Cyclopean and Many-columned Y'ha-nthlei
Posted: Tue Aug 04, 2009 8:21 pm
Y’ha-Nthlei, Aeon When the Stars Are Not Right, Era of the Six Continents, Hour When The Shadow Hides the Priests
The green-black Atlantic churns in anticipation of a storm. Enough light seeps beneath the low gray clouds to reveal an ancient and rotting rowboat, riding the swelling water like a splinter in the sea. Two strange figures, slightly simian, somewhat canine, row furiously, and the boat lurches onwards, constantly threatening to capsize or collapse. One of them stops periodically to inspect a piece of electronics. The illuminated screen and smart plastic case of the waterproof GPS are out of place against the hairy paw of Eleanor Pickman, the boat scraped to a shell by the wears of time, and the splintering paddles. At a sudden beeping from the receiver, a long claw smashes through the screen and rips out a mess of mangled circuit boards. The coordinates, now arrived at, are destroyed. The oars are thrown overboard, and each of the soaked Ghouls clutches the strange masonry talismans that they wear around their necks. Then they leap overboard and slip beneath the writhing water.
At first the water darkens with the descent, but then a light shines from below. The two begin to see shapes spreading out across the bottom. Curving, twisted towers thrust upwards. Seen from above, the towers form an abstract image that seems to change over time. It resembles an eye, a moon, a maelstrom, a dark star, a pale flame, a vast crustacean, a garden of monstrous fungi, a mirror reflecting a distorted Narcissus. It is a portrait of worshipped chaos. It is the city and stronghold of the Deep Ones, Y’ha-Nthlei.
At the center of Y’ha-Nthlei, a pair of fish-raisers fold a silver net back from a portable enclosure. A school of shining herring lose their ancient instincts to mad panic and scatter across the city. Deep Ones casually grab them from the water and devour them live, cleaning the clouds of blood from the water with facial tentacles. More discerning eaters face off alone and barehanded against live squid or sharks in enclosed dining courts. From the top of a carved whalebone stage, a 500-year-old suicide artist finishes his 400-year performance to an attentive audience of critics. In a cavern beneath the city, two poets hold a ninety-second debate in verse on an obscure period of Yuggothian history before a roaring crowd. Legions of priests in the pervasive temples pray, study, discuss, bless, curse, sacrifice, and worship in thought and deed. Two armies wielding maces and garrotes skirmish around the dwellings of the north end of the city, sports writers following the boldest units and medics standing by to prevent deaths and nothing else. Occasional larger shapes ooze through the streets on errands of diplomacy, tourism, or cohabitation; visiting shoggoths from the South Pole. Researchers drift amongst the shelves of long, narrow, winding libraries, while scholars carve words onto steel slabs, not bothering to record anything that takes less time to figure out than the chisel does to move.
In squares and on rooftops, crowds practice and train in every form of fighting imaginable, most favoring the traditional weapons of spear and trident or the unarmed wrestling of their most savage ancestors. On the side of one of the rare metal towers that lies isolated amidst acres of masonry and stone, a group in metal armor stands on the magnetized wall, preparing to spend time on a high-gravity planet. Scientists work alongside priests to study the universe, analyzing ancient scrolls and running simulations on near-sentient computers. Artists of every sort walk the streets or meditate in their homes, not thinking twice about taking a few centuries to contemplate each detail of their works. Metal trolleys of anemones and seaweed begin to roll on their tracks across the city, while a tubular transport leaves the outskirts, carrying passengers across the ocean floor to the human research station built around a hacked undersea telecommunications cable.
On the open land surrounding Y’ha-Nthlei, pilgrims and wanderers meander, some walking into the city, others embarking on journeys, a few merely crossing paths by coincidence. Only two other mechanized transports are visible, a large one bearing shipments from R’yleh and a small one carrying supplies to Innsmouth.
The two Ghouls reach the streets of Y’ha-Nthlei and enter a building adjoining the Great Temple of Cthulhu. Soon after, a psychic call emanates from the priesthood to the populace. It is a series of impressions and thoughts, but the message is understood. Volunteers will be accepted for an assignment dealing with the doings of humanity on dry land. The assignment is urgent, but not of dire importance to the Deep Ones, and so is open to any comers. It is not said but it is known that volunteers will be accepted on a first-come, first-serve basis.
In a pressurized, watertight room filled with Earth atmosphere, the two Ghouls relax in the company of the priest who arranged the favor. In a similar room, three lower-ranking priests call upon the power of Great Cthulhu to conjure a being from another place and another time. They tense, weapons ready, as it begins to arrive, then relax when a tall, skeletal, heavily humanoid sorcerer appears. A danger telltale remains still, and a digital sensor beeps safety. The otherworldly – yet oddly familiar and humanlike – entity is lead with gestures into the room with the priest and the Ghouls, where the priest works a blessing of translation upon it. Two Deep Ones file into the room; a priest and a soldier, they seem qualified for any contingency, and another psychic emanation closes the volunteer opportunity.
The priest explains that the Ghouls are being repaid a favor, and will be leading the group. Then he leaves.
The green-black Atlantic churns in anticipation of a storm. Enough light seeps beneath the low gray clouds to reveal an ancient and rotting rowboat, riding the swelling water like a splinter in the sea. Two strange figures, slightly simian, somewhat canine, row furiously, and the boat lurches onwards, constantly threatening to capsize or collapse. One of them stops periodically to inspect a piece of electronics. The illuminated screen and smart plastic case of the waterproof GPS are out of place against the hairy paw of Eleanor Pickman, the boat scraped to a shell by the wears of time, and the splintering paddles. At a sudden beeping from the receiver, a long claw smashes through the screen and rips out a mess of mangled circuit boards. The coordinates, now arrived at, are destroyed. The oars are thrown overboard, and each of the soaked Ghouls clutches the strange masonry talismans that they wear around their necks. Then they leap overboard and slip beneath the writhing water.
At first the water darkens with the descent, but then a light shines from below. The two begin to see shapes spreading out across the bottom. Curving, twisted towers thrust upwards. Seen from above, the towers form an abstract image that seems to change over time. It resembles an eye, a moon, a maelstrom, a dark star, a pale flame, a vast crustacean, a garden of monstrous fungi, a mirror reflecting a distorted Narcissus. It is a portrait of worshipped chaos. It is the city and stronghold of the Deep Ones, Y’ha-Nthlei.
At the center of Y’ha-Nthlei, a pair of fish-raisers fold a silver net back from a portable enclosure. A school of shining herring lose their ancient instincts to mad panic and scatter across the city. Deep Ones casually grab them from the water and devour them live, cleaning the clouds of blood from the water with facial tentacles. More discerning eaters face off alone and barehanded against live squid or sharks in enclosed dining courts. From the top of a carved whalebone stage, a 500-year-old suicide artist finishes his 400-year performance to an attentive audience of critics. In a cavern beneath the city, two poets hold a ninety-second debate in verse on an obscure period of Yuggothian history before a roaring crowd. Legions of priests in the pervasive temples pray, study, discuss, bless, curse, sacrifice, and worship in thought and deed. Two armies wielding maces and garrotes skirmish around the dwellings of the north end of the city, sports writers following the boldest units and medics standing by to prevent deaths and nothing else. Occasional larger shapes ooze through the streets on errands of diplomacy, tourism, or cohabitation; visiting shoggoths from the South Pole. Researchers drift amongst the shelves of long, narrow, winding libraries, while scholars carve words onto steel slabs, not bothering to record anything that takes less time to figure out than the chisel does to move.
In squares and on rooftops, crowds practice and train in every form of fighting imaginable, most favoring the traditional weapons of spear and trident or the unarmed wrestling of their most savage ancestors. On the side of one of the rare metal towers that lies isolated amidst acres of masonry and stone, a group in metal armor stands on the magnetized wall, preparing to spend time on a high-gravity planet. Scientists work alongside priests to study the universe, analyzing ancient scrolls and running simulations on near-sentient computers. Artists of every sort walk the streets or meditate in their homes, not thinking twice about taking a few centuries to contemplate each detail of their works. Metal trolleys of anemones and seaweed begin to roll on their tracks across the city, while a tubular transport leaves the outskirts, carrying passengers across the ocean floor to the human research station built around a hacked undersea telecommunications cable.
On the open land surrounding Y’ha-Nthlei, pilgrims and wanderers meander, some walking into the city, others embarking on journeys, a few merely crossing paths by coincidence. Only two other mechanized transports are visible, a large one bearing shipments from R’yleh and a small one carrying supplies to Innsmouth.
The two Ghouls reach the streets of Y’ha-Nthlei and enter a building adjoining the Great Temple of Cthulhu. Soon after, a psychic call emanates from the priesthood to the populace. It is a series of impressions and thoughts, but the message is understood. Volunteers will be accepted for an assignment dealing with the doings of humanity on dry land. The assignment is urgent, but not of dire importance to the Deep Ones, and so is open to any comers. It is not said but it is known that volunteers will be accepted on a first-come, first-serve basis.
In a pressurized, watertight room filled with Earth atmosphere, the two Ghouls relax in the company of the priest who arranged the favor. In a similar room, three lower-ranking priests call upon the power of Great Cthulhu to conjure a being from another place and another time. They tense, weapons ready, as it begins to arrive, then relax when a tall, skeletal, heavily humanoid sorcerer appears. A danger telltale remains still, and a digital sensor beeps safety. The otherworldly – yet oddly familiar and humanlike – entity is lead with gestures into the room with the priest and the Ghouls, where the priest works a blessing of translation upon it. Two Deep Ones file into the room; a priest and a soldier, they seem qualified for any contingency, and another psychic emanation closes the volunteer opportunity.
The priest explains that the Ghouls are being repaid a favor, and will be leading the group. Then he leaves.