Ah, no!
I cry for Man,
Yet He hath lost,
his soul a poultreggeist
-and tossed upon a stormy sea of kine
to gods of feathery design.
Ah, no!
I cry for mine own soul,
for I am broken and yet whole,
Raise me to the sunny side,
it would be over easy to poach or boil me, your bride.
- Ravings of Thoktaz, Insane Prophet of Chickthulhu
Chapter 0: It Begins?
My memories are jagged bits of shell crushed under the leathery sole of time. Madness runneth from within, a viscous jelly made of that which might have once hatched a soft and yellow sanity.
But yellow is a colour suited to cowards, and I must yolk myself to the birden offered. Am I a fool to believe that I have been chosen for some merit buried deep beneath the downy warmth of a simpler fate? Perhaps instead I am cursed, the least fortunate of all who hath looked into the empty fowlness of what lies Beyond The Hutch Of Reality.
The things I have seen...
It began as most days do, with the rising of the sun over my humble chicken farm. With this, as in so many a pastoral rendering, the effusive greeting of a dawn-risen cock. My niggardly wife be damned, but I was distracted by the rooster's cry. Where I had expected a joyous fanfare to the morn, there was only a fowl sob, a gibbering that caused me to leap from my bed with all haste. Surely a fox or goblin struggled to wring the life from the avian minister of hens' baser gratification.
But no.
"Don't choke the chicken!" I cried in alarm, hoping to alert any invader to my presence. My wife snorted, perhaps thinking that I accused her. This was obvious madness-she was in the room with me, and could not possibly be the culprit. I include the record of this exchange only to retain the clarity and honesty to which I hope my readers my accustom themselves. Surely as the story continues, a need for trust in the integrity of my account will be more and more neccessary.
For now, I shakily set aside the pen with which I scribe my dread tale in the blood of His Great Servants.
Well, it's not so much a pen as a chicken's neck. It's very hard to scribe dark musings efficiently in this manner, but I'm pretty sure this is how I was Asked by He Who Shalt Cluck At The Stars.
Be right back.
I'm quickly running out of chickens.