#eldritch writings

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

Spiraling Shadows

The world had fallen to void, darkness replacing the curious red glow of the cult candles. It was dreadfully complete, an ink spill upon the once vivid tapestry of the world now gone. He felt cold and pained, his head resting upon some slime licked stone and his mind unable to focus beyond immediate sensations.

Dark.

Cold.

Silence.

Gross.

His clothes remained - thank the powers that be - but the thought they might have been missing prior was a curious pondering. Was it that his senses were slowly picking themselves up from their embarrassing failings and were attempting to reprise their once venerable status as ‘information providers’? Perhaps it was just something he had considered and they were sluggishly providing a reply some time later. It mattered little.

Dark.

Chilling.

Noiseless.

Slimy.

He sat up, a hand on his head. It hurt a good deal and this only increased that issue, admittedly for just the moment. The very act of breathing was on the verge of crippling. Something was wrong.

Movement in the corner of his eye caused concern and he began to actively shake away the rigor mortis like symptoms from his body, grasping blindly in the hope of finding his blade or something useful as a weapon. He dared not speak. He dared not breathe. What roamed in such a place was no doubt blind but relied heavily upon its other senses. He refused to give it any assistance that he himself would not receive.

Only now did it occur to him that he was not certain if he was still in the mansion basement or not. If he had not moved, then at least he would be vindicated in his confusion. If the latter, however, he would need to learn why and how he had been displaced.

Another skittering across his eyesight brought another question to mind. How was he seeing any of this? It was total darkness and nothing gave even the slightest illumination. Why, then, was this exempted? His heart raced and he was put on edge. His forced civility and strength was beginning to peel at the edges, now very certain he was experiencing unbridled, very obvious fear.

A gloved hand covered his moth and a very high pitched whisper touched his ear.

“You look for things best left buried. Leave this foolish venture behind before it all falls down around you.”

He was then hit upside the head with a cudgel.

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

A TINGE OF DARKNESS

The taste was not relaxing with the passage of time, instead more thoroughly coating his tongue in an acrid, horrible taste. He could not find it to be remotely worthwhile to continue allowing the cultist to continue their work but what choice did he have? He was some distance away and to make his presence known now would be a choice of pure madness.

However, his time was running short. The book was here. Gods know where it might end up should he not intervene. What if it were only available during certain times? His deadline to plan ahead was shrinking by the moment. He grimaced, removing the deep blue knife from within the confines of his vest. The monk would not need it so perhaps it would serve him well enough.

Brick and knife carefully clasped, he began to inch his way towards his foe, eyes locked ferociously on them. It was becoming harder to focus now and his head was beginning to hurt. “Axea relae tietaen tietaen!” the cultist incanted. Flames danced along the altar - was there an altar before? He was struggling to recall - and the air smelled of burning flesh. It took every ounce of his restraint to not wretch from the experience.

“Relayaeh! Relayaeh undae!” A low thud could be heard in the room, some sort of bolt or lock falling away to the will of the curious cultist before him. What possibly was this magic? Was this magic at all? For the first time since the hooded entity, he felt genuine unease and fear. This could not be allowed to continue. Whatever this prayer was for meant ill and he would be damned if he allowed it to continue.

He threw his brick with a strikingly successful crunch, short end impacting the back of the cultist’s pasty skull. A scream of pain broke his concentration and the flames on the altar soon perished. This was the chance he had taken and he simply could not let it slip by. He rushed towards his adversary, knife held as if a sword or spear. He must strike the heart from his foe. He intended to do so with terrible results.

However, despite the earlier success in ending the spell, his vision still clouded and his head still heard. As the blade found purchase in a fairly human like object, he fell unconscious and lay on the stone floor to drift into a terrible, uncertain dream, the light fading from his vision and being replaced with the unnatural dark...

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

Cold Stones; Bloody Rites

The descent into the basement was slow going, the sputtering candles barely clinging to their waxy life in their lonely sconces providing meager light to navigate by. A hand on the wall and the other on his now trusty brick defender, Groyard made his way down one stair at a time. Each one creaked, despite his best efforts, and whatever potential for a stealthy approach was long lost to the dark recesses below. Even if he had gone unheard, his lacking sight would have helped him little.

A gentle breeze tickled his neck, a welcome break from the usual stagnant air of the Neath. Something less strange and certainly a prized moment. However, it is because the situation was so rare that it immediately put the socialite on edge, his lean form moving to the wall just before the base of the stairs. Though he had come to expect curious things, it never occurred to him that something once familiar might very well become strange. Muttering could be heard ahead, sure signs that the dedication to such an overdone hideout spot was indeed happening and he was to be forced into a literary nightmare. How could he put this in a memoir or a short story? It is so dull to come to a basement to find strange things. It is familiar and trite.

The mutterings became familiar words spoken in an unfamiliar way. A bastardized German reached his ear and catching his nerves. Who would speak the language of his homeland in such a place and in such a strange fashion? It was certainly the dialect of a different province in the Empire, the Prussian accent not present yet the words demonstrably similar to his own tongue. It took every fiber of his being not to respond. Instead, he watched in silence as a lone, robed person worked in a red candle light - of course it was red - a book held aloft and symbols glowing ominously at an altar before them.

“Rise,” they incanted, “and meet thy servant.” A pause, more German and occult words mingling before it was repeated. The cultist - were they a cultist? The lack of a hood at least revealed humanity - was receiving no response but their very words charged the air. If Groyard had hair, it would no doubt be standing now. “Rise.”

He surveyed the room before carefully slinking further into the lair. This was no longer a mere hint. The severity of the locale gave away the answer. The book was the one he needed and he was to act with energy and tact if he were to be successful. Wasting time would only doom him. Thankfully, no unforeseeable gaffes hindered his progress and, eventually, he came to rest behind a fairly sturdy crate to mull over his options. He tasted copper on his tongue and his mind fuzzed. This was perhaps not the best place to plan but he was forced to do so. Otherwise, he might be caught aflame or at the tip of a dagger. All he need to do now was wait for the right time.

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

In-depth Ponderings

Somewhere in the home, a clock ticked away lazily, the swinging weights sending each second to its early grave. Elsewhere, candles continued to sputter into a spiral of doom. Dust lingered in the air from recent movements and actions in the hall and home. In a heap by the broken window was the robed horror that had attempted to send Groyard to a grave indescribable. Near it, the socialite and burglar nudged it with his foot, having recollected his brick for safety concerns.

The examination brought to light the thing was highly dense and heavy, requiring no little effort to actually shift its form any noticeable amount. Despite this revelation, the strange material that made the thing up still gave way easily, even if the body itself refused to move. It was similar to gelatin as it would wobble and dance obscenely with each tough. Curious and mesmerizing. He avoided looking at the thing’s head, not quite wanting to test his sanity further. Looking away and focusing on some decaying piece of art, he pulled the hood over the thing’s head once more.

Now, to find the book. Not wanting to leave an opportunity behind, he carefully frisked his apparently immortal enemy. Again, the strange feeling the body produced gave him uncertain anxiety but, after a good minute to at least search every pocket and robe fold, he found nothing. Troubling, given he would need to leave it there, but at the very least a good sign given he would not need to be this close again. He stood, glancing up and down the hall.

Given the barren nature of the office and the library, where else could this horrible tome be? The basement stairwell was an obvious guess, but it was so terribly cliché. Would the resident be that willing to convene to expectations? How boring would that be! He scoffed, rolling his eyes. It would be terribly boring but he had little choice. Passing up any potential lead for the sake of narrative intrigue may very well get him caught or killed, neither being a desirable outcome. With a sigh and a newly found determination, he soon returned to the stairwell leading into the cellar, cautiously descending with a hand brushing against the wall.

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

A Foetid Reminder

The successful seclusion behind the stone still life only proved to be a silent boon, the odor found outside impossibly prominent as the robed creature made its way past his alcove. The gloves were still on, the dark depths of its hood still impossible to glimpse any sort of notable feature, though his curiosity certainly avoided wanting to examine further. Perhaps the knowledge may prove beneficial to some esoteric question well into the future but, as it stood, he preferred to keep his presence hidden and well out of the thing’s mind.

This hope, however, quickly fell away. The movement stopped, its robes silently shifting to finish what little movement it had been given by its owner. Groyard’s heart stopped, eyes locked on the thing as it slowly twisted its upper body - and only its upper body - to look at the broken window further back. After a silent, terrible moment, the thing turned the rest of itself to move and examine the window. Despite its lacking features, the clutching hands were a very clear sign of annoyance, if not outright rage. His previous good fortune was swiftly falling away. He was being forced to act and to do so swiftly.

Groyard hefted his brick, glad to have brought such a well created piece instead of opting for the rather ruined looking one from Watchmaker’s Hill. With such a foe set against him, any delay on his behalf would spell doom. Leaning out from behind his cover, he brought his arm up and back, preparing to throw. The sheer importance of this one moment would no doubt gauge his overall success in his ransacking of the home. Otherwise, he would be remarkably inconvenienced to wait for his time to come back to life, as no doubt this encounter would end in his death should he fail.

Though it was many things before this encounter he potentially regretted, perhaps even self-mocked for making the choice himself, the current moment was one that would remain in his memory indefinitely thanks to the substantial degree of improbability that happened in such a terrible, quick succession. First, the creature turned its head to face him, meeting his eyes without so much as a second’s delay. Second, its entire body was facing him with loud, unbelievably timed pops. Thirdly, its hood fell away, revealing an amorphous shape, shrouded in darkness and void, his eyes watering to behold it and his vision quickly flooding with red and his mind muddling from the sheer impossibility of the thing. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the brick made contact, dropping the creature to an unconscious heap. What exactly it hit was not entirely known in the moment but, as his vision cleared and his mind refocused, he soon concluded that this was not such a horrible situation after all.

At least he knew what was under its hood now.

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

New Newgate Evaded

My friend,

Apologies for suddenly falling away. It is, of course, nothing particularly new but the Constables stumbled across a scene of a rather grizzly murder and, thanks to some curious scoundrels in the streets, I had been fingered for questioning. I decided it best to allow the thing to blow over and mingled with the crowd for some time. The murder has dropped away from notice but the investigation continues. The monk will no doubt go the easiest route and simply describe me - as he would - to try and pin someone but in any case, my alibi will exonerate me.

However, this is not a letter merely meant to dissuade concern but rather to inform you that I intend to move on the darkness we discussed. The book I need I have located and I have been given advice to collect it. It will not be easy or perhaps even cheap but I will be successful, no matter what. If I was able to forge a charity from nothing and the help of a roof runner, I will be able to acquire a book. It will be inevitable, I’m sure.

With that out, I also request that you purchase a set of fluffy earmuffs. Your old pair was looking rather molded and it would be prudent to replace them. Safety and health, whatnot. However, I would also like to borrow them after you purchase them, if that is alright. It is not that I cannot afford my own set but rather that I will only need them once. I would greatly appreciate the assistance and can promise an evening cuppa to recompense.

I will be in the marsh this weekend. Please feed the fish. I believe they are lonely with me gone so often and I hate to deprive them off attention. I may just name you god parent so they feel they have not been abandoned. Thank you ahead of time.

Sincerely,

Groyard Mayatt

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

“I’m afraid you have happened by something beyond your realm,” the Merry Monk called out, cautiously stepping around the pews. He kept the assembled staff gripped tightly in his holy hands, a certainly unpious fury in his eyes. “Stand and be judged, heathen! I cannot permit you to continue on your course!”

Groyard, despite his best designs, did not entirely expect the priest to be both violent and this will trained. He had not brought any weapon beneficial in his current predicament but, gripping the metal backed ink quill meant originally for his journal, all he needed to do was successfully close the gap between the two and, given the potential for a rather solid thrashing, hopefully find the weakness in his defense. Even with his moment of clarity, he was still crawling along the floor between pews. One step at a time.

The monk, seeing the socialite’s weakness, decided to waste no more time and immediately began rushing forward, bringing the staff up. “This will be swift!” he announced. “And your retribution shall be your just reward!”

It was a grim moment but Groyard could glean one last moment of clarity. The monk was in full sprint. If he slid towards him, he might catch him off-guard and gain some form of advantage! Grasping at the chance, he pressed against the ground and slid towards the attacker, the staff colliding with the ground in front of his head and Groyard’s feet catching the monk’s own, sending him barreling forward and his head slamming against the side of the pew. A victory but he must capitalize on it!

Groyard rolled over onto the monk, gripping the man’s shoulders before pulling him back and slamming him down. “Now, let us bring this back!” he hissed, grinning broadly. “Who can I speak with? What do you know?”

The Merry Monk groaned, his eyes rolling dazedly as his own hands came up to grab Groyard’s vest. “You cannot understand,” he groaned, a failed punch causing Groyard to press the holy man into the ground again. With a pained breath, he managed to sputter, “I know so little! The Crooked Cross! Seek them!”

Groyard nodded briefly, pressing his arm into the monk’s throat and pinning one of his arms. “What is your involvement in this?” he demanded, his breathing heavy. He couldn’t give up his focus now. Gaining the advantage by seeming chance would not happen often.

The monk wheezed, his other hand weakly dropping to his side. “I am just a burner,” he panted, eyes watering. “I know as much as you, but merely from the other end.” However, despite the disadvantage, the monk had the forethought to access the folds of his robe, producing a curious blue glass blade, thrusting it towards the socialite’s abdomen.

Groyard was forced to quickly lean back and out of the way, releasing the Merry Monk from the pin to focus on grabbing the hand holding the blade, keeping it from going any further. “You do not have to commit to this!” he shouted, fear contained but very, very present. The blade was close to his chest. He thought he may have felt it touch once or twice, but he could not be certain.

The monk’s strength was flagging, the blow to his head and subsequent strikes giving him little rest. “I must,” he groaned, trying to pry Groyard’s hands away. “I must!”

Groyard was overwhelming the monk, the blade turning away from him and now towards his foe. “Surrender,” he hissed. “You are more useful alive!” Continued resistance gave the answer Groyard did not desire, the blade now cutting through fabric with odd ease.

At first, it was a sharp intake of air before it drifted towards a pained groan. The dagger was now pushing into his chest, blood mingling with cloth. A succession of weak blows to Groyard’s temple brought forward an anger that had been mingling with his current fears. “You have brought this upon yourself!” He retrieved the blade before slashing across the monk’s chest, blood spattering back at a seemingly impossible angle. With his foe fading into the life after, Groyard decided a trophy was due and took the man’s necklace, bending the arm on its cross somewhat before hanging it around his neck. He stood, pointing the blade down. “If your dark allies live beyond the fade, share what you have experienced here and send a clear warning. London will not be usurped. Stability will not be forsaken.”

The monk’s lips moved, a weak breath escaping him before he fell limp upon the ground. Now to escape without notice.

[lettersfromfallenlondon]

The Merry Monk

It was cold - far colder than any stone building should be, given its location - and the congregation was a touch peculiar, their pale complexions and accusing stares enough to make Groyard rather uncomfortable. Perhaps the uncushioned pews were of no help, but the legion of unblinking, glossy eyes fixated upon him in righteous indignation certainly cemented how unwelcome he truly was. Even the priest, a portly man of normally cheery demeanor, found it in his heart to cast silent prayers in the socialite’s direction. It seemed his exposure of the Repentant Devil spread quickly throughout the holy community and the scam being exposed earned him few friends.

Though he was the focus of the brief start of the sermon - ‘With us today brothers, sisters, sinner - is a guest whom, I hope, will remain silent throughout’ - Groyard found his usual absence during holy lectures would continue after this encounter. Despite his disdain, if not open disrespect, of the Church he believed that anyone seeking to stave off Madness and Beasts of Other would generally be found in its fold, whether out of need or out of self aware irony he could not fathom nor did he care to. At the very least, the nature of the Neath having actual Devils and other beasts no doubt encouraged the flock to develop requisite talents to combat them. The Merry Monk would be his start.

Groyard paid little attention to the sermon at large, recalling moments where the priest would call for an end of alcoholism or speaking in strange tongues, but beyond the less than standard fare nothing seemed relevant or worth his time. Given his absolute abhorrence for the practices contained within, he at least gave a token attempt to look like he was paying attention. This was, after all, an attempt to earn good will. Stay for a sermon, speak with the priest, move on with his life. Simply ambushing him after the fact would not be well received. Even given his internal logic, it did not help the Merry Monk was far from charismatic.

It was when he heard soft murmurs and the sound of lazy shuffling that he snapped back into focus, eyes moving among the crowd quickly to find his mark. He stood, collected his book - a black book of notes and gold edged paper - to stow it away, and made his way past the leaving worshippers, the priest being his goal. The man was quietly gathering up his own notes, the sound of walking growing softer and softer as his listeners left. Though he believed himself to be a stealthy man, it seemed he was not unnoticed. “I did not expect an unbeliever to arrive for my sermon,” the priest said, focus still ahead but clearly directed at Groyard. “I do not know if I should be humbled or humiliated at your attendance.”

Groyard’s jaw set. “I mean no offense, but in any case I require your help.”

The monk paused, considering the statement while keeping a smug grin hidden from view. “My help? Curious.” He was lapping up the statement.

Groyard’s forced smile twitched somewhat. “Indeed. I can repay the favor later on.” His eyes shifted to a candle in the corner briefly, the darkness in the corners of the church gaining his attention on to be revealed as the handiwork of a dying wick.

“I would certainly hope so.” The priest turned, sliding his hands into their opposite sleeve as he lorded the moment over Groyard. “What could I possibly give you?”

“Knowledge.” His eyes met the Merry Monk’s. “I seek the whereabouts of holy hunters or anyone of Neath experience to deal with something brewing within the shadows.”

The monk listened before sneering. “Such a request! And here I thought you sought wisdom of the Holy Book.” Something thin in the monk’s sleeve pressed against the fabric, flattening it out briefly. “But what issue has arisen?”

A moment’s silence came from Groyard as he contemplated both the shadows and the sleeve, a realization settling in. “One of the utmost importance be solved. It endangers London. The shado-” He was scarce able to begin his sentence before the monk withdrew a thin, metal stave, masterfully hidden in parts up both sleeves, slashing across the air and missing by a mere inch.

This was the moment before Groyard dove behind pew, reaching madly into his jacket. Of course it would not be easy. It never was.