Dagon [Shendu]
Dec 14, 2015 15:07:27 GMT
Post by Deleted on Dec 14, 2015 15:07:27 GMT
[googlefont="Handlee"]
There's so many places I want to go, so many things I want to see
“It is at night, especially when the moon is gibbous and waning, that I see the thing,”
Mikleo’s boyish voice brought out the cadence of the words, a tapestry of anguish and horror given in maudlin tones. He breathed, and the words came quicker, projecting the ink-bound panic of a man haunted by monsters and their shadowy visitations, awaiting an inevitable death.
“…I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons of the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind – of a day when the land shall sink and the ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium.”
Mikleo reconsidered whether his first book of the day contributed to his personal research…
…or just amplified his fanboyism for Lovecraft.
It didn’t stop him, however. Friction between voice and story was building, now. “The end is near. I hear some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me—“ And his voice raised as he dropped the crescendo, “gods – that hand! The window! The window!”
As Mikleo took great, heaving breaths and cleared his abused throat, he realized he might have gotten a bit too passionate. The room asserted its respectful (judgemental) silence again.
He shook his head, lifting the book as he stood. That was insane. Whatever’s been haunting him for days now wasn’t anything close to the monstrosities he’d recited; the seraph was simply falling victim to his own crazy world…right?
At first it started as a series of strange dreams, where he’d be extracted from his physical body so that he was looking down at it. But unlike a dream, it always felt like he was backed by a very real feeling of dread manifest. Whatever it was, he wasn’t so much afraid of it as he was somehow…expecting it. Like it was hardwired to be there, like his soul to his body.
When Mikleo went to bed that night, he rested his eyes knowing what was in store for him again. The smoggy flashbacks of his dreams had been seeping into his conscience, acting as a constant reminder. Mikleo just hoped that when he went to sleep tonight, it wouldn’t be a lengthy reprieve. More importantly, he hoped that Cthulhu wouldn’t be palming his window.
After a time, his eyes came to be again. The floors under his feet lit up in a kaleidoscopic shock that reminded him of the churches back in Glenwood. One of the inlaid patterns was an image of himself, eyes closed, body reclined comfortably. It was a perfect example of the rest he hadn’t had for weeks now.
The off-set was that behind the boy was something big, black (golden?) and jagged all over. Molten-hot eyes peered hatefully over a small shoulder. The more Mikleo stared at this thing, the more he thought that if there was anything personifiable of his nightmares, he was looking right at it.
And maybe from somewhere in here, it could have been looking at him.
The air around him pulled, as if this thing was reacting to his thoughts. His eyes searched, but couldn’t do half the job his heart was at sensing it. Maybe it was in his heart, or maybe it had a grip on it. Either way, it was connected his heart somehow.
When Mikleo spoke up, his voice wasn’t so much a physical sound as it was an energy signature. “Who are you?” he demanded. The question had been the crux of his madness for weeks now, he just didn’t know it. At the same time, he felt that asking it wasn’t going to make anything better.
At first, only the silence answered back. The seraph stepped up now, fists tight and sweaty at his sides. He hated lending breath to something that shouldn’t even exist inside him, but he still wanted to anyway. “I know you’re there. Why are you haunting me? And why can I feel you?”
Mikleo’s boyish voice brought out the cadence of the words, a tapestry of anguish and horror given in maudlin tones. He breathed, and the words came quicker, projecting the ink-bound panic of a man haunted by monsters and their shadowy visitations, awaiting an inevitable death.
“…I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons of the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind – of a day when the land shall sink and the ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium.”
Mikleo reconsidered whether his first book of the day contributed to his personal research…
…or just amplified his fanboyism for Lovecraft.
It didn’t stop him, however. Friction between voice and story was building, now. “The end is near. I hear some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me—“ And his voice raised as he dropped the crescendo, “gods – that hand! The window! The window!”
As Mikleo took great, heaving breaths and cleared his abused throat, he realized he might have gotten a bit too passionate. The room asserted its respectful (judgemental) silence again.
He shook his head, lifting the book as he stood. That was insane. Whatever’s been haunting him for days now wasn’t anything close to the monstrosities he’d recited; the seraph was simply falling victim to his own crazy world…right?
At first it started as a series of strange dreams, where he’d be extracted from his physical body so that he was looking down at it. But unlike a dream, it always felt like he was backed by a very real feeling of dread manifest. Whatever it was, he wasn’t so much afraid of it as he was somehow…expecting it. Like it was hardwired to be there, like his soul to his body.
When Mikleo went to bed that night, he rested his eyes knowing what was in store for him again. The smoggy flashbacks of his dreams had been seeping into his conscience, acting as a constant reminder. Mikleo just hoped that when he went to sleep tonight, it wouldn’t be a lengthy reprieve. More importantly, he hoped that Cthulhu wouldn’t be palming his window.
After a time, his eyes came to be again. The floors under his feet lit up in a kaleidoscopic shock that reminded him of the churches back in Glenwood. One of the inlaid patterns was an image of himself, eyes closed, body reclined comfortably. It was a perfect example of the rest he hadn’t had for weeks now.
The off-set was that behind the boy was something big, black (golden?) and jagged all over. Molten-hot eyes peered hatefully over a small shoulder. The more Mikleo stared at this thing, the more he thought that if there was anything personifiable of his nightmares, he was looking right at it.
And maybe from somewhere in here, it could have been looking at him.
The air around him pulled, as if this thing was reacting to his thoughts. His eyes searched, but couldn’t do half the job his heart was at sensing it. Maybe it was in his heart, or maybe it had a grip on it. Either way, it was connected his heart somehow.
When Mikleo spoke up, his voice wasn’t so much a physical sound as it was an energy signature. “Who are you?” he demanded. The question had been the crux of his madness for weeks now, he just didn’t know it. At the same time, he felt that asking it wasn’t going to make anything better.
At first, only the silence answered back. The seraph stepped up now, fists tight and sweaty at his sides. He hated lending breath to something that shouldn’t even exist inside him, but he still wanted to anyway. “I know you’re there. Why are you haunting me? And why can I feel you?”
The dream is alive and it's right in front of me
