A Smell of Petroleum Pervades Throughout
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June 18th, 2013 (1:43 PM). Edited June 19th, 2013 by Cutlerine.
Gone. May or may not return.
The Misspelled Cyrpt
> Do whatever you can to prepare for an attack. The only thing I can think of is making some sort of barricade and plan out an escape route. After that try finding more food, water, lootable stuff.
You push those items of furniture you don't need in front of the door, and open the window. Then you close the curtains. That way, you're disguised from the outside, but you can jump out easily if you need to.
There is nothing left to loot.
> Is there anyway to make a shield out of dead coral? Because that would be dead useful against Quilava's ranged attacks. Especially, for Jasmine - can you imagine how convenient it would be if we could shape her a suit of coral? - if she was safe from his fire, she would be strong enough to fight it, probably.
Maybe you could, but you haven't actually seen any dead coral, and you don't want to risk putting your hand on any live coral. Besides, you're pretty sure that dead coral would lose whatever makes it so good against fire, and go back to being a rather fragile form of rock. After all, the organism inside would be dead.
> OH! See if Jasmine can grab some polyps and put them in jars or bottles (empty ones) so they can become anti fire grenades!! What if you loaded it into the spratchery and shot it at Quilava!! It's water/rock with heavy defense, there's GOT to be a way to use this. Masterball? Catch what's left in the helicopter?
You think that would break the Spratchery; it can only really handle organic matter, and the calcium carbonate exoskeleton of the coral would seriously mess with its mechanisms.
You put the 'grenade' idea to Elm, though, and he points out that the coral needs to grow on something to stay alive. Otherwise (as pointed out above) you're going to end up just throwing rocks in bottles. Which is awesomely weird, but rather pointless.
Unless you're willing to give up some of your food supply to grow the coral on inside these bottles, it won't work. Your call.
> Feed Vesta and try to train her a little more if you can. If not just rest until Elm is done. Youve been on the move too long in a consistent manner.
You break some floorboards and feed Vesta, which is much appreciated. You can't train her, unfortunately; like all Pokémon, she grows mainly by battling others, and there isn't much she can take on around here.
Since there appears to be nothing else to do, you rest, and soon find yourself asleep.
Down, down, down you go; you had almost forgotten about this, so long is it since you last slept away from Lugia's psychic influence, but it all comes back now, and the familiar sickening feeling grabs your stomach and hauls it down towards the ocean floor, dragging you along in its wake.
Bug-eyed fish swim past, twitching and snapping spasmodically; the water fades from blue to black, and then at last to a murky, unearthly green, as you reach the weed-strewn streets of the city that you have at last realised must be R'lyeh. Once again, you follow the Deep Ones in their flopping, graceless march towards the summit of the mountain city, floating through twisted streets lined with wall-eyed temples and hideous grinning houses; you float past statues that remind you unpleasantly of beach-buried idols, and others of five-pointed barrel-like things, always depicted beneath the feet of the cuttle-headed alien
Beneath you, the Deep Ones bay, their voices booming like cannonfire beneath the waves. The thin, monotonous piping grows louder and more insistent; the buildings on either side grow larger and more spectacular; the street rises, and the chanting seems to roll straight through you.
And now you can actually see the surface above you, and the Deep Ones are bursting through it into the unbelievable brightness of a tropical midday, onto the beaches that have built up around a great jag of rock like the root of a mountain. Somehow, you are still floating, drifting above them; you see the gaunt black gulls that nest on the upper reaches of the island, circling like vultures; you see the Deep Ones proceeding with awful majesty to the door, vast as the face of a god, that sprawls across the island, and as they take their positions by its side with their levers you hear them cry out something in a language older even than the simian ancestors of humanity.
They plunge the levers down, and the door begins to open—
“Hey,” says Elm. “Othodox. I've got it!”
You start awake. It is dark now in the little house, and the only light is that of Elm's laptop screen.
“I've done it,” he says. “I've completed the translation!”
“You have?” You are, all at once, very much awake. “Well, let's hear it, then!”
“OK.” He scrolls for a moment. “It starts with 'In his house at R'lyeh—'”
THULHU LIES DREAMING
,” finishes Jasmine. “W
E KNOW THAT ONE ALREADY
“Ah. Yes, OK.” He coughs. “Well, it goes on: 'The stars once were good, and great Cthulhu and his brood had their mark on the world; but the stars changed, and they could not live. Dead, dreaming; that is not dead which may eternal lie. When the stars align once more, then shall he come to a waking dream, and then shall his servants open wide the tomb-door, and Cthulhu, great High Priest of the Old Ones, shall rise to reclaim what is his.'”
There is a long silence.
“Dreams,” you say slowly. “Dreams, always dreams... at least this Cthulhu isn't awake yet.”
,” agrees Jasmine. “W
THULHU TO WAKE, NONE OF US WOULD SURVIVE
F EVERY CREATURE IN THE WORLD SIMULTANEOUSLY TURNED ON HIM – EVEN THEN, HE WOULD DESTROY THEM ALL AS CASUALLY AS YOU WOULD SWAT A FLY
“But obviously the stars
aligned,” says Elm. “Which means that these dreams...”
“The waking dream of Cthulhu,” you say. “I don't know. Perhaps that's what he's dreaming of. The Deep Ones, come to open his temple and unleash him.”
HEY OBVIOUSLY HAVEN'T DONE IT
,” observes Jasmine. “H
E HASN'T WOKEN
ND IT HAS BEEN YEARS SINCE THIS STARTED...
“You're right,” you agree. “Something must be preventing them from opening it. But the dreams... the dreams, and the time-stop, and the
...” You scratch your head. “There's something here, I know it,” you sigh. “I can feel it.”
But what is
, exactly? You have all the clues now, you realise, all the pieces of the puzzle – but how do they fit together? What is the Dreaming, and why is it happening?
The infection spreads. Elm is Mildly Inconvenienced.
Debate is encouraged here. Please feel free to take as much time as you need.
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My Trip to the End of Time, by Pearl Gideon
A Smell of Petroleum Pervades Throughout
For information about A Grand Day Out, a bizarre short story in video game form, click
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