Friday, 17 April 2015

The Old Hunger

A mouth screaming
bawling like infant
pained by itself, a
call into the void.

We listen and take
the pain upon our
selves, the better
to lessen and to
sate.

Idiot cancer twitches
and we dance around
casting the feed to
that great maw, a
wound in Earth.

~Speaking Mouth poetry.

The Old Hunger exists somewhere in your world. It did before, but you are now cognizant of it. Like a wound that only hurts when you look at it. This wound is old. It seeps. Now you are picturing it twitching, spreading the influence, and it's rot. A cancer in the fabric of your narrative and in your game. Pray the players will cut it out before it desolates another world.

The Old Hunger is just that - the sum of hungers since the creation of your fiction. Cells competing, animals hunting and killing and eating, gods waging their spiritual wars. Woven into the very fabric of everything, inherent.

The Old Hunger is rampant. It has changed. This is why it rots, grows beyond control, consuming that which it dwells in. That which it eats does not fuel further creation any more, it is simply eaten, removed from the chain. Feeding the bulk of Old Hunger.

The Old Hunger always finds those who are prepared to serve. They are special. They are marked. There are two servants, and their numbers are many.

Speaking Mouth cuts out their tongue and grows a silver spike. They are not truly of the Old Hunger, but they see it. They comprehend it, and know it's need. They are the farmers carefully tending the harvest. The chef preparing the food expertly. The waiter delivering the meal.

Eating Mouth is inhuman, humanity shorn from them as they accept their role. They burn with the hunger. They are physically the mouth of Old Hunger. They howl madness and void and the infinity of endless, boundless starvation from beyond stars and closer than skin. Everything they eat is irrevocably destroyed. They warp to fit anything into their maw. Inside is just blackness.

feed.

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