Cthulhu fhtagn


March 15th, 1937
  “It’s true, my lord – Lovecraft is dead.”
  “How can this be?” Cthulu says, rising from his seat formidably, a quiver in his tentacles betraying his words. He knew all to well. He had felt it the exact moment it happened, some distant pain, like a knife through under-anesthetized skin. His friend was gone. The silence persisted until Cthulu spoke again.
  “Assemble an audience with the senators of Vhoorl,” he said quietly, “arrangements are to be made.” The youth scurried from the room as Cthulu delicately stroked the mass of feelers at his mouth. “So many arrangements.”


~ by Joseph Blame on April 5, 2011.

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