The Man in the Sulfur-Green Coat
A man in a long pale sulfur green coat strides across a deep, warm, gray field covered in thin foliage, sparsely placed graves, roundly uneven terrain, and thin cracks. The wind rapidly bellows down from the grayed sky to wildly waft into the entirety of his coat, pale light pants, and dusty white dress shirt. His short curly salty beard and hair remain fixed in place due to their length. A soft, cracking, warble hisses distantly to his left. His hand curls suddenly, tightly, around the Kalthroff flintlock being held by his otherwise motionless arm. His face splits into a wide grin, the strong smile lines on his deep brown skin growing more pronounced. He raises his weapon, a pattern resembling a mathematically perfect spiderweb engraved on its wood, and aims it almost directly to his left side. His posture straightens to perfect alignment, like the final gears of a watch slotting into place, though his finger is still not on the trigger. Light reflects off the metal of his pistol from the booming lighting strikes on the ocean to his right. It bounces off the metal and sparks in his dark brown eyes, which are surrounded by years of wrinkles and opened just a little too wide. His grin has remained frozen in place, as his eyes remained fixed on something to his left.
Four wooden pillars stand swaying in the wind against their diagonal supports, carrying two wooden planks that, in turn, allow a long, blobby, bandage wrapped lump to rest atop the structure. A set of three mushy dried blood black arms and four legs reach from underneath the construction, frantically grabbing at the bandaged lump with poor precision as they reach around the planks from below. Hands and feet, each containing more than just the proximal, distal, and middle phalanges as well as the occasional inverted thumb or ankle, sprout from both the ends of limbs and their joints. An additional mass of crimson creeped stygian broth piles into the shapes of a geometrically disconnected ribcage, and a face, one with a jaw too wide, eyes too close, and cheeks too round, that both support the rest of the black sludge’s mass. It melodically gurgles, unwrapping bandages that reveal still moist bones. The creature sporadically leaves deep, abyssal, gooey, red-black smudges on materials it comes in contact with, though soon each mark harmlessly splits and flakes off into the wind.
The man in the pale sulfur green coat places his finger on the trigger. He fires. The first shot hits its ‘face’. The Second shot hits the middle left of the ‘ribcage’. The third shot hit just a tad bit higher. Each impact makes an echoing syrupy crunch.
A piercing, mucky, gorble releases from the open mouth, while lighting strikes somewhere so distant, the measure could not be accurately guessed. Its ‘limbs’ rapidly break down, like denaturing proteins, and splatter deep rust mucoid pieces onto the gray landscape. Each one changes texture from a deeply non-neutonian, ooblec chunk to that of a crispy autumn leaf, whose flakes are ready to be carried by the wind. Gusts sound over the otherwise still area, playing something of a cacophonic melody, while the far off storm quiets for a moment.
The man in a sulfur green coat lowers his weapon, looking around at the hundreds of differently styled burials, wafting wind filling his ears, and lets his wild grin settle into a polite smile.