Awakening

Atop a glacier, half a mile above a glassy fjord, small figures began to chant. Their red robes were meant for clandestine meetings in hidden basements and ancient crypts and did nothing to fight the chill of a night in the arctic. They shivered constantly. If they felt the cold, they did not comment on it. They were servants of the Old One, the last remnants of a cult that had spilled blood on the pages of history for twelve millennia, and tonight they had bigger things on their minds than hypothermia.

The incense had been lit, the runes had been inscribed, and the bones had been cast. The stars were right, the planets were aligned, and the new moon was in the proper quadrant. After seven thousand years, the prophecy had been fulfilled and these cultists, these lucky few, would be the first to perish in the wake of The Destroyer.

The chanting began slowly -- an "ohm" here, a "th`rk" there. The pace quickened as more cultists joined in, and the strange, guttural cadences of the Old Tongue began to emerge. The words were terrible and discordant. They seared the cultists' ears and scoured their throats. Beneath the cultists, the ice of the glacier took on a faint red glow, and the dark waters of the fjord seemed to reflect far more than just the stars.

Sensing that the time was right, the High Priest began to unfasten the corroded copper locks on the Cask of the Ancients. The cask had not been opened for six thousand years, and no one living knew what awaited the High Priest. One legend said it contained the blood of ten thousand maidens. Another, more obstinate, group of lore keepers insisted it was ten thousand marmots. The truth was lost to time. Brazenly, and without apparent fear, the High Priest threw back the heavy clay lid of the cask, and gasped at the stench that assaulted him. Sixty centuries in a Sumerian jar had given the original contents (whatever they were) a reek suggestive of an infinite number of dead skunks covered in an infinite amount of sewage. The real reason the High Priest had insisted on bringing five crates of incense became apparent. It was not enough.

Inside the cask, the substance that had once (probably) been virgin's blood had taken on the texture of suspiciously chunky chocolate pudding. The High Priest motioned to the Ritual Master, a troublesome little man with troublesome little ideas, and the Ritual Master nodded and reached into the cask. The nervous man pulled out a finger full of the mysterious ichor (which now definitely did not resemble chocolate pudding), and stared at it meekly. The Ritual Master gave the High Priest one last pleading look, but was rebuffed with a shake of the head. Gingerly, the poor man lifted his finger to his mouth, tasted the substance, winced, and died instantly. There was a brief wavering in the chanting, and one of the younger disciples actually gasped. The High Priest just shrugged.

The corpse still twitched as a pair of acolytes dragged it into the Ritual Dodecagram. The High Priest ignored it and walked to the edge of the glacier. The old maniac was so excited he was practically skipping. As the chanting continued, the High Priest raised his hands in the air dramatically, and stared down into the glassy fjord. Careful to keep the giddiness he felt from entering his voice, the High Priest began to shout loudly in the Old Tongue. Awaken, Great Sleeper. The Time of Prophecy is at hand! Awaken, World Ender. We have brought you a gift of blood, ancient and fresh! Awaken, That Which Blocks The Way With Its Unspeakable Appendages. The Unmaking has begun! The chanters now joined in, their voices echoing off of snow-capped peaks. Awaken. Awaken! Awaken!

Below, the fjord had started to boil. It shook and rippled violently, as if it had been struck by an invisible hurricane, as if a hundred depth charges had burst beneath its placid surface, as if an unspeakable horror of unlimited size and impossible dimensions had suddenly started rising to the surface. A loud, piercing rumble rose from the fjord and screamed its way through the minds of all assembled. Within the circle of chanters, a couple of acolytes began to wish they had taken up a different hobby, like knitting. The High Priest sensed the tension in the air and ordered them to hold firm while The Sleeper was Awakening.

Within the fjord, the frantic motion of the water began to calm, and a dark shadow came into focus. The High Priest could make out the silhouettes of tentacles, mandibles, and thousands of other body parts that did not have names, but conjured unpleasant images. One of the shadows detached itself, and a single eye jutted out of the water atop a mile-long stalk. The disturbingly-human eye was bloodshot and blinked rapidly. Its pupil expanded and contracted blearily as it focused on the cultists. A cluster of tentacles rose and began to rub the eye as if it were in pain. The cultists gasped. A loud grumbling noise emerged from the fjord, and the tentacles pulled back to reveal what was unmistakably a lobster claw the size of a house. The Old One raised its claw and, before they had time to react, brought it smashing down on the assembled cultists. The chanting stopped violently. The eye stalk and claw then pulled back into the water with a loud "plop" and The Sleeper returned to its rest.

Above the fjord, the High Priest clung to side of the glacier, while two of the surviving acolytes lifted him up. Nearby, another acolyte was already pointing to where the claw had struck. A large sheet of glacial ice had sloughed off with the blow, and the source of the strange red glow revealed itself to be a huge gleaming glyph written in the Old Tongue. The High Priest, upon rising to his feet, looked down at the glyph in horror, and immediately ordered his followers not to look upon it, but he was too late. One acolyte, quicker than most, had already made the translation. He wore a look of confusion as he spoke the word aloud, "SNOOZE?"