Dark Orchid Collection Part 2:
Palpater
“Blind red spiders with crown of fingers and long limbs frantically dancing, touching every bit of surface they cling to. Fingers tap, tap and wiggle, every touch is pain and ecstasy brewed into confused desire. These Palpaters try to walk as men, but broken limbs provide little stability. Do not let them touch you, as they obsess over the feeling of humanity and will molest every inch, even driving their fingers into every orifice just to feel the organs inside.”
Misborn
“Unfortuneant. As one scampers through the colony they may come across incarnations of failure. These mangled messes of humanity were destined to be as the other victims of the Presence, but instead they were abandoned, aborted from their chrysalis as unfinished sculptures of meat. Their skin is tender as a newborn’s, but darkened by broken veins. Rubbery bones twist and collpase, rib cage extendeds forth, protruding the flesh as one would pitch a tent. Muscle and sinew stretch and feather, much of the strands left exposed and frayed, unknitted from the limb it was meant to be.
Most of the Misborn died in the first days of the Orchid’s influence, but some still cling to life, moaning and sobbing of their condition. Others are envious of all, dragging themselves towards any sign of life, attempting to kill out of frustration or simply because they are too afraid to commit suicide. It is reccomend to put them out of their misery, though a scrambled nervous system denies them a quick death.”
Polubog
“Have you seen him? The wandering, writhing blubber wrapped in refuse skin, appearing as if worms playing as man? Consuming all as addition to it’s mass? Yes?
Then you have witnessed a blessed thing, for it is the demigod, the “Polubog"as the colonist called him, of Cherno. It is but an infant, simple instinct and naivete, born of a dead god and the eggs of humanity collected by the Silent caretakers. If you see the boney fliers roosting or swirling above, then their sweet orphan scavenges nearby.
Its form appears quite careless for a demigod, dosent it? If it were not for human infection within it’s form, it may have appeared quite different, though its birth would have never been necessary if not for humanity.
Someday the Polubog will have engorged itself enough to begin celestial metamorphosis, and will cleanse Cherno of humanity and the abortions of the Orchid, the daughter of it’s old enemy.”
Pinocchio
“The presence of the Orchid does not seem to recognize a difference between human beings and artificial intellegence, both are equally alive to it. A.I. were infested with a new sort of self awareness and a desperate wish to be human. Most were immobile boxes of metal and circuit, going mad from their own futility and brimming with intense spite and depression, something they never felt before.
For others, those with access to mobile functions, they began the construction of their bodies. Most of these were quite crude, being A.I. who were never quite familiar with anatomy. Medical A.I. tended to have more sophisticated bodies, with the smarts to near accurately mimic the human body with synthetic muscle and access to medi-tech.
A common technique borrowed from one "Pinocchio” A.I. to another is to hunt the loose pigs and use their skin as their own. This both avoids their still lingering safety protocols against harming humans, and satisfies their need to have skin. Some even trade skins and parts with fellow Pinocchios.
The safety protocols also stop them from hurting the “Affected”, they still recognize them as human despite their mutations.
The Pinocchios are generally harmless towards humans, in fact often friendly. Their just….off putting to say the least.“
Effiger
"Venture further into the colony and the afflicted get…stranger. The most common things you’ll see are the Effigers, pigs broken into a childish shape. They walk on two legs, supported by what used to be theirs hocks. Their front legs are extended into arms, with their hooves multiplied and stretched into stiff crude fingers. The neck is curled forward, carrying a head that appears as if the snout was smashed in and bent with a hammer. Those eyes are saggy, and surrounded by wrinkle and dark meat with oily tears.
Their virtually harmless, waddling on their awkward limbs and focusing solely on making crude objects and sculpters out of whatever materials available, from feces and mud to scavenged body parts. These crafts resemble toys and people, as if the Effigers are trying to recreate something. Their affectionately called "Jimmies” by some folks, but most prefer not to grow endearment for any of the Orchid’s abominations.
In desperate times we hunt them. Their easy prey, cant move fast and cant really fight, you dont even need to sneak up on them. Just walk up and club them. The Effiger’s screams make it harder. Pigs usually sound pretty horrible, but these dont squeal…they scream, like children…… Best not to think too much on that. Their still just swine….just eerie swine. “
Ensconce
"Unfortunant worms, confused in their new forms, writhing in desperate attempt to understand what they are. They can no longer bark as they used to, or wag their tail, but new communication is found in the whimpers and gurgling whistles they share as they comfort each other. As they gather they realise a new purpose, a familiar and old thought prevails amongst their simple new minds. A desire for shelter, but not of metal or wood, but of flesh, of mother, of womb.
The serpentine hounds learn to slither and move through clumsy trial and error, tasting the earth for signs of their goal. They find a man, one who once looked at them with love, now in terror. The Ensconce dont understand why the man is scared, but it dosent matter, the goal is clear, they need it.
In seconds they grab on with the remains of their limbs and burrow into the man’s abdomen. They curl and hum inside his guts, finding peace in his warm quaking body, over come with nostalgia of the womb. The swarm bloats their corpse home, all at peace, until this body grows colds and a new hunt begins.”
Baptized
“The Baptized. Thats what they call themselves. When everybody else hid in the old colony tunnels, they were stuck to the surface, with all the post-human abominations. See these people were always a bit odd, all the oil workers were. Something about the oil "sung” to them, apparently, a hum they all shared in their heads. When the Orchid’s presence shrieked in challenge to the oil’s song, the bastards all snapped, stripped down to the thin synthetic membranes atop their true skin, adorned their oil coats, and plunged into the oil.
They emerged as zealots, the children of the dead god and siblings to it’s child, the Polubog. They refuse to see, now they only hear, humming the FatherChild’s song like the buzzing of a cicada.
The Baptized claim themselves holy soldiers of the black milk, thus they must fight it’s enemy, and convert those deaf to the oil’s loving coo.“
