Fish Stories

on June 15, 2010 in Other Tales


The World Grew Bones
A Cephalopod Account Of Creation

Those who flow reckon the number of the elements of the world as the half part of the eight, and they know them in this fashion: as Water, life-giving, protean, and eternal; as Solid, stubborn and unyielding and yet breakable; as Absence, empty and dry; as Warmth, life-sustaining and illuminating.

In the beginning there was the Water, protean and ever-flowing, ever-moving and ever-changing. So it is written on the skin of the world; so we receive.

Unfettered by form, the Water was without boundaries or limits, and It had vast streams of children stretching out like tentacles through the vastness of Its body. They grew and divided and spawned and filled the Water with life, and the life was Water and the Water was life.

All living things came from the Water, and they flowed like the Water and to the Water they dissolved. So it is written on the skin of the world; so we receive.

All things change and nothing remains. So there came children of the Water who craved the Solid, who toiled to draw it out from where it was suspended hidden within the Water, and when they found it they clad themselves in it, and built homes of it, and gave themselves support and structure.

They grew shells and bones, and claws and legs, and they worked the world over until it changed with them.

The world grew bones; the ever-changing Water would never again be formless and unfettered, though It would never rest but ever strain against Its bonds, wearing them down until the day when the It can flow freely again.

Those who flow know that the tentacles of the children of the Water are the full part of eight in number.

The children of the first tentacle flow freely in the Water as It flows through them. Protean and flexible, blessed with all of its best nature. We remain through all changes, as we change with the world.

The children of the second tentacle are of the Water but have grasped the Solid to them: those of the cuttle, the bivalve, and the chambered shell. They embrace the Solid and use it, but they possess the gifts of Water and some of the wisdom to use them.

The children of the third tentacle have clad themselves in Solid. They skitter across the wet bones at the bottom of the sea. They scuttle up to kiss the Absence upon the dry bones of the land. They have walled themselves off from the Water. They deny themselves Its blessing even when they immerse themselves in It.

The children of the other tentacles have taken the Solid and made it a part of themselves. Lines of bone run through their body like great frozen currents. They are numbered as this: the fish and the sharks are of the fourth tentacle, the turtles and scale-skins of land are of the fifth, those who drink of the Absence through holes are of the sixth, the birds who swim without Water are of the seventh, and the milk-bearing beasts of the land are of the last.

All things came from the Water, and to it they shall dissolve. Those who depend on the Solid are seduced by its illusion of constancy, but the only constant is change.

So it is written on the skin of the world; so we transmit.


“And that’s the story, as the octopods tell it,” Avalon said. “Or at least, the way they tell it to us. Their version uses all eight of their legs and only takes the span of a few waves to tell it, though I’ve never met fish nor folk who could follow it. A dolphin linguist I knew claimed she could understand their undulations, but she also said there was no exact translation that could prove it.”

“If there’s any truth to it, what does that say about us, father?” Antilia replied. She shifted her body from her scaled and spiked natural state to her long-haired and curvy form of allurement as she spoke. “Are we of the fourth tentacle? Or do we belong with the air-suckers, or those who scuttle on land?” She cupped her hands beneath her buoyant breasts. “Or are we damned to the eighth tentacle, because of an accidental resemblance…”

“Hardly accidental, daughter,” Avalon said. “But you fret over nothing. It’s just a story. Every kind has one like it, and they all tell it in their own way… the cuttlefish have a story almost identical to it, saving that they favor the number ten over eight and so there is a blessed tentacle for the plants of the ocean and a scorned one for the plants of the land. And, of course, they put the first two tentacles as being of equal importance, with no denigration of solid-clasping.”

“But which one is right?”

“They’re both right, insofar as there are four elements to matter, and that life comes from water and usually eventually sort of falls apart, and that different kinds of life can be grouped together, roughly,” Avalonsaid. “But the specifics?” A great ripple passed from the top of his scaly head down to the end of his fluke. “It’s just… ornamentation. Useless, pretty, self-aggrandizing. The bit about life coming from water and returning to it, they snared all of that from a tale told by polyp colonies, but you can bet those sorts aren’t concerned with numerology or astrology.”

“Astrology?”

“Yes,” Avalon said. “That business about writing on the skin of the world? They mean the sky. Octopods have terribly good eyesight, and they’re always fascinated by lights. It features even more prominently in the cuttlefish version. Or featured, I should say.”

“Why?”

“Most cuttlefish aren’t very religious these tides,” Avalon said. “Or at least, not very traditional. They’re always chasing after the new thing. Those tossed cultists… ‘In his house at Greenville, dead Jeffrey waits dreaming,’ indeed.”

“What’s a ‘Greenville‘?” Antilia asked, tripping over the unfamiliar sounds.

“It’s supposed to be a floating city,” Avalon said.

“It sounds… weird.”

“Well, yes, that’s the point,” her father said. “More ornamentation, this time intended to be outrageous and alien. “It’s all just stories, you see. The cuttlefish who dreamed that one up no doubt was inspired by the sunken cities of the deathless ones and the beast that protects them.”

“Their Great Dagon?”

Dra-gon, I think,” Avalon said. “Greater Dragon. They’re very particular about that. You know, it’s creatures like the athanoi who really trip up the tentacle-ordering. They’re shaped almost as much like the humans and other land-walking folk as we can be. They certainly don’t breathe water. But they’re also not bothered by it. They hardly seem to care whether their land is up on the surface or fathoms below it.”

“Creepy deathless… things,” Antilia said with a full-body shudder that returned her skin to its scaly state, and her father, a broad-minded man, did not reproach her, but merely waved his flukes in acknowledgment. “I can well believe they’d inspire some spooky cults. So how do they get classified, by the octopods?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some put them and us both with the fish. Some stick them on land, or us with them,” Avalon said. “Your more liberal octopod will say that it doesn’t really matter, because all life is of their sainted water, and deserving of respect. The most militant also says it doesn’t matter, because anyone not on the first tentacle needs to be returned to water as quickly as possible so that we may have a chance to better ourselves.”

“And there’s no chance… no chance they’re right?”

“Daughter, if they were… if it could be proven positively that they were… would we not still defend ourselves if they pressed their beliefs upon us?” Avalon said. “All kinds tell stories to explain the world around them, but also to excuse their own excesses. Even we do.”

“But surely someone knows the truth of things.”

“Surely someone did,” Avalon said. “That doesn’t mean such individuals still exist, or that they’re telling us anything… or that we’d ever be able to pick their voices out from the multitudes of others if we heard them.”

“I think we’d know the truth if we heard it.”

“Then there’s no point in asking me if each story is true,” Avalon said. “You’ll know the truth when you hear it, and then you can tell it back to me so that I’ll know it true.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“That sounds true to me,” Avalon said. “Now, would you like to continue this quibbling, or would you like another story?”

“Tell me the cuttlefish version.”

“I told you, dear bladder, it’s not far removed from the story I just told you,” he said. “I could tell you a story that I know is true, if you liked, and you can judge for yourself whether it sounds any different than the others you’ve heard from me.”

“How do you know it’s true?” Antilia asked.

“Because the one who told it to me experienced it herself,” Avalon said.


When We Were Naked
A Sea Nymph Account

In the beginning, we were spirits without form, or at least, without flesh. We clad ourselves only in running water, in living mountains, in growing fields and spreading forests. We wore the winds like cloaks, stone like armor, glaciers like icy corsets… we had no words for things like these, no words at all, but we lacked even the idea for what we did, putting things on and taking them off, slipping in and out.

Words came later. Similes came later. They had to wait for mouths and limbs.

The world was wild in those days when we were naked, and full of things wilder even than our unchained spirits. Many great and terrible things roamed it: massive things, destructive things. Giants reshaped the world to their whim. Gods fought to impose order, Our Mother among them. Crawling, oozing things sought to undo it. Dragons existed. They fought, they all fought, among their own kind as well as with each other, while Our Mother worked quietly among them. She took what they used as weapons and what they discarded without thought and wove them into the rhythms of the world. She delved into the chaos and found the most useful patterns within it, the accidents of harmony and the islands of stability, and she created them within the world.

We were her quick and nimble fingers in those days, her darting thoughts, racing ahead and working her will, weaving ourselves into the new pattern of things.

The fiery explosions, the colossal quaking, the thunderous bolts and the torrential deluges that had been the improvised weapons of a cataclysmic war were tamed by us. The things that might have torn the world asunder became part of it. What once was destructive grew functional.

Our efforts seemed futile while the war raged on around us, undoing much of what we did… much, but not all. We paid as little heed to the conflict as we could. Eventually, it ended somehow. I like to think that our reshaping of the world helped bring it to an end, that our work made less room for the chaos to crawl in, less space for the whims of giants and the arrogance of gods.

There are still giants in the remote corners of the world. Their lesser kin are as innumerable as any mortal creature. The titans of the chaos without still cling to this place where they can. The gods of Our Mother’s tribe did not recognize the cessation of conflict as anything but their total victory. They do not credit her work in the slightest, though they would freely draw from it in the future.

We made life together, Our Mother and us. We took the best and most stable things we found in the chaos and made new forms from it: simple, slimy things that closely resembled the base stuff from whence it came at first, then larger and more complex forms. There were birds that flew through the air with us, and deer that bounded through our woods and fish that swam in our streams. They were soldiers in no one’s army. They fought to advance no cause.

They lived and died. Endlessly. They lived endlessly. For the first time ever, the world lived. Can you not understand how beautiful that was? How joyful? From chaos, Our Mother had woven… not exactly order, but something that could sustain itself. What had once been a fiery chariot of war was now a beacon of light and life that would keep the whole thing going as long as nothing upset it.

And for us? We were now too deeply bound into the flesh of the world to slip in and out of it as we had before. We were not disembodied spirits of mountains and springs and fields, but of a mountain or a field. I had become what I am now: an ocean nymph, guardian of a current. I have sisters who tend the tides and keep the waves. I am in communion with them, through the body we share. Our other bodies came later.

Our Mother’s kin saw what we had done. They were not envious. Gods are too full of themselves to envy the achievements of others. They looked at what their Sister had wrought and they thought they could improve upon it.

They made their own creatures, using hers as a guideline but making them after their own images. They made the humans, and the dwarves, and the little ones we always forget, and even her siblings who had retreated to a wickeder and wilder realm to escape the war poked their heads back into the world long enough to see what was happening and make their contribution to the burgeoning races, though they badly missed the point of the exercise and made their creatures less than mortal.

The world grew rather crowded for a time, with all the children of all the gods seeming ready to re-fight the battles their parents had fought. Fortunately they were none of them—not even the flawed mortals who would not die unless they were killed—as durable as their parents, so this problem mostly took care of itself, with only minor damage to the workings of the world Our Mother had made. She was not willing to play her kindred’s game nor to leave the world entirely in their children’s hands, so she gave us bodies of flesh that we could wear to interact with the others who walked our world.

We who had been her hands and feet would be her faces, her eyes and her mouths. Sometimes this worked. Sometimes it didn’t. The world is less predictable for being so full. There’s nothing anyone can do about that.

Though our spirits are of a different order of creation, our bodies are made of the same mold used by the other gods. Originally they all reflected our true natures, as mine still does… you see me as a body of water within the water, all swirling currents and sea foam. I am one of the first, one of the originals. I have nieces that were made through the breeding efforts of other races, mostly the more industrious ones. Their bodies reflect their generation.

Even some of my sisters in the sea, having tired of their existence, have propagated a successor. Some look like women of your folk, or like those of the sailors you prey upon, or the undying ones of the sunken depths. For myself? I have seen the beginning of the world. However many empty stretches my existence takes in, I am content to keep living it, so that I may be here for the end. There should be a witness, I think. There should be a record.

And, oh yes, the world will end. It can’t help it. Our work was good, perfect even, but perfection cannot withstand even a single flaw. This world was doomed the instant the first child of another god set foot upon it.

We had created the most delicate balance, Our Mother and her helpers. That balance has been disturbed, and any millennia now the whole thing will come crashing down.


“Well, that’s not any better,” Antilia complained.

“Why not?” Avalon asked.

“Because in the first place she admitted that she wasn’t paying any attention to what was happening around her at the beginning, and in the second place she’s clearly biased,” Antilia said. “She wants to give all the credit to her goddess and her people and all the blame to others.”

“And what if she’s right to?”

“Do you think she is?”

“I think there’s something to her point of view,” Avalon said. “But then, the same is true of anyone’s. It’s also true that anyone’s viewpoint may be clouded with pride or bias, or simple mortal folly.”

“A nereid isn’t mortal, though.”

“Neither are the athanoi,” Avalon said. “Not exactly. For ‘mortal’, substitute an adjective meaning ‘imperfect being’… and it’s a good bet that it would fit any being that you could encounter and converse with, from polyp colony to Mother Above herself.”

“So you believe that our stories are no better than anyone else’s?” Antilia asked.

“I think it’s a safe bet that we were created by the one we call Father Ocean,” Avalon said. “His existence is of chief importance to us, so we consider him to be chief among the gods, but in truth he is very likely but one member of the tribe of beings that my watery friend describes as her mother’s kin. The humans we hunt know him as Aquanas, or something like that. The cephalopods undoubtedly are thinking of him when they embody the element of water as Water. It seems reasonable to me that Father Ocean had something to do with the covering of most of the world in his chosen element, but I doubt very much that he made it all by himself.”

“And what of humans?” Antilia said. “According to your nymph’s tale, they were made by another god. Mother Above?”

“Doubtful,” Avalon said. “Those who have walked the land and returned say that they stride across the surface of it like gods themselves, making many marvels and doing great and terrible things. This race was not made for our pleasure or convenience. No, if anything, I think Father Ocean created us because of them. Why else should we be able to put aside our natural faces and wear theirs? I think we were given their image to use as a weapon against them.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because they stride across the world like tiny gods,” Avalon said. “Or because the gods are still fighting for control of the world. I simply can’t make sense of the idea that we should have preceded them in existence.”

“Then why do our tales say otherwise?”

“Why do the octopods give such importance to themselves and to the number eight?” Avalon said. “If you would hear truth, gentle daughter, then hear this: a race of people will believe anything before they believe they were formed as an afterthought or retort to another.”


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49 Responses to “Fish Stories”

  1. Maurice says:

    If a sea nymph is
    Made of sea foam, is she then
    White and nereidy?

    Current score: 5
  2. Jim says:

    Sublime. 🙂

    Current score: 0
  3. IronDino says:

    Quite nice. I’ve alvvays enjoyed your creation stories. And I love the endline.

    Current score: 1
  4. Dave says:

    Nice Cthulhu refs – dagons too!

    “the only constant is change” sounds like modern management-speak – but I see it goes right back to Heraclitus.

    Current score: 3
  5. NullSet says:

    I find it interesting that the nymph considers elves (at least I’m pretty sure she is referring to elves) to be imperfect mortals. To me this means that the gods do not share with them the property of only dying when killed.

    On the other hand, Callahan has stated that she killed a god.

    If they are both correct, and I am understanding them correctly, where does that leave a murdered god?

    Current score: 0
    • Lithos says:

      For lore to be “realistic” it needs to be inconsistent. It’s always creepy in stories how everyone always agrees.

      The god could just currently be in the state of “ground hamburger”. Sure if you’re immortal like a god but have the equivalent power of “ground hamburger” you might as well be dead to the world even if you’re not.

      Current score: 2
      • Chips says:

        Would that have changed their aspect – would this then be the god of cats and silly macros *ahem* Excuse me. i meant “LOLs”?

        Current score: 1
        • Jechtael says:

          Lolth: The NOPE goddess of Cats and Ground Meat Sandwiches.

          Current score: 0
      • Kalamorda says:

        I guess this means your saying Meatwad is a God?

        Current score: 0
    • bramble says:

      Well, there are a couple of other possible interpretations. It could be that the gods themselves are capable of dying “natural” deaths, it just doesn’t happen very often or to gods that still have a strong enough following to notice.

      It could also be that the “imperfect mortals” (elves seem a good bet, although for me demons also came to mind) are “imperfect” because they are meant to be mortals but lack the major identifying characteristic, mortality. They have the potential to live forever, but are not mentally equipped to deal with it, which is why most elves turn out to be psychotic and/or suicidal sooner or later (and demons, at least from what we’ve seen, are implied to have a similar tendency toward sociopathic or psychopathic behavior). Gods are a different matter entirely; a god that does not die unless killed is not “imperfect” because that is the way gods are meant to be.

      Current score: 1
    • zeel says:

      I think it’s more that gods can be killed but will not be dead. Sort of like nymphs and full demons in a way, but without the possability of being destroyed entirely.

      Killing a god would probably expel it from the mortal relm, but not destroy it.

      Current score: 0
  6. LadyVivamus says:

    Lexy, I love the way you write creation myths. I would buy a book of just the collected creation myths of your world.

    Current score: 0
  7. wg says:

    ‘In his house at Greenville, dead Jeffrey waits dreaming,’

    HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHHAAAHHHAAAAA

    Current score: 1
  8. Explosive Cheese says:

    This was really, really good. I liked it a whole lot. Probably because I agree with so much of it, and love the way it was expressed.

    Current score: 0
  9. cheezits says:

    yeah, I appreciated the Cthulu reference. (haha, Jeffry lies sleeping… I like it.)

    Also, Maurice is funny. White and nereidy, hahahahahaha.

    Current score: 0
  10. Zathras IX says:

    Those who flow reckon
    Half-eight: Water and Solid
    And Absence and Warmth

    Current score: 0
  11. Arancaytar says:

    ‘In his house at Greenville, dead Jeffrey waits dreaming,’ indeed.”

    IA! IA! Jeffrey fhtagn! 😀

    Current score: 0
  12. Kei says:

    Avalon seems to be the most intelligent being introduced in the story so far.

    Current score: 0
  13. Stonefoot says:

    Very good. Very heavy. Very deep. And then ‘In his house at Greenville, dead Jeffrey waits dreaming,’? I read that over, because I almost couldn’t believe it, and then I almost died! Unbe(fucking)lievable! (And in the 35 years [yeah, I don’t belive it either] since I first heard that, I’m still on the fingers of the first hand for the number of times I’ve used it.)

    And it also (without any direct references – I suppose it’s just the universality of the idea) echos the idea of the balance between Law and Chaos in the Elric series by Michael Moorcock. I felt that the world I saw was out of balance – too many unneeded rules and silly restrictions on actions that caused no harm – which is why I got my personalized license plates (in 1976!). So, if you see a car with Michigan plates that say CHAOS, that’s me. (Well, my car.)

    Current score: 2
  14. Stonefoot says:

    And, yes, what Arancaytar said: (while I was doing my laundry? meh!)
    IA! IA! Jeffrey fhtagn!

    Current score: 1
  15. Richard says:

    Sounds like the gods are playing a very complex game of Risk.

    Also: Can somebody explain this “dead Jeddrey” referance? I’m too young and sheltered to know what that is all about.

    Current score: 0
    • LadyVivamus says:

      Go look up “The Call of Cthulhu” by H.P. Lovecraft. The story is available to read online. The phrase “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” which appears in the story, is translated as “In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming,” and is uttered by mad cultists.

      Current score: 2
      • Chips says:

        And good (and bad) horror writers all ’round the world ever since…

        Current score: 2
  16. Anders says:

    Very interesting. The only thing that shocked me was the separation between the 6th and 8th tentacle by the octopus. I mean, the other separations would be quite understandable for an intelligent race that dwells only in the seas, but making a difference between general land-walking animals and mammals, by those who rarely see both kinds, is pretty strange.
    For that, they should be extremely intelligent and sociable, not to say interested.

    Current score: 1
    • pscilla says:

      Isn’t the 6th sea-dwelling mammals? Dolphins & whales, drinking of the Absence from the holes in their bodies?

      Current score: 1
      • Rin says:

        That’s the way I understood it as well.

        Also, why would it be strange for octopods to subdivide land-dwelling creatures?

        We are essentially land based animals. We may like to swim close once in a while or go scuba diving, but it’s not our nature. Most of us rarely if ever see the life that dwells in the deep sea in real life except perhaps in an aquarium, yet we divide sea creatures in far, FAR more different categories and sub-categories than that.

        Current score: 0
        • Anders says:

          Ok, clearly my mistake. Yet the phrase “milk bearing beasts” still shocks me. I mean, they know about generic land-walking animals as milk bearing? They know about milk at all? This is a myth, so it reflects general culture, not a scientific treaty.
          The division between the 6th branch and the 8th makes all sense to me now that I understood that the 6th branch is one with which they had a lot of contact.
          Also, adding a little more criticism, I understand octopus and dolphins telling stories, but polip colonies? 😛

          Current score: 0
          • Bettany says:

            Why wouldn’t they know about milk? Dolphins and whales nurse their young.

            Current score: 0
            • Anders says:

              Ack, my ignorance puts me in quite some situations… disregard what I wrote, then.

              Current score: 0
          • Kit says:

            The polyp colonies are kind of extending the idea as far as it can go. The mermaids in the main story have mentioned that humans, and a lot of other people, draw too fine distinctions on what they consider intelligent beings because mermaids can, on some level, communicate with fish. The polyps are so far separated from what we consider intelligent and capable of storytelling that they indirectly challenge our concept of communication and sentience. Which humanizes the mermaids in the main story a little, because they brought up fish communicating to show that eating humans makes sense from their perspective.

            Current score: 0
  17. Andrea says:

    Yay, mythology ftw! I think there was one typo though:

    “Fortunately they were none of them—not even the flawed mortals who would not die unless they were killed—*WERE?* as durable as their parents…”

    Current score: 0
    • Bramble says:

      Nah, if you take out the part between the dashes, it reads “Fortunately they were none of them as durable as their parents,” which is a perfectly correct if a little bit formal grammatical construction.

      Current score: 0
  18. Nicely done.

    Current score: 0
  19. grahf says:

    “the flawed mortals who would not die unless they were killed”
    -AE

    “people die if they are killed”
    -Shirou

    Current score: 0
  20. Helen Rees says:

    teeny typo alert:

    the It can flow freely again.

    I think ‘the’ is extraneous

    Current score: 0
  21. Keign says:

    I think a race would be okay with being an retort, so long as they were considered an upgrade of a faulty people… “We were made as we are because our god saw humans, thought them promising, but too limited. So he created us, to show all that humans could have been, should they have been made competently.”

    Current score: 0
  22. Hiinst says:

    Gods being killed is not particularly inconsistant. Osiris was killed in Egyptian mythology and brought back by being mumified. In Norse mythology all the Gods are doomed to die in Ragnarok and live in the afterlife anyway (Valhalla or Helheim). In Greek mythology the underworld may as well have a big sign saying: “Ressurect your relatives cheap here” given the number of times people are retrieved from it. The main difference between Gods and mortals is, as far as I can tell, that the Gods view death as a place they can leave. Even in Christianity Jesus died and is going to return.

    Current score: 0
  23. JS says:

    In Small Gods, gods die when they no longer have enough followers to sustain their existence.

    Current score: 0
  24. Jason Land says:

    I understood what nereids were, but what about athanoi?

    Current score: 0
    • NullSet says:

      I have a strong hunch that the athanoi are sea elves. If you don’t have to breathe, why would it matter how wet it was around you?

      Current score: 0
      • C-La says:

        Yeah, the elves have been referred to with the athan-prefix several times in the MUniverse: Ancient Athanasian civilization, athanophobia (re: Jamie’s perception of the way Callahan treats Steff).

        As NullSet said, the elves don’t have to breathe, though some choose to. It makes sense that some would leave land and decide to live underwater, especially if there was a conflict like the one that split surface elves and subterranean elves.

        Now I’m wondering if they all flounced in the same conflict, ending in three levels of elves, one of which seems to have been forgotten. Or maybe it was an older conflict. I also wonder which gender is favored among the submarine elves.

        And Stonefoot, the elven references use Greek, so while it’s the -i that makes it plural (kouros -vs- kouroi), the example you used is a Latin plural (that is often misused today), just to clarify.

        Current score: 0
  25. Stonefoot says:

    I can’t find a direct reference, but it has to come from thanatos (death) and the “a-” prefix meaning “not, or without”: As in “amoral” meaning without morals. (And the “-i” ending is plural – compare “octopi”) so the athanoi would be ones who don’t die. And that is quite consistent with the context where it’s used.

    Current score: 0
  26. Potatohead says:

    I thought the athanoi were what the octopoids called themselves.

    Current score: 0
  27. Gaudior says:

    Fun stories!

    Please note: it’s “whence it came,” not “from whence it came.” “From whence” is redundant

    Current score: 0
  28. Scarlett says:

    You’ve done a very fine job as always with one of your creation stories. Seems you like to blend a lot of sources. That early war you keep referring to sounds a lot like the early chapters of the Silmarillion. And the water and the chaos seem to be threads from a few different cultures, Innunit, Norse, Celtic and Egyptian seem to be the dominant ones. It could have been an unholy mash up but you’ve balanced it well.

    Current score: 0
  29. Erm says:

    “In his house at Greenville, dead Jeffrey waits dreaming,’ indeed.”

    Yet he shall set sail, and his nets shall cover the seas! Iä!

    Current score: 0
  30. Erm says:

    the sunken cities of the deathless ones and the beast that protects them.”

    “Their Great Dagon?”

    “Dra-gon, I think,” Avalon said. “Greater Dragon.

    O’rly? Y’ha-nthlei.

    Current score: 0
  31. sengachi says:

    Sweet fuck, the deathless ones are the demons! The frakking elder ones are demons! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

    Current score: 0