you'll never know the way your words have haunted me
((RP Mode--again, ish.))
Pulled from sleep by half-formed ideas, I stumbled towards quill and pen, but still felt uneasy. Something wasn't right, and all the dreams of dandelions and kisses wouldn't change that.
I flew about the world, finding myself slowly drawn to another coast, another sea, and finally realized, I knew the town I circled on slow tattered wings.
Innsmouth is on the grid.
It was eerily quiet. I had to fight the pull of the o'er-solid air to leave the ground at all. The few homes I saw in any condition whatsoever had no sign of habitation. The rest had their doors nailed shut. Cottage after cottage, all closed. To keep vandals out, or...to keep...whatever...in?
A patch of glowing green light, spilling out on the cold stones, drew my attention. I landed next to the open door, shivering in a sudden burst of chill, the light moving over my skin like an unwelcome touch. It was a pub, I discovered, when I went inside...and the main art portrayed the town.
Under attack.
I fought the pull of the earth again, falling in the bay once and spluttering as murky water closed over my head. I rose, skin icy, o'erlooking the damaged landscape. What hurt worst, here, I wondered, and unerringly, my gaze flew to the church.
Surely not, I thought vaguely, even thought now coming with difficulty. No one would be so mad...
But they were, they are. If residents remain at all...they once again worship Dagon.
Tentatively, I stepped into the church and shuddered. I have stood next to the Queen of Air and Darkness when she was in the height of her power. I have had her sword, Mortal Dread, at my throat. I have been lost in madness in a place of hard ground and verminous disrepair.
I have stood in the sithen's Hall of Mortality with a torture blade and a monk at my mercy.
Nothing I'd known, nothing I'd done, prepared me for this, for the nearly solid shadows in the eaves, for the lurking menace, the bare and barren walls that yet seemed to pulse with strange unholy life.
Surreally enough...this Innsmouth even has a gift shop. I blinked at the offerings, spellcasted transformations for flesh and skin, and withdrew, shaking my head. I flew fast as wings could carry me, for home, for the safety of my tree and green.
(For any who may not have felt the instinctive shiver down the spine, let me enlighten you a bit as to the dark history Innsmouth bears. Where is it located? October Country, where else?)
Pulled from sleep by half-formed ideas, I stumbled towards quill and pen, but still felt uneasy. Something wasn't right, and all the dreams of dandelions and kisses wouldn't change that.
I flew about the world, finding myself slowly drawn to another coast, another sea, and finally realized, I knew the town I circled on slow tattered wings.
Innsmouth is on the grid.
It was eerily quiet. I had to fight the pull of the o'er-solid air to leave the ground at all. The few homes I saw in any condition whatsoever had no sign of habitation. The rest had their doors nailed shut. Cottage after cottage, all closed. To keep vandals out, or...to keep...whatever...in?
A patch of glowing green light, spilling out on the cold stones, drew my attention. I landed next to the open door, shivering in a sudden burst of chill, the light moving over my skin like an unwelcome touch. It was a pub, I discovered, when I went inside...and the main art portrayed the town.
Under attack.
I fought the pull of the earth again, falling in the bay once and spluttering as murky water closed over my head. I rose, skin icy, o'erlooking the damaged landscape. What hurt worst, here, I wondered, and unerringly, my gaze flew to the church.
Surely not, I thought vaguely, even thought now coming with difficulty. No one would be so mad...
But they were, they are. If residents remain at all...they once again worship Dagon.
Tentatively, I stepped into the church and shuddered. I have stood next to the Queen of Air and Darkness when she was in the height of her power. I have had her sword, Mortal Dread, at my throat. I have been lost in madness in a place of hard ground and verminous disrepair.
I have stood in the sithen's Hall of Mortality with a torture blade and a monk at my mercy.
Nothing I'd known, nothing I'd done, prepared me for this, for the nearly solid shadows in the eaves, for the lurking menace, the bare and barren walls that yet seemed to pulse with strange unholy life.
Surreally enough...this Innsmouth even has a gift shop. I blinked at the offerings, spellcasted transformations for flesh and skin, and withdrew, shaking my head. I flew fast as wings could carry me, for home, for the safety of my tree and green.
(For any who may not have felt the instinctive shiver down the spine, let me enlighten you a bit as to the dark history Innsmouth bears. Where is it located? October Country, where else?)
Comments