12-11-2016, 04:27 AM
(This post was last modified: 12-11-2016, 02:21 PM by Kelly MacAryn.
Edit Reason: Egregious overuse of the word 'fog', minor stylistic edits. I hereby swear to stop posting after 2 in the morning.
)
Descending from his wooded perch atop the hill, Kelly found a sodden and weed-choked carriage-track, a trail of hard-packed earth marred by puddles and the time-worn ruts of wagon-wheels. On the sensible premise that if he was going to get jumped by something with too many teeth then he'd prefer to have that happen on reasonably stable footing, he followed it.
He had barely been ten minutes on the road before he got his first real taste of midnight on the Pale Moors.
The traveler was passing through a small valley, little more than a low spot in the road where it dipped between two hills. Water had collected here, forming a large puddle that reached nearly to the tops of his hobnailed work-boots. The mists gathered above it, forming a thick fog that closed in all around him, set aglow by the steady orange light of his lantern.
The oppressive haze seemed to absorb all sound. The only thing Kelly could hear was the rhythmic, sloshing whisper of his progress along the flooded road.
Suddenly, an electric tingle raced along the back of his neck, making the tiny, thoroughly damp hairs stand on end. Something, just behind his shoulder, whispered softly.
"Do not turn around," it said, tickling Kelly's cheek with breath even colder than the fog, "and do not run. Please."
The voice came from the other side now, hissing in his opposite ear.
"If you run, you see, I will have to chase you, and I will never stop. I do not want that. Though the substance of your flesh is strange, its form is not displeasing. I am sure that you have friends and admirers. I would prefer that you lived, and made them happy. Truly."
It was quiet and mournful, anticipating disappointment, and after that, tragedy.
The traveler stopped. He did not turn around. He did not correct the drastic overestimation of his social status. Whatever was standing behind him had approached without a single sound, without disturbing the water or even swirling the mist. It was almost certainly supernatural - but it had chosen to talk instead of attack. More importantly, the psychic early-warning system Kelly had begun to think of as his own personal haunt was silent. While he was certainly in a precarious situation, he wasn't actually under immediate threat of harm.
Yet.
Whatever this is, it has a set of rules. Don't run. Don't turn around.
Look for an opportunity.
"What do you want?" Kelly asked, the words sounding somehow hollow and flat in the fog.
"Dreams," said the cold stranger. "And the truths they tell. I would know your dreams, traveler for my own lie rotting beneath your feet."
The traveler looked down. Something glinted in the murky water, reflecting his lantern's ruddy glow. Water was seeping into his boots. He tried not to think about how cold his feet were getting.
"I'm afraid," he said, raising his eyes once more, "that my dreams aren't in much better shape at the moment. Mostly, I just want to see to it that things improve. There isn't much I want for me personally."
"I did not ask to be told," whispered the stranger, suddenly eager. "I will look for myself. And then we will see what sort of a man you really are, my handsome young Prime."
Kelly's thick brows furrowed, and he barely restrained the urge to look over his shoulder. His lantern flickered.
"What-"
He didn't get to finish his question. A chill breeze wafted silken streamers through the front of his brain, and Kelly reacted instinctively, performed an entirely psychological action which he couldn't quite describe. The probing psychic tendrils skittered off thoughts made suddenly slippery, and got lost in the very same haze of jumbled memory that the traveler found so frustrating.
He had barely been ten minutes on the road before he got his first real taste of midnight on the Pale Moors.
The traveler was passing through a small valley, little more than a low spot in the road where it dipped between two hills. Water had collected here, forming a large puddle that reached nearly to the tops of his hobnailed work-boots. The mists gathered above it, forming a thick fog that closed in all around him, set aglow by the steady orange light of his lantern.
The oppressive haze seemed to absorb all sound. The only thing Kelly could hear was the rhythmic, sloshing whisper of his progress along the flooded road.
Suddenly, an electric tingle raced along the back of his neck, making the tiny, thoroughly damp hairs stand on end. Something, just behind his shoulder, whispered softly.
"Do not turn around," it said, tickling Kelly's cheek with breath even colder than the fog, "and do not run. Please."
The voice came from the other side now, hissing in his opposite ear.
"If you run, you see, I will have to chase you, and I will never stop. I do not want that. Though the substance of your flesh is strange, its form is not displeasing. I am sure that you have friends and admirers. I would prefer that you lived, and made them happy. Truly."
It was quiet and mournful, anticipating disappointment, and after that, tragedy.
The traveler stopped. He did not turn around. He did not correct the drastic overestimation of his social status. Whatever was standing behind him had approached without a single sound, without disturbing the water or even swirling the mist. It was almost certainly supernatural - but it had chosen to talk instead of attack. More importantly, the psychic early-warning system Kelly had begun to think of as his own personal haunt was silent. While he was certainly in a precarious situation, he wasn't actually under immediate threat of harm.
Yet.
Whatever this is, it has a set of rules. Don't run. Don't turn around.
Look for an opportunity.
"What do you want?" Kelly asked, the words sounding somehow hollow and flat in the fog.
"Dreams," said the cold stranger. "And the truths they tell. I would know your dreams, traveler for my own lie rotting beneath your feet."
The traveler looked down. Something glinted in the murky water, reflecting his lantern's ruddy glow. Water was seeping into his boots. He tried not to think about how cold his feet were getting.
"I'm afraid," he said, raising his eyes once more, "that my dreams aren't in much better shape at the moment. Mostly, I just want to see to it that things improve. There isn't much I want for me personally."
"I did not ask to be told," whispered the stranger, suddenly eager. "I will look for myself. And then we will see what sort of a man you really are, my handsome young Prime."
Kelly's thick brows furrowed, and he barely restrained the urge to look over his shoulder. His lantern flickered.
"What-"
He didn't get to finish his question. A chill breeze wafted silken streamers through the front of his brain, and Kelly reacted instinctively, performed an entirely psychological action which he couldn't quite describe. The probing psychic tendrils skittered off thoughts made suddenly slippery, and got lost in the very same haze of jumbled memory that the traveler found so frustrating.