White shadows grew upon the walls as if some eldritch mammal had vomited anti-shadow on the brickwork. From outside, the public house was unrecognisable; once an old structure laden with local history, now it appeared as a one-dimensional slither of white light, refracted endlessly into a temple of indefatigable evil. A pale, marble temple to something eldritch, ungodly, ancient—The Wives, escaped of Albion, abandoning their Cragrock Harlequin, having eaten their husbands as the praying mantis or black widow does, had come to this reality.
The Karma Kameleon sat, lotus-fashion, in the middle of the shoaling sigil petroglyph comprised of tachyonic fractals, the organic strata of Tsul Kalu, and the furnishings of the original pub. It waited, bleeping like an old modem, checking its fingernails, long black shards of glass, carved with neolithic chisels, the grime and scum caught beneath them the starstuff of recently entropically deceased universes.
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