C R A W L

If you seek to earn riches while you Slumber, Venture forth to C R A W L. 



C R A W L is a billion twisted dreams from the plague Aeon. At its boiling heart it is said there is an obelisk corrupted with strange astral life. Where once the obelisk dreamed of a lost paradise, now it dreams its own diseased hell. Everything in C R A W L dreams, and those dreams teem with their own dreamers. All these dreamers and dreams form a twisted knot of loops and spirals, an infinite closed expanse of parasitism.

The dreams of C R A W L are slick fluid and flesh scapes, endless expanses of astral life swirling and melting forever. Each dream is home to millions of crawling and squirming things, and each one dreams one of the dreams of C R A W L. When a creature in a dream dreams, its astral body becomes a luminous portal. Any creature touching it is sucked into the new dream. No one knows how many dreams there are in C R A W L

The closer to the lost obelisk, the denser the dreams become. At the center, the cancerous energies bleed out into real space. Though it looks like a real sun, it is a hole in space through which dread energies can enter the world. They call it the Crawl Star.

Around the Crawl Star, there are five celestial bodies. It is thought that they were once dead planets but through the unwholesome green light of that cursed star they were transfigured into living beings. They are the Children of C R A W L .

The first child is Olhambve, the Mournful Ooze. It is a desolate world of stone and lichen, dotted with temples to dead gods. In the gutters and cisterns lurks the ooze, a single  predatory ocean. Those devoured by it find themselves in a pocket of C R A W L where they are dissolved for a subjective eternity. Somewhere on this forsaken world there is the hidden lair of the Lune-man pirate Ax Feber. With his ship, the corvette Darkshine he preys on those that come to C R A W L. Exposure to the light of the Crawl Star has warped his mind. He seeks to marry Olhambve and birth a new race of monsters. In his lair he has a thousand precious jewels, and he is always looking for more, so that he may win the favor of his beloved.

The second child is Frantolous, The Soft Expanse. It is a world of soft pink flesh, a perfect globe marred by city sized ticks. On the back of one of these titian parasites that Father Corp has made their outpost. Father Corp is a voracious corporate god that feeds on Dreams though out the galaxy. They have come to C R A W L to harvest its diseased riches. Here is where you can earn your fortune. Those who sleep in the light of the Crawl Star find themselves pulled into C R A W L itself. As they wander its recursive dreamscapes they become infested by all manner of dream creatures. If they can survive and return to the material universe, they can sell their unwelcome passengers to Father Corp. On their outpost on they have extraction jars that create tremendous negative psychic pressure to suck out any errant dream creatures. Most of these poor creatures are doomed to be ground into their component emotions and sensations, but the most symbiotic are instead given to Father Corps breeding programs. The servants of Father Corp, the Prime Strain, use shiny beetles to adorn their pallid bodies. The most prized adornments come from C R A W L. There is a fortune to made by one who finds a new fashion.

Here also is the only place where Father Corp may brew one of its drugs, paracosm. Those who imbibe this pale orange ichor have visions of their own private universe where they are the demiurge. There are many who use this to escape their lives as they sleep. However, do not use it while you sleep near the Crawl Star. This new dream will merge with C R A W L and you will be subsumed into the cycle. It is derived from the venom of the dream giver beetle. They use it to create living astral nests for their larva.

The third child is Xyzxy, the Cryptic Garden. It is a tangled orchard of vines and dark swollen fruit. Within each pome is a writhing mass of worms and beetles and strange plastic things. The woods are deep and trackless and haunted by the masked ones, terrible and strange primitives. Each one is a walking hive of parasitic minions. They are hostile to all who trespass on C R A W L and the children. 

The Fourth child is Olark the Writhing World. It is a ball of worms and beetles the size of a planet. Father Corp has laid its covetous eyes upon it, and has created a fleet of fishing ships that trawl the living ocean for cheap and easy protein, though they may soon abandon the venture. The squirming catch is often treacherous, and something is eating the boats. They say Father Corp is really searching for some lost bastard relic lost beneath the wriggling tide.

The Fifth and finale child is Peivlard the Watchful Myriad. It is a cluster of eyes of all different shapes and colors, always focused on the same point. It can view any point in C R A W L and the children. It is a sick voyeur that wishes to see violence and depravity. It speaks in a voice like ocular jelly dripping from a corpse. It speaks poisonous truths it has seen, so that it may reveal in the chaos it causes. When its eyes are upon you, you can feel ten thousands cold stares boring into you. It is said that Peivlard knows where every treasure of C R A W L is buried and it will tell you, but for a terrible cost.



Editor's note



Here we have another delightful entry from my friend the cloaked figure. It's a nice account of 
C R A W L, though its clearly not a first hand one. That's okay, even preferable. All the first hand accounts tend to be … unhinged, for some strange reason.

First, a quick note about biology. Spooky-pants here describes the dream flora and fauna in terms of strict parasitism, and while there's a lot of that going around, parasitism exists on a gradient with mutualism. Not every symbiont in C R A W L has a parasitic relationship with its host. This is clear from the number of dream pet linages that have come from there. One of my aunts has a blue spiraled sivganzer, a type of astral serpent native to C R A W L bred to protect its hosts from nightmares. It begs food qualia from strangers and is afraid of loud noises.

Moving on, I can't believe I have to say this, but don't try to rob pirates that live on the outskirts of gross dimensional rifts. I don't even know how creepo knows all this junk, so acting on this information is not recommended. On a similar note, while collecting dream bugs for a soulless all-devouring corporation probably pays well, there are easier ways to make money. Saner ways, in any case.

And finally, a note on those "terrible and strange primitives", they are referring to the Maskforms. They are a human subspecies adapted to living in dreamscapes, and they are closely related to Riddleforms. As a Riddleform myself I most object to this characterization. While Maskforms lack the sophistication of digital lifeforms such as myself, I wouldn't say they're primitive. Also, they are only sort of strange and occasionally terrible. Neither the less, their crusade against the predations of Father Corp can only be seen as noble. After Father Corp is preying on Maskform colonies across the galaxy. Its only fair that they take out the occasional Father Corp freelancer.

As always, we at the Galactic Gazetteer can not be held liable for any fool thing you do after reading our fine publication. The legal department has been sharpening its claws against the side of its cage, so please, feel free to occupy its attention.

Expedition to Krangor

Krangor smells of skin, of sweet yeast and sour sweat. Krangor lives and breathes as an incarnate god but unlike other proud and boastful deities it whispers with a  silent voice. We heard its enigmatic call, and its unspoken promise. It spoke to us of the Molecular Fire. After all, what else could have catalyzed the birth of such a titian?

We arrived in the space-port of Rump Town ten strong. Rump Town is a benighted place, smelling of waste and desperation. The town is built over a deep upwelling from the bowels of Krangor. The foul odor is compounded by the tube forests that grow from spores carried by incautious astro-travelers.

The foul boutique reeks of alien pollution and the heavings of a great beast. An Overwhelming cocktail to be sure, but I was able to sniff out some unusual essences. There was a tall and proud tube tree with an uncharacteristic noble odor, and a small vermin the smelled of incredible violence. When I had finished with my gatherings, Ise had arranged us travel on a caravan, so we set out.

The skin plains are a lonesome place, an empty eternity under a bruise purple sky. Our guides were sullen and watchful humans, obscured under heavy robes. Even my companions could smell their unease and paranoia and soon we learned of its source. Ise was taken in the night, skewered by a horrible mourn that had crept unseen into our encampment. Too late the alarm was sounded as it skittered away into the darkness. Our guides fired a desultory volley but the beast was long gone. In the mourning we once again ventured forth into the flatness, our minds dark with visions of spear -like limbs. At night we would hear their sad bellows, and in the light we would see their looming forms. We were not attacked again, though I do not know why.

After a week of numbing travel we arrived at the Theatre of the Center, a monastery city. It resembled a jeweled adornment pierced through the skin. Here at last we met the Magocytes. These strange creatures are massive cells that guard and heal Krangor. I could smell the power rolling of them, the creamy burnt smell of psionic metabolisms. As expected, they were reluctant to give me a sample of their cytoplasm, but one unusually gregarious individual accepted Gve as payment. I thanked Gve for his service and took my prize.

Ise had most of our coin when he was taken, so I sold Til and Fal for more funds. At one of the bars they had a most potent brew called ich that would crawl up the sides of the glass under its own power. I added it to my collection, and went to find its source.

This lead me to the nearby scab fields. Here the skin is broken and cracked and thick rivers of red ichor flow to the surface. The blood of Krangor has a will of its own and Dak was grabbed and pulled under during a moment of inattention. Unfortunate, but I was able to collect a sample of the raw ichor.

We were lucky enough to witness the cause of the scablands when a plastic angel burst forth in a shower of gore. These creatures infect Krangor and emerge from its depths according to their own alien whims. From accounts I had heard their forms vary but this one was composed of three orbs orbiting around a central blade. After its violent birth it took notice of us and pointed its body at Vil, who soon collapsed shaking and bleeding. The rest of my party was able to take the creature down with concentrated small arms fire. It's flesh was smooth and smelled of ancient malice. I placed the sample in my most secure jar. Vil body began to swell and contort with the creature's offspring so we burned it and returned it to the theater.

I retired to my rented study to examine my samples. The tube tree's nobility proved false, an ancient forgery. The tree used this ruse to  parasitize true kings. A monarch parasite could be adapted into a weapon easily enough, but it is useless to my art. the vermin was another weapon, a seeker. It's ordained prey was long dead, almost certainly by its fangs. I have no need for genocide .

The cytoplasm, to my resignation decayed quickly. The resulting slurry had a paradoxical flavor. It tasted of great victory and bitter defeat at the same time. I have added it to my spice collection.

I  breed out the yeast from the liquor. It was a vile and aggressive beast that fought the ichor to ferment it. It is powerful with a bellicose flavor. The ichor was the most tantalizing but the most obscure. It hid its scent from me. It used its powers to keep me from its secrets. Its will can only come from the planet itself. For a few precious hours a fragment of a god was dying  on my workbench. In death it catalyzed itself to oblivion in a final blaze of glory. This tiny God corpse will not be long in my possession. I will give it to  the order so that they may ponder its Glory.

While I was conducting my studies, the rest of my party was exploring the city. In a sunken bar beneath the skin Vre heard a curious Tidbit; beyond the subterranean latrines there was a passage to the depths of Krangor. Vre lead is  to the sewer pits where an unknown hand had made a path out of plastic sheets and cast off wood. Within the expected foulness I sensed death. I sent Tan to collect a sample but she slipped and drowned in the foulness before we could rescue her.  We pushed on.

I expected the interior of Krangor  to be a realm of blood and Tissue. while such a place may exist deeper still, what I found was more skin; caverns of folds and wrinkles, deep pores and hidden crypts. The air was poor and stale with a curious vital odor.

We had only just stopped catch our breath when Ove  cried out. A noxious yellow ooze crawled up his leg . I held back Vre as I dug through my pack looking for gloves. As I pulled them out, the smell of a  powerful catalyst filled the air. I tore great handfuls of slime off of him as he wailed in pain. I saw his naked bones under the slime, as my gloves begin to smoke. I ripped them off and come quickly cleansed my hands. Vre passed soon after.  We retraced our steps not without a great deal of terror.

Our manpower depleted and  our funds dwindling, we made our way off-world. Krangor is an old and quarrelsome God and it holds its secrets deep, but our quest is unabated. I or my successor will venture once more into the skin may find the molecular fire.

Editor's Note

Here we have the latest dispatch for Arch Magi Hervin Voss of the order of the Molecular Fire. For those keeping track at home, we're up to 38 assorted casualties among his allies and hirelings. I don't know where he keeps finding these people, and I don't understand how he's still alive.

Some notes: There is a rumor the caravans of Krangor deliberately allow some of their charges to be taken by the horrible mourns, in return for a measure of safety. Now, I can not speak with authority but the events Hervin describes are at least in line with such a thing. I'm not saying it is true but it is certainly suggestive.

Now it might seem like our pal Hervin sold some of his friends into slavery, but that’s not quite the case. Magocytes only accept those who come into their service willingly. These servants are then modified through bio-kinesis into creatures known as skin servitors. By all reports they have a high degree of autonomy and a comfortable standard of living. It is not the best life but it beats following Hervin into the dank corners of the galaxy.

And for the thickos out there, the Galactic Gazetteer only publishes these accounts for informational purposes. We can't be held liable for any expeditions to any of the locations we describe.  If you read the same account I did, I can't imagine any of you wanting to go to Krangor, but you mouth breathers always surprise me. 

Journey to the Temple of Red Waters

If you seek allies for desperate deeds, set out for ShrangGa, the misty jewel of the Reclaimers. From the void dock with the massive hive called the Needle Spines, shrine city of the holy vermin. It's sloping tunnels are filled with scuttling scolependrites, feeding and scheming in the dark.

Travel east from the Needle Spines along the ancient high road. Follow the worn stone path just above the swirling miasma, taking care not to breathe in the spores when they rise and shroud the road like rainbow mist. Travel past the temples of Ego, where the will of Orn issues forth. Travel past the catalytic pits, where the power of Orn churns deep underground. Travel past the hidden villages, where masked and robed humans hide from the corrosive mind of Orn.

Past all that the road finally climbs down to a dismal and rain soak village known as the Lash. This is the edge of the eye of Not Orn, a lawless swamp basin where Orn does not reach. Lash is a benighted place. The constant rains keep the spores away but also keep the villagers inside their insect carapace hovels. The iridescent sheen of chitin is universally marred by creeping brown slime. At the foot of the village where the slope of buildings meets the water is the rotting dark, where silent fishermen trudge through the downpours. Talk to the one eyed woman named Grather, or the 3 meter tall mute enigma know to the locals as Lom. They know the path through the swamp. Be quiet on the ride, for the eye of Orn is stalked by ravenous insects.

 You will know you are close  when the waters turn from brown and green to clear sanguine red. Out of the swamp mute sentinels of stone rise, statues worn down through the ages into abstract figures. This is the shrine of Red Waters, and soon you will meet Gilthain who is not Orn, the high priest of this strange temple. His pale fungal flesh weeps red ichor. He greets all visitors by name and offers them his hospitality.

The Temple is a jumble of stone rising out of the marsh, its ancient purpose lost to rain and water. Now the interiors are furnished with soft wood and paper walls and plush pillows. To swim in the water is to have your weaknesses melted away by subtle acids, to lose your imperfections to a hungry mire. Naked, mute and dirty humans serve in the temple, making food and tending to the massive hookahs. Everywhere is the smiling face of Gilthain, keeping peace and hospitably. Do not challenge him, or his true bulk will rise from the swamp. 

There are many guests at the temple, many outcasts and pirates all enjoying the rough pleasures of this deep and overlooked land. Gilthain is well informed about many things he could not know, and during private dinners of roasted insect and alien fruits he will let you into his confidence. He offers opportunity, and the chance to from convenient fellowships among those  who do not trust easy. Many thefts, murders and dark conspiracies in the wider galaxy had there origin, here on the edge of civilization. The nights here are filled with hunting calls, rain and smoke, cruel laughter and crueler schemes.

Editor's note

Hoy boy, another account from our mystery contributor. I'd stop publishing them but last time I tried they kept leaving bigger and bigger dead animals on our door stop. At least we don't have to pay them.

A couple of notes; As always our spooky friend is vague about the very concrete dangers. The "spores" of ShrangGa are an information exchange medium used by the Orn to facilitate their gestalt mind. When breathed in by non Orn it causes disjointed hallucinations. Long term exposure leads to a condition known as Orn-craze, or more informally, the craze. It is characterized by a general mental decline and a suggestive state. Those afflicted by the Orn craze are compelled to follow the orders of the Orn and other fungal beings. Presumably this is what's up with the naked human servants. So yeah, wear a breathing mask when you're on the surface.

Now a brief word on the giant insects they mention off handily. Surprisingly, they're right to be vague. I could find no respectable monograph on the fauna of Erstvale. Presumably there's a vermin engine somewhere on the planet but the church doesn't advertise it, which makes sense after the recent Neo Floozy invasions of Reclaimer worlds. Still, it’s a bit strange. I can find older pamphlets on the various Vermin engines, but nothing about one on ShrangGa. Something to look into, I guess.

Lastly, and I wish this could go without saying, but if you follow the advice of some creep who doesn't show up on security cams, the Galactic Gazetteer can't be held liable for anything that happens to you. Seriously, this person is a major weirdo and we don't know where they get this stuff, so just don't. Please don't test our legal department, we don't feed it very often