Cooking pot of Doom

Um-Galgesh

I dream constantly of the barren lands beyond the frozen valleys of the Um-Galgesh, but I do not need to wait for sleep to see them, nor even do I need to close my eyes. The landscapes of the Galgesh foothills suddenly impose themselves onto the world around me in perfect clarity. It is as if my perceptions have been cut loose from the bounds of the physical world.

At first I was loath to look about me when these visions descended, but now I see them for the gifts they are. Whereas I can watch the servants and slaves of the infernal powers, to them I am less than a ghost as few perceive my passing,

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Urglur

They march forward in serried ranks, carrying tattered banners and other unholy marks of their devotion. And as they march, there can be heard a surrusant chanting, a litany of words that some claim are evil enchantments, while other swear they are the names of their fallen comrades.

Some are little more than a writhing mound of pulsating flesh, gaping maws and vicious spines, while others are nearly human except for the blankness in their eyes.

Their means of locomotion will vary from creature to creature, some may walk upright, others onn all four as horses or dogs. Those whose limbs have atrophied beyond all usefulness may drag themselves forward by their vestigal arms or bunch and ripple along the ground as worms or slugs or snakes.
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Foreboding

And after all was done, I looked out upon the world and saw it in shadow. I looked to the sun and eclipsing my view stood the
mountain. It was then I knew that the last days were upon us all.

I raised my eyes to its peak and there stood a man. The man held his arms aloft against the light and from them issued forth the deepest shadow, the size of which could cover all the lands and plunge them into unnatural darkness. He had cometh to take his final toll.

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The creature was tall, forced to stoop under the low ceiling of he hovel. It was rail thin, which was fitting, since just such an object had been used to form its spine. Its body was an old brlap sack stuffed with rubbish and old dried out reeds. Its arms were long sticks, hinged at the shoulder and elbow with iron fittings. Its legs were poles, wooden feet nailed at their ends. The monsters head was an old dried out pumpkin, upon which had been carved a leering and ghastly suggestion of a face. About its neck hung a withered, one-legged toad, a talisman that reeked of loathsome and unholy magic. However, it was none of these features which arrested the attention of the men who had moments before challenged the constructions mistress. It was the long, sharp claws of steel that tipped each of the scarecrows slender arms, the bladed hands that still dripped with blood from those it had slaughtered already this night. Almost before the men could fully register its arrival, the scarecrow was upon them, lashing out with murderous swipes of its rickety limbs. One of Meissers apprentices fell under the monsters steel claws, wriggling on the floor as he tried to push his entrails back into the gaping hole the scarecrow had ripped from his belly.

The interior of the hut was small, but into that space had
been crammed more paraphernalia than could comfortably
occupy a room three times as large. Dried bundles of weeds
and herbs drooped from the ceiling, dead and eviscerated
birds hung from leather straps fastened to the roof beams.
A huge pile of bones, of every size and shape, was heaped
against one wall, a collection of foul-smelling jars and pots filling a crude series of shelves beside it. The head and skin of a black cow stared at the intruders with its empty eye-sockets from the hook that fastened it to the support beam that rose from the centre of the hut. Beyond, shapeless masses dangled and drooped, drifting back into the inky recesses of the chamber. A dozen noxious stinks fought to overwhelm the senses of the men, but no more charnel a reek assailed them than that which rose from the small fire-pit and the black iron cauldron that boiled above it. As the attention of the witch hunters was drawn to the only source of light in the gloomy shack, a dark shape rose from beside the cauldron, glaring at the intruders. The shape resolved itself into the form of a woman, bent almost in half by the weight of her years. A shabby, ragged brown shawl was draped across her crooked spine, a collection of grey rags that might once have been a dress clothing the rest of her body. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, a spiderweb etched into the cold and colourless skin. The bones of her skull seemed to press against the wrinkled covering, showing yellow beneath the skin. Her nose was broad and sharp, like the beak of a razorbill, her eyes tiny pinpricks of malice. Straggly white hair hung about her body, drooping as far as her knees. The hag opened her gash-like mouth, letting a trickle of spittle drool from her lips.