Karsa Orlong
Unchained
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2006
- Messages
- 201
The Offering
The soft Autumn Sun no longer held any authority here. As the water rose up to claim Her - its blackened, curling tongues tearing the last light from the swamp-like purple sky - one could almost sense Her final, pleading, futile call falling upon the deaf ears of owls and bats, and more horrible, unspeakable monstrosities that liked to roam above ground in those lonely hours. The forest had been quiet moments earlier, with tender waves brushing its feet like a child might appeal to its mother for an affectionate embrace. Now, Warden could feel silence rushing through the trees behind him; slapping at the shore in front.
He had returned to the forest for the fourth time this year. Twice previously had he returned expectantly, his equipment all the more advanced on each occasion, excitedly and, indeed, a little apprehensively waiting to see what he had seen on that baleful night back in winter. Into the early hours he had sat, motionless, awaiting some sign of that terrific, ghastly creature. As the sun’s less welcoming, yet even more watchful companion rose out of the dank pit from whence it came, the trees fell still as if resigned to their fate - or perhaps out of respect for something greater than they - and the sky seemed to clamp itself upon the water as if to prevent some diabolical entity from escaping its murky depths. Still, on both occasions he had come away with nothing more than a chill gripping his mind.
This time, everything felt different. This was not unusual, as Warden was certain that the fearful old oak trees were laid out wholly differently with each visit he made. He had taken photographs to prove as much, and had shown them to various reluctant acquaintances in the village of Ladkh some eight miles from the spot he was currently occupying, over the hills of Ladkh-Holdakh. Few had doubted their authenticity, and yet Warden found it impossible to inspire the slightest bit of curiosity. “Some mysteries are best left unsolved,” his good friend Marcus Vititch had whispered when presented with the curious photographs. And so alone he had returned again, intrigued to the point of obsession by memories of that first and only terrifying encounter with that wretched creature about which he knew so little. He had shown nobody those photographs.
Darkness was beginning to swell up across the lake, coaxing the Moon from its old, unspeakable realm. It shone, grim and muted, trickling the pale colour of death across the water bringing to mind the twisted artist Franz Talkab’s infamous paintings of a foul ocean he claimed to have sailed. Warden’s eyes were held transfixed by the rising moon, when he suddenly caught a scent in the air, an ancient, sweet smell like that which one might find at an old burial ground. His breathing was very loud suddenly, dominant, grating, as if he was not one but a thousand men, each with their own fears to bear. He turned quickly, eyes flickering, making sure that he was indeed alone on this deathly night. Then his eyes returned to the dark waters, the ghostly moon now glaring from their depths, sinking deeper as if daring him to follow. Stars hung around it like distorted lanterns, mocking him without a hint of playfulness.
Moments later, the suffocating cloak of silence was pierced by the most inhuman howling, demonic and terrible, tearing through the trees behind – behind, the only route by which Warden could escape. He was petrified into stillness, refusing to turn and look at what ghoulish thing was making such unholy sounds – sounds which were growing louder, more intense. Shivering uncontrollably, his face almost crumpled under the malicious gaze of the reflected moon when suddenly, it was shattered and consumed by shadow. A great black shape emerged forth from the deep, and Warden knew beyond doubt that this was the horrendous creature he had seen once before. The howling from behind was louder now, closer, he could hear the gurgled breath between each vile outburst. He almost thought that he could feel it, creeping down his neck, into his skin. His eyes followed the shadow of the waters as it approached, its pace even as if it was hovering rather than swimming, its features indecipherable in that mass of blackness.
As the beast approached, Warden could scarcely believe the sheer size of this abominable monster. It rose high above the trees, blotting out light, blotting out everything into cold and empty darkness. He watched as it reached the sandy shore-line, and stared with horror as he saw slithering tentacles lash from the water and drop something, slimy and writhing, onto the sandy floor no more than 50 metres from Warden himself. The fallen Thing was the size of a bus, yet dwarfed by its carrier, crippled and gushing torrents of black liquid. The huge carrier seemed to look down for a moment, and then, as ice-cold air began to roar at Warden’s back and the demonic howling became a shrieking and the scattering of pebbles, it tore away through the water as if captured by a sudden fear, leaving only darkness. The moon was gone, and Warden could see nothing. The activity behind stopped, suddenly, and now the only noise was that of the fallen slimy fiend, seemingly crawling its way towards Warden in the blackness, slowly, its nasal breathing exposing its struggle. Then, the noise was replaced by a moist crunching and horrible slurping sound, followed by a howl thundering from the water’s direction, this time almost human-sounding in its malignance.
Warden span, now seized by a manic terror, and ran desperately away from the sound leaving his equipment behind, terrified that the moon would return and shed light on what loathesome happening his ears had borne witness to. He felt certain that the sounds of scampering and mocking laughter echoing around the surrounding trees were not in his imagination, nor the frightened wailing and whispering amongst the leaves. He flew, unaware of where he was going, no longer thinking about anything but getting as far away from the lake as possible. After what seemed like hours, his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell onto a dirt road his barely conscious mind seemed to vaguely recognise.
When he awoke the next morning in the local hospital, he told nobody of what had happened to him that night, half-convincing himself that it had all been a nightmare. He swore silently to himself that he would never again set foot in that dreadful forest by the lake, shuddering with every thought of the hellish creatures they housed. Two weeks later, his haunted mind forced him to move away from the area completely, far away, but every night when the Moon rose up it reminded him with a mocking glance of what lurks in the dark places of the world. His body was found a week later, swinging from a rope by its neck.
