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| Into the Mists | |
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| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 293649 |
Into the Mists is a Sunless Skies Story Event.
Story description[]
It is time.
Trigger conditions[]
Area: Limbo
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions[]
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
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| Behold the Fluke
Through the tendrilling Mists, a Scorn Fluke regards your approach, a cyclopean presence over-encumbered with spare corneas.
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Something is very wrong with this Scorn Fluke.
For one, it possesses an eye, red-veined as though it had spent eons in ceaseless lamentation. The Scorn Fluke, its species usually possessed by a jagged geometry, looks diseased, its body warped and weeping with cancers, cysts of unnatural dimensions. Aberration that it might be, the Scorn Fluke remains a primordial revelation, ancient and so steeped in anguish that the air itself twists in commiseration. This isn't pain as mortals might know it, but something almost holy in its vastness, an entire cosmology of suffering contorted into a being. |
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| Soothe the Scorn Fluke, silence its grief
You weep in sympathy. How could you not? Nothing in the High Wilderness could ever be lonelier than the Scorn Fluke.
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You stretch a hand toward the nearest spine. It trembles at the contact, the oil-black calcite rippling. Suddenly, it is more tar than gleaming obsidian, viscous, ravenous for the warmth that lies embedded in your cells. Rills of black matter spread and grow, tugging at your arm, and almost you can hear it: the Scorn Fluke's loathing. Its need to be something, anything but what it is.
Just as abruptly, it releases you. There is only the echo of its despair.
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Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
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| Complete the cult's ritual
The Parson gave you the bell for a reason. It's time to serve a purpose.
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You ring the bell. It sounds like nothing, like the absence of music, like the glissade of breath before a soprano raises her voice to sing. It sounds nothing like that.
And then, all at once, the Scorn Fluke is pressed close, skin's width away. It is a diseased thing, pustulant and lacking in geometry, cysts and cancers and an ache like a heartbreak that has had eternity to turn septic. A tendril of black ichor extends to stroke your face. It is all you remember before suddenly, you are at the surface again.
In the End
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| Return to the surface
The Scorn Fluke keens and the noise crawls under your skin, an anguish older than even the idea of pain itself.
Sod this. You've had enough. |
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You brings your arms down hard. Suddenly, your body is rocketing up through the Mists. Before long, you're in the cold, drowning air. A quartet of cultists stand at the shore. Two of them are middle-aged and slightly plump, the third acne-riddled, and the fourth is nothing but a wreath of green tentacles.
"Did you succeed?" When you shake your head, they shrug in good-natured unison.
The Church of They Who Must Grieve
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Game note: You will be able to return, but you will have to go through the descent again.
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Links[]
Links In[]
Links Out[]
In the End, The Church of They Who Must Grieve
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