Cthulhu’s Spawn: The “Little” C

The spawn of Cthulhu—or as I like to call them, the Little C—are the brethren to Cthulhu, the difference being that their stature and powers are smaller when compared with the Big C. From Lovecraft’s writing it is not clear if they are the actual offspring of Cthulhu, but the word spawn communicates to the reader the watery existence of their world (for now, that is, but when the stars are right, the spawn will no longer be confined to merely dwell under the waves!).

Oops, sorry about that little revelation. I’m sure it won’t happen in my lifetime. I have been under some mental strain compiling this primer.

Dwelling in R’lyeh with their lord, the Cthulhu spawn are in thrall to the Big C, who rules them with an iron mind.

Forging psychic links with his brethren, Cthulhu awaits the day when the stars are aligned, R’lyeh will rise above the ocean waves, and the atmosphere will not be poisonous to him or his kind. Trapped/sealed/sleeping in compartments all around the city, the spawn slumber and dream as Cthulhu does, although the reach of their mental powers is not nearly as pronounced or as strong as Cthulhu’s.

However, some of the spawn dare not dream openly about the hour when R’lyeh takes its rightful place again on the surface world, and they can wrest the yoke from the Big C and rule the surface world instead of him. Then they can feast and glut themselves upon the myriad corpses of the human infestation of the dry lands. The spawn know that their ancient foes no longer have sway over the Earth, that now only the human race infests the lands and seas, and the numbers of these hairless but intelligent apes have escalated over the passing millennia.

The spawn are patient, so very patient. One day they know they will no longer be slaves in their own city but masters of all the Earth instead. One day humans will be displaced at the top of the food chain.

That day can be hastened with some help from the very humans who plague them. Perhaps with the right mental nudging and brief flashes of alien-inspired technology, humans could replicate the atmospheric conditions needed for Cthulhu and his kind to walk the land without pain or injury.

Perhaps the humans could develop a technology to alter the very gasses of the air, displacing the hated oxygen with its kindred carbon dioxide. Perhaps the spawn could whisper into the ear of Cthulhu that if the humans would burn the fossil fuels that abound in the Earth’s crust, then the skies would darken with clouds of sulfur rains, killing the trees that produce the despised oxygen. Perhaps if it was suggested to humans that an internal combustion engine would be the technology to elevate humanity from its dependence on gravity and physical labor, then maybe the humans would be all too willing to embrace the helping hand that would ultimately ensure their demse, as the spawn of Cthulhu await their turn as lords of the land again. This theory, that humanity is slowly slitting its own collective throat, makes sense as I read the newspaper and analyze how mankind is just now realizing the effects of global warming.

Do you think I am still insane? Or maybe I am the sane one, watching my world with the calculated logic of occult knowledge . . .