[ Acquired Pact Trait: Unrelenting ]

[ Acquired Pact Trait: Scrupulous ]

[ Acquired Pact Trait: Cynosure I ]

Back into the void I dip.

I am drenched in its power and am enveloped. I perceive, and I am pleased. The candle I clutch bites back at the darkness. Its radiance casts only demurely, reaching just an arm’s pace.

I hold it aloft, and in my left hand lives the sword.

The door to the Sanctum exists no longer, hidden again in the passage’s rut. I have a sudden bolt of regret. I wish now that I could have stayed longer. The experience inside were of surreal, dream-like quality, and though now I am in control of my faculties, I cannot help but to wonder if I should, or rather could, find a moment to assess.

I place the candle on the floor of stone. I hear no sounds from the dark of the Burrow, though the face in the wall did breathe warning. Would I be devoured where I stand, wringing my hands in the squalor of a candle’s flame? The shadows throw long, and I know that any action I take should be swift.

I inspect the satchel at my side.

Oh. There is something more.

[ Acquired Book of Hymns ]

I withdraw ragged sheaves of parchment, and I hunker into the shelter of the candlelight to see.

The script is primeval. My eyes move along the curves of the words and my awe is brazen. Junoshta. The language of the Deep, and of the Dread, of the First and Second demiurges, of the Eld, and the tongue that spoke the Etch into form. It is Junoshta that the old stories were prepared in, and that speech with which the final syllables of time will be whispered with.

It is the language lost.

I have never learned its letters, nor ruminated in their study, nor have heard it spoken. Still, I know it intimately, as a mother knows her wailing children. I wonder not as to this ability. I am a vessel for a Pact, and I know that I will find more curiosities in my sojourn that will open their doors to me.

This book is not of the same ilk as the tome of the table. Hardly assembled, it is sewn together poorly with leather stitches as thick as finger bones. I admire its pages, and regard.

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Kish’s Flaw

Eld of delight, the First adored

Grace and wrath his cloak

Penitent vapors he did ford

Sword his arms, and crown of smoke

__

Burn, say the men who dwell beneath

Burn, say the men in towers high

His virtues strained, earned shrouded wreath

The beasts of the pit did bid him to die

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Whole, one moon, spent in the tomb

The hollows ‘neath the Pel

A gem from grass, drawn from the loom

Before the master fell

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Dragged to the vines above the sail

A haunting in the Dread

The lock, the thistle, feather, flail

The last words uttered, said

__

I drink of the page, and fail to fathom its content. What use to me are these histories? Of bold lives ending in torment before the unyielding swallow of eternity. Of powers not suited to save from their own maudlin, fractures and wounds. These pages are useless kindling.

I stuff the pages back into the satchel, frustrated and weary with half knowledge and shadows of the old stories.

A rustle.

My guts are alive, urging me to retrieve the candle and flee. The things have heard me. In my anger, I had forgotten terror, but now it is all I know. I raise the sword and feel for the comfort of the stone walls. I press my sweat slick back against its surface and dare not breathe, as I listen for any scratch or slough that might be at my throat.

I step out of the circle of the candle’s light and close my eyes, my grip upon the sword handle merciless.

Another rustle.

I keep my eyes screwed and wait.

Heavy footfall. A wet dripping. The throbbing in my chest climbs to my jugular and begins pounding against my flesh. My sword is a viper, fit to strike, though the fingers locked around its handle are quaking. As each second passes, I feel the fry of a primal shock against the hair on my body. Every blade standing stark as the shuffle and wet slap grow closer. A scrape against stone and then I hear it.

A manic howl.

It is as perhaps some mated method of an injured animal cry, and the death rattle cry-laugh of a newborn infant. My skin crawls.

The thing howls again, closer. Ever closer. I can feel the presence of the beast, as it slides along the rock toward me, seeking me, tasting air and light for a trace of me.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Howl.

Scrape.

Silence.

Howl.

It explodes in my ear, hot breath blasting my body.

It’s next to me!

How did it slink through unnoticed? How did it gain such close quarters without my perceiving it?

I fall back on the ground, and the sword sprawls wild into the abyss beyond the ring of light. I twist my head up to the spot where the creature exuded it’s presence and watch in silent horror as the shape forms.

It shuffles into the light of the candle flame, and I am now privy to this abomination. It looks as a woman at first note. Pale flesh. Lank, black hair that falls to the floor. But there my confusion ends. A long, slender neck contorts in a slow stretch, as the head of the thing turns from side to side, begging the void to bid it to its quarry. I cannot yet see it’s face, but the absolute horror I view from the floor has set me to my reservations. Then I see. I know how it slipped past the light.

It crawls along the wall!

Its body slides in sections, propelled by its wasted arms. It drags itself into view, and I see the source of the drip. It is completely covered in ichor. The remains of some creature, perhaps many, hang like a pelt across its back. Blistered skin in a motley, draped, freshly shorn from some unknown source. Intestines and muscle dangle from around its neck.

It’s face flashed my direction. Flat, colorless eyes and the mouth…

No curse would suffice to wield against this being. No hellish rebuke great enough to compress the raw and naked death that climbed from my soul as I look upon this face.

The mouth is twisted upward in a grin, but the ends of the smile are too long. It pulls past where it’s ears would have been were it man. The lengthy slice was riddled with grey pebbles, no, these were dull and rounded teeth—not designed for tearing flesh, so that it might enjoy the slow pace of crunching and smashing living organs and bone in them.

The smile widens, and opens to its full breadth. A tongue falls from its open mouth and lifts back up. It cannot see me.

The eyes latch on to my location and I freeze.

I scramble to stand.

The creature lifts its head, and another terrifying howl escapes its lips through the sinister grin.

I am weaponless, drawn against the floor with my source of light out of reach. I am in danger.

The creature strikes.