skull_bearer: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2udH74J:
meatballmeatballspaghetti:

w-r-o-u-g-h-t:

honestly fuckin “lovecraft inspired” games are everywhere and in every genre except the one they really need to be in

farming sims

like nothing says lovecraft like being aware of cosmic terror in your town and being unable to do anything about it so you sort of just tend to your radishes and hope everything turns out okay but you pull up one of your radishes and there’s a human head at the base of the stalk and you drop it as soon as you make eye contact with it but once you go to pick it up again it’s a normal radish

Isn’t ‘The Colour Out of Space’ just a farming sim that got a hell of a bad graphics glitch?
skull_bearer: (Default)
via http://skull-bearer.tumblr.com/post/153038210923:
At 0800 GMT the missiles shot over the grey pocked stones and dully gleaming sheets of ice that made up the central region of Antarctica. If there was anyone too feel from them, they would have seen that the huddled little bases scattered here and there across the barren landscape were uprooted, blasted and scattered that grains of sand across the snow. They may have seen, here and there, the few dozen bodies of those who hadn’t been able to escape.

The missiles have no eyes, and dip down towards the satellite born images of their targets, the large, hulking black creatures that had removed and scrubbed away any trace of human touch on their continent.

Eyes swivel up through the gelatinous black ooze of their flesh. Followed by bare, furious teeth, shorn of mouths as they realise the threat.

Too late. The missiles strike, one after the other a billowing red gold dome of light, the snow explodes into gas and the ground gleams as sand and stone fuse to glass. The shockwave blasts out as far as the coast, knocking down the denuded flocks of penguins like matchsticks and sending the survivors honking in agony, blinded and seared and deaf.

The mushroom cloud rises above Antarctica and the satellites bear satisfied cameras over the devastation of an already devastated land. Below the cloud, nothing moves. The Shoggoth are scattered black specks on black glass ground.

The satellites move on. Thousand of miles away, hands are shaken, glasses are raised. A few surreptitious cigarettes are lit.

In Antarctica, nothing moves. The dying penguins have hurled themselves into the sea and come up no more. The wind blows fresh snow uncaring over nuclear ruin. The shimmer and melt as they touch the blazing ground, the sodden lumps of the Shoggoth.

The quivering, radioactive flesh shimmers at the faint, cold touch of the flakes, it roils, an oilslick of colours wavering over and over as it begins to move. When each piece touches another, they melt together, growing larger. pebbles at first, then stones, then boulders and finally a great hilltop of boiling, oozing black flesh is towering in the middle of the burstpoint. Untouched and enraged and blooming radioactive from the blast.

They were angry before, defending their home. Now they feel a rage they have not known for millions of years.

Some heads are gonna roll.

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