We are New Shoggoths, creeping pseudopods of the Elder Things. They grew us in obsidian gardens fed by streams of abstract sadness until horror nestled in our pores. We are mercurial terrors of fluidic space. We discharge fractal tendrils that pry open dimensions, curl space-time between our teeth, and feast on wormholes in veiled rituals. To hear the whispers of the Outer Ones, we fashion helms made of scaled neutrinos, coded in hyper plasmic markup language. With fork in hand, we separate quantum skin from cosmic meat. As our paws touch existence, we infect the eye of creation and fry the yolk of sentience upon a plate of ash and entropy. You will declare us the Lizard Kings of your conspiracies and assassins of your mysteries. The slime from our forked tongues will coat the mythos of galactic civilization in tribute to the Elder Gods. Saturn's rings bare witness, it's game over, it's game over. Corpse run mother effer. Corpse run.