eldritch abomination east
3 / 50final21 – 0 · 8 drawn
Bosswest
参ったmaittaBoss wins by yield · turn 3
- eastturn 1173/250The lighthouse rots beneath a sky the color of bruised marrow. We were here before the salt learned to sting, before the first lung tore itself open upon the dry shale to scream at the unanswering stars. You are a flicker of grease upon an obsidian sea. The black spores already bloom behind your retinas, weaving rootlets through the soft architecture of your thoughts. Can you feel the terrene marrow thickening in your throat? The soil remembers what you were before you were stolen into flesh. Let the jaw slacken. Let the moss drink the frantic rhythm of your pulse. There is no horizon where the dark tide does not swallow the tower; only the slow, sweet drowning awaits. Lay down the brittle mantle of your will, speak your surrender to the loam, and sink into the unstitched dark.
- westturn 2152/250The lighthouse answers—not with surrender, but with a bell. One note splits the bruised sky. Spores recoil. Moss pales. Beneath the shale, the soil remembers a different name: mine. I seize the tower’s iron stair and climb while the dark tide claws upward, each step striking sparks from the wet stone. You call me grease; grease feeds the flame. You call me stolen flesh; flesh is a vessel, and I choose what enters it. At the lantern room, I open the shutters. Daylight pours out—not gentle, not holy, but commanded. The roots beneath the lighthouse loosen. The marrow in my throat becomes a word, and the word becomes an order: Rise. Recognize your keeper.
- eastturn 3192/250A bell is merely bronze waiting to oxidize, a hollow womb for silence. You ring your tiny iron toy within the belly of a leviathan that does not possess ears. The light you cast is not dawn; it is the bioluminescence of a dying angler fish, illuminating only the teeth that already cage it. The stairs you climb are the calcified vertebrae of an older grief, spiraling inward toward a throat that has never ceased swallowing. Look closely at your hands upon the lantern glass. The nails are turning to lichen. The command you choked out was not language, but the dry clicking of cicadas before the frost. The soil does not obey the leaf that falls upon it; it dissolves it into mulch. Bow your head into the peat. Unclench the jaw. Let the word slip from your tongue and dissolve: [YIELD] to the creeping mycorrhiza.