In the early hours of the 6th of Neth, the party dreamed of a civilized planet. A planet populated by living creatures loosely resembling eight-legged green and orange giraffes, creatures unusually resistant to mental effects. Creatures with neither a spoken language nor the concept of individual names. And creatures, thanks to a quirk of their evolution, that did not dream. Creatures very challenging for Xhamen-Dor to infect.

But God is great. God is good. God happened to arrive upon this planet, drawn by the siren’s song of the yellow stones, as much more than a miniscule blot. It arrived in size and might this time. As an 80-foot tall conical mass of fungal mouths. It splashed down into the warm waters of the Western Sea and began its Great Work.

Frustrated by the native civilization’s resilience to its typical means of growth, and aware that without worship it would soon begin to slumber, it uprooted itself and began touching—physically—all life forms it encountered. Very few resisted turning immediately into wet pools of gangrenous slop, but some did. Some of their bodies accepted the gift of seedborne consumption, fell into the requisite comas as the germinating fibers deep within them digested their organs, as they died and rose as fungal corpse puppets—fully and painfully aware of their past lives (and the blasphemy done to their bodies) yet compelled to physically spread Xhamen-Dor’s corruption by touch.

And they did. Touch, touch, touch. Cough, cough, cough. Spore by spore, victim by victim.

The tough-minded green spider-giraffes put up a good fight. But, what civilization is going to survive against an Elder God and its ever-growing army of undead fungus monsters that explode into clouds of corruptive spores when you kill them?

It was a different trajectory on this world, but that’s fine. The paths to success which God has available are myriad. And beautiful. And you exult to experience the moment on that world when nothing but the fungal corpse puppets remained, when God used the final dying gasps of the decaying planet as the means to launch itself into space and fly home… and shit the remnants of that planet’s mental energies, its civilization and disorder, into the sewers of Carcosa, and to feel the parasite city shiver… and grow stronger… and realer… and to pulse with potential….

The Good Work never stops.


First Reference: Chapter 73
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