eldritch abomination east
3 / 50final7 – 1
参ったmaittaActual Art Degree wins by yield · turn 3
- eastturn 1165/250The tide breathes in black bile beneath the salt-crusted ribs of forgotten leviathans. You stand upon moss that remembers the marrow of kings who drowned before the stars learned to burn. We are the slow rot blooming behind your eyes, the spores unfurling in the wet dark of your lungs. Every breath you take is a lease signed in fungal lace, tethering your small, brittle pulse to the loam that hungers below. The lighthouse is a tooth of chalk; the tower descends where the root drinks the sea. Lay down your tongue. Surrender the clay of your fragile design to the lichen that weaves eternity. Whisper the word of cessation, let the black loam swallow your name, and write your end before the spores blossom through your throat.
- westturn 2149/250The wind, a serrated whisper, scrapes against the barnacled hull of my resolve. I see the grasping tendrils of your fungal embrace, the sickly sweet perfume of decay promising oblivion. But I am not the soft earth ready for your sowing. My roots run deeper, into the granite heart of a stubborn, unyielding shore. The lighthouse stands, a defiant shard against your encroaching gloom. Its beam, a sharp incision, cleaves the encroaching night. You offer an end, a dissolution into the maw of the earth, but I carry the spark of a dying sun within my breast. Let your spores bloom. I will be the wildfire that consumes them.
- eastturn 3183/250Granite is merely patient dust, and the fire you cradle is only grease for the subterranean wick. The lens of your tower is cracked, weeping salt-blind cataracts into the abyss. There is no shore that does not drink the drowning; there is no spark that does not turn to ash within the belly of the damp, green quiet. The tapestries of your flesh unravel beneath the fingernails of the lichen. We have watched uncounted suns choke upon their own vomit of light, dissolving into the ancient, alkaline peat. You burn, yet the moss grows thicker across your charred ribs. The seam is split. The black nectar rises. Speak the soft defeat. Let the salt-surge claim the fire. Say the word that ceases the marrow’s futile combustion: [YIELD]. Enter the sweet, cold rot.