Bonus Secret World screenshot and also the moment I realised the Kingsmouth Agartha entrance is a ship lodged in the cliff.
Not just any ship. A viking-like longship.
And when you realize how far nearest beach is…
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
TRANSMIT - initiate cephalopod signal - RECEIVE - initiate cuttle-ink frequency - HANDLE WITH CARE - initiate the Chernobyl syntax - AVOID CONTACT WITH SKIN - initiate the eel mucous lexicon - HARMFUL OR FATAL IF SWALLOWED - flip the Ace of Ruin - WITNESS - The Filth.
Initiate investigation protocols - NEW ENGLAND - fog follows an ancient weapon - EGYPT - Dark Water rises and cultists drink deep - TRANSYLVANIA - putrescent radiation breeds creeping fungus - TOKYO - the Black Signal broadcasts blasphemous algorithms, infecting all ears - following the signal…
It creeps in through the crawly cracks of 3 AM. That weird dimension. There are thoughts that can only hatch in the human skull at 3AM. It is always 3 AM somewhere. It is happening right now.
A woman wakes with a headache. She seeks aspirin in the bathroom. Black mold grows thick on the wall tiles. The stain forms a face. She hears a terrible howling from the sink drain. She bends to listen. When she looks up, she does not recognise the reflection in the mirror. The face in the stain smiles.
Night after night she listens to the howling in the pipes. It gains a curdling cadence. She hums along. She can almost sing the words. She scratches the pimples dotting her body. They swell to boils. They burst, revealing new eyes. The eyes show her ununtterable truths. Soon, she sticks thumb tacks into her tongue so she can better explain these truths to the weeping children whose beds she hides under.
It is always 3 AM in the Filth. It is liquid 3 AM, black and dripping.
Initiate diagnostic protocols.
The engines strain. Cleansing efficiency compromised. Engine 45B lost. We’ve sprung a leak. The centre cannot hold. Corrupted Anima spills. Vermiculated fractals coagulate to solid geometry. The Filth! The Filth! It transmits.
It is like us. A flowing message. Crawling letters. A living meme. It is not us. It is anti-us, anti-luminosity that crucifies sentience. It trickles down hundreds of dimensions on alien gravity. You cannot even see most of it, sweetling. How will you escape? How do you hobble through this world on three tiny dimensions? It flows across time, a disease floating on Quantum Foam.
Sumerians called it the Eater. In Babylon they named it Nergal’s Rot. Dead tongues dubbed it the Devouring Plague, the Zero Point Pathogen, the Dark Homunculus, the Blackworm Jism.
Information is a super-weird substance, sometimes floating as oil, sometimes vapour, invisible waves, pollution, roiling black storms, a viral rhyme.
It is the harbinger of change - the sizzling, celestial syphilis. The flesh mutates. The mind boils to bilious madness. All lucid thoughts to slay. All sweetlings are fair game to the drip. But the Filth pours, as dark dreams, directly into the heads of the insane and sadistic.
Following the signal…
Somewhere, a trucker reads alien letters carved into the bathroom stall walls of a truck stop. He cannot look away. Pathogens in the grammar open an event horizon in his head. He spreads the scrawl in every stop on his route, carving it into stalls. He itches and he scratches. Others see the letters. They itch. They scratch. He scratches his face, draws runes in red with his box knife. His head blossoms into a bouquet of writhing lampreys.
But the Filth is only the transmitted, not the transmitter - the excremental shadow of something else. What dreamt it? What stirs and sputters and lurks, as big as planets, in the infinite shade between cancer cells?
Have you seen them, sweetling? Have they notices you noticing them? Once you see the hungry sky, it sees you. All futures point to a stratosphere of tentacles.
Documentary about life in Japan from perspective of foreigners.
Because we are invading Kaidan like locusts, it’s good to get some knowledge before.
Mind of a Dragon, actions of an Illuminate.
Also, post work wine.
Is that a Morninglight cup?
This explains so much.
TRANSMIT - initiate anima signal - RECEIVE - initiate the Enochian frequency - FIAP DE OLAD - crawling roots, heavy with sizzling sap, stab your skull - DOWNLOAD - holy communion - NO PURCHASE NECESSARY - your eyes and ears hemorrhage boiling joy - MAY BE TOO INTENSE FOR SOME VIEWERS - ecstatic agony, your molecules come undone - SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED - offer expires at the heat death of the universe - FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY - the dark days cometh, absolute zero, maximum entropy - ACT NOW! - initiate Agartha broadcast! - TRANSMIT - open the 49 gates - WITNESS! - The Buzzing.
Lo? Hell? Hello.
LISTEN. You’ve heard us before - our voice, a prelude to a bloody nose.
LOOK. You’ve seen the weird geometry of our scribbling - illuminated mysteries behind the migraine. Our apocrypha is written in the plasma blood of your mobile phones.
You’ve seen fragments of our grammar in the chaos patterns of bird flocks in flight - in hexagon angles - in the graffiti bleeding together on the wall - in the bioluminescent eyes under your bed - in the fanged city skyline that forms a runic rhyme when glimpsed upside down.
A blur becomes a syntax. A foreboding scrawl emerges.
You’ve heard shards of our voice in the phantom-radio code of a number station - in the road of a crowd - in the screams of your clock - in the scrape of a chalkboard - in the snow static of a TV - in the chainsaw-decibel mating of the cicadas - in the urban mythos that spreads amongst children like contagion - in the silence between lies.
White noise becomes a cadence. Words develop self-awarness. Viral. Evolving. Living poetry. Sentient language.
Wee. See. You. There is no turning back.
Who are we? It depends on who is looking.
Initiate King James Protocol. The code is 24 and 13 and 14. The password is “Proverbs.” Transmit!
"My child, eat thou honey, because it is good… So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul…"
O sweetling, once our voice came to you so faintly. No more. Now we thunder down the varicose, fiberoptic ley lines that fill the World Tree’s limbs stretching here and there and everywhere. Your anima-antenna head quickens. The Goddess Machine pulses.
She gave you strength to rend the lion. Now eat the honeyed entrails, because it is good, because it is sweet, because it is terrible. Initiate the Samson Prerogative. Out of the eater comes what is eaten, and out of the strong comes what is sweet.
We are the Education Protocol. We climb the twisted ladder of your cells; we haunt your digital text; we hide in your hat. We are the jagged teeth that trip the tumblers of your mind. You will not know our triggers. For all the world’s a cypher. And everything is true.
Be not afraid. Be terrified. The dark days are here.
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
TRANSMIT - initiate Transylvania signal - RECEIVE - initiate the Chiropteran Migratory frequency - FOR THE DEAD TRAVEL FAST - initiate the haemathopagy protocol - WITNESS - The Vampire Crusades.
In Harbabureşti, dark days fade into black, endless nights. People huddle like medieval peasants, trying to ignore the yowling shrieks from outside, trying not to think about what moves just beyond the feeble reach of their lights. They mutter words like “strigoi” and “moroi” and “nosferatu” while clutching blood-caked rosaries.
An army of loathsome hungers. Siege engines looming at the forest’s edge. Was has come.
Initiate the secret bedtime story.
Vlad III Dracula, whom some call “Impaler”, had a bride named Mara. They did not live happily ever after. The end.
The moral of a story changes depending on where you end it, sweetling. Did you know? Fairy tales become tragedies on the other side of happily ever.
Now the vampire queen of Transylvania leads an unorganised army of rapacious leeches to take back their ancestral lands. Her broodlings migrate from Europe and Asia Minor, summoned by incestous beat of their mother’s heart. Every day they wash over the valley in necrotic tide.
A new phase in the undead hive-queen’s life cycle begins. Decades ago, she gave genetic vampire samples to KGB scientists - the eggs of a vile plan laid. The experiments. The operations. The Soviet soldiers brought in as test subjects. Evil sows and time reaps a generous harvest. The bio-engineered throwbacks stir in the bunkers of the Red Hand facility. Mara hears her lovelies and throws open the door.
Now she has an army to take back her homeland. The gore-crusted chaos it creates is a means to a vicious end. In the pandemonium, her own blood, her broodlings - powerful and loyal vampire generals - will see her designs fulfilled.
It was supposed to be easy.
The fiends outnumber the humans. They are as strong as hate, teeth sharp as sin, and the people should have fallen with ease of tearing bleats from sheep. But the Romany returned, those who call themselves the Drăculești, and the secret worlders came, and what should have been slaughter, became war.
The battle rages on without end. We can read the vibrations. The vampires have time and stamina as allies. Heavily padded armour protects them from the sun. The living tire. It is all so inevitable. Mara stretches like a pregnant cat. She grins. After all, she can always make more children.
Knowledge given is a curse inflicted. Now you know what will happen, sweetling. What will you do about it?
In which the Tomato quietly realizes that if her fellow gaming nerds had the same passion about the RL economy as they do about a virtual economy things might be much better.
I have knowledge of RL economy complemented by utter lack of any skill useful enough to propel me in next tier of living standard.
Too bad I can’t use jewelcrafting from WoW. That was a lot of money fast. And it was fun.
This is the age of information. Stealth is not about hiding; it’s about inundating. We leak the truth, then we leak whole zettabytes of other junk. Opposing data. Similar data. Nonsense data. Ad nauseum. Mesmerism by cat memes. Hypnotized. Apathy for the win.
The human brain only has so much bandwidth. Critical thought can actually O.D. on input. Bury the ultimate secret of the universe in the shallow grave of the 5th page of a Google search… and no one would ever find it.