In ages past there was no question that at times, The Powers That Be would occasionally send messengers to keep mankind in line. These messengers would smite sinners and punish the wicked, forcing humanity to conform to the arbitrary standards of some alien intelligence, forgoing its own instincts. Women turned to arachnids, naughty and greedy children nearly devoured by crazed cannibals in sugary houses, and at times the whole world flooded, all to appease the twisted desires of these ancient beings.
In today’s world, it is thought that these things are myths and legends. Mankind makes its own destiny and manifests its own karma. No ancient intelligence is our ruler. Yet those that would think that are wrong, for this crazed and brutal form of divine providence lives yet, but it does so more secretly than it did before. No longer are these things whispered of, except for in the most hushed of tones by the most insane and rare of people. They speak of horrible emissaries between our world and one more ancient. They speak of The Horde.
One of The Horde is a nightmare, but they never travel alone. They resemble nude women, distorted grotesquely and walking backwards on all fours like crabs. Their limbs twist and bend, nearly breaking, the cracking of the bones and the sick ripping of flesh and sinew the only indication that despite their fluid and insectile grace, they are not made to so operate. As they scuttle, they keep their front legs (those that are made of feet and thighs rather than biceps and hands) open, revealing vile mouths where their genitals should be. Pubic hair still clings to these lips like a bizarre goatee, all teeming with lice and encrusted fluids from an abject ignorance of hygiene.
Above this sickly mandible, two navels, one normal and one still adhering to a short length of fresh umbilical chord, serve as nostrils. Further onward where a less blasphemously constructed woman would bear her bosom, the eyes of The Horde dwell. As they creep through trees and over ceilings, they stare out accusingly with fantastic, beach ball sized eyeballs that roll around completely freely, seemingly attached to the creatures only by some adhesive. These eyes are needed, as where the creature’s head would be a tiny blob of flesh instead dangles, housing what comprises the creature’s brain. Over time, this flesh seems to dwindle and atrophy, as the creatures become increasingly more and more idiotic.
Their sphincters and buttocks seem to have been sewn shut, and then battered and burned and mutilated until the flesh grows over the seam, leaving nothing but a vague and battered mass of scar tissue and the odd bit of stitching here or there. It may be that this is why they chatter as they do, turning digested matter not into feces but into the essence of their crude and wild mumblings. They constantly gibber declarations against all sin, especially those of sex and violence, while whispering horrid curses and vile insults. They preach that your every action is a filthy one, articulating and salivating horribly between their writhing, bent thighs. All the while, their breath lets out a constant and thick scent of excrement.
And as they approach you, they take everything in their path. They are imprecise, taking down not just the “sinner” but also all those between him and wherever they were before they began to descend upon you. If you are strong of mind in a sense that few are, they will only suffocate you to death, letting your eyes cloud over and your heart stop beating. The weak are not so lucky. They do not crush the weak to death, or even swarm them. Instead, they hold them down and then one of their number bites, chewing off their genitals, nipples and head. Within moments, their wounds seal up, and membranous sacks on their chest inflate into eyeballs like slimy balloons filling with gelatin. They stagger to their “feet” clumsily, before their mouths melt into place and they begin to scold.