Cthulhu was from the other place, the dark place. It was the demon that demons feared, a god before gods were. A pulpy, tentacled grotesque, it devoured worlds and realities with a malignant hunger. Cthulhu was beyond scale and measures, willing to take any shape, inhabit any flesh vessel to feed. When it found such an opening, a tiny fissure between realities, it surged through with terrible, maddening speed.
And then promptly fell over.
Cthulhu was confused by this new reality. The world was blinding white, and quite cold. The creature it inhabited was barely capable of balanced locomotion, and with sad, useless wings even more rudimentary that its own once were. As Cthulhu struggled to right itself, it saw thousands of similar creatures approach. When the first one arrived, it peered at Cthulhu quizically, then dropped a fish at Cthulu’s feet. And then another of the creatures waddled up, and dropped a fish as well. And then another.
Cthulhu realized, to its horror, that these creatures felt not fear, not dread, but pity. It bellowed with an ageless rage, and thrashed about in mortified disbelief, until it fell over once again. wheezing into the cold ground, Cthulhu peered up at this world’s protectors, with futility and resignation, and accepted its fate for now.
And the fish were quite good.