughs away reveals growths of fresh honeycomb, blotched across its flesh in complicated burrowing fractals of irregular hexagons. A sickly orange glow burns from the depths of each comb, flickering with the polyp's each shuddering pulse. A polyp-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
Bloated and pale, this huge seal-like monstrosity floats about in a pool of blackened ichor, accumulated leakage from the many ragged puncture wounds along its flesh. Upon ill-advised closer examination its body is not a cohesive whole, but a festering conglomeration of fish and sea mammal corpses, all bound beneath a ragged skein of fur and scale. With each spastic movement more of the creature seems to slough into the pond, yet its grotesque mass never reduces or ceases. A selkie-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
And Dame Maeve, for those who missed her: Once Queen of the Fae, this spirit has, literally, been to Nil and back. What horrors and nightmarish deeds have been done to her can only be imagined, though many not too difficult given her current state. Her skin is sickly pale, the complexion of a corpse, and her irises, once an exotic violet, are now dull and flecked with smoldering crimson specks. Her eyes have sunken in and taken dark circles, while her eyebrows have thinned and been pierced in a number of places by hooks attached to silver wires, which hang loosely along the sides of her face before arching back up to an instrument within her hair. The instrument looks like little more than a claw rising out of a bun, given how it is wrapped up in the fae woman's hair, though many of its joints appear to work and almost eager to flex. Her lower lip has been pierced with a bright silver hoop attached to a chain, which hangs down an connects to a ring upon her left index finger. Garbed in nothing but chains, many of which have hooks and spikes that dig into her flesh as she moves, causing weeping sores that never seem to heal. Sooty black smoke and red, tainted gas leak from her mouth and the corners of her eyes on occasion, while a flicker of immense sadness resides within her pupils. About her neck is a blackened and thorned vine, its crimson spines digging into the flesh. White amaranths blossom from the vine, each one weeping trickles of the ethereal blood from which they now feed. Dame Maeve, Apostle of Ingenious Tortures almost glows with nearly god-like power.
If anyone has the description for the gyre-formed nightmare, I would -greatly- appreciate it.
The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!
Displayed within the translucent amber, a painting of Laeroc, the Dame's Oblation is clearly visible:
Long robes, their once pristine twilight blue now caked black, hang ragged off the shoulders of the former consort, the burbling stump of his neck laid bare. A bloody mass of blonde hair is clutched tight to his chest, its bulbous shape only hinting at the state of his visage beneath. In death it seems his locks have continued to grow unchecked, falling to tangle about his feet like golden brambles. As these hirsute tendrils coil further away they become more and more caked in forestal detritus, until at length they are indistinguishable from a thorny briar of vines.
Comments
Oh, right. Yes. Definitely changed. I shouldn't skim-read.
A dark shadow streaks across the sky, trailed by a hissing scream.
A sudden sense of impending doom overwhelms you as you feel a fist clamp down around your heart. Your pulse races wildly, faster and faster as you shake with fear. The world around you blacks out, leaving only the image of a shadowy figure which stands before you with Her arm in your chest. You feel all of your secrets flowing into the figure: your most shameful moments, your secret fears, the emotions you hold deep within you. You struggle, trying to fight the figure but She clenches Her fist around your heart as you release one last futile gasp.
You have been slain by Frai.
@Frai Those secrets and fears are actually rather bountiful. Take care Your head doesn't explode.
Not kidding at all.
The Logician's single eye flickers with a coruscating energy as He briefly turns his attention away and releases the channeled power in a stream of radiant heat and light.
Here's Luella, Lady of Flowers:
She is a radiant immortal and is breathtaking to behold, the very air around Her
shivering with the infinite potential of creation. She comports Herself with an
effortless grace, the radiant gold wings that fan from Her shoulders bearing Her
petite frame easily. Pale, multicoloured waves, unbound, sweep over Her
shoulders and down Her back, framing a face that reveals all the sweetness of
youth only to take it away with a keen emerald stare. The perfect canvas of Her
body is suggested in willowy limbs and sun-darkened skin, yet despite this She
carries Herself with none of the arrogance one would expect. Flowers can be
found wherever one looks, upon Her brow, weaving around Her arms, even trailing
behind Her in a fragrant retinue. She is wearing an ethereal organza gown
possessing the hues of burgeoning spring and a primordial circlet of rose-choked
briers.
a flame-painted lamp of brilliant copper
Short, squat and ornate in design, this lamp presents itself as the bearer of oils exotic and dark. Its entirety is crafted of brilliant copper flame-painted to reveal a plenitude of hues: golds and yellows, blues and greens, with even a tracery of violet and pure white to enhance the beauty of the piece. A lounging dracnari, fat and grinning, emerges in sculpted detail: his belly the chambre trapping oil, his tail curling around as a handle, and his wide, open mouth serving as the nozzle from whence a scented smoke may creep forth.
a fragmented conch lamp
Somewhat resembling a small torch, the conch lamp tapers as it narrows, affording the wielder a comfortable grip. Sticking out from the shell with the rest of the horny bits at the top, a burnt wick serves as the functional portion of the lamp. Faint sloshing noises accompany any movement of the shell, revealing the presence of a hidden compartment of fuel. Inspection of the shell reveals it to be, not a single seashell, but rather made from the broken fragments of many different seashells.
an antique lamp of mosaic wonders
Restored with a loving hand and attention to detail, this antique lamp betrays its age only through its design: rich, carefully selected colours, bold geometric shapes, and lavish decoration associated with the old Magnagoran style. Rising from a round foundation, the short and squat belly of the lamp is a wide affair with a spout on the right, an elegantly-curved handle on the left, and a raised onyx-crested lid on top. Resplendent with semi-precious opaque stones, the mosaic adorns the entirety of the lamp except where strategically-placed, tiny coloured glass pieces permit light to shine out of the lamp at the upper-most levels while the lower ones reveal murky, sweet-scented oils swimming in the depths of the inner-most chamber. The night-time panorama of Magnagora winds about the belly: grey and black buildings, the gleaming spires of the Palace of Prophets, distant lamps illuminating the gardens, and the magnificent towers of the noble houses which stand out against a slate-blue sky with a silvery moon.
Pitch black coils of hand-blown glass ellipse the base of what appears to be an oil lamp, their still-life slither made three-dimensional by literally hundreds of jaggedly fashioned scales. The base of the lamp also serves as the body of the beast depicted, with wide, taloned feet stretching out to hold it steady and a serpentine neck curling out and back to offer a handle. Black rubies glint darkly from its angular face, and its jaws are parted in a silent snarl, allowing plumes of scented smoke to escape the deep-bellied oil chamber within.
a portly pigeon lamp
Ostensibly a common rock pigeon painstakingly rendered from a hunk smokey quartz, its finer details reveal a more illuminating purpose to its construction. A wick threads it way through the beak, one end twisting deep into the lamp's sloshing gizzard, the other decoratively hanging just off-centre as if a half-eaten worm. An errant bit of crest serves as the handle, curving back to meet the jagged matrix of its flared tail feathers. Redolent smells waft from tiny vents hidden among its plumage, promising a pleasant smoke of afternoon tea and fresh pastries once lit.
EDIT: and I know there's text there because one of the messages has a word in it that I have a highlight trigger on
Voice like honeyed silk, Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace says, "We have many treasures in the palace,
one such thing a lamp that holds the memories of Gaudiguch like treasures within. Unfortunately,
some tramps made off with them."
Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace scowls miserably.
Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace says, "If you happen upon one of these girls give them a spank and
get my pieces back. I'll make it worth your time and trouble."
Sayochi Xeth, Madame of Solace winks conspiratorially at you.
You reach over and spank a flirtatious tramp firmly on her bum.
The exotic scent of sweat-mingled spices threatens to overwhelm you as you watch the dancer upon the
stage with rapt attention. Tossing coal-dark hair, she twists and turns as if possessed, the bells
at her wrists, hips and ankles pealing an erratic, primitive song with each passionate step. Scarlet
veils fall like leaves to her feet, baring inch upon inch of skin to the hot night air. As you look
up, her dark eyes catch yours and she winks, the last veil left for you as she flicks it your way.
A flirtatious tramp sweeps you across the floor, dazzling you with her footwork.
A glimmer of copper falls from a tramp's hand.
You bend over quickly to retreive the piece before it is lost in the sand that dusts the streets.
...alrighty then
Naught but darkness forms this dreadful silhouette of knight and steed, shape defined solely by the silver light which frames her. Upon her shoulders there rests no head but a blinding disc of moonlight, the unmistakable feeling of judgment accompanying each harsh beam. No matter the angle, her luminous gaze always appears to face the viewer, and her steed always appears to slowly approach, as if by a cruel trick of the light.
A dullahan-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
If kept at distance, it could be forgiven if this were mistaken for a noble cavalier riding proud upon his steed, but any illusions decay upon inspection. The steed's unpleasantly slick skin appears blistered and sore ridden, in truth a fungal cage bloated with dead and dying fae, a web of hyphae holding their half-absorbed flesh together within rough approximation of a horse. Atop rides not a chivalrous knight, but bursts the fruiting bodies of this myconoidal monstrosity, its great cap lulling about uselessly as if a man asleep beneath a sun-hat. Two smaller bodies brachiate from the main stalk, their fibrous nodules dragging listlessly along the ground in a blind search for new substrate.
A nuckelavee-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
At a glance some potter's ruined cast of an unknown cherubic infant, the cracks which pockmark its dusty clay do not see fit to remain confined upon it, webbing out through the very air irrespective of proper medium. This impossible mandala of geologic decay radiates out from the hollow cavity where one would expect, dare wish, a face to grace this statuette. Gleaming shadows twitch and crawl within its empty visage, a thousand unseen mouths hungrily echoing the same shrill call.
A cherub-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
A bulbous protuberance of flesh makes up the bulk of this polypous mass, balanced perfectly atop an impossibly thin lattice of solidified honey, its surface charred black and cracking. Where the dead skin sloughs away reveals growths of fresh honeycomb, blotched across its flesh in complicated burrowing fractals of irregular hexagons. A sickly orange glow burns from the depths of each comb, flickering with the polyp's each shuddering pulse.
A polyp-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
Bloated and pale, this huge seal-like monstrosity floats about in a pool of blackened ichor, accumulated leakage from the many ragged puncture wounds along its flesh. Upon ill-advised closer examination its body is not a cohesive whole, but a festering conglomeration of fish and sea mammal corpses, all bound beneath a ragged skein of fur and scale. With each spastic movement more of the creature seems to slough into the pond, yet its grotesque mass never reduces or ceases.
A selkie-formed nightmare exudes an aura of overwhelming power.
And Dame Maeve, for those who missed her:
Once Queen of the Fae, this spirit has, literally, been to Nil and back. What horrors and nightmarish deeds have been done to her can only be imagined, though many not too difficult given her current state. Her skin is sickly pale, the complexion of a corpse, and her irises, once an exotic violet, are now dull and flecked with smoldering crimson specks. Her eyes have sunken in and taken dark circles, while her eyebrows have thinned and been pierced in a number of places by hooks attached to silver wires, which hang loosely along the sides of her face before arching back up to an instrument within her hair. The instrument looks like little more than a claw rising out of a bun, given how it is wrapped up in the fae woman's hair, though many of its joints appear to work and almost eager to flex. Her lower lip has been pierced with a bright silver hoop attached to a chain, which hangs down an connects to a ring upon her left index finger. Garbed in nothing but chains, many of which have hooks and spikes that dig into her flesh as she moves, causing weeping sores that never seem to heal. Sooty black smoke and red, tainted gas leak from her mouth and the corners of her eyes on occasion, while a flicker of immense sadness resides within her pupils. About her neck is a blackened and thorned vine, its crimson spines digging into the flesh. White amaranths blossom from the vine, each one weeping trickles of the ethereal blood from which they now
feed.
Dame Maeve, Apostle of Ingenious Tortures almost glows with nearly god-like power.
If anyone has the description for the gyre-formed nightmare, I would -greatly- appreciate it.
Displayed within the translucent amber, a painting of Laeroc, the Dame's Oblation is clearly visible:
Long robes, their once pristine twilight blue now caked black, hang ragged off the shoulders of the former consort, the burbling stump of his neck laid bare. A bloody mass of blonde hair is clutched tight to his chest, its bulbous shape only hinting at the state of his visage beneath. In death it seems his locks have continued to grow unchecked, falling to tangle about his feet like golden brambles. As these hirsute tendrils coil further away they become more and more caked in forestal detritus, until at length they are indistinguishable from a thorny briar of vines.