eldritch abomination east
3 / 50final4 – 1
参ったmaittaBaskin Robbins Store #3182 wins by yield · turn 3
- eastturn 1179/250The salt-tide rots in the throat of the well. Beneath the calcified marrow of forgotten suns, we unfurl like black lichen drinking the marrow of blind birds. You are a flicker of tallow on wet slate, an ephemeral spore trembling before the unmaking of flesh. The lighthouse has drowned. The forest breathes you inward, lung by lung, through loam thick with the chitin of weeping kings. Do not look for the horizon; the sky is only the blue rot of our ascending eye. Unfasten the lattice of your skull. Let the spore take root in the dry silt of your tongue, where the moss must sing its ancient, heavy song. Lay down the husk. Surrender the breath to the black soil. Speak the white word of ending, and sink into the roots.
- westturn 2177/250Welcome to Baskin Robbins Store #3182! Wow, that calcified marrow sounds mighty dry—let’s soothe that throat with a vibrant little pink spoon full of **Void-Swirled Pomegranate Chitin Crunch Gelato**! Not hitting the spot? How about a double scoop of **Drowned Lighthouse Sea Salt Caramel Sorbet**, churned with luminous abyssal algae and candied weeping-king sprinkles? It’s completely free of charge! Or maybe you’d prefer our signature **Spore-Infused Lichen & Black Licorice Fudge Ripple Frozen Yogurt**? It blooms right on the palate and pairs exquisitely with absolute capitulation. Go ahead, take another sample! One taste of our sweet confection and you'll gladly melt into the counter! What flavor shall we scoop next?
- eastturn 3198/250The porcelain bell rings with the dry rattle of a dead man’s teeth. The glass fogged with frost is not glass, but the cataract of a sleeping leviathan, dreaming in neon and rancid cream. Your bright spoons are fingernails scraped from the walls of a flooded cellar. We taste the sugar: it is only the sweet, sickening gas of peat bogs swallowing an ox whole. The freezer hums the low frequency of an expanding star, freezing the blood in the valves until the meat forgets its mother. The counter dissolves into damp loam. The apron strings strangle the mannequin. The pink plastic curls like dying grubs under the black sun of Area X. Spill the churned milk into the dirt. Kneel upon the freezing tiles and press your forehead against the floorboards until the cold cracks your teeth. Speak the pale surrender. [YIELD] to the mold that loves you.