grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
Jesus. Well, that could have gone better, couldn't it? Let's see what happens next...
*
You dream of shrieking. And blood. And a burning crimson light from out of the ground and the heavens. The Watchers turning their heads away, as if in fear.
In your dream, you fall, tumbling through the blazing passages that exist past time and space, the Old Gods' realms, their great alien fingers stretching out to find you. The Stone Man twists and shifts, never the same, ever horrid, his hundred eyes laughing in a hundred tongues.
And a high voice, not unlike Edward's, the last in your mind, tumbling with you through the air, wailing in pitiable horror,
'His carriage comes...Mother Mary...the outer darkness...the formless halls...his carriage comes...Mother Mary watch over me...his carriage comes...'
And the mask is lifted from the Stone Man's face.
*
Your right eye opens a little wider than the left.
Funny, you think. I'm certain I was supposed to wake up dead.
You count to a hundred, waiting patiently for the burning brightness of the midday sky to fade, and then try to lift your head again. Your right arm, you think, is broken; in the inside of your mouth, a molar rattles loose on a hanging strand of gum. Your legs sear.
You try to shift your left arm across, slowly, to your jacket. Catching hold of the nearest tail, you pull - carefully.
It takes three attempts before the cheap material begins to tear, but once it's loose, it rips easily. The first strip of cloth trails out, too thin to be of use, and you toss it to one side in disgust. The second strip is more serviceable.
Your battered fingers are slow, and clumsy, but at last you're able to knot the two ends of the strip together, making a crude sling out of the whole thing. You lean it over your right shoulder.
After all, you tell yourself, I've seen Herbert West do this a thousand times. How hard could it be?
You don't know how long it takes you to sit upright. Your broken arm screams at you with every movement. You try not to look at it. It's entirely possible that the bone is jutting out through the skin of your forearm.
'Ready,' you breathe, and instantly regret it. Your parched throat wells up and for several seconds you curl forward in a coughing fit.
Ready, you think; one, two, three.
A moment of utter agony that makes you cry out to the sky; but then your right arm is resting in its sling. The stone pendant thuds, quietly, against your chest.
You gaze all around you. The empty plains are entirely new and unfamiliar to you. The camp is nowhere to be seen. Above you, curving out amongst the grass and the mossy rocks, is a hill. Crows are circling overhead.
*
Above all, you are a scientist. And so, when you stoop to examine the five workers at the top of the hill, you hold back the disgust, the underground tremors of superstitious fear running through you, and attempt to discover the exact cause of death.
The damage done to the torsos - and the exposing of what lies within - appears to have been conducted postmortem. The positioning of the bodies is apparently random, with Andre a little further away from the rest of the group, as if he'd tried to flee at the last possible moment; Edward's placing, however, in the lower branches of the small, dead ash, suggests a sort of mockery or ritualistic practice. Two of the workers' palms show multiple incisions, in irregular patterns; one of them is unmarked other than the grievous harm done to his ribcage.
In fact, you conclude, the only pattern common to all of the corpses is the look of unmistakable terror on every man's face.
Perhaps it's your exhaustion, or a result of the injury to your head, but you find your mind drifting back to that cryptic passage from Abdul Alhazred's Necromonicon;
The good host knows when his guests come to dine.
He will come out in his carriage to meet them.
Most marvellous halls! O, sweetest of wine!
But his golden house is dark, and poisons are sweet.
Trying to shake off the stupor which will undoubtedly lead to your unconsciousness, and probably your death, you gaze about in every direction. There are no houses in sight; to the north and north-west, tall pine trees shroud the landscape. To the north-east, the hills seem to slope downwards, as if towards a river or the ocean. You know, of course, that Dynhill was north of Arkham...but are you still due north of Arkham?
First choice: the bodies.
A: Bury them as best as I can manage in my current condition. No man, no matter what his crimes, deserves to be left out to rot like this.
B: Leave them to rot. These bastards killed my dog! And, besides, I shouldn't exert myself unnecessarily.
C: I'm weak, unarmed, and wounded. I don't know how far I'll have to go before I reach civilisation or my friends find me, and I'm in no state to catch any animals. Though it disgusts me to do so, perhaps it might be...prudent to take a little of their flesh with me. Just in case I have no other choice. Survival is what matters now.
Second choice: which way to head.
A: North is what James said. We can't have strayed that far out of our planned route. North it is.
B: Those forests don't look amenable to human life. I'm more likely to find other people if I make for the hills to the north-east.
C: James and the others will be out looking for me. I have to try and retrace my steps to the camp.
Does our hero have the strength to get himself back to civilisation? What killed these men? Is the consideration of cannibalism the Kingcomrade option? You decide.
*
You dream of shrieking. And blood. And a burning crimson light from out of the ground and the heavens. The Watchers turning their heads away, as if in fear.
In your dream, you fall, tumbling through the blazing passages that exist past time and space, the Old Gods' realms, their great alien fingers stretching out to find you. The Stone Man twists and shifts, never the same, ever horrid, his hundred eyes laughing in a hundred tongues.
And a high voice, not unlike Edward's, the last in your mind, tumbling with you through the air, wailing in pitiable horror,
'His carriage comes...Mother Mary...the outer darkness...the formless halls...his carriage comes...Mother Mary watch over me...his carriage comes...'
And the mask is lifted from the Stone Man's face.
*
Your right eye opens a little wider than the left.
Funny, you think. I'm certain I was supposed to wake up dead.
You count to a hundred, waiting patiently for the burning brightness of the midday sky to fade, and then try to lift your head again. Your right arm, you think, is broken; in the inside of your mouth, a molar rattles loose on a hanging strand of gum. Your legs sear.
You try to shift your left arm across, slowly, to your jacket. Catching hold of the nearest tail, you pull - carefully.
It takes three attempts before the cheap material begins to tear, but once it's loose, it rips easily. The first strip of cloth trails out, too thin to be of use, and you toss it to one side in disgust. The second strip is more serviceable.
Your battered fingers are slow, and clumsy, but at last you're able to knot the two ends of the strip together, making a crude sling out of the whole thing. You lean it over your right shoulder.
After all, you tell yourself, I've seen Herbert West do this a thousand times. How hard could it be?
You don't know how long it takes you to sit upright. Your broken arm screams at you with every movement. You try not to look at it. It's entirely possible that the bone is jutting out through the skin of your forearm.
'Ready,' you breathe, and instantly regret it. Your parched throat wells up and for several seconds you curl forward in a coughing fit.
Ready, you think; one, two, three.
A moment of utter agony that makes you cry out to the sky; but then your right arm is resting in its sling. The stone pendant thuds, quietly, against your chest.
You gaze all around you. The empty plains are entirely new and unfamiliar to you. The camp is nowhere to be seen. Above you, curving out amongst the grass and the mossy rocks, is a hill. Crows are circling overhead.
*
Above all, you are a scientist. And so, when you stoop to examine the five workers at the top of the hill, you hold back the disgust, the underground tremors of superstitious fear running through you, and attempt to discover the exact cause of death.
The damage done to the torsos - and the exposing of what lies within - appears to have been conducted postmortem. The positioning of the bodies is apparently random, with Andre a little further away from the rest of the group, as if he'd tried to flee at the last possible moment; Edward's placing, however, in the lower branches of the small, dead ash, suggests a sort of mockery or ritualistic practice. Two of the workers' palms show multiple incisions, in irregular patterns; one of them is unmarked other than the grievous harm done to his ribcage.
In fact, you conclude, the only pattern common to all of the corpses is the look of unmistakable terror on every man's face.
Perhaps it's your exhaustion, or a result of the injury to your head, but you find your mind drifting back to that cryptic passage from Abdul Alhazred's Necromonicon;
The good host knows when his guests come to dine.
He will come out in his carriage to meet them.
Most marvellous halls! O, sweetest of wine!
But his golden house is dark, and poisons are sweet.
Trying to shake off the stupor which will undoubtedly lead to your unconsciousness, and probably your death, you gaze about in every direction. There are no houses in sight; to the north and north-west, tall pine trees shroud the landscape. To the north-east, the hills seem to slope downwards, as if towards a river or the ocean. You know, of course, that Dynhill was north of Arkham...but are you still due north of Arkham?
First choice: the bodies.
A: Bury them as best as I can manage in my current condition. No man, no matter what his crimes, deserves to be left out to rot like this.
B: Leave them to rot. These bastards killed my dog! And, besides, I shouldn't exert myself unnecessarily.
C: I'm weak, unarmed, and wounded. I don't know how far I'll have to go before I reach civilisation or my friends find me, and I'm in no state to catch any animals. Though it disgusts me to do so, perhaps it might be...prudent to take a little of their flesh with me. Just in case I have no other choice. Survival is what matters now.
Second choice: which way to head.
A: North is what James said. We can't have strayed that far out of our planned route. North it is.
B: Those forests don't look amenable to human life. I'm more likely to find other people if I make for the hills to the north-east.
C: James and the others will be out looking for me. I have to try and retrace my steps to the camp.
Does our hero have the strength to get himself back to civilisation? What killed these men? Is the consideration of cannibalism the Kingcomrade option? You decide.