Socks
Description: Looking at them directly can cause an uncontrollable dizzying frenzy. Desperately looking for facial features that they do not have; they don't seem to deliberately cause this. Attempting to make physical contact with them will give you phantom sensations for limbs you don't have; it's best to only look at them in your peripherals and avoid "contact.".
Description: Often events wash over us beyond our realm to experience them. It creates an odd response; the haunted mind manifests beings that seem to exist for no greater reason than the psychological need for an urgent messenger, haplessly manifesting our inability to grasp the natural forces that swept us away, existing as some twisted relief, letting us know there was really nothing we could do.
Description: An over 2 meter long powerful predator with a broad head, formidable grasping teeth, powerful build. Long speckled muddy patterns of spots and countershading, lurking in fast moving cold mountain waters, living in near mythical status along the Indian sub continent and parts of south east Asia
Description: In the spiraling sinews of an endless flesh-made city, its cadaverous walls echo and chitter with unknown forms of punk and funk, deadly troopers swing through the necropolitan skyline, reformed from the countless beings that have been slain before them, forcibly reconstituted into ever more deadly forms. Constantly scouring the charnel plains. Brandishing variable spines and claws, most notably a rifle-like organism capable of firing three-inch Nematocyst rounds that can ride the walls they swing from, capable of an acute agony and biological failure. Occasionally, you can hear one of them praying for cellular glory and clarity in their cause, before swinging off to a new deadly mission. --.. .- .- --. .----. .- -.- .- .--- .- -.-
Description: Trapped in the belly of space, far-flung in the distant cold, the last machine whirs, no one will see its final metal fold, no more purpose, no more names, stuck in this hallowed galactic grave. The fumes and work weren't forgotten. A species of humans had found the fumes of its special carbon, acting as a final star-lit beacon, to the last survivors of these star strung persons, mundane in its conception eons past, saving a future unforeseen with its final machine-like gasp.
Description: Free Europa 🔷 Free Jovian Bull cutter Rig Conamara Chaos fields offensive War Forever A thousand glass shards are sputtering across the Jovian moon's surface, Forcibly deployed to an unfathomable moral cause, a team of strangers shadow your movements, the agonizing equipment sealing away any humanity, jabbing into your bones and tendons. The worst is not being able to have any meaningful conversation with the people around you, just alien gargling radio crackles of a damaged suit. The damaged gloves and shoulder joints restricted complicated gestures. A sickening loneliness infiltrated everything you did.
