quinnred:quinnred: "Anger, frusturation, all twisted and molded into a human knot. Muscle and s

quinnred:quinnred: "Anger, frusturation, all twisted and molded into a human knot. Muscle and sinew warp, bloat and strangle eachother under elephantine skin. A head crooked and split into a pair of mandables, arms conjoined and melted into a claw, legs reduced to tree stumps.This is the Galled. It will crush, it will pummel, it will stomp and grind all it sees, all it feels and smells. It’s own body is bruised, callused and disembowled from it’s own attempts to destroy itself. No fire will stop it, takes to long to burn. Not enough bullets around to shred, none strong enough to chop those limbs. Easier to distract Galled, block its path.Only the obscured are safe.“ “Were they dogs? Were they man? I cant remember. The Seekers are Seekers now. They feel your steps and hear your breaths and see your heart waver.They look skinny, mangey hairless and putrid yellow.I want to forget that head. That wrinkled hood hiding that poreceline grub. They see with that, feel around the corners, taste the puddles and prints.Its best to stay out of their territory, you cant hide from em easy. Cant out run the lithe things. Chop off the grub, pummel the body. Best you can do if the chance is given.“ “These sad things plant themselves all over the place, especially warm cozy places. Their moans and weeping invite pity, but such sympathy must be rejected, for they cling to whatever comforts their shivering hands can grasp. Generous victims are torn apart by the desperate horde, meaty flowers opening to reveal a tender head, ready to nuzzle the viscera. Some of these remains are stuffed into their exposed rib cage, like a teddy bear in a picnic basket.”“Tall ones, strolling through the water, carrying nets of chain and spears of girder. Their guts hang stringy, stretching with victims they have swallowed. Their face grows in front of their maw, like a hood, with coos and moans echoing from within. The horn is sensitive to something, something of their prey. Maybe sound, maybe smell, or something else, but it makes it hard to hide from them.Avoid the lake, for the Wailers are glutton for fools." "She is blubber and lip, in a smothering of moisture. She seeks, with those innocent blue eyes and vivid clubs one might recognise as hands and feet, for something to nurture, to love unconditionally.She does not know that the violence she causes, the brutality, the violation.Those that come to her, caught by pheromone and coo, or those she comes too, meet a horrendous demise.An embrace with layers of extending, suffocating lips engulfing their face, and thick limbs crushing bone and organ into pulpy soup. Such victims decorate her nest, not as prize but as nostalgia." "It roams the remnants of happy places, large hands playfully interacting with forgotten playgrounds and abandoned toys. It’s grounds are used and damaged, no sense of organization, just scattered play things. The Frolic loves to have fun, but it does not know a limit. It’s territory is marked by corpses of those who were either caught unaware, or grew too sympathetic for it’s childlike behavior. Running is verily an option. It scrambles faster than any man can sprint, limbs moving more like a spider than the monkey it resembles, and the man it once was.Distract it with colourful bauble , and you may be able to pass through. But keep watch, Hide and Seek is amongst the Frolic’s favorite games.” “They have no foot steps, no breath, no sound known to the human ear. They are cloaked in wing, bone, ans sinew. The head reminds me of a bird, but blind and unflesh. The body, like a cadaver picked clean and pale chitin filling the void, a pair of arms sprouting from above the waist. Those arms branch into seven fingers, four thumbs to the sides, three at the end. Their legs are supported by hooves. Less like a horse, more like a insect’s small concentrated feet.One can only see this interior once they open their wings, unveil the flesh cloak.Many Chernonese call them Teko Celovek. Most simply call them The Silent.They are a remnant of pre-terraformed Cherno, something thought myth and illusion, now a haunt. They do not seek us for prey, for vengeance, or qualms we find familiar.No, they need us for something we took away from them, something dear.These gliders of storms, figures of shadow, these Silent.They need wombs.” "Sometimes the mud here gurgles. Something bulges from it, then many things, appearing almost like sleeping infantile faces. A trio of hollow pores face those that disturb them, as this pale bloated orb rises by sinew support. Almost like an inflating balloon, the whole body rises in boneless meaty mass, and silently vibrates. The pores sing aloud, a song that sounds as if these orifices were not designed for it. These are the Candlesticks, useless and futile creatures, only able to sprout like grass and respond to all stimulation in fear. They are harmless, but best avoided, as their wails can gather fellow abominations. You can kill em if you wish, but they’ll just grow back, or branch into more dreaded sprouts, better tah ignore em. Yah know, sometimes you’ll see something in those pores. Something like little pearls and tongues, staring out, yearning for something.” -- source link

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