"Oh, wicked. I don't think I've met your John yet. See you in a bit, then. I'll tell the girls to hold down the fort."
And so he does. He lets his two apprentices, Gwen Stacy and Helena Adams, know he's out on a "quest" and that he'll give them a nice little bonus for managing in his absence, and treks on out to the lighthouse, bag in tow. Lighter, cigarettes, notebook, pen, knife. Peachy.
Arthur is less well armed, but he still has a satchel with some useful stationery and the blessed kitchen knife in his pocket; mostly he's armed with John, and when the two of them are next to each other the contrast of Arthur’s gaunt features is particularly striking.
And he lifts a hand and waves to Gerry as they make their way up the hill.
"Gerry." He sounds a little out of breath, but he smiles still. "Meet John Doe, my partner from back home. John-" He gestures at Gerry. "Gerard Keay. He's been getting me up to date."
John does not look like an eldritch monstrosity at the moment, mostly because when it comes to dealing with eldritch entities as a problem being too up front about your own nature seems like a bad idea, especially with friend-of-friends.
That's why the large, burly man beside Arthur whose bodylanguage screams 'bodyguard' (mostly because it's actually 'entwined at the soul' but he doesn't want it to look weird) holds up a hand. The jig is to some degree up, however, when he speaks.
Still hasn't gotten that voice part down entirely. It's still a bit preternaturally flat and reverberates oddly.
Notably, Gerry doesn't look surprised literally at all. The man doesn't even fucking blink. He just shakes John's hand.
For one, he's more than a little used to things that look human but aren't. He's spent his entire natural life talking to flesh monsters bent into human shapes but full of bones that aren't theirs, plastic clowns with human skin stretched over their ball-jointed bodies, wolf men who grew hair on the inside of their bodies instead of the outside, and corpses being puppeted by anything ranging from a gaggle of spiders to haunted dirt. And for another, Gerry can see right through John's disguise. His steel grey eyes have a greenish sheen to them in certain lights, and he can see the yellow threads that bind John to something larger and more sinister than himself--- and to Arthur.
"Cheers," he agrees easily, meeting John's hand with a thoroughly tattooed one. "So! Shall we go meet Dr. Coldwood's little interdimensional science project?"
"Brilliant." At least for the moment they're getting along, which means he'll take the lead towards the lighthouse.
It's always fucking basements.
"So, do we have any idea of what sort of creature he was working with, based on the rumours alone?" he asks. "Or is that something we should be expecting to discover?" Or possibly pounce them.
"I don't suppose you've found the beastiary since you've been here?" he asks quietly, because well... it would certainly be helpful. Give them some sort of clue. And either he has it and it'll get pulled out or he doesn't and it's a moot point. Anyway.
"I've only heard a bit. Some people I know were involved in discovering it. Like I said, notes about building a god or something."
He turns to wave them in. "Apparently, it's harmless for now. But stay frosty."
Gerry powers on ahead to the temporarily abandoned lighthouse, letting himself in. "Do we want to go see the thing first or do we want to go upstairs and tamper with evidence?"
Arthur snorts. "Let's tamper with evidence. Just because we've got ties to Valdis's new supernatural task force, doesn't mean we should push our luck by stealing evidence from the police later. Not when its already sitting here waiting for us."
Off Gerry goes upstairs, beginning to rummage through Elias Coldwood's things with reckless abandon. He finds a trunk with a combination lock, which he somehow opens with the code, as if he has it memorized. But when it seems to contain only sentimental things, he closes and relocks it. "Mm, that's a hope chest, I think. You two find anything?"
[ OOC hint: there's journals on top of the desk, I'll work with Harvey to determine what's in them when we get there <3 ]
"Don't hope chests usually have secret compartments?" he asks thoughtfully. He's already distracted scouring the visible walls and floor for any scuffs or odd discolouration: the last lighthouse had one, after all, he doesn't doubt this place is above it all. "John, you check the desk, tell me what you find."
Because he's heading for a thin closet himself, checking its position against the wall before he ransacks it too.
...or not. Okay. Check the desk. ...be annoyed if Valdis gets pissed at them for doing this without her. Check.
He'll go to the desk and start looking it over, trying to see if anything looks out of place. Thinking about what Arthur said about compartments, he tests the back and bottom of the drawers and parts of the desk as he searches through it to see if he can find anything tucked somewhere or something that shifts.
As John is checking the desk for secret compartments, it shifts the stack of unlabeled journals atop it. There's a shelf, you see, that sits over the desk for storing tools and writing implements and books in easy reach. And John's shuffling is enough to unbalance the stack on the edge of the very top shelf.
The knife is gone, as is the writing discovered by Shen Qingqiu and Valdis. They were taken in for evidence, contrary to Gerry's prior understanding. But the two of them had missed something in that stack of books. It's so innocuous-looking, honestly. So easy to miss. But when the book topples, it falls open as it hits the floor with a slap.
And inside, there are notes, written in two hands.
Aug. 30, 16:47 - Two month Update
So far, all is going according to plan. The seed extracted from the portal is working exactly as intended. If our timing is correct, then the "dimensional displacement event" we've been told to prepare for in the coming Autumn should be able to preserve the body of the Divine Host. I still don't know if the information we've gotten from Aster is actually any good, mind. And even if it is, I fear what will become of me once it is done. But we persevere. Throdogoth ph'nglui vulgtmor. We are more than what we are made of. We are the makers.
In any case, it's been helpful to have C record her thoughts during the process. If for no other reason than for posterity. Perhaps when we are "free of the shackles of sanity," as some of my former colleagues were keen to put it, we will be able to look back on the birth of one of the Mother's spawn as a moment of triumph. I will continue letting C write on her state during progress periodically, as part of the record-keeping process. Though I cannot promise they will remain coherent for much longer.
I am changing. I am becoming something. My hands are shaking all the time.
I thought this process would be faster. I don't know where I got the idea. When has any of this been quick?
I want to know what I am. What we are.
I'm hungry. I am just as much a mother as She is, I think. Sometimes. Is that heresy? Is it hubris? Perhaps it's a bit late to be worried about such things now.
He wants me to write about what is happening to us. I will do so. I will
try.
The last thing I remember that feels real was swallowing the seed. Feeling it snag in my throat and take root there. Tendrils, thin and pallid, like a true seedling, and I, her soil. Since then, the roots have grown into all of me. Dark tendrils break the skin slowly like splitting through the spring ground. Is this how Serranai feels? Will I become her when we kill her? Is that what we are?
I am blossoming. She is beautiful. I don't know what I am anymore.
Sept. 15 16:47 - Two and One-Half Month Update
Things are accelerating now. Ever since the Mother's spawn began to break free of C's body, things have been moving faster. I wonder if it's got something to do with the open air? The spilled blood? I fear that bi-weekly updates will no longer suffice, as C's ability to speak clearly has been fading. I am hoping to catch her during a moment of clarity for at least one more entry.
They call the Mother a "black goat". I never quite understood why, that isn't really what She looks like, aside from the ungulate eyes. And perhaps the hair texture. But I see it in the nascent godling, I think. The way her legs move, when she deigns to have them. The way her face looks, when it takes shape over C's. I think she is stabilizing now.
C's motor functions are slowing. So are her vitals. Day by day, there is less of her and more of her.
I fear that before this ends, I will no longer recall the significance of our great work. Just as C is becoming lost to the work, I do not believe much of me will remain after He is finished with me. But I am eager in my sacrifice nonetheless. I do not need to know why she is here to know that I love her.
We have started calling her Glory.
I am everywhere.
I spill out onto the wood of this floor, this pathetic facade of firmament. I roil, like a pot over flame. Waves of me rippling into nothing that could be recognized as human. Guts, bones, muscles, blood, all pulping.
I eat and I eat and I eat. I am so hungry. She keeps it all. I won't need it much longer.
I hear her now. Louder than I hear myself.
I am fading. I'm so scared. Elias, I'm scared. Elias, can you hear me? Ingmar? Can you hear me? Can you hear me? My voice, my voice, it's not my own, I can't hear myself I can't hear myself I can't hear myself why am I not making any noise I keep talking and talking and talking and I think the words I see the words I see them I see them I see them but they do not make a sound aside from this scratch scratch scratch scratch scratching scratching scratching scr
Someone is screaming now. I think it is me.
This is what I want. Glory. Glory!
Glory!
And oh I am glorious.
Sept 21, 16:47 - Urgent Update
Something happened. I'm not really sure what. I've moved the girls down to the basement, I think it is safer there, as I've come to understand that my "last day", as it were, is well on the horizon.
I think this is the last we will be able to hear from our host. I think the birth is happening in earnest. She won't stop screaming--- mostly in R'lyehian now. I don't think Glory speaks much Emeran. Unsurprising, but a shame nonetheless. She is getting so big now. What's left of C is... minimal. So much of her body has gone to feeding our creation.
Chloe, I'm so sorry. There is beauty in this agony--- I know you know that, even now. But still, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
May we capture the last of you, so that as much of you as possible may remain.
L' throdogoth! l' n'ghft! nilgh'ri vulgtmah l' ah Nyarlathotep! nilgh'ri vulgtmah l' ah Shub-Niggurath! Y' ah mgepahazath, Y' ah mgepnah, Y' ah ah'mglw'nafh! Iä! Iä! Throdogoth fhtagn!
I am becoming.
Goodbye.
There are blood smears everywhere, and the journal seems to end there.
"...Well that looks exciting," Gerry remarks, getting up from where he's sitting to come have a gander. How did he not see it before, right when he walked in? All End and Flesh and Stranger and Vast? Was it really just that well-concealed?
John curses as he knocks over the stack of books, and he looks over to see what he'd dropped and how much of a mess it will be to pick it up, but the text on the open page immediately calls to him. He walks around to pick it up, lifting it and reading through the pages that seem to have pertinent information. The names-
Suffice to say that a long string of fuck fills up most of his mind as he reads through it.
"Shub-Niggurath," he says, looking over towards Arthur immediately. He'll offer the book to Gerry, considering. He's read it now, can share it with Arthur. He's the eyes, after all. "A-and dark young. It looks like that's what they were working on. Arthur- is this- how?"
Is this where Shub-Niggurath went when she was erased from their universe?
Arthur had glanced up at the noise, but left John to his own devices. Until he'd picked up the prickle in the air - familiarity of habit, nothing more - of John's anxiety, and he pauses his search to approach the desk too.
Because--
"What? That’s--" impossible, surely? "Fuck. But- wait, y-you've said - you and Kayne both said that gods don't exist in reality the same way as we do, maybe-" he runs a hand through his hair in a panicky little motion. "Maybe Shub Niggurath being destroyed didn't erase her progeny with her?"
Gerry quickly reads over the journal, reminded of--- any number of statements, honestly, feeling his stomach sink a bit.
"Well, that can't be good," he remarks casually, severely downplaying his own worry. Then--- record scratch, wait, rewind. "Hold on, you guys said you--- destroyed Shub-Niggurath? I mean, in the world I came from, Elder Gods are just stories that were all written by a guy who was a bit of a tit, but they're described as being--- you know, pretty serious threats. And very old. How did you do that?"
"We didn't do it. Another group did. We heard about it from-" and there's a glance over at Arthur but he swallows before he continues. The amount he is not comfortable about this is pretty extensive, "someone else. He calls himself 'Kayne'."
And he can't help but look around, extend his senses, listen for the sound of Gardetto's being crunched. Nothing?
Good.
"And we have... other evidence that says that he's telling the truth. There was a ritual that she, Shub-Niggurath, was supposed to show up at. She didn't, and it led to... a rather strange series of events. It's part of why we... met."
"I've already told Gerry that Kayne's a splinter of Nyarlathotep, in our world." Informing John of the story, reiterating the facts of the case.
But his hand stays there as he looks back at Gerry. "Our familiarity with these gods is from personal experience. But it was another group that destroyed Shub Niggurath, they- locked her inside mundane reality, something about a time loop destroying her. She shouldn't exist in any other possibility, but because- like you said, she was such a powerful being, there were still... aftershocks, stains left on reality. I suppose her children must have been able to escape slaughter through that."
"If there's one thing I've learned from all of this, it's not to rule out anything as impossible. Infinity is just too broad a scope for that. Even if that other group did manage to wipe out Shub-Niggurath entirely from every possible reality across an infinite number of multiverses, we have no idea how interdimensionality accounts for time. What happened could have technically been before that happened." He sighs, unable to think about anything other than how bloody enchanted his mother would be about all of this. It's a wonder she didn't attempt anything similar.
"Anyway, Chloe. We can probably assume he means Chloe Albright, one of the cultists." Gerry rubs his jaw roughly, pensive, wracking his brain for memories of his trip to the past to watch Nyarlathotep's ritual. "Dark-haired woman, angular features, big scar across her face from having a wine glass smashed against her forehead. Intense. She was high on the chain of command, seemed like. Functioned as the de facto leader in the absence of those above her. Led the ritual. Severe and coy, always seemed to know more than everyone else, but angry underneath that composure. Never seen anyone fully human go from complete calm to violent rage and back again so quickly. It's unnerving to see someone like her so unraveled."
He can't help but think of the man in the hotel, the cultist that they'd stolen their mask from. Arthur had never seen him, but John had. The man was a doctor, practiced medicine of all things, and yet he'd been willing to slit his own throat in service to...
Well.
Him.
He doubts that any of his patients would have believed it.
"It's also possible," John says slowly, "that Nyarlathotep is merely using the appearance of Shub-Niggurath to- to string people along. Repurpose followers dedicated to her for their own purposes." A small snort. "It's not like she'd be there to complain, after all."
He digs into his satchel and pulls out a notebook - both of the others might catch a flash of something pale and rounded in there, before the flap closes again - and starts making notes from Gerry's description.
"If the cult is dipping its toes into other gods' domains to try and secure more power," he comments, the concern obvious in his voice, "then we've got far bigger concerns than just Nyarlathotep. There might still be a Dark Young out there, if not in the basement of the lighthouse itself. If it gets into the cave system beneath the island..."
He sighs, snapping his notes shut. "We have no idea what it's capable of, if it retains any of the knowledge or powers of its former host. We don't know if there's anyone else out there with the knowledge or capacity to recreate this experiment. But I suppose it's as good a confirmation that one more of Nyarlathotep's cult is dead, and the lighthouse keeper..." He frowns, and looks back at Gerry. "Do we know if he had any relation to Chloe? Or was he part of the cult?"
"Good question. It doesn't seem like there was any actual relation. From what I overheard and what I talked about with others, Chloe seemed eager to throw her lot in with literally any Elder One if it meant she could earn some sort of... It's weird, it wasn't even power she seemed to be after, there was just this religious ecstasy to her that made it seem like she specifically wanted... Well, this." He gestures to the page. "A connection to the 'vile divine,' as they were calling it. The cult seemed to view madness as being a form of enlightenment."
Gerry lets out a sigh, scratching his head thoughtfully as he tries to put the pieces together from what he learned from the meeting, what he heard from the others after. The way Chloe had spoken to CT about being excited to have her mind and body unraveled. The way that Drelasa convinced Chloe that her own god, Dagoth-Ur, was also some sort of elder one, and how envious Chloe was of Drelasa's physical transformation into something Cthulhu-esque. To the point where Chloe was willing to abandon Nyarlathotep if following Dagoth-Ur could get her something like that.
And what of Elias? Gerry admittedly doesn't know him too well. The man is dodgy at best. But they are missing at least one cultist, if not two...
"It's possible that Coldwood is completely unconnected. Not particularly plausible, but not impossible. He's a... supernatural biologist, if I remember right, and he could have just been taking advantage of Albright's obsession. But this stuff here about 'I don't know how much of me will be left' and 'my last day'... It's sticking in my mind."
"Do we know if the gods or- even the demon family here have any particular... I don't know, territorial feelings, about their followers dealing in other gods?"
He tucks the notebook shut again so he can take Elias's from Gerry and scan it quickly himself. "Frankly it could be safe to assume that the He Elias keeps referring to might well be Nyarlathotep, regardless - we don't know what he'd do to a disloyal follower - but at the same time, we don't know if he even cares, either. Kayne certainly didn't seem to give a shit about team loyalty in our universe, and I can't imagine that he's that far changed an extention of Nyarlathotep to begin with."
Madness as enlightenment. People who'd throw their lot in with any Elder One.
He knows about people like that. He made people like that, used them, abused them. Or... perhaps it was the King in Yellow, but he remembers it, remembers the shapes and the shadows and the hollow feeling... it's as real as anything else in the room.
And that doesn't even touch what he'd done, what he'd been, in the Dark World.
But when Arthur asks a question, he pulls himself together and clears his throat.
"So... what are our major concerns? This tells us things but... what can we do with it? What are our priorities?"
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lestercraft) wrote2024-11-29 01:38 pm
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And so he does. He lets his two apprentices, Gwen Stacy and Helena Adams, know he's out on a "quest" and that he'll give them a nice little bonus for managing in his absence, and treks on out to the lighthouse, bag in tow. Lighter, cigarettes, notebook, pen, knife. Peachy.
no subject
And he lifts a hand and waves to Gerry as they make their way up the hill.
"Gerry." He sounds a little out of breath, but he smiles still. "Meet John Doe, my partner from back home. John-" He gestures at Gerry. "Gerard Keay. He's been getting me up to date."
no subject
That's why the large, burly man beside Arthur whose bodylanguage screams 'bodyguard' (mostly because it's actually 'entwined at the soul' but he doesn't want it to look weird) holds up a hand. The jig is to some degree up, however, when he speaks.
Still hasn't gotten that voice part down entirely. It's still a bit preternaturally flat and reverberates oddly.
"Hi. Nice to meet you."
He hopes.
no subject
For one, he's more than a little used to things that look human but aren't. He's spent his entire natural life talking to flesh monsters bent into human shapes but full of bones that aren't theirs, plastic clowns with human skin stretched over their ball-jointed bodies, wolf men who grew hair on the inside of their bodies instead of the outside, and corpses being puppeted by anything ranging from a gaggle of spiders to haunted dirt. And for another, Gerry can see right through John's disguise. His steel grey eyes have a greenish sheen to them in certain lights, and he can see the yellow threads that bind John to something larger and more sinister than himself--- and to Arthur.
"Cheers," he agrees easily, meeting John's hand with a thoroughly tattooed one. "So! Shall we go meet Dr. Coldwood's little interdimensional science project?"
no subject
It's always fucking basements.
"So, do we have any idea of what sort of creature he was working with, based on the rumours alone?" he asks. "Or is that something we should be expecting to discover?" Or possibly pounce them.
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But he does glance over at Arthur.
"I don't suppose you've found the beastiary since you've been here?" he asks quietly, because well... it would certainly be helpful. Give them some sort of clue. And either he has it and it'll get pulled out or he doesn't and it's a moot point. Anyway.
"Are they corporeal or no? Do we know?"
no subject
He turns to wave them in. "Apparently, it's harmless for now. But stay frosty."
Gerry powers on ahead to the temporarily abandoned lighthouse, letting himself in. "Do we want to go see the thing first or do we want to go upstairs and tamper with evidence?"
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"Do we know what kind of things they were trying to build it from?"
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Off Gerry goes upstairs, beginning to rummage through Elias Coldwood's things with reckless abandon. He finds a trunk with a combination lock, which he somehow opens with the code, as if he has it memorized. But when it seems to contain only sentimental things, he closes and relocks it. "Mm, that's a hope chest, I think. You two find anything?"
[ OOC hint: there's journals on top of the desk, I'll work with Harvey to determine what's in them when we get there <3 ]
no subject
Because he's heading for a thin closet himself, checking its position against the wall before he ransacks it too.
no subject
He'll go to the desk and start looking it over, trying to see if anything looks out of place. Thinking about what Arthur said about compartments, he tests the back and bottom of the drawers and parts of the desk as he searches through it to see if he can find anything tucked somewhere or something that shifts.
PLOT COOKIES BE UPON YE
The knife is gone, as is the writing discovered by Shen Qingqiu and Valdis. They were taken in for evidence, contrary to Gerry's prior understanding. But the two of them had missed something in that stack of books. It's so innocuous-looking, honestly. So easy to miss. But when the book topples, it falls open as it hits the floor with a slap.
And inside, there are notes, written in two hands.
Aug. 30, 16:47 - Two month Update
So far, all is going according to plan. The seed extracted from the portal is working exactly as intended. If our timing is correct, then the "dimensional displacement event" we've been told to prepare for in the coming Autumn should be able to preserve the body of the Divine Host. I still don't know if the information we've gotten from Aster is actually any good, mind. And even if it is, I fear what will become of me once it is done. But we persevere. Throdogoth ph'nglui vulgtmor. We are more than what we are made of. We are the makers.
In any case, it's been helpful to have C record her thoughts during the process. If for no other reason than for posterity. Perhaps when we are "free of the shackles of sanity," as some of my former colleagues were keen to put it, we will be able to look back on the birth of one of the Mother's spawn as a moment of triumph. I will continue letting C write on her state during progress periodically, as part of the record-keeping process. Though I cannot promise they will remain coherent for much longer.
I am changing. I am becoming something. My hands are shaking all the time.
I thought this process would be faster. I don't know where I got the idea. When has any of this been quick?
I want to know what I am. What we are.
I'm hungry. I am just as much a mother as She is, I think. Sometimes. Is that heresy? Is it hubris? Perhaps it's a bit late to be worried about such things now.
He wants me to write about what is happening to us. I will do so. I will
try.
The last thing I remember that feels real was swallowing the seed. Feeling it snag in my throat and take root there. Tendrils, thin and pallid, like a true seedling, and I, her soil. Since then, the roots have grown into all of me. Dark tendrils break the skin slowly like splitting through the spring ground. Is this how Serranai feels? Will I become her when we kill her? Is that what we are?
I am blossoming. She is beautiful. I don't know what I am anymore.
Sept. 15 16:47 - Two and One-Half Month Update
Things are accelerating now. Ever since the Mother's spawn began to break free of C's body, things have been moving faster. I wonder if it's got something to do with the open air? The spilled blood? I fear that bi-weekly updates will no longer suffice, as C's ability to speak clearly has been fading. I am hoping to catch her during a moment of clarity for at least one more entry.
They call the Mother a "black goat". I never quite understood why, that isn't really what She looks like, aside from the ungulate eyes. And perhaps the hair texture. But I see it in the nascent godling, I think. The way her legs move, when she deigns to have them. The way her face looks, when it takes shape over C's. I think she is stabilizing now.
C's motor functions are slowing. So are her vitals. Day by day, there is less of her and more of her.
I fear that before this ends, I will no longer recall the significance of our great work. Just as C is becoming lost to the work, I do not believe much of me will remain after He is finished with me. But I am eager in my sacrifice nonetheless. I do not need to know why she is here to know that I love her.
We have started calling her Glory.
I
am
everywhere.
I spill out onto the wood of this floor, this pathetic facade of firmament. I roil, like a pot over flame. Waves of me rippling into nothing that could be recognized as human. Guts, bones, muscles, blood, all pulping.
I eat and I eat and I eat. I am so hungry. She keeps it all. I won't need it much longer.
I hear her now. Louder than I hear myself.
I am fading. I'm so scared. Elias, I'm scared. Elias, can you hear me? Ingmar? Can you hear me? Can you hear me? My voice, my voice, it's not my own, I can't hear myself I can't hear myself I can't hear myself why am I not making any noise I keep talking and talking and talking and I think the words I see the words I see them I see them I see them but they do not make a sound aside from this scratch scratch scratch scratch scratching scratching scratching scr
Someone is screaming now. I think it is me.
This is what I want. Glory. Glory!
Glory!
And oh I am glorious.
Sept 21, 16:47 - Urgent Update
Something happened. I'm not really sure what. I've moved the girls down to the basement, I think it is safer there, as I've come to understand that my "last day", as it were, is well on the horizon.
I think this is the last we will be able to hear from our host. I think the birth is happening in earnest. She won't stop screaming--- mostly in R'lyehian now. I don't think Glory speaks much Emeran. Unsurprising, but a shame nonetheless. She is getting so big now. What's left of C is... minimal. So much of her body has gone to feeding our creation.
Chloe, I'm so sorry. There is beauty in this agony--- I know you know that, even now. But still, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.
May we capture the last of you, so that as much of you as possible may remain.
L' throdogoth! l' n'ghft! nilgh'ri vulgtmah l' ah Nyarlathotep! nilgh'ri vulgtmah l' ah Shub-Niggurath! Y' ah mgepahazath, Y' ah mgepnah, Y' ah ah'mglw'nafh! Iä! Iä! Throdogoth fhtagn!
I am becoming.
Goodbye.
There are blood smears everywhere, and the journal seems to end there.
"...Well that looks exciting," Gerry remarks, getting up from where he's sitting to come have a gander. How did he not see it before, right when he walked in? All End and Flesh and Stranger and Vast? Was it really just that well-concealed?
Re: PLOT COOKIES BE UPON YE
Suffice to say that a long string of fuck fills up most of his mind as he reads through it.
"Shub-Niggurath," he says, looking over towards Arthur immediately. He'll offer the book to Gerry, considering. He's read it now, can share it with Arthur. He's the eyes, after all. "A-and dark young. It looks like that's what they were working on. Arthur- is this- how?"
Is this where Shub-Niggurath went when she was erased from their universe?
Re: PLOT COOKIES BE UPON YE
Because--
"What? That’s--" impossible, surely? "Fuck. But- wait, y-you've said - you and Kayne both said that gods don't exist in reality the same way as we do, maybe-" he runs a hand through his hair in a panicky little motion. "Maybe Shub Niggurath being destroyed didn't erase her progeny with her?"
no subject
"Well, that can't be good," he remarks casually, severely downplaying his own worry. Then--- record scratch, wait, rewind. "Hold on, you guys said you--- destroyed Shub-Niggurath? I mean, in the world I came from, Elder Gods are just stories that were all written by a guy who was a bit of a tit, but they're described as being--- you know, pretty serious threats. And very old. How did you do that?"
no subject
"We didn't do it. Another group did. We heard about it from-" and there's a glance over at Arthur but he swallows before he continues. The amount he is not comfortable about this is pretty extensive, "someone else. He calls himself 'Kayne'."
And he can't help but look around, extend his senses, listen for the sound of Gardetto's being crunched. Nothing?
Good.
"And we have... other evidence that says that he's telling the truth. There was a ritual that she, Shub-Niggurath, was supposed to show up at. She didn't, and it led to... a rather strange series of events. It's part of why we... met."
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"I've already told Gerry that Kayne's a splinter of Nyarlathotep, in our world." Informing John of the story, reiterating the facts of the case.
But his hand stays there as he looks back at Gerry. "Our familiarity with these gods is from personal experience. But it was another group that destroyed Shub Niggurath, they- locked her inside mundane reality, something about a time loop destroying her. She shouldn't exist in any other possibility, but because- like you said, she was such a powerful being, there were still... aftershocks, stains left on reality. I suppose her children must have been able to escape slaughter through that."
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"Anyway, Chloe. We can probably assume he means Chloe Albright, one of the cultists." Gerry rubs his jaw roughly, pensive, wracking his brain for memories of his trip to the past to watch Nyarlathotep's ritual. "Dark-haired woman, angular features, big scar across her face from having a wine glass smashed against her forehead. Intense. She was high on the chain of command, seemed like. Functioned as the de facto leader in the absence of those above her. Led the ritual. Severe and coy, always seemed to know more than everyone else, but angry underneath that composure. Never seen anyone fully human go from complete calm to violent rage and back again so quickly. It's unnerving to see someone like her so unraveled."
cw self harm mention
He can't help but think of the man in the hotel, the cultist that they'd stolen their mask from. Arthur had never seen him, but John had. The man was a doctor, practiced medicine of all things, and yet he'd been willing to slit his own throat in service to...
Well.
Him.
He doubts that any of his patients would have believed it.
"It's also possible," John says slowly, "that Nyarlathotep is merely using the appearance of Shub-Niggurath to- to string people along. Repurpose followers dedicated to her for their own purposes." A small snort. "It's not like she'd be there to complain, after all."
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"If the cult is dipping its toes into other gods' domains to try and secure more power," he comments, the concern obvious in his voice, "then we've got far bigger concerns than just Nyarlathotep. There might still be a Dark Young out there, if not in the basement of the lighthouse itself. If it gets into the cave system beneath the island..."
He sighs, snapping his notes shut. "We have no idea what it's capable of, if it retains any of the knowledge or powers of its former host. We don't know if there's anyone else out there with the knowledge or capacity to recreate this experiment. But I suppose it's as good a confirmation that one more of Nyarlathotep's cult is dead, and the lighthouse keeper..." He frowns, and looks back at Gerry. "Do we know if he had any relation to Chloe? Or was he part of the cult?"
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Gerry lets out a sigh, scratching his head thoughtfully as he tries to put the pieces together from what he learned from the meeting, what he heard from the others after. The way Chloe had spoken to CT about being excited to have her mind and body unraveled. The way that Drelasa convinced Chloe that her own god, Dagoth-Ur, was also some sort of elder one, and how envious Chloe was of Drelasa's physical transformation into something Cthulhu-esque. To the point where Chloe was willing to abandon Nyarlathotep if following Dagoth-Ur could get her something like that.
And what of Elias? Gerry admittedly doesn't know him too well. The man is dodgy at best. But they are missing at least one cultist, if not two...
"It's possible that Coldwood is completely unconnected. Not particularly plausible, but not impossible. He's a... supernatural biologist, if I remember right, and he could have just been taking advantage of Albright's obsession. But this stuff here about 'I don't know how much of me will be left' and 'my last day'... It's sticking in my mind."
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He tucks the notebook shut again so he can take Elias's from Gerry and scan it quickly himself. "Frankly it could be safe to assume that the He Elias keeps referring to might well be Nyarlathotep, regardless - we don't know what he'd do to a disloyal follower - but at the same time, we don't know if he even cares, either. Kayne certainly didn't seem to give a shit about team loyalty in our universe, and I can't imagine that he's that far changed an extention of Nyarlathotep to begin with."
this notif somehow got lost! my deepest apologies
Madness as enlightenment. People who'd throw their lot in with any Elder One.
He knows about people like that. He made people like that, used them, abused them. Or... perhaps it was the King in Yellow, but he remembers it, remembers the shapes and the shadows and the hollow feeling... it's as real as anything else in the room.
And that doesn't even touch what he'd done, what he'd been, in the Dark World.
But when Arthur asks a question, he pulls himself together and clears his throat.
"So... what are our major concerns? This tells us things but... what can we do with it? What are our priorities?"