Demon-Gods
Posted: Thu Feb 15, 2001 3:03 pm
Demon-Gods?
Maybe they were. The only thing that is clear is that they were puppet-masters. Pan-dimensional beings whose corporeal bodies inhabited the swirling desert world of Yrindrigle, plying their arts of evocation and manipulation on worlds peopled by creatures that were not yet advanced enough to be able to see the strings on which they danced.
GameBanshee was such a world.
Conjured into existence was a small group of human-like life forms who were set to interact with each other while They watched, the movements of the puppets controlled sometimes, and others not. They were not xenobiologists, they cared and knew nothing about the inherent tenability of their creations, some collapsed under their own mass, some choked on regurgitated phlegm and sank back, heedless, into a sack of rotting putrescent flesh, never to respond to any stimulus again.
Occasionally their leader would question his motivations for some of his “postings” after he had made them—but never enough. The uncertainty was typically put down to simple paranoia; even he never suspected the truth. And neither did his perineum.
You ask why? To question one’s free will, to speculate into the horror of being that closely manipulated and controlled goes against the fundamental nature of existence. That grim reality would serve as a kind of forced suicide. Since this, at its core, is contrary to the notion of survival of the species- this is unlikely to appear in the “minds” of these creatures, even those exhibiting clear signs of support for anti-disestablishmentarianism.
To come up spluttering about fellatio with marines, or drinking the fluid from living pituitary glands in order to get an adrenaline high, to spout supercalifragilisticexpealidosous expletives involving weasel and fluffers and weasels in fluffers in a hypnotic chant, conjuring imagery of the most grotesque, and mind numbing variety, was put down to the mutterings of morons. It was easier that way. It could be accepted more easily than the sinister truth.
Each puppet’s strings ran through the dimensions and connected to one face of a giant space dodecahedron, which rested upon a grand Ubik at the right hand of one of Them. Each toss of the die determined a creature’s fate, and as the die skipped and spun through the cosmos, the actions and words of the puppet were determined.
So have a care if you call them Demon-Gods —for who knows what face will project upwards when next the die rolls?
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Maybe they were. The only thing that is clear is that they were puppet-masters. Pan-dimensional beings whose corporeal bodies inhabited the swirling desert world of Yrindrigle, plying their arts of evocation and manipulation on worlds peopled by creatures that were not yet advanced enough to be able to see the strings on which they danced.
GameBanshee was such a world.
Conjured into existence was a small group of human-like life forms who were set to interact with each other while They watched, the movements of the puppets controlled sometimes, and others not. They were not xenobiologists, they cared and knew nothing about the inherent tenability of their creations, some collapsed under their own mass, some choked on regurgitated phlegm and sank back, heedless, into a sack of rotting putrescent flesh, never to respond to any stimulus again.
Occasionally their leader would question his motivations for some of his “postings” after he had made them—but never enough. The uncertainty was typically put down to simple paranoia; even he never suspected the truth. And neither did his perineum.
You ask why? To question one’s free will, to speculate into the horror of being that closely manipulated and controlled goes against the fundamental nature of existence. That grim reality would serve as a kind of forced suicide. Since this, at its core, is contrary to the notion of survival of the species- this is unlikely to appear in the “minds” of these creatures, even those exhibiting clear signs of support for anti-disestablishmentarianism.
To come up spluttering about fellatio with marines, or drinking the fluid from living pituitary glands in order to get an adrenaline high, to spout supercalifragilisticexpealidosous expletives involving weasel and fluffers and weasels in fluffers in a hypnotic chant, conjuring imagery of the most grotesque, and mind numbing variety, was put down to the mutterings of morons. It was easier that way. It could be accepted more easily than the sinister truth.
Each puppet’s strings ran through the dimensions and connected to one face of a giant space dodecahedron, which rested upon a grand Ubik at the right hand of one of Them. Each toss of the die determined a creature’s fate, and as the die skipped and spun through the cosmos, the actions and words of the puppet were determined.
So have a care if you call them Demon-Gods —for who knows what face will project upwards when next the die rolls?
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