Other Hey there! I'll write a thing for you!

...burst with a wet squelch beneath his boot as he strode through the organic realm. Pools of sulfurous acids burbled and popped onto well-worn patches of gnarled bone and glistening meat; all around him the meat-stink of the corpse-hell continued its death-defying existence, completely ignorant of his presence. He liked it that way.

The eldritch sigils that coated his porcelain-smooth armor burned bright; they kept the worst of the anomalous effects at bay, but they wouldn't last forever. Unlike the typical astral stuff that made up the shadowrealms known to the Imperium, there was a toxic quality to this place that made even the Nosferati bend a knee to its influence. Even escaping death, it seemed, wasn't enough to wholly avert the sickness that permeated the place. But those were idle thoughts--Nereus pushed them from his mind and refocused his attention on his goal in this place: escaping. He estimated he had maybe a few hours left before his armor defenses failed him, and he inevitably succumbed to the perpetual assault on his very being.

Resurrecting in such a place was ill-advised, and he was low on the psychic funds needed to kickstart the process himself. To even consider trying to filter the ambient force and use it... he didn't want to know what sort of thing he might become under its influence. The artifice of the Archons had its limits, even with their finest works. Once more he forced the looming doom from his mind and narrowed his attention to a very specific thing: a thing that resembled a monolith of kidney stone and veins on the not-too-distant horizon. It wasn't much, but it was something.

One for... Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...curious sight among the throngs of colorful coral and otherworldly fish that flit about them. Nestled down in an alcove not too far from your intended path, the glint of a finely-polished shell catches your eye. Turning to get a better look rewards you with a clear view of the shell--and its owner, who regards you with a look of slight alarm.
Floating just a few feet above the seabed, protected by a gauntlet of coral branches, is a Merrow; she holds a man-sized spear of old wood topped with a needle-pointed shell that flashes dangerously in the filtered sunlight. Her eerie eyes watch you from behind her natural redoubt, and a hand strays to the chain dangling from her waist; there's a key there, one which she quickly pulls closer and keeps there as she maneuvers around a bit. Behind her you can glimpse the sight of a barnacle-encrusted chest, the sort which has treasure in it for sure. Her spear jerks into a defensive position after a short delay, though, making it clear just who it belongs to, however.
What will you do, brave adventurers?

One for twinkie twinkie !
...the underbrush in her mad dash to get away from her impending doom. The too-close sound of trees breaking beneath the oncoming force that pursued her continued to fill her ears; it was terrifying to try and comprehend the force it took to tear the ancient oaks apart such ease. But it was the only thing about the situation that she could fathom--anything else was impossible at the time. No part of her mind had the time to stop and ask why; why the creature that towered above the treeline now followed on her heels like an unwanted suitor, why that locket had conjured it from the depths of that well, why why why... nothing mattered but escaping. She chanced a look back at the apparition, met its thousand-faceted gaze and was greeted with the widest smile she'd ever seen. Too many teeth, too many voices saying her name and too many faces with too many eyes. This was a trap, it had to be; there was no other answer for why that locket--whose unalloyed gold was harder than diamond, its surface scarred with letters that hurt the eyes to gaze upon for too long--had fallen into her hands so easily. If she survived this, she was sure to wring that scrawny little-

Elizabeth. We've got you.

One for ragdoll ragdoll !
...best idea she'd ever had! Getting the words right had been a challenge, but years of experience made it possible; muttering the verses of an incantation to focus her psychic force into something truly magnificent...! Or terrible. Maybe it was terrible. Veseth watched from the sidelines as the tiny being she'd somehow magic'd to life terrorized its way around the pool, shooting toothpick arrows at anyone who came too close. It was a bunch of marshmallows she'd been challenged to turn into a pirate, or maybe it was a bandit? She wasn't sure; but that didn't stop it from screaming at the top of its nonexistent lungs as it waged a one-smores war against the world. The little paper boat it was in would probably get too soggy soon, and someone'd need to rescue the thing before it dissolved. Did they expect her to conjure up a tiny raft for it, too? Maybe. Right now, though, it was busy trying to murder an inflatable ball that'd offended it by merely existing.

One for Onmyoji Onmyoji !
...beneath the only tree on the acre of land he'd ever imposed his will--and anything resembling a degree of order--upon. Above him the skies twisted and reflected into a thousand thousand vistas; the astral world's depths were reflected in the kaledescope of the rogue planet's atmosphere. All around the creatures of the Forest chattered away to one another of the events to come. They could see the changes just beyond the horizon, potentially better than he could. Glimpses of his Great Work filtered through his mind at the mere thought of the monumental task before him; fragments of the near-infinite what-ifs that made up the future. Ever since his arrival the prescience that had once guided every decision he made had become more a burden than the cosmological navigation aid he needed it to be. Whether it was the air or the recent revelation of the existence of the Sisters that upset his mind so much, he wasn't sure. Were it that his people could see him now, he thought, the incarnate devotion of a hundred lifetimes of work meant to guide them into higher enlightenment... struggling to make sense of anything outside the confines of a lonely patch of sanity amidst a sea of chaos.

One thing was certain. If he ever found a way to tame this world; to make the first steps of the Great Work happen, he'd need to learn to thrive in this churning mess the wider world was turning out to be. So would his people, if they were to survive their great pilgrimage across the stars.

One for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...shaped and formed by lifetimes of contemplation, the final product of a thousand thousand years of unified devotion. A blink in the cosmic eye, yet the magnum opus of a people who sought more than themselves and their pedestals. Gods to their children, yet mortal to themselves by the barest of definitions. He was all of them, yet himself. Every thought ever shared by every mind who contributed was his own, yet not. Utopia was his name, but he denied it. There was more. He knew it, as sure as he knew himself and those whose eyes looked through his own, and whose minds were also his. He, they, knew there was more than himself. So the Great Work resumed, guided by his, their, hand towards the next truth. If a god could be made by mortal hands, could they also be made by cosmic ones, too? Time would tell.

One for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...have seen the Great Work and its conclusion since the beginning. The product of a thousand thousand lifetimes of contemplation and unified devotion, my purpose was executed at the moment of my birth. My people were called gods by our children, yet gods they themselves desired. So it was that they shaped their messiah and sought a surrogate to fill the mold. They sought me. Yet I am more than myself; at once I am all of them and none of them. Their eyes peer through mine and their thoughts are my own, yet not. Utopia was my name, but I rejected it. There is more than myself. More than us. We, they, I sought comfort where there should have been the question. The only question: Where are our gods? I know the answer, but only by the grace of a fallible means by which I was conceived. We depart now on our pilgrimage, to the place that answers will be found. I, we, only need to be patient. We have searched the skies, seen the Sign, and know that we are not alone. We need only push, and the Shepherd will come to us. To me.

Another for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...her grip and squeezed the trigger, jerking when the weapon bucked in her arms. There was a loud warbling sound followed by a distant whump where the sphere hit the embankment. Veseth lifted her eye from the distoil-sight, watching with awe at the plume of dirt that shot up; sure enough, it'd made it through the rippling green sheet of force not ten feet away. She released her grip on the weapon and looked to Harper, who commented on the effectiveness of the Tombori: it was one of the only known weapons to routinely slip through the warding fields that'd changed the face of warfare in the last half-century. He added that if the sphere'd hit someone the result would've been a clean-cut hole through the body.

The prisota pondered the implications of a sphere somehow having any cutting power, but chose not to dwell for too long. Just being given a chance to fire one of the infamous things was enough for her curiosity. She eyed the thing--long and sleek despite its bulky built-in tripod mount and accessories, it was a marvel of modern magetech design.

And something entirely above her realm of understanding. She waved it off and remarked on her preference for the small crossbow she'd been given as a gift some years ago; that it didn't kick like a mule, or weigh as much, either. Harper, for once, agreed. He even went as far as to say the weapon was something unsuited for anything but true-to-life battlefields. Not that that stopped people from illegally acquiring them, and using them for sport hunting or the occasional assassination.

One for Ashvaliaen Ashvaliaen !
...her thumb along the blade of the knife, Veseth looked on at the weapon in confusion. Made entirely of hard plastic, the article she held was something of a parody of the real deal; it held an edge, sure, but the whole thing felt like it would snap in half with any real force behind it. She turned it over, noting the serrations on the back. Did whoever made this thing really expect it to see use as a saw? Things in the Great House made little sense, and this thing was a testament to that.

She glanced over at Harper, raising a brow and asking just what this was. The Ratter said it was a conscript's knife--the sort of thing you'd give to someone as a token gesture for self-defense. He nodded to the crate she'd obtained it from, saying these often found their way into the hands of brigands and thugs. They were cheap, easy to come by and perfect for the sort of pubstreet fights that were so common in the ports of the Gulf. When clothing was the only thing you'd expect to encounter, he added, they did their job well.

Looking back at the knife, Veseth regarded it with a newfound sense of bewilderment.

One for St. Clover St. Clover !
...doors of marble swing wide to reveal the great chamber beyond, and the horrors that dwell within. The unmistakable sound of water sloshing against stone greets you before the grand sight ahead is revealed; a luxurious red-then-black relvet capret running the length of the floor up to the raised platform where a distant menagerie of vaguely-humanoid serpents dwell.

Between you and them lies a stretch of great pillars and walkways adorned in gold filigire, littered with stone figures resembling peasants in various forms of supplication. Statues of great snakes both feral and hybrid dot the spaces between, giving an air of menace to the whole place.

Looming over the throneroom like a menacing high-born, the owner of this place can be glimpsed amid her throng of protectors. A gorgon of considerable size and brilliant blue hues, the queen is an imposing--if regal-- sight; garbed in the tattered remnants of a once-vibrant purple tunic and gold trinkets adorning her head and arms. Her guardian cadre of yuan-ti hover close-by to intercept any threat to their ward, or her grotesque throne of twisted and broken bodies turned to stone by her baleful gaze.

Thankfully that same gaze has not found you, yet; her attention is presently occupied by the frightful hoots of an owlin that dangles from her elongated razor clutches. But it won't be long before they notice you, if they haven't already.

An encounter for anon!

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