Having not quite figured out how three-dimensional awareness works, the monster with the pen attempts to show its gratitude for the latest milestone.

A lovely piece by the also lovely  MinaHyena, and a bigger res version of the picture used in my raffle post.

Vague and often contradictory omens herald the arrival of the thing from beyond reality. As the centuries passed, the adjective became a name spoken in hushed tones: Vague.

On a dark and stormy night, when the clock struck midnight and the feverish scribbling became maddening like a banshee's wail, the horror finally emerged from the psyche of a nameless author. Its essence quickly inhabited a vessel of coffee dregs and red wine, and there it vowed to spread the dual blights of fetish fiction and really, really hard to remove stains. Now it prowls our reality, fueling - and feeding off - human paraphilia. Its teeth and tentacles have claimed many a victim throughout the ages, but sacrifices of shiny things and body parts are known to appease the horror and even earn its graces.

But what does Vague want from such a mundane dimension compared to its own? We may never know...

(Your bones. The answer is your bones. It wants bones so it can grip the pen better, okay? Yeah, it's not the smartest tentacle horror out there. And yes, I did make it a legitimate character, and there's nothing you can do about it.)

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