Description:
A 'friendly' snack
So it turns out that a family cursed by the eldritch hunger is not exactly able to view house guests as anything more then another snack. Who would have thought?
Fragments from Grims Diary:
I thought that this was it. That we had finally fallen into the trapp. Stuck between the Eldritch monstrosities and the endless void. Where would there have been to run on this little piece of physical space floating in this ethernal darkness? The miverian houseing nothing more then a dinner plate uppon which we were served onto the Eldritch folkhome.
I may have passed out from a combination of fear and oxygen deprivement. Byt ive been told by glyph that the Father grabbed her too. And tried to rip the book from her, not wanting the manifestation of what had once been his whife to be sullied by Zebra hooves.
But as the tome was ripped from her. It showed her a scripture that she cried out in desperation. A verbal key that found its lock inside the boddy of our friend, Mivera.
For the curse of her eldritch blood had not been severed by our earlier deeds. Merely locked away.
And the book now cried for its unlocking. A cry for help amplified by our cries of doom that called for the power in her blood.
What folowed — I believe — can only be described as one hell of an dinner-table argument.
I'd realy hate to be over for any future family dinners.
So it turns out that a family cursed by the eldritch hunger is not exactly able to view house guests as anything more then another snack. Who would have thought?
Fragments from Grims Diary:
I thought that this was it. That we had finally fallen into the trapp. Stuck between the Eldritch monstrosities and the endless void. Where would there have been to run on this little piece of physical space floating in this ethernal darkness? The miverian houseing nothing more then a dinner plate uppon which we were served onto the Eldritch folkhome.
I may have passed out from a combination of fear and oxygen deprivement. Byt ive been told by glyph that the Father grabbed her too. And tried to rip the book from her, not wanting the manifestation of what had once been his whife to be sullied by Zebra hooves.
But as the tome was ripped from her. It showed her a scripture that she cried out in desperation. A verbal key that found its lock inside the boddy of our friend, Mivera.
For the curse of her eldritch blood had not been severed by our earlier deeds. Merely locked away.
And the book now cried for its unlocking. A cry for help amplified by our cries of doom that called for the power in her blood.
What folowed — I believe — can only be described as one hell of an dinner-table argument.
I'd realy hate to be over for any future family dinners.
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