Extraneous Voices of Picayune > Cavern of Inane Natter

The End is Nigh

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CaptainPenguin:
And the lost children of Non Senz looked back, attempting to ape the Elder Days, but from the ashen wreckage of the Old Ones' kingdoms they could glean but little. Then, with tears in their eyes, they reread the words of the ancient prophets, and cried to the sky, for if only the Old Ones had heeded the words of those mighty overlords who administrate the divine laws.

epsilon:
The bleating's of the arrogant ones fell on parchment  like thick droplets of rain. There they mixed with the scrawls of ink, manifesting themselves as painted mutterings of the untruth. The Strolen lord called for the disagrea and with their muting powers they cursed and banished the arrogant ones. 

But Non Senz prevailed as it always would. The devine ones halted creation as best they could but it was like a swollen river about to burst its banks. The ceremanic, claybeer stein's moved onward, unstoppable, unpredictable. Wave after wave they came. And there, standing at the Point of Quill  they appeared. The two were never one and the one would never be too, until the day when the two could join as one. Many moons sailed across the sky, many winters failed, the snow and desert dwelt together in the bosom of extracted stanza . Looming from this, time of no times, emerging from the blotchulisim of ink, sap and bleatings, the Natter Trilogy arose, formed and tumesced until it could no more. The natter matter convulsed, ruptured and spewed forth its contents followed quickly by its index.

Tortle the Rabbit unwittingly witnessed said events. He had been groomed for this day, his life would culminate here and now. He fluffed himself up, drew in a draught of air and made ready his prattle.

--- Code: ---The Termination has undone, the becoming has begun....
--- End code ---

Ancient Gamer:
[...] and in Switzerland the Great God of the Void stirred, metallic rumbling resonating as he tested his shackles. Great, black ravens spiralled in the sky, their cries pitiful, their eyes dripping with blood.

"Woe, woe, woe unto thee, for october 21st, october the 21st is our day of reckoning, when the Hadrons collide, when the streams of Proton awaken the Great God of the Void from his eternal slumber"

Strolen:
The land sat in sorrowful silence. The cleansing being complete for years, the quiet remained impenetrable.  The echoes of inanity had drifted to the distant past leaving an emptiness, a void.

"Did the destruction have to be so complete?" The first cry by Inaner the Insaner is repeated in far corners of the abandoned land and is left without response.

"Was the wrath that was brought down justified? Were the choices made truly for the good of the land?" The voice of Conde Fuez'n is only a whispered question now, the passion behind it long lost to the dust of the land.

The worshippers of Non Senz skitter about in fear, scared to raise their voices, frightened of the smallest sound. Hidden away from those who hold misunderstanding of their ways, those ignorant of the value, those who simply can't comprehend what could be buried among the clutter.

Could it be a new wind is rustling the natter in the Citadel? Could the foretelling of the cleansing be only a moment in a cycle? Is there still room in the world for the chattering of the Enigmatic Echoes that once filled the land? The balance has shifted precariously, can it be brought back into equilibrium?

Murometz:
Chocolate won't help.

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