Hugh J. O'Donnell

Yrian the Wicked pulled the shroud from the corpse waiting in the center of the room. The creature was seven feet tall, crowned in eyes, and robed in red velvet. Its mouth was sewn shut, but it had a second gaping maw in its abdomen, lined with jagged, inhuman teeth. The legs were removed entirely. The wizard had grafted a writhing mass of purple tentacles in their place. It was a thing of monstrous beauty.
The room was oppressively silent.
“It’s a bit busy,” someone in the back finally said.
The necromancer sighed. He hated taking his turn for critique.

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He’d stood sentinel before the shrine for as long as he could remember. It was his purpose, his glorious task. He had kept faith beyond death, though his flesh had rotted away and his armor rusted. He still stood guard and waited.
The party of thieves scoffed when they saw him standing alone on the bridge. “There’s only one skeleton?” Their leader said.
They didn’t know duty, discipline, or honor. But he was happy to demonstrate.
Afterward, he returned to his vigil. Sometimes the shrine would raise intruders to be his companions. He waited to see if they were worthy.

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When the tentacled horror burst through the roof of the old Watson place, fear and madness gripped the local populace. That is a natural reaction to any encounter with the Old Ones.
Watson had pulled something sinister from the lightless depths of an oceanic hell long forgotten by mortal minds. He’d upended their belief in an orderly, just universe and had dropped Humanity precipitously on the food chain. Panic in the face of such terror is understandable.
Fortunately, the response was not shared by the many feral cats of the neighborhood, whose simpler minds only saw a free seafood buffet.

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