In his mind, a great painting
takes shape.
I smell bones in the pylons,
blood beneath the stone blocks.
The air is heavy and stale.
In my restless dreams,
I see that town...
There is a strange power in this place.
Don't be fooled if you hear laughter,
or happen upon a smile. There is no lightness or
merriment here.
There are forces in the Multiverse far beyond anything
you've ever dealt with. Ancient, mindless evils that fill in the cracks and eat dimensions just for a snack!
What has risen may sink,
and what has sunk may rise.
When I drew nigh the nameless city
I knew it was accursed.
Once they are brought here they never leave.
Misery. Everywhere.
This city is built on the bones of
the great ones.
The one who walks here is all things...
... Cradle songs of comfort and bones gnawed by teeth.
This is the place from which those who dabble in the
black arts draw their power.
Isn't this nothing more than your
personal nightmares?
Can you hear them too?
Crying out in the dark?
All time is meaningless here.
Neither seconds nor centuries.
The town seems empty.
All the stores are closed or
boarded up.
A dark place in his mind has been
allowed to overgrow.
Yog-Sothoth is the gate.
Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate.
Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth.
Here you are at last,
in a ruined and drowning world...
Always conflict.
Power, greed, lust.
Rivers change course over many lifetimes,
and eventually all bridges tumble down.
I shuddered oddly in some of the far corners; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting, and inexplicable nature, and made me wonder what manner of men could have made and frequented such a temple.
They butchered the deep ones here, breathing in the rich
stink of their enchanted flesh.
A town able to inspire such dislike in its neighbours, I thought, must be at least rather unusual, and worthy of a tourist's attention.
The darkness always teemed with
unexplained sound-and yet he sometimes shook with fear
lest the noises he heard should subside and allow him to
hear certain other, fainter noises which he suspected were lurking behind them.
The aberration is progressing...
Somewhere in the basements below, hound kills hound,
and money changes hands.
This place is the end of all things.
And the beginning.
Do you still dream of escape?
An artist, of sorts. Bone and skin stretched across canvas, with pigments coaxed of blood and hair.
There are no stars in the sky here.
There is no sky.