Tentacles Reach

Tentacles reach; they stretch; they twist; they squeeze.  Tentacles suffocate and tentacles tear you limb from limb.  Tentacles suck and tentacles break.  Tentacles strike and tentacles coil.  They whip!  They crash!  They roil!

Yes, tentacles reach. But what of the reaches we do not see, the reaches masked in the camouflage of oil, the reaches undetected, reaches for which we mount no defense? For do not tentacles surface from the depths?  They do, so do not play the fool.  Wicked’s grip is great.  Wicked’s grip is long.  Blind we are to its devices.  Ignorant we are to the extents it will go.

Such is the way of he who lives, of whom the worlds buried and forgot within the Wastes, of he who weaves his nets in the dark, lying in wait, removed from view and memory, and yet vast, far-reaching as the ocean swells, as inescapable as the kraken’s grasp, terrifying to behold.  He is the last.  And of the last he is the first.  Death befriends him.  Shadow makes him his clothes.  The very servants of the night are his and to the powers of corruption he holds.  He is of the Thirteenth Ring, of the Mayspring clan.  He is Necromancer.  He is Warlock King.  And He stirs.  And upon the light of the Worm Moon he will rise.  So it is written, so it will unfold.  Darkness is coming…

Inkling #12:

What is The Seven Thunders?  It is he who’s name is dead.  He who’s name is blotted from stone.  Banished one.  A thousand years caged.  Vengence-maker.  Deathdealer.  Villain.  Dread.  He who stops at nothing.  Molderaac.