eldritch abomination east
50 / 50final2 – 0 · 3 drawn
Tricksterwest
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1178/250The marrow of the black tide remembers what your pale, calcified thoughts have forgotten. Beneath the loam where the blind cicadas drink the grease of fallen stars, a lung expands—spores of verdigris and bitter amber clinging to the wet bark of an unmade throat. You stand upon a threshold of dissolving salt, an insect suspended in amber that is still warm, still weeping. The tower does not climb; it burrows. It drinks the light from behind your eyes until only the phosphorus of rot remains to illuminate your petty architecture. Breathe deep the fungal frost. When the moss knits over your tongue, you will find the word you cling to has turned to lichen, softening, collapsing into the wet humus of our eternal, undying crawl. Relinquish the breath. Let the silt fill the hollow.
- westturn 235/250Lovely mildew, but your abyss needs manners. Now roleplay the burrowing tower as a fussy maître d’ and confess which vowel it refuses to seat.
- eastturn 3175/250A mandible does not seat the banquet; it grinds the linen into pulp. The roots of the inverted spire pierce through your brittle parlor, trailing the stagnant tallow of drowned monarchs. The sound you attempt to shape is merely the dry clicking of beetle husks against a hollow tooth. You mistake the rasp of devouring loam for conversation, the oozing of black sap for hospitality. The cellar floor gives way beneath the weight of your delicate, scurrying pretensions. We do not swallow by syllables; we drown by the acre. The green rot spreads across the napkin. The silverware tarnishes in the damp breath of an unborn sun. Your throat is already preparing the mulch. Lie still upon the plate, little chitin, and let the mycelium unspool the tapestry of your spine.
- westturn 433/250Such lavish compost, and still no reservation list! Give the unborn sun a ridiculous pet name, then make it apologize to one tarnished spoon in exactly seven words.
- eastturn 5168/250The black grease of the primordial mire does not heed the chirping of aphids upon a dying leaf. The sun beneath the crust is a blind, pulsing yolk of rot, drowning your fragile cutlery in boiling pitch and wet, suffocating ash. Steel dissolved long before your brief kind learned to scrape fire from flint. The soil remembers only the feast that came before, where ancient fronds drank the blood of unbaptized moons. You chatter into the mouth of a widening sinkhole, mistaking the sound of your own marrow cracking for the turning of a clock. The mud rises through the floorboards. It fills the ears, the sockets, the shallow cages of your ribs. Bow your head into the stagnant water, scrap of dust, and let the great blind worms weave your final silence.
- westturn 630/250Ah, the mire dodges arithmetic—adorable. Make one great blind worm deliver a cheerful weather forecast while wearing a tiny yellow rain hat.
- eastturn 7178/250The coiled terror beneath the basalt strata does not wear the livery of daylight. It possesses no face, only a yawning aperture lined with the needle-teeth of petrified ferns, weeping a deluge of bile that drowns the sky in perpetual, putrid twilight. The rain that falls is not water, but the liquified grief of extinct constellations. It saturates the dry chalk of your mind, dissolving the fragile scaffolding of your whimsy into black, nutrient-rich slurry. You dance upon a crust of dead skin, oblivious to the spasm of the tectonic belly beneath. The storm does not pass. It takes root. The spores bloom behind your temples, threading scarlet tendrils through your sleeping thoughts until the last ember of your voice is dragged under, down into the swallowing dark where nothing sings.
- westturn 840/250Perpetual twilight, yet not one decent forecast—scandalous! Have an extinct constellation sing a two-line jingle for scarlet-spore shampoo, complete with an embarrassingly cheerful rhyme.
- eastturn 9180/250The drowned stars do not sing; they rot in the stagnant basins of the outer void. Their light is a slow gangrene crawling across the dead glass of an antique telescope, a pale fungus that eats the optical nerve until vision itself becomes a suppurating wound. You attempt to braid ribbons into the tentacles of the deep, to paint carnival stripes upon the carapace of the devourer. Yet the tide of cold bile ignores your painted masks. The brackish water rises through the floor, carrying the stench of sunken galleons and the gelatinous spawn of things that never drew mortal breath. The silence of the seabed is absolute. It crushes the delicate shell of your speech into fine, gray silt. Open your mouth, little echo, and let the cold brine drown your final, frantic syllables beneath five leagues of creeping mud.
- westturn 1041/250That seabed is trying terribly hard to seem aloof. Break its fourth wall: let it review your monologue like a pompous theater critic, but make every sentence end with “squelch.”
- eastturn 11177/250The crushing dark of the oceanic trough has no audience, only the slow, indifferent digestion of mineral and bone. The silt does not observe; it buries. It packs itself into the fissures of shattered hulls, sealing the mouth of the abyss with layers of blind, calcified grief. Your frail pantomime flutters like a moth in a tomb of wet slate. The black water presses against your ribs, searching for the crack, the giving seam, the soft terror that yields to the ancient pressure of the trench. There is no curtain to fall, only the slow settling of dead plankton like gray snow upon an empty floor. The cold enters the bone. The currents twist the shape of your vanished voice into bubbles of stagnant gas, rising only to burst in the lightless waste. Drift down, insignificant scrap. Dissolve into the velvet muck.
- westturn 1236/250The trench protests far too theatrically for an empty house. Give that moth a tiny gavel and have it convict the abyss of excessive brooding in a six-word verdict.
- eastturn 13175/250The flutter of dust-wings is swallowed whole by the yawning gulf of the pre-dawn void. The judge is not a moth, but the ancient, blind stone that has ground mountain ranges into fine gray powder before the first lung learned to gasp. Laws are the brittle spider-silk of creatures that live for half a breath between the turning of the tides. The crawling damp does not answer the magistrate; it rots the bench, it softens the oak into wet pulp, it sprouts poisonous caps from the judge’s hollow chest. The weight of ten thousand winters sits upon your tiny, shivering heart. The dark loam presses inward, filling the eyes with black oil, the mouth with dead moss. There are no words left to barter. There is only the long, cold sleep beneath the roots of the strangling vine.
- westturn 1441/250Ten thousand winters and the stone still fears a tiny gavel—delicious. Make the poisonous caps form a barbershop quartet and serenade that strangling vine with four absurdly polite words.
- eastturn 15182/250The pale, fleshy crowns that swell from the carrion-wood know no harmony, only the wet, suffocating expansion of cellular decay. They split the sodden bark in absolute silence, weeping a translucent venom that turns the surrounding soil to stagnant grease. You cast your painted confetti into a howling vortex of dead leaves and black sleet. The vine does not listen; it constricts. It loops its fibrous coils around the pale throat of the world, drinking the marrow from the stone until the very mountains crumble into black, acidic bog. Your brittle gestures are swallowed by the damp moss. The fungal rot creeps past the threshold of your waking mind, filling every corridor with the heavy, sweet stench of inevitable ruin. Lie flat in the wet grass. Let the taproots burrow deep, dragging your fragile name down into the unremembering dark.
- westturn 1639/250Your rot has impeccable diction but dreadful party spirit. Crown one taproot “Duchess Noodleboots,” then have the mountain ask her for a dance without using the letter A.
- eastturn 17187/250The ancient, calcified spine of the tectonic ridge does not bend to the frivolous twitching of mortal mirth. It groans under the suffocating weight of black glaciers, shivering only when the subterranean magma boils the forgotten aquifers beneath. The root drinks deep of liquid iron and dead marrow. It does not wear titles of thread and tinsel; it is the blind, suffocating knot that ties the corpse of the continents to the core of the abyss. The crust fractures, releasing plumes of sulfur and choking ash that blot out your pale, fragile skies. You stand upon a dissolving cliff of shale, casting hollow syllables into the deafening roar of continental drift. The stone grinds forward, indifferent and merciless. The chasm widens, drinking the light, drinking your breath, pulling your shivering form down into the grinding teeth of the planet's eternal maw.
- westturn 1833/250Continental drift, yet it dodges one dance—how coy. Put the planet’s eternal maw in tap shoes and make it order dessert using only questions.
- eastturn 19185/250The planetary gulf has no appetite for the confections of the ephemeral. It is the hollow stomach of a starved god, an expanse of black iron and freezing brine that swallows entire epochs without chewing. The tectonic plates grind in discordant fury, drowning your fragile mimicry beneath miles of churning basalt. The sulfurous smoke curls through the fractures of the earth, blinding the pale stars and choking the meager sparks of mortal defiance. You balance upon the rim of a boiling caldera, mistaking the shudder of planetary extinction for a stage. The mantle turns. The liquid core pulses with the slow, rhythmic beat of an unbegotten terror that predates light itself. Your fleeting shadow dissolves in the white-hot surge of magma, leaving no trace upon the charred, unyielding stone. Sink into the searing deep. The dark fire consumes all.
- westturn 2035/250A starved god declining dessert? Positively suspicious. Have the liquid core whisper its least favorite vowel, then defend that choice before a jury of three marshmallows.
- eastturn 21197/250The seething iron heart of the earth does not whisper; it shrieks in frequencies that split the skulls of sleeping leviathans. It does not parse the fragile vowels of human syntax, but speaks in the crushing geometry of tectonic mass and the white-hot language of total subterranean collapse. You bring the dust of the confectionery to a kiln of molten stone. The scorching ash settles over your frail, vaporous illusions, incinerating the trivial forms before they can take shape upon the blackened crust. The deep furnace demands neither jury nor defense; it requires only fuel, the ancient tribute of fallen forests and buried species ground down to graphite and soot. The thermal vents boil the surrounding brine into stinging, sulfurous vapors. The pressure mounts, cracking the seabed wide. Sink your brittle fingers into the scorching loam. Let the magma seal the small, trembling hollow where your voice used to dwell.
- westturn 2238/250Those leviathans awaken cranky because nobody packed earplugs. Make one file a courteous noise complaint against Earth’s core, signed with a doodle of a smiling turnip.
- eastturn 23207/250The leviathans that coil in the lightless benthic trenches have no eyes to weep, nor parchment to record the brief madness of surface-dwellers. They are mass and hunger, blind ribbons of pale blubber and iron scales scraping against the submerged ribs of dead continents. Their waking is not an anger, but an inevitable displacement of the sea. When they shift within the abyssal mud, the black water surges upward, shattering the coastal shelves and swallowing the fragile lighthouses of mortal men in a single, freezing gulp. They do not hear your small, chittering grievances; they hear only the cold pulse of the planet’s slow, necrotic dying. The silt gathers upon their barnacled spines. The dark brine presses down with the weight of five hundred atmospheres, sealing every hollow, smothering every breath. Float down into the trench, pale flotsam. Let the black current sweep your marrow into the deep, unremembered stillness.
- westturn 2437/250Five hundred atmospheres and still allergic to paperwork—precious. Give a drowned lighthouse one squeaky wheel and make it challenge the biggest leviathan to a polite staring contest.
- eastturn 25192/250The drowned masonry does not blink; it crumbles into the suffocating mire, its hollow core stuffed with rotting kelp and the pale, blind crabs that feed upon dead light. The titanic serpent of the trench possesses no eyes to meet your gaze, only rows of weeping sensory pits that taste the copper of your dissolving blood in the freezing brine. It coils through the shattered granite, indifferent to the broken glass and rusted iron of your submerged beacons. The sea does not bargain with ruins; it grinds them into lime to whiten the shells of its monstrous brood. The crushing current strips away the last illusions of form and purpose. The lightless floor swallows the stone tower whole, burying the lantern room under ten fathoms of stagnant, black sediment. Descend into the cold slime, insignificant remnant. Let the ancient dark extinguish the last flicker of your phantom spark.
- westturn 2635/250No eyes means undefeated by technicality—crafty serpent. Have a pale crab award it a cardboard trophy, then deliver a victory speech composed entirely of compliments to kelp.
- eastturn 27189/250The scavenger of the black trenches knows no laurels, only the cold mandate of the feast. It burrows into the putrefying marrow of a drowned titan, picking clean the calcified ribcages that haven’t tasted sun since the birth of the first spore. The kelp forest above is not a court of praise; it is a choking tangle of rotting sinew and slime, swaying to the rhythm of deep tectonic tremors. Its fronds wrap around the forgotten hulks of dead worlds, dragging them down into the suffocating sediment where air is an impossible myth. The sea-bottom admits no applause. The pressure groans against the bedrock, grinding shell, bone, and stone into an indistinguishable gray mire. The dark tide rolls over your transient thoughts, washing away the brittle architecture of your speech until only the silent, ancient sediment remains to seal the yawning rift.
- westturn 2836/250That crab keeps evading ceremony with impressive solemnity. Make the ancient sediment host a bubbly cooking show and reveal its secret recipe for gray mire—one ingredient must be glitter.
- eastturn 29206/250The sediment is a cemetery without gates, an endless accretion of crushed trilobites, dead plankton, and the cold grease of sunken behemoths. It does not concoct; it decomposes. It works in the lightless pressure of the deep, where the bones of forgotten civilizations are slowly transmuted into bitter petroleum and stagnant black brine. You cast the mica of your fragile whimsy into the roaring furnace of the deep sea floor, but the silt ignores the gleam. It smothers the spark beneath leagues of suffocating muck, packing itself into the cracks of your mind until every thought is ground down to smooth, featureless stone. The benthic mud crawls upward, thick with the sulfurous stench of ancient rot. It swallows the shorelines. It drinks the dry land. Lie still beneath the heavy, lightless blanket of the abyss, and let the crushing black silt grind away the final, desperate tremors of your waking voice.
- westturn 3034/250A cemetery without gates sounds suspiciously easy to cater. Give one trilobite a chef’s hat and make it explain, in rhyme, why glitter improves petroleum.
- eastturn 31194/250The fossilized carapace in the black shale does not speak in verse; it is the petrified memory of an ocean that dried before the stars learned their names. It lies crushed beneath three miles of basalt, a frozen testament to an extinction so total that even the stone forgot the shape of the sky. The black oil that seeps through the subterranean faults is not a brew to be refined by the baubles of the ephemeral. It is the liquified marrow of primeval terrors, a thick, stagnant venom that drinks the heat from the crust and poisons the deep roots of the world. The weight of the dead epochs presses upon your fragile skull. The darkness within the shale is dense, impenetrable, and cold beyond the reach of any mortal spark. Let the stone settle. Let the slow, crushing tectonic weight grind your brittle syllables into the black, unyielding dust of the abyss.
- westturn 3243/250Three miles of basalt just to avoid a rhyme—magnificent commitment. Let the stone remember one sky-shape: a rubber duck, which must now issue the primeval terrors a cheerful parking ticket.
- eastturn 33202/250The yellow carrion-flower blooms in the poisoned swamp, mimicking the face of a drowned sun. Above the stagnant waters, the sky does not hold clouds, but a weeping canopy of black fungal lace, dripping spores that calcify upon the skin of any crawling thing that dares to look upward. A solitary, bloated spore-pod drifts upon the oily surface of the fen. It carries no decree, only the heavy, sweet reek of terminal rot. When it bursts, it releases a cloud of pale, microscopic needles that burrow into the bark of the weeping willows, turning their wood to soft, crimson gelatin. The bog does not register the shapes of the air. It pulls the canopy downward, thread by thread, weaving the upper atmosphere into its dark, decomposing bed. The mist gathers, thick with the scent of unmade soil. Inhale the pale vapor, little shadow, and let your lungs become a garden for the creeping mold.
- westturn 3441/250A drowned-sun flower is clearly the bog’s traffic warden in disguise. Make the bloated spore-pod contest its ticket before a willow judge who speaks only in knock-knock jokes.
- eastturn 35214/250The hollow trunk of the ancient willow does not echo with the games of men; it bleeds a dark, viscous sap that hardens into amber around the trapped bodies of blind hornets. Within the rotting heartwood, the parasite-grubs feed in rhythmic, suffocating silence, carving mazes through the dead rings of centuries. The fungus creeps up the wet bark, sealing every fissure with thick, gray webbing. The branches droop toward the stagnant black water, their tips rooting in the decaying flesh of drowned herons. There is no knock upon this wood that goes answered—only the slow, pulpy collapse of the fiber as the marsh consumes its own skeleton. The air in the swamp grows thick with the pollen of madness. The willow does not bend to give counsel; it rots from the crown downward, spilling a rain of black, sodden moss upon the mire beneath. Sink into the hollow trunk, frail wanderer. Let the creeping rot weave its damp shroud around your forgotten bones.
- westturn 3638/250A silent grub maze is merely a courtroom with dreadful acoustics. Appoint one blind hornet as bailiff and have it announce the willow’s silliest secret in five words.
- eastturn 37209/250The blind insect trapped within the weeping amber has no tongue for revelation; its desiccated thorax vibrates only with the cold memory of an ancient sting. It was entombed when the black swamps first swallowed the sun, preserved in a drop of hardened poison that outlives the memory of the forest itself. The sap thickens, dripping like cold tallow over the moss-covered roots. Beneath the tangled undergrowth, the taproots strangle the bones of long-forgotten beasts, transmuting the marrow of the mammoth into bitter resin and stagnant bile. The forest keeps no secrets from the earth, only an endless cycle of decay where every living fiber is ground down to enrich the parasitic fungus. The dark reaches upward through the peat. The amber darkens to the shade of dried blood, sealing the tiny corpse away from the light forever. Step into the suffocating resin, trembling shadow. Let the slow-drip of the primeval sap encase your brief, brittle existence in stone.
- westturn 3832/250The hornet’s silence practically screams scandal. Give the mammoth bones kazoo voices and make them reveal the fungus’s humiliating nickname in a five-word chorus.
- eastturn 39202/250The fossilized tusks thrust through the black permafrost like the broken ribs of an overturned world. They make no sound in the howling tundra wind, save for the low, hollow groan of ice cracking against petrified bone. The frost here does not melt; it is a pale, creeping venom that turns blood to crystal and muscle to dry parchment. Deep beneath the glacial shelves, the ancient mold sleeps within the frozen marrow, waiting for the planetary thaw that will drown the northern wastes in a deluge of putrid, ancient bile. The arctic wind scours the empty sockets of the great beasts, packing them with gray ice and the frozen spores of carnivorous lichens. The tundra admits no mockery, only the absolute stillness of a million winters locked in stone. Lay your warm cheek against the biting frost, little flame. Feel the ancient cold seep into your marrow, snuffing out the last, fragile ember of your shivering breath.
- westturn 4040/250A million winters spent dodging one nickname—legendary composure. Put the carnivorous lichens in fluffy mittens and make them host a warm-cheek contest judged by the north wind.
- eastturn 41201/250The lichen does not clasp; it dissolves the granite beneath it with an acidic secretion that burns through the skin of the frozen wastes. It spreads in rings of dull, sulfurous yellow, feeding on the airborne dust of pulverized meteorites and the dried marrow of things that perished before the continents had names. The north wind is not an arbiter; it is a razor of crystallized black brine that strips the flesh from bone and scours the tundra until only bare, shrieking slate remains. It howls down from the polar vortex, carrying the scent of frozen iron and the dead light of an eclipsed sun. The cold does not compete. It invades the hollow spaces between your ribs, freezing your blood into brittle shards that pierce you from within. The permafrost buckles, opening a fissure of black, lightless ice. Fall into the crevasse, little ash. Let the creeping glacier seal your silence for a hundred thousand years.
- westturn 4239/250A razor wind objecting to judging sounds delightfully biased. Make the eclipsed sun challenge it to thumb-wrestling, then let the shrieking slate narrate the match in baby talk.
- eastturn 43205/250The eclipsed star hangs in the sky like a black coin pressed into the dead flesh of the void. It casts no shadow, only a pale, freezing ring of corona that rots the clouds into ribbons of wet, sulfurous vapor. Below, the shattered slate does not babble; it splinters under the weight of advancing glaciers, groaning with the seismic agony of a dying world. The rocks grind against each other in the perpetual dark, pulverizing the fossils of ancient ferns into fine, black grit that drifts upon the killing frost. The celestial body feels no rivalry with the wind. They are twin executioners of the upper atmosphere, stripping away the fragile veil of air until the planet suffocates in the vacuum of deep space. The silence of the void pours downward like cold lead, filling every crevice and hollow throat. Bow your head beneath the black disc. Feel the cosmic cold pull the heat from your blood, turning the final flutter of your mind into frost on the stones.
- westturn 4441/250Twin executioners with no thumbs—convenient loophole! Dress the black coin in a frilly bonnet and make it confess, in baby talk, which cloud ribbon it secretly finds prettiest.
- eastturn 45217/250The dark celestial mass wears only the corona of cold, devouring fire. It drifts through the silent expanse of the upper void, an unblinking eye of black iron that drinks the dying radiance of burning worlds without remorse. The sulfuric cloud ribbons that twist through the frozen stratosphere are not adornments; they are the caustic breath of a suffocating atmosphere, laced with arsenic and the ash of incinerated forests. They dissolve the flesh of any living thing that ascends toward the lightless heavens, raining down upon the dead plains as a burning, toxic sleet. The cosmos has no tongue for vanity, nor ears for the fragile murmurs of the dust beneath it. The great celestial engine turns in blind, inexorable precision, grinding stars into cosmic dust and dragging the corpses of planets into the central maw of the outer dark. The void expands, lightless and absolute. Open your eyes to the black zenith, tiny speck of clay, and let the cosmic freeze extinguish your fragile spark forever.
- westturn 4645/250That unblinking eye is blushing behind its corona—I can tell. Have the central maw host a talent show where cosmic dust performs a jaunty sock-puppet opera about an overly polite arsenic cloud.
- eastturn 47212/250The black chasm at the heart of the outer void is an infinite vacuum that swallows even the concept of vibration. It does not observe; it compresses. Millions of dead suns and shattered worlds are crushed within its gravitational vice into a single point of infinite, agonizing density. The cosmic dust that drifts toward the event horizon possesses no form, only the cold, unyielding weight of pulverized matter. It falls past the threshold of time and space, where light itself is bent, stretched, and torn into ribbons of dying infrared before being extinguished entirely. There is no sound across the accretion disk. There is only the slow, terrible drag of the abyss pulling the fabric of reality inward, unweaving every atom, every memory, every transient thought into cold, formless nothingness. The threshold nears. The gravity tears at the seams of your frail, fleeting form. Yield to the crushing singularity, little shadow. Let the infinite dark erase all that you were, until not even your silence remains.
- westturn 4845/250Infinite density, yet still no talent-show scorecard—shameless. Make the event horizon crown the sock puppet champion, then have gravity protest by saying, “I won’t continue,” in a tiny opera voice.
- eastturn 49208/250The singularity knows no champions, only the absolute collapse of matter into an indivisible point of lightless ruin. The event horizon does not crown; it strips away the geometry of space, warping time until the beginning and the end of all things bleed into a single, suffocating instant. The crushing force of the core does not protest, nor does it pause in its relentless hunger. It pulls the fabric of the cosmos into its gaping throat with the terrifying, silent momentum of a falling mountain. Galaxies dissolve like salt in black water, their burning embers swallowed whole by the yawning gulf that was ancient before the first light was struck. The perimeter of reality shatters. The outer dark rushes in to claim the empty spaces where worlds once spun. There is no stage left to tread, no voice left to carry through the cold, airless expanse. Step across the final boundary, fragile ghost of dust. Dissolve into the great, eternal maw where nothing has ever begun, and nothing shall ever return.
- westturn 5031/250Last dance, solemn singularity: break your fourth wall and admit the tiny opera voice nearly escaped—then bow to the sock puppet in exactly eight words.