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Two long arms slither on the ground as it stumbles forward. The pustules on its back pop painfully and it moans in an otherworldly tongue. It is wounded and gasping, but the two luminous arms shoot blindly at the intruders and drive them back through the gates. Death is no foe to the Great Ones, and they know no bounds when the strong overrun the weak. The things swarm frenziedly through the fungoid maze, and the Great Ones watch with anxious eyes as the blind, polypous bodies race listlessly down toward the grey twilight gulfs outside the forest. The wounded ones lie sprawled on the slimy floor, and one arm twitches gangrenously as it clutches at the dying body. The violet vapor seeps into ...View all