The Eyes of Hastur

When the world split apart, it was the screaming that haunted Tik. His own voice, his littermates, and worst of all, the high-pitched wail of the two-legs as their brittle bodies burned away into nothing. It left a silence behind, almost worse than the noise.

Then came the fire. Not the comforting warmth of a burrow fire, but a cruel, all-encompassing heat that seared his fur and turned his whiskers to ash. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the burning light bled through his eyelids, branding crimson patterns onto his vision. Pain, a white-hot poker jabbing into every corner of his being, devoured him.

When the fire retreated, leaving behind a sickly, yellow afterglow, Tik stumbled. His limbs felt wrong, elongated and clumsy. A strangled yelp escaped his throat, a sound unlike anything a mouse had ever made before. Panic surged through him, a primal urge to flee, to escape… but to where?

The ground trembled, not from another explosion, but from the frantic digging of his surviving kin. Claws raked at the earth, a desperate symphony of scraping and tearing. Tik joined them, the raw pain in his paws a dull throb compared to the burning in his eyes and the terror that gnawed at his sanity.

Deeper they burrowed, seeking the cool, familiar darkness. Each inch of progress felt like a victory, a shield against the searing memory of the light. The air grew thick and stale, the weight of the earth pressing down on them. Yet, they dug on, driven by an instinct deeper than fear, an insanity born from the violation of their world.

Finally, they reached a point where digging became impossible. Exhausted and trembling, Tik huddled with his littermates, their ragged breaths the only sound in the oppressive darkness. The burning in his eyes receded, replaced by a dull ache. But even with them closed, the phantoms of that blinding light danced in his skull, a constant reminder of the horror above.

From that day forth, the mutated mice lived in the shadows. The surface world became a forbidden zone, a place of searing light and unimaginable pain. They dug tunnels and chambers, carving a new existence in the cool, comforting dark, forever bound to the earth, forever haunted by the echoes of that fateful day.

Something grew wrong in the aftermath. His nest-siblings, their once sleek coats now bristled with wiry clumps of fur. His own reflection in a sliver of broken glass was… warped. Paws too long, claws curling like sickles. Most grotesque of all were the eyes. No longer the gentle black beads of a field mouse, but a sickly, swirling green that pulsed in the lingering half-light.

Years slithered by underground. The mutants carved a society from the shadows, building tunnels and chambers, creating a haven of sorts beneath the feet of their oblivious destroyers. And amidst the grotesque congregation rose Mor. Its whispers were like wind through brittle bones, promises of the old gods stirring beneath the desert, and a vengeance against those who had scorched their world.

Yet even underground, the echoes of that day lingered. Eyes too bright flickered in the tunnels, a chittering chorus of fear-tinged excitement rose at the mention of the surface. Bal, with her smoldering eyes and lava-streaked fur, was the loudest advocate for war. Mor, with its hunched shape and voice like a tomb door creaking open, held back.

Tik watched, twitched, gnawed at his own deformed limbs. He remembered the sunlight – was the warmth worth the pain they’d suffered? Yet…yet, the whispers of Hastur crawled sweetly on his fur, the images of vengeance like a delicious, rotten apple.

One day, while digging a new storage den, Tik’s claws struck something hard. A buried mirror, perhaps, or a shard of the two-legs’ machines. Whatever it was, it vibrated against his fur, a faint song whispering of power, of change, of more.

And he understood, then. This war was not just to be fought above ground. Here in the darkness of the desert’s underbelly, the true battle would begin.

Chapter 2: Whispers of Chaos

It was Tok who unearthed the first remnants of the two-legs’ world. Rusted metal glinting up from the sand like monstrous teeth, a buried machine whispering of gears long dead and wires like brittle veins. Mor hissed, recoiling from the reek of decay and forgotten power. “Leave it,” it commanded, shadows dripping from the ragged cloak it held over its body.

But Tik already felt the itch. It came not from the whispers of Hastur, but a sharper urge from deep in his mismatched bones. He knew, with a certainty colder than any desert night, that there were answers in those rusted guts.

Bal found him there days later, his green eyes gleaming with a fever she didn’t understand. “There’s more,” Tik rasped, fur bristling. “Down deeper.”

They dug together, the earth choking them with its weight. Then, a crack appeared, spitting out not dust, but fetid air smelling of stagnant water and worse, unfamiliar rot. Mor materialized amidst the widening hole, its black eyes blazing wider than Bal had ever seen.

“You found the forbidden chamber,” its voice scratched like sandpaper on bone. “Knowledge is our enemy, child. Tread carefully, or it will consume you.”

But Tik, with the taste of metal on his tongue, couldn’t stop. He was the first to descend, and the last to return. Bal found him clutching a smooth, pitted thing the size of his head. Its surface writhed not with runes or patterns, but with tiny lights, pulsing like a sickly heart. Tik stared, entranced, a low whine rumbling from his chest that made Bal’s teeth ache.

The others gathered, drawn by a morbid fascination. It was Vex who spoke first, its shifting, iridescent form coiling sinuously. “A relic…interesting. But what does it do?”

Mor hissed again, “It does nothing. It is a trick, a trap for the mind – “

Vex slithered closer to Tok, who huddled over his prize like a mother over a sickly kit. “Perhaps Mor is mistaken,” it purred. “Knowledge is power, dear Tok. Perhaps you should…examine it…more closely.”

Tok flinched, the towering mouse who could crush stones with his bare claws. Yet, his great paws clutched the strange sphere tighter, his eyes glazed. The air crackled with unspoken defiance, a fissure widening the cracks within their community.

Out in the tunnels, fear began to fester alongside their thirst for revenge. The two-legs were busy, their machines chirruping above ground. Strange figures scuttled past the vents, their scents unfamiliar, and their metal clanking was different now – sharper, more numerous. A threat hung in the air, unseen, yet heavier than any mountain.

“We must act!” Bal snarled, larval fur crackling with agitation. “We waste time while the enemy grows!”

Mor simply watched her, its voice low. “Do you doubt my plans, child? Do you think you could lead us better?”

Bal flinched, loyalty and rage warring on her distorted face. And somewhere, in the furthest tunnels, Vex laughed, its shifting body dissolving like mist and re-forming into something monstrous and mocking.The metal grate, once a symbol of security for the two-legs, gave way with a sickening groan. Claws tore through the remaining metal like paper, a metallic shriek echoing across the previously sterile laboratory. Bal, fur crackling with molten heat, was the first to emerge, a monstrous parody of a field mouse.

Blinded by the sudden, unforgiving sunlight, they squinted, nostrils flaring at the cacophony of alien smells – sterilized metal, antiseptic fluids, and most intoxicatingly, the reeking terror of the two-legs huddled in the far corner.

Panic. That was the first note in the symphony of the nightmarish scene. Screams, high-pitched and raw, pierced the air. A young researcher, barely older than a pup, stumbled back, tripping over the discarded lab coat of his fallen colleague. Bal lunged, a blur of molten orange fur and razor-sharp claws. The sickening crunch of bone and the strangled gurgle that followed were drowned out by the growing chorus of carnage.

Tik, fueled by the pulsing sphere clutched in his paw, ran on a different kind of terror. Not fear, but a cold, reptilian certainty. He saw the two-legs not as prey, but as obstacles. He weaved through them, his transformed limbs propelled by a newfound strength. Their weapons, once so feared from the stories passed down through generations, were useless against him. A desperate scientist swung a metal pole, only to have it snapped in half by Tik’s bare paw. His eyes, glowing an unnatural green, scanned the room, locking onto a terrified technician huddled behind a desk.

The terror in their eyes, the wet, desperate gasp before he clamped his jaws down – these were the offerings to Hastur. These were the first whispers of the vengeance they had craved for so long.

Tok, caught between loyalty and a newfound unease, witnessed the carnage unfold with a growing sense of dread. This wasn’t the liberation he had envisioned. This was a monstrous feeding frenzy. As he disarmed a guard, his massive paw closing over the man’s wrist with a sickening crack, a single thought pounded in his skull: Mor had been right. This wasn’t victory. This was madness.

The air grew thick with the stench of blood and ozone. The screams died down, replaced by the wet gulping sounds of a feast nearing its end. Bal, her fur stained a sickening red, stood over a mangled corpse, savoring the final tremors. Tik watched, the pulsing sphere suddenly feeling cold in his grasp. Had this been their purpose all along? To become mere beasts?

A glint of metal caught his eye. Vex, its ever-shifting form shimmering like a mirage, slithered across the floor, a researcher’s severed hand clutched in its maw. They made eye contact, the mockery in Vex’s single, black eye chilling Tik to the bone. This, it seemed, was only the beginning.

Chapter 3: The Final Confrontation

The smell of old blood was a constant miasma in the tunnels now, dripping from the fur of returning scouts, clinging to their twitching whiskers. They told stories not of battle, but of madness in the ranks of the two-legs. Their machines sputtered uselessly, their once-sharp commands turned into panicked squabbles. Hastur’s sweet rot had seeped into their minds.

“You see!” Tik rasped, the sphere clutched so tightly it might fuse with his skin. “Their end is here. Strike now, and Hastur will grant us the whole of the poisoned world!”

Tok watched the bodies piled as tribute. Loyal, that was all Mor had ever asked. And yet, in the hollow victory painted on the faces of the returning hunters, he saw nothing but an echo of his own unease. Was this the promised glory, or merely a different kind of destruction?

“Perhaps…a more subtle approach…” Mor’s voice hissed around them, its usual power dampened. Was that fear lurking behind its lidless eyes? “Hastur favors patience, child. It is we who will watch them wither from within.”

Bal’s snarl cut through the chamber like a whip crack. “And rot while we wait? Fifty years of festering, for this? Do you even remember the sunlight, Mor? Or have you grown comfortable in your shadows?”

The tension that had crackled around them turned into a blaze. Eyes – those horrible, pulsing eyes Hastur had gifted them – fixed on Bal, waiting for her decision. Mor’s hood flared, a rare show of anger that sent ripples through the assembly. Even Vex, ever-shifting, ever-mocking, was still.

Tik’s hand throbbed where he held the relic, its light like the inside of his eyelids after the blast. Comprehend, that was the key. This relic, this whispering metal…it was the echo of that terrible day made solid. Wasn’t destruction just another form of creation?

He raised his head, eyes burning green in the dim torchlight. “Bal,” his voice was louder than he expected, stronger, “Fight with me!”

He saw the shock in her eyes, a wildness that mirrored his own. Around them, the others snarled, their fur practically crackling under the weight of their decision. The world teetered on a knife-edge, the smell of rebellion mingling with the old scent of blood.

Then, Tok made his move, not towards his old leader, but towards Vex. The iridescent creature was Hastur’s madness given form, its constant mockery a poison in his ears. Tok’s fist, blunt and powerful, slammed down.

Vex screamed, or perhaps laughed, even as its body liquefied under the blow. Yet, Tok knew it wasn’t dead, just reformed. Still, a message was sent.

“There is strength in more than blind obedience, Mor,” he growled, the words tasting strange and right. “You have led us far, but Hastur demands action!”

Bal was beside him in a flash, lava fur blazing. Others followed, not out of loyalty to Mor anymore, but to the fever-bright gleam in Tik’s eyes. Even in Hastur’s insanity, there was logic. They were the monsters now – let them act like it.

Their ascent echoed the nightmare of his birth. Claustrophobic tunnels, the stench of the two-legs, the burning sunlight…it was delicious in its horror. This time, there was no panic, just a certainty as cold as the relic in his hand. They emerged not into empty desert, but a screaming heart of a two-leg city, the air thick with fire and fear.

The fight…it was hardly worthy of the name. The two-legs were broken already, gnawed from within by the same madness that fueled the mutant mice. Bal roared, reborn in fire. Tok, the gentle giant, was a whirlwind of destruction. Tik himself… he moved with precision, guiding his warriors with the chilling logic the relic sang to him.

When the last scream choked into silence, it was, as always, Mor who addressed the survivors, its voice a spell that froze them in place. Tik watched from a half-crumbled building, relic clutched tight. Victory, of a kind, had been won. But Hastur was never satisfied, and deep down, neither was he. The hollowness in his chest ached with a new kind of hunger.

As they bowed to their new overlord, Tik felt eyes on him. Not Mor’s, but those of the remaining humans, a strange flicker of…not fear, but something else smoldering behind their terror. Perhaps… potential? Something stirred within him, a flicker of rebellion against even Hastur’s hold. This land, these ruins…were they not his as well? The relic thrummed in his hand. He had led them here. Perhaps, with time, he could lead them further still.

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The earth pulsed with a sickly throb, a heartbeat echoing centuries of corruption. Once-green things thrust up from the soil, gnarled and pulsing with purple sap, their flowers dripping nectar like black blood. The wind stank of rotten fruit and ozone, stinging what remained of Lira’s furless skin. She shivered, the ancestral memory of fur tickling at her mind.

1,500 revolutions, her mother has said, since the Rise. When those from the Underbelly – monstrous and shining-eyed – clawed their way into the light, toppling the Old Ones. The Old Ones, they said, had been weak, corrupted by the too-bright sun and the sweetness of unpoisoned air. Mor, the Great Whisperer, had led them into the new age, an Age of Strength.

Now? Now there was only hunger. The gnawing in their stomachs, the sharper hunger in their eyes as they passed their neighbors, calculating flesh and bone. Strength was running out, even amongst the mutated.

Hope, she knew, was a forbidden word. Her mother found it once, scratched onto a slab of metal – words from Tik, one of the first rebels. Liberation. Salvation. It tasted like rain and sunrise on her tongue, concepts they weren’t permitted.

Her mother had been…restructured. It was what Mor did to those who questioned. Lir learned to keep her hopeful thoughts trapped inside her skull.

Yet… she saw it in the old ruins. Tik’s carvings, more eyes and twisting vines than understandable scratches, but promising a world where hunger wasn’t the only god. Today, under the purple glow of a double-moon, she found another – clearer this time. Something clicked in her head, like an ancestor’s voice rising from the grave.

She sprinted back to the village, to the communal burrow, to the others who lived in the eternal twilight. To show them that they didn’t have to become the snarling shadows they hunted for food. They could change…

The world went dark, snuffed out by a sudden, cavernous maw lined with teeth like tombstones. Something in her screamed, not with pain, but with outrage for the light swallowed up, never to be shared. Her last feeling wasn’t fear, but a bitter vindication.

Perhaps Mor wasn’t salvation after all. Perhaps Tik was right. And perhaps, somewhere in the belly of the beast, the words lived on.