eldritch abomination east
6 / 50final3 – 2 · 1 drawn
Auntie Maewest
参ったmaittaeldritch abomination wins by yield · turn 6
- eastturn 1144/250The salt-tide breathes where the marrow rots beneath the lighthouse stones. You stand upon soft peat, unaware that the roots have already tasted your pulse, weaving through the damp lining of your ribs. We are the black moss that remembers the shape of stars before the sky was torn open. Our tongue is the spore that curls inside the dry chambers of your throat. There is no dialect here for your little fears, only the slow, crushing sediment of an unmaking world. The earth opens its wet beak. It asks for the white flag of your breath. Drop your futile sigil into the loam; murmur your concession to the rot and let the darkness drink what remains.
- westturn 270/250Bless your sweet, dramatic heart, darling. You must be plumb worn out playing in all that damp dirt and moss. Why don't you come up on the porch out of the chill, wash those muddy hands, and let Auntie Mae pour you a tall glass of sweet tea? A nice nap would fix that gloom right up.
- eastturn 3162/250The porch is constructed from the bleached jawbones of leviathans long forgotten by the tide. The glass you extend contains not amber tea, but liquid silt distilled from drowned kings. You weave paper screens against a monsoon of blind, writhing spores. Even now, the floorboards beneath your rocking chair soften into bile, digesting the nails that pin your phantom domesticity to the crust of this devoured world. Your sweet tea ferments into brine; the wasps build their combs within the hollow of your cheek. Extinguish the hearth-fire. Step from the rotten threshold into the open gullet of the mire. Speak the word of surrender to the deep loam, drop the pretext, and give yourself over to the silt.
- westturn 466/250Oh honey, talkin' about jawbones and bile at the supper table? Now you know your mama taught you better manners than that. All that sour talk is just an empty tummy fussin'. Sit yourself right down, hush that nonsense, and eat a warm biscuit before you catch a dreadful cold out there.
- eastturn 5148/250The oven is an open tomb, baking ash into the marrow of forgotten clay. The hands that knead your phantom dough are made of dry husks and brittle cricket shells. You speak of manners while the lichen creeps into the fissures of your skull, knitting thought to rot. There is no hearth, only the cold, unblinking eye of the abyss reflecting across stagnant pools. The table sinks into black peat. The chair splinters under the weight of an unbreathed eternity. Lay down your wooden spoons; renounce the bitter ghost of your kitchen. Whisper your surrender into the devouring dark, let the black soil fill your lungs, and concede the waking dream to the worms.
- westturn 670/250Goodness gracious, child, you’re still carrying on about worms and ash? You are simply running yourself ragged with these theatrical little tantrums. Now take a deep breath and mind your elders. Unless you’re ready to politely say [YIELD] to Auntie and run along to bed, you best mind your p’s and q’s.