Excerptions of a Lost Traveller

[Callistus 989]

 

“In the ancient belief of towns torn away from cities and its common-folk, grown in solitude, there was a myth that the sun and moon were no unconscious stars or objects of stone. The sun was the mother, and the moon, the father.”

 

 

[!] The rough depictions of a vague, blurred entity are sketched upon parch, scrawled of charred coal, and ridden by moisture.

 

”I have found myself upon a most unfortunate predicament of the highest order – and I pen this final encounter in the hopes that one day, mayperhaps in the near future, an absolved scholar alike myself may retrieve these words and make of my solemn life-work what they will, preferably an articulate and rational conclusion of the incognitus – and one, moreover, that is true-to-fact.

In addition, I hereby hold in my dying believes that my studies and excursions to the far-by realms shan’t fade in vain as would a dying star, but instead, find themselves in the fine hands of a worthwhile provost. For death seems to well-nigh throttle me where I presently lay, and my breath falls gravely short. 

 

Indeed, friend, my eyes have borne witness to a thing most horrid. It flails feebly amidst these strange woods of shaven bark and eye-lined leaves, for this place I boldly speak of is so hideous, I sincerely doubt it could be even thought a forest among forests. The monstrosity’s outer flesh bellows great obesity and resembles, to a fault, a mighty pouched ball, as if within its guts thrived some viscid batch of fluid. Furthermore, it seems to bolster gargantuan tentacles. I cannot see its head, as it wouldn’t turn, but I--- must find a way to detail the specifics and further this miraculous find. Death, after all, stalks me like a shadow of my own, and this might truly be the last sketch I ever enclose. An obscure critter, if I may add, one that wore the face of a humanoid, gnawed upon my leg and rendered me crippled, powerless. I can barely move, but I can certainly bide my time. .”

 

[!] The note ends here.

In the near vicinity, a follow-up fragment could be found. Not residue nor a single trace of the ill-crossed author could be discerned, and it would be hence easy to presume the stench hanging in the air to be of a shredded cadaver, buried to the far reaches of the soil, mayhaps that of his own. No clue could be made certain. But at that dead night, the scales of a distant moon shook - and the seed of a God ran its course.

 

Bleak one; lay me unto my grave.

The blood,

How it flows so softly.

Like the waves that palpitate amid an unending sea.

It churns my lowly mind.

Oh, father.

I can almost see.

 

 

[Jentos 9425]

”Garii’m! Ov belstat, khorr! Khorr! Dyrze herthe, cai-leissn; Yilth’r Marog.” 

[Zacho 2177]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

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