All posts by Cody Goodfellow

Broken Bell part 3

The arched doorway of an old Californian mission chapel (with maybe some cracks and holes in the adobe on the exterior wall to reveal human skulls among the bricks) with a hooded monk (no face or perhaps just the brow and nose and cheekbones peeking out of the murk). He’s lurching partway out of the strong shadow like a vampire at noon, with one hand beckoning to us and the other making an occult gesture…

When next the bell rang, it was all he could do to keep his feet. He steeled himself for another meal. Fray Joachim led them into the dining hall and took his seat at the head of the long table. A platter of raw corn and a jug of water awaited them. The bell ringer brought the monks a plate of ears of corn. Fray Joachim took them one by one and ate them, cobs and all. Hull took a mouthful of corn and chewed it throughout the meal, drinking his water and silently battling Obregon for the rest of the jug. McKeever sat staring straight ahead as he fisted the corn into his mouth like a pig on market day. 

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BROKEN BELL part 2

The arched doorway of an old Californian mission chapel (with maybe some cracks and holes in the adobe on the exterior wall to reveal human skulls among the bricks) with a hooded monk (no face or perhaps just the brow and nose and cheekbones peeking out of the murk). He’s lurching partway out of the strong shadow like a vampire at noon, with one hand beckoning to us and the other making an occult gesture…

They left the dining hall by another door and followed Fray Joachim across a paved courtyard and into a chapel. If anything, it was darker within than without, though a single tapered candle guttered in the vestibule. Moving like clumsy puppets, the men shuffled past the friar into the musty darkness of the chapel. They fumbled through layers of heavy sailcloth curtains infested with dry rot and moths; and when they had won through to the lightless cavern, they fumbled blindly for the pews and settled into them. 

There was a rustling of heavy wool and a scuffling of leather sandals as the last leaden echoes of the bell dissolved in the air. Fray Joachim’s voice came from the altar, the guttural drone so low and slow that it seemed to take a score of minutes for each syllable to pass his lips. 

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Broken Bell part 1

The arched doorway of an old Californian mission chapel (with maybe some cracks and holes in the adobe on the exterior wall to reveal human skulls among the bricks) with a hooded monk (no face or perhaps just the brow and nose and cheekbones peeking out of the murk). He’s lurching partway out of the strong shadow like a vampire at noon, with one hand beckoning to us and the other making an occult gesture…

The sun at high noon was a curse on the earth when the exhausted pinto mare that bore Lope Obregon and Eight-Finger Nate into the dooryard of the long-forgotten mission dropped dead under their weight. The two men slashed their saddlebags free of the dead horse and ran for the arched doorway at the foot of the bone-white church, and the gaunt, hooded figure that stood in its shadow as if awaiting the desperate men.

“Bless me, padre, for I have sinned,” said Lope Obregon, crossing himself while his partner drew his mismatched pistols. “We claim sanctuary…”

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Demiurge of Daoloth

Demiurge of Daoloth

Servitor of Daoloth, Render of the Veils; Creator & Destroyer of Universes.

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The Huhuotl

A union of Hali-Spawn and human host, the gestalt organism is able to engage in physical combat while simultaneously casting spells. Bullets inflict negligible damage, and they are only partially susceptible to slashing weapons. Moreover, the ichor of the Huhuotl regenerates even traumatic physical damage until its hit points are reduced to -6 or lower; seemingly dead, the Huhuotli may resume activity when hit points have regenerated back above 0. The Red Gaze of a Huhuotl plunges its victim into a killing rage, in which he may attack friends as well as his enemy. If faced with a particularly worthy opponent, the Huhuotl may draw its victim into extremely close quarters, then attempt to attach one of its sucker-mouthed tentacles to his/her throat, simultaneously draining 1D4 hit points of blood per round and injecting a small amount of its own ichor into the bloodstream. Without a complete blood transfusion within 4 hours, the victim’s blood becomes commingled with the Huhuotli ichor, and will not allow itself to be removed without killing the host.

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The Spawn Of Hali–Greater Servitor Race

The HuhuotlThe octopoid inhabitants of the Lake of Hali spend millennia in a larval stage that initially is not much larger than the human head. Shortly after hatching, many are transported across light years of space to colonize distant worlds; whether this is done to spread the progeny of Hastur throughout the universe, or as a defense against the cannibalistic attentions of their sires is unknown. Physically defenseless for all their formidable alien magic, the infant Spawn must pursue a parasitic relationship with other species to fulfill its bloodthirsty nature. The Spawn foment constant warfare among host races wherever they go, selecting the fittest as host bodies, and driving all other inhabitants to extinction. Countless worlds have been overrun and turned into nightmarish outposts of Carcosa by the Spawn of Hali in this manner. In addition to their Amazonian colony, the Spawn of Hali may have infested other remote regions of the earth such as Australia, where they may lie at the root of the myth of the giant- headed, weather-controlling Wandjina.

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THEY ARE NOT MOCKED: The Cuteness Of Cthulhu

“We can only avoid assimilation by writing hermetically; by not making ourselves clear to every department store shop-assistant. Mystery is frightening…”

––Unidentified Trotskyite speaker sampled in Greater Than One’s “Fear Is The Agent Of Violence” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAn2_Jfw7eo

            Much rhetorical blood and literal ink has already been spilled over the question of graven or implushed images of Cthulhu and the Great Old Ones; but, while the argument may have fallen away unresolved as a relic of the halcyon days of sane public discourse, the failure to address the true scourge afflicting our dreams of hegemony haunts us still, and shall grow ever worse unless and until we cleanse it with purifying (albeit figurative, for now) fire.

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