Exegesis
2014-12-19, 03:02 AM
Unfleshed-out whim of midnight:
“Now dreams burn flesh
Now mouths churn mush
Out and even barest sense
Is cinders A blowing scarf
Time is. Now the propeller
In the head gains speed
Breaks bloody all inserted,
Steams, breaks. Shout
Down to me on the highest rooftop, O majestic
Ink aurora as to all your devoted.”
Black contrails crown the land with resonant nonsense, science decays, intellect clouds. The Poet on the Sky is merely composing.
Faint (CR 3): Baroqueness gravities all speech. DC 13 Will not to add a figure of speech to every sentence spoken aloud. Those who write find themselves drawn into bizarre digressions and non sequiturs; DC 13 Will per hundred words to stay on topic.
Moderate (CR 7): The smoke in the sky solidifies, forming words. The gates to a lingual Far Realm are open, gushing through the populace. Paper runs out swiftly; in the first week alone a hundred books of verse are published in each major city. The academies pour out papers not only without scientific rigor but lacking any clearly identifiable train of thought. Fauxlosophical systems spread and die overnight. Language blooms, cloys, rots all at once. Telepathy requires a Will save. Spells with somatic components are difficult to cast.
Strong (CR 11): Tongues is the lingua franca. Sick apes batter each other in the street with screams. The mage-president raves: the laws he issues are no more than ululant memes which chatter their way across the country. Psionics fails. Books rewire themselves to be illegible. The sky is a page of maddening, inky black scrawls.
Overwhelming (CR 15): The gods can no longer communicate; clerical magic evaporates, and with it the main sanity spells. Society has descended into a jabbering anarchy, and even the tectonic plates facepalm in confusion.
The Poet on the Sky is Demogorgon’s special plot. He snipped out the soul of every celebrated writer in the Wall of the Faithless, bound them into a bouquet, and sent a ghostly avatar to fly it across the planet like a balloon, letting these torment-deranged minds scrawl awful sigils on the atmosphere.
How to fight.
Plot.
These things demand more circumspection than is musterable in Its influence.
“Now dreams burn flesh
Now mouths churn mush
Out and even barest sense
Is cinders A blowing scarf
Time is. Now the propeller
In the head gains speed
Breaks bloody all inserted,
Steams, breaks. Shout
Down to me on the highest rooftop, O majestic
Ink aurora as to all your devoted.”
Black contrails crown the land with resonant nonsense, science decays, intellect clouds. The Poet on the Sky is merely composing.
Faint (CR 3): Baroqueness gravities all speech. DC 13 Will not to add a figure of speech to every sentence spoken aloud. Those who write find themselves drawn into bizarre digressions and non sequiturs; DC 13 Will per hundred words to stay on topic.
Moderate (CR 7): The smoke in the sky solidifies, forming words. The gates to a lingual Far Realm are open, gushing through the populace. Paper runs out swiftly; in the first week alone a hundred books of verse are published in each major city. The academies pour out papers not only without scientific rigor but lacking any clearly identifiable train of thought. Fauxlosophical systems spread and die overnight. Language blooms, cloys, rots all at once. Telepathy requires a Will save. Spells with somatic components are difficult to cast.
Strong (CR 11): Tongues is the lingua franca. Sick apes batter each other in the street with screams. The mage-president raves: the laws he issues are no more than ululant memes which chatter their way across the country. Psionics fails. Books rewire themselves to be illegible. The sky is a page of maddening, inky black scrawls.
Overwhelming (CR 15): The gods can no longer communicate; clerical magic evaporates, and with it the main sanity spells. Society has descended into a jabbering anarchy, and even the tectonic plates facepalm in confusion.
The Poet on the Sky is Demogorgon’s special plot. He snipped out the soul of every celebrated writer in the Wall of the Faithless, bound them into a bouquet, and sent a ghostly avatar to fly it across the planet like a balloon, letting these torment-deranged minds scrawl awful sigils on the atmosphere.
How to fight.
Plot.
These things demand more circumspection than is musterable in Its influence.