[ Ficlet // Dreams of Passing ]
let snow and silence mark the site of my unseemly appetite
Nyarlathotep traces the roughshod paths, its form flowing over each rock strewn across the riverbed as if it were ink slowly spilt on papyrus, thick and oily and overflowing. Its belly held low to the earth, the Elder Thing flits and flutters from empty space to empty space, sharp teeth glinting in the the harsh slats of sunlight that find their way through to the ground, its mind racing; running in every direction that it can.
The hunt is tiring.
In the winter months, the ancient world is a silent place full of poignant, pregnant moments and strange, alien stillness. It is this, and the order of things -- the snow falling, gently, coating the earth in a shimmering blanket of ivory, making the world seem naturally unnaturally plain -- that makes Nyarlathotep weak, that steals its breath and makes it need.
/ The snow is falling... / Cthuluhu whispers, deep in its slumbers, mouth yawning like the span of the horizon swallowing the sun into its deep, dank depths / The snow is falling, young Godling, and you have yet no where to satiate your now, in the time where the world sleeps between seasons... /
Nyarlathotep's answer is a thing like metal cracking from rust, like old tombs being opened on windswept red planets and screams etched into the dust. / We shall see, Old One, we shall see. / it croons, multiple mouths chattering, whispering, pleading all at once, a symphony of nothing and something else entirely.
/ Of course... / the Great Priest of Nothing acquieses, its mind turning away from Nyarlathotep as much as any chasm could from the rest of the world. / Who but you could survive in a world grown cold and dead from wanting... /
The worlds haunt the Crawling Chaos; make it think of things it should not, in the molten core of its psyche, where rationalization and fear press together in languid, gravimetric whorls.
/ I am Nyarlathotep /
And Cthulhu agrees. / So you are, and have been, forevermore... /