In the Mist
In certain sights of scientific seers,
In the tales of the senile surviving societies of humanity,
There are tales of the creations, of the conquerors. All the universe
It is older than time itself, not even old…
A curse of hell, old and cracked, ancient…
Eternal and crushing, a force beyond all.
The tales in time of old, what once drew blood, now has all and naught. Strange things so confined, to the ordinary and simple. The power of they and them, and the sight to outlast all things. With what power they contrive, and unleash, and devour. These things were truly monstrous-the things were the destroyers of many universes, and took all for themselves. It is their terrible intelligence which allows them to take over. They can see into the future and the past- even the present. They have been developing for more than twenty thousand years in this universe alone- and there is no time in their own universe. There are no atoms, no space- only other, terrible things. And there are many other strange things which they bring with them. They are more powerful and all seeing than the god we once worshipped.
Their universe must be a sight to see. There is so much there- cities, miracles, the secrets of eternal life and power. But not space or time! What a marvel, to not have the five senses, to experience the utterly alien. There are things which would kill one to look upon them. To have the senses so intoxicated with the deadly! There is nothing half so marvelous elsewhere.
There are no ways to their universe, though. They are too intelligent for trespass. Only what they share is known to us. There are so few stories of their thoughts and interests-if they have any at all, There are too many disasters from attempts made. There are many terrible things, but none quite so terrible as they. Why does not matter- nothing matters, after all. The only thing to care about is nothing, and even that is gone now. There is less than nothing- and more now-thanks to them. For them, nothing is less than nothing but always more than always. That is the truth.
Unknown things, pale without sight, without thought or body.
They came from a universe with no space or time.
There are things umimaginable, things so beyond. So much and so little… There are stranger things in the outer places than those which we imagine. They were a race of conquerors, of
Clutching, writhing, ancient things… All beyond everything…
They are coming for the last of us, around this dying star. A dying star, the cooling core. They were there when the star was born, billions of years ago.
The spheres were unfortunate enough to be the first to fall. Their planet was nearest to the portal. They were unlucky enough to be near
They wait in the mist,
they are wet
they are the mist.
And now they come for us. They come without mention, without, perhaps,
Intention.
Invention
Of ancient ritual, ancient invention.
They come for us now, after the spheres…
When the spheres came and went, bled without blood… without sound, without sound, or breath, or life,
Strife,
Horror to us
And nightmare to us,
To those who were powerful, once, but… holding now.
Blood bursts forth from a cyst
held out in offering, a seed
in the palm of the mist.
Some spheres said they felt kissed
By the need
To know the mist.
They came and come from a universe without a star, and hissed
come to conquer, hunt feed
to consume and shape flesh to cysts
The entities from the mist.
A bloody spray to entice the carnal need
to take those kissed
by the haunting of the mist.
They drink, though spheres cannot bleed
then they leave into the mist.
The tissues they absorb, and bodies grow, to allow to wander in our universe, the entities from the mist.
A.R. LaBaere