[Even after Akane is gone, the stench of burned flesh remains. It serves as a reminder of this last death; of this last sacrifice to the Unclean. Unreasonably cruel, just as everything else in the past five weeks has been.
The faceless men break the circle around the platform, one of them rushing over to steady Heather and bring her back to Girge and Andersen. The sun continues to shine impossibly bright, only adding to the heat released from the charred remains of the stake. Craftly does not move from his current spot, instead taking a sip from his ever present drink and glancing up at the sky.]
Unclean, horrid name to be whispered among mortals. Old One, key to the past, future and present. Take this offering. Take our filth into yourself, and be satisfied with the blood that has been repaid. [Said like a mantra. Like something he's had to repeat over and over again.] I show to you the three survivors of this session. Please, offer them the deal if it interests you.
[As Craftly ceases to speak, the ground beneath Heather, Andersen and Girge begins to shake. The sun disappears, plunging our three survivors into total darkness. Only the embers of Akane's resting place provide illumination, but it's not enough. Whispers fill their ears, relegating them with tales of survival and triumph. Familiar names and voices are among them; names and voices of people from their own worlds, explaining how they killed, survived and took the deal. The influence of the gods is eternal. There is no hope of destroying them.
The whispers cease as light returns to the clearing — but it no longer comes from the sun. For the first time in five weeks, night falls on the City of Yuggoth. The Unclean's avatar ripples, tendrils swaying as her body casts a blue glow over the realm. There is nothing but silence, the faceless men prostrating themselves on the ground to worship their goddess.
And then she speaks.
To Girge, who is one of her Prophets, her voice is gentle and soothing to his ears. He will suffer no ill effects as she speaks.]
I asked for entertainment, and my facilitators did not disappoint. To honor this success, I come to you with a choice. You already know your options. I won't bother to mince words.
[Heather and Andersen, on the other hand, won't be as fortunate as Girge. The Unclean will sound like this to their ears:]
[It's painful enough that it will give both of them either a nosebleed or cause them to bleed out their ears for the next few hours. On top of this, they will both begin to experience nausea and a mild fever the longer they speak to her. Whoops.]
THE DEAL
The faceless men break the circle around the platform, one of them rushing over to steady Heather and bring her back to Girge and Andersen. The sun continues to shine impossibly bright, only adding to the heat released from the charred remains of the stake. Craftly does not move from his current spot, instead taking a sip from his ever present drink and glancing up at the sky.]
Unclean, horrid name to be whispered among mortals. Old One, key to the past, future and present. Take this offering. Take our filth into yourself, and be satisfied with the blood that has been repaid. [Said like a mantra. Like something he's had to repeat over and over again.] I show to you the three survivors of this session. Please, offer them the deal if it interests you.
[As Craftly ceases to speak, the ground beneath Heather, Andersen and Girge begins to shake. The sun disappears, plunging our three survivors into total darkness. Only the embers of Akane's resting place provide illumination, but it's not enough. Whispers fill their ears, relegating them with tales of survival and triumph. Familiar names and voices are among them; names and voices of people from their own worlds, explaining how they killed, survived and took the deal. The influence of the gods is eternal. There is no hope of destroying them.
The whispers cease as light returns to the clearing — but it no longer comes from the sun. For the first time in five weeks, night falls on the City of Yuggoth. The Unclean's avatar ripples, tendrils swaying as her body casts a blue glow over the realm. There is nothing but silence, the faceless men prostrating themselves on the ground to worship their goddess.
And then she speaks.
To Girge, who is one of her Prophets, her voice is gentle and soothing to his ears. He will suffer no ill effects as she speaks.]
I asked for entertainment, and my facilitators did not disappoint. To honor this success, I come to you with a choice. You already know your options. I won't bother to mince words.
[Heather and Andersen, on the other hand, won't be as fortunate as Girge. The Unclean will sound like this to their ears:]
I̛͡҉ ÀŚK̀͜Ę̵̶D͏ ͠F̀̕͠O̴R ̶́͜E͡N͏͡T̷E͡R̸͠TA̕͡IN҉M̷͡E̛͠͏NT͞,́ ̴̧͢Ą̵Ń̸D͞ ̨́M͘͢Ý͜ ͏F̕҉ĄC͏҉I͘LI̡̢̧TAT҉O҉R͢Ś ̶̨D̕͘͢I̵D̵͜ ̨̢͜N͞O͞T͏͝͠ ͏D͏IS̵A͢Ṕ̴҉P͝O̶I̵̶͢N͟͏T̶̨.̵̶ ̨T̶̸͘O̵̕ ͜͡H̨͘O͞Ǹ̀͡O̵̧Ŕ̢ T̸͞HÍ͟S͡ ̀͟͢SU̶̕C̀C̸E̷̛SS̛͞͡,҉̕ ͟͞I ̷C̛͡O̵M̛Ę͜ TO͟ ̶͠Y͢O͜͜͝U͏ ̵̢W̧IŢ̕H͏͟͟ A͟ ̨͏C̡͝HO̧͜Ì̢C͏E҉͏҉.͝ ̸̶Y͠Ờ͠U͞͡ ̷̀A̸̴L̢͘RE͘͝A͝Ḑ͠Y̶͟ ͢͞K͜N̕͡͝O͟W̨͟ ̶͘͟Ỳ͜Ò͞U͞҉̢R̨̀ ̡͏O̡P͢͡T̡͢Í͟͏O͞͠N̵S̵.̸͜ ̷͜I̷̷ ̸́͟W͏͞ON̢'T̴̴ B̀͠O̸T̨͘H̵È̴͠R̵͠͝ T̴O͢͞ ̶͟M͘͏͢I̡̛͞N͝C̸̸̡È W͠͞͏O͘R҉̕D͞S.̶̨ ́͏
[It's painful enough that it will give both of them either a nosebleed or cause them to bleed out their ears for the next few hours. On top of this, they will both begin to experience nausea and a mild fever the longer they speak to her. Whoops.]