OC!CANON CHARACTER APPLICATION | NYARLATHOTEP, THE CRAWLING CHAOS | THE CTHULHU MYTHOS
“Is this all of it?” the darker man asks, his tone decidedly flat.
“Yessir.”
“All of it?” he repeats.
The lighter-skinned man nods. “Yes.”
The darker man’s equally dark eyes peer out from behind thin, rimless glasses. The lighter man swallows, and there is silence.
The outdoor café they are attending is, decidedly, a drab little collection of has-beens and used-to-bes, its walls almost caked with the weary age of the place like a collection of scars upon an unruly slave’s back. Down-and-out authors, poets, and playwrights crowd the better tables, far removed from the locals who view the café as only a place of commerce, and not a symbol for something more.
Nyarlathotep drinks in the scenery as if it were ambrosia. The fact that all around him, the future Greats share tables and stories with the beatniks of Today who couldn’t give half a scarabs’s ass about where or when they got their next paycheck, is so amusing. Humans built themselves up to be such great things, each of them holding their individuality higher than that of their peers, but most of them never really saw themselves for what they were. Each of them wants something more than what they are, than what they will be in their futures, and Nyarlathotep --
“So, Mr. Thoth…” the lighter-skinned man begins, his eyes searching. “What’s wrong with my manuscript?”
--yes, he gives it to some of them, at times --
“Nothing that any real man of science could fault you for,” the Elder God answers, adjusting his glasses for a moment. “…But.”
-- But, to most, he simply nods where he should, and watches. It is what he has done from the beginning of time, and what he will do until its end. The underlying strength of hope in the hearts of men is like the feather-soft touch of a well-trained harem girl’s lips, sweet and gratifying for a moment that no man ever wants to end.
“…But?”
“I am not a man of science.” the Gate of Gates states as he slowly tosses the rest of manuscript across the table. “Your characters are flat and their dialogue is cumbersome and nigh-painful to read through. Your plot is mechanical in execution, and the little “twist” of your character traveling to the beginning of time to right all that’s transpired? Horribly clichéd.”
--Up until he takes it away, that is. The greatest thrill of his being is, after all, the breaking of order.
The light-skinned man blinks. “…Y-you’re joking, right?”
The Elder God smirks beneath his calm façade. He has seen over a hundred thousand planets fall to chaos in over a hundred thousand galaxies over a thousand different ways, but this…the slow realization of hope being taken away never changes, and he will never stop savoring it. There was always beauty in the breakdown.
“Do I joke?”
The lighter man’s face shows surprise by degrees, and Nyarlathotep takes in every single piece of minutia that catches his eye.
“Can I fix it before the deadline?
The man’s pulse is rising. Nyarlathotep can almost taste the mortal’s anger in his throat; can almost picture the soft hum of his peaceful existence coming to life, and he wants to close his jaws around the other man’s neck just so that he can feel it between his teeth as it’s extinguished. That energy; that need to be perfect - he wants to destroy it. He needs to.
“No.”
The man runs a hand through his hair. Nyarlathotep say nothing, because he knows that is the response that will give him the reaction that he is looking for.
“What if I rewrote the stuff that you didn’t like? I’m sure that we can--”
“No,” he repeats, still smiling.
“But--”
“No.”
The other man pounds his fist on to table. “You’re being unreasonable!”
Again, Nyarlathotep smiles. Humans were so simple to toy with.
“I am allowed to be whatever I chose to be.”
The way they claw for acceptance, reaching, reaching, reaching for some answer to make things all right, to restore peace to their chaotic existences…Nyarlathotep need only cultivate that small spark, need only speak the right words or deny the right fantasy to have them dance at his fingertips, and this man is no different. He will break, and he break soon, and it all would have taken is a few measly words.
After a moment of long, pregnant silence, the man asks “What can I do, then…?”
The Elder God’s chuckles.
“Do you really want to know?”
The other man throws his hands up into the air. “Yes!”
“Very well.”
And so, Nyarlathotep tells a tale of how there was only a single spark of life at the beginning of it all. He explains how this single fragile spark was so pure that it illuminated the entire universe, and that it only existed because people willed it so. The Elder God talks of times of peace, and of times where order reigned and the universe was truly at one with itself simply because the light existed.
The other man, quite obviously, is confused with this.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The Elder God shrugs.
“Nothing, actually.”
Two days to the month afterwards, the man die. His final words curse a light he neither knew nor perceived, and somewhere, in the darkness of space, Nyarlathotep laughs.
JOURNAL SAMPLE:
[ Written in a flowing, cursive script ]
Between the stars,
Where sunlight dies,
There exist,
Empty spaces
Journal,
Today a man walked up to me and said that his family was starving. He said, and I quote: "Could you please spare a few dollars to give us the chance to eat something before the Winter takes us?"
I, obviously doing my best to look mortified, tried my best to not look at what seemed to be a whole in the roof of his mouth, and instead chose to turn my nose up at him and continue walking. The next day, however, he cornered me again, forcing me to repeat the process; in fact, we were forced to play out the same exact farce for a week straight until I finally broke down and helped the poor drug addicts.
Tenacity is a beautiful thing, I suppose.
This day, I rolled my eyes instead of walking away dismissively, took his shoulder in my hand, squeezed once, and taught him how to skin a dog and cure its meat, instead.
He seemed happy to receive the information.
If you teach a man to build a fire, after all.
NOTES:
Canon Sources
The Original Short Story, Nyarlathotep [ * ]
The Original Short Story, The Dreams In The Witch House [ * ]
Wikipedia Articles Pertaining to Nyarlathotep, the Outer Gods, and etc [ * ] [ * ] [ * ]
Ability Information, as taken from the Call of Cthulhu D20 Tabletop RPG [ * ] [ * ] [ * ]
Physical description: Yes, I picked Mos Def as his PB. | His actual “Outer God” form
“Yessir.”
“All of it?” he repeats.
The lighter-skinned man nods. “Yes.”
The darker man’s equally dark eyes peer out from behind thin, rimless glasses. The lighter man swallows, and there is silence.
The outdoor café they are attending is, decidedly, a drab little collection of has-beens and used-to-bes, its walls almost caked with the weary age of the place like a collection of scars upon an unruly slave’s back. Down-and-out authors, poets, and playwrights crowd the better tables, far removed from the locals who view the café as only a place of commerce, and not a symbol for something more.
Nyarlathotep drinks in the scenery as if it were ambrosia. The fact that all around him, the future Greats share tables and stories with the beatniks of Today who couldn’t give half a scarabs’s ass about where or when they got their next paycheck, is so amusing. Humans built themselves up to be such great things, each of them holding their individuality higher than that of their peers, but most of them never really saw themselves for what they were. Each of them wants something more than what they are, than what they will be in their futures, and Nyarlathotep --
“So, Mr. Thoth…” the lighter-skinned man begins, his eyes searching. “What’s wrong with my manuscript?”
--yes, he gives it to some of them, at times --
“Nothing that any real man of science could fault you for,” the Elder God answers, adjusting his glasses for a moment. “…But.”
-- But, to most, he simply nods where he should, and watches. It is what he has done from the beginning of time, and what he will do until its end. The underlying strength of hope in the hearts of men is like the feather-soft touch of a well-trained harem girl’s lips, sweet and gratifying for a moment that no man ever wants to end.
“…But?”
“I am not a man of science.” the Gate of Gates states as he slowly tosses the rest of manuscript across the table. “Your characters are flat and their dialogue is cumbersome and nigh-painful to read through. Your plot is mechanical in execution, and the little “twist” of your character traveling to the beginning of time to right all that’s transpired? Horribly clichéd.”
--Up until he takes it away, that is. The greatest thrill of his being is, after all, the breaking of order.
The light-skinned man blinks. “…Y-you’re joking, right?”
The Elder God smirks beneath his calm façade. He has seen over a hundred thousand planets fall to chaos in over a hundred thousand galaxies over a thousand different ways, but this…the slow realization of hope being taken away never changes, and he will never stop savoring it. There was always beauty in the breakdown.
“Do I joke?”
The lighter man’s face shows surprise by degrees, and Nyarlathotep takes in every single piece of minutia that catches his eye.
“Can I fix it before the deadline?
The man’s pulse is rising. Nyarlathotep can almost taste the mortal’s anger in his throat; can almost picture the soft hum of his peaceful existence coming to life, and he wants to close his jaws around the other man’s neck just so that he can feel it between his teeth as it’s extinguished. That energy; that need to be perfect - he wants to destroy it. He needs to.
“No.”
The man runs a hand through his hair. Nyarlathotep say nothing, because he knows that is the response that will give him the reaction that he is looking for.
“What if I rewrote the stuff that you didn’t like? I’m sure that we can--”
“No,” he repeats, still smiling.
“But--”
“No.”
The other man pounds his fist on to table. “You’re being unreasonable!”
Again, Nyarlathotep smiles. Humans were so simple to toy with.
“I am allowed to be whatever I chose to be.”
The way they claw for acceptance, reaching, reaching, reaching for some answer to make things all right, to restore peace to their chaotic existences…Nyarlathotep need only cultivate that small spark, need only speak the right words or deny the right fantasy to have them dance at his fingertips, and this man is no different. He will break, and he break soon, and it all would have taken is a few measly words.
After a moment of long, pregnant silence, the man asks “What can I do, then…?”
The Elder God’s chuckles.
“Do you really want to know?”
The other man throws his hands up into the air. “Yes!”
“Very well.”
And so, Nyarlathotep tells a tale of how there was only a single spark of life at the beginning of it all. He explains how this single fragile spark was so pure that it illuminated the entire universe, and that it only existed because people willed it so. The Elder God talks of times of peace, and of times where order reigned and the universe was truly at one with itself simply because the light existed.
The other man, quite obviously, is confused with this.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The Elder God shrugs.
“Nothing, actually.”
Two days to the month afterwards, the man die. His final words curse a light he neither knew nor perceived, and somewhere, in the darkness of space, Nyarlathotep laughs.
JOURNAL SAMPLE:
[ Written in a flowing, cursive script ]
Between the stars,
Where sunlight dies,
There exist,
Empty spaces
Journal,
Today a man walked up to me and said that his family was starving. He said, and I quote: "Could you please spare a few dollars to give us the chance to eat something before the Winter takes us?"
I, obviously doing my best to look mortified, tried my best to not look at what seemed to be a whole in the roof of his mouth, and instead chose to turn my nose up at him and continue walking. The next day, however, he cornered me again, forcing me to repeat the process; in fact, we were forced to play out the same exact farce for a week straight until I finally broke down and helped the poor drug addicts.
Tenacity is a beautiful thing, I suppose.
This day, I rolled my eyes instead of walking away dismissively, took his shoulder in my hand, squeezed once, and taught him how to skin a dog and cure its meat, instead.
He seemed happy to receive the information.
If you teach a man to build a fire, after all.
NOTES:
Canon Sources
The Original Short Story, Nyarlathotep [ * ]
The Original Short Story, The Dreams In The Witch House [ * ]
Wikipedia Articles Pertaining to Nyarlathotep, the Outer Gods, and etc [ * ] [ * ] [ * ]
Ability Information, as taken from the Call of Cthulhu D20 Tabletop RPG [ * ] [ * ] [ * ]
Physical description: Yes, I picked Mos Def as his PB. | His actual “Outer God” form
