An Examination of Fear: Musings of Uthilithians Amidst the Momentary Apocalypse
The following stories are a series of statements, memories of those that weren't lucky enough to escape the Sight of Yaldabaoth on Guardian Moon 1, CY 1680.
Statement of Arrah Beeching, regarding her loneliness. “Dracowind wasn’t always this foggy, was it?” Arrah stared into the back garden, a desolate wasteland of lifeless shrubbery. Any sign of life and vitality had been torn from the world gods-know how long ago – the sunflower beds, the Moorbounder kits, and the bustle brought about by her partner’s everyday antics in their home. She was alone. The dwarven woman dared not reach beyond the grounds of the manor, for fear of what might exist beyond them. All that she knew was that nothing had reached out to her when the new year came – no mail, no Sendings, not even a damned seagull passing overhead. She was alone. How long had she been alone here? She remembered faint traces of a fiery halfling who might have loved her, but she was long gone. Maybe she didn’t care about Arrah anymore? Maybe she’d found herself in an environment somehow too harsh for her and had gotten herself killed? Either way, it took far more energy to consider, to know what had happened to this woman… was she a woman? Arrah couldn’t even remember that. She was alone. Was this even her house? The stony frame felt familiar somehow, but the furniture inside felt foreign and artificial. Was that… cat hair on the sofa? She would never own a cat. She could never – they were always too much like her for her to feel a genuine connection with one. She was alone. What was her name? A name is supposed to connect you to the ones you love, a means of knowing and empathy. “Oh well,” the dwarven woman muttered. “Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.” She was alone.
Statement of Vind Thýella, regarding the destruction of all he’s ever loved. A hot, desolate sun bore down on the town of Valenacht. At one time, that sun might’ve been comforting and warm, but there had been no comfort in anything Vind could remember. Another day had passed, his hands scorched from a triple shift in the Barista District. Each step underneath the infinite sky above felt like agony, but each step beneath the burning heavens was worth it if it meant reaching his tiny flat shared with his beautiful wife and loving son. He left the Barista District – a street of coffeehouses and bakeries within the Farmer’s Market. Very few of them actually served coffee to any extent, and Vind was glad to work in the one that did. When he constantly feeds his body with energy, he’s able to stave off the excruciating sorrow that his own mind tries to crush him with. One step into Valenacht’s downtown was all that Vind needed to hear the shrieks of the dying. He looked up and saw a small, rickety apartment building. One of Vind’s work friends – a gnomish woman called Caryn, whom he met at a community college night class a few years back – lived on the top floor. The middle-aged human could hear her screams as thick smoke drifted from her open window, before she flung her small body from the opening and hit the ground with a sickening crack. Vind continued on. The dread in his stomach grew with each step he took towards Old Town Valenacht, toward the small apartment he, his wife Vetra, and his son Halcyon called home. It was as if he knew exactly what he was going to find upon his arrival – an immutable fate set in stone. It was worse. For a brief second, he sighed with relief to see that the structure wasn’t on fire, nor was the duplex utterly destroyed. Vind turned the handle, and the acrid stench of something sulfuric pervaded his nostrils. He gently stepped onto the carpet, but immediately pulled back as his shoe began to melt into the pungent acid staining the floor. His gaze travelled to the small kitchen, where the liquified bodies of his wife and son festered on the tile floor, bubbling… as if calling for Vind to join them.
Statement of Thomas Pennington, regarding Those Who Stalk. In the woods, the domain of leaves
Finds the halfling with jellied knees.
A stench of decay, of crawling rot
The ginger man’s home that he forgot
Once his world was torn asunder. Eyes of gold peer into him
Neither devil nor cherubim.
A creature of night, of blood and strife
Its mouth lined with razor and knife
Stalking him from afar. The Hunter calls, its discordant song
Befuddling the senses, his mind goes wrong.
North, South, East, or West
Heads the halfling, pain in his chest
As the Reaper waits for him. A Court of Autumn waits for none,
Not mortal, god, nor Chosen One.
Autumn’s turn brings about the Hunt,
Where the ordinary turn, becoming an affront
To the Stalkers that pervade the landscape. Where Thomas stands in the swirling fog,
Breathing in the thick, endless smog;
Where Thomas waits in the infinite wood,
His legs quivering where he stood;
Where Thomas cries out in pain,
While creatures chase him in the rain;
Where Thomas clutches at his thigh,
A Hunter gurgling its sickening cry; He falls, before the cycle of the Hunt begins again.
Statement of Filbert Rosenthal-Moor, regarding his entombment. Filbert hated many things about being entombed, but there was one that far surpassed the rest. It was never the thick film of dust coating his tongue, wielding his dehydration as if it were a whip lashing his skin; It was never the claustrophobia – though he found himself buried deep beneath the earth, that feeling of closeness was almost comforting; It was never the dirt pushing beneath his ragged fingernails, bruised and broken from digging and digging and digging; It was never the grit and grime he could barely breathe in, causing him to cough and splutter with every few inhalations. What Filbert despised over all else was the sensation of being rendered immobile, buried to the extent that freedom was a faint whisper he could only remember in fleeting moments. Movement and motion were always an inherent part of him and his family – the Rosenthals of Western Sanscomb prided themselves on being a clan that dances, frolics, and leaps. He hated the atrophy he could feel his muscles undergoing while trapped beneath the earth. With every passing length of time – Filbert could never tell whether it was a minute that passed, an hour, or a month – he would feel a new part of him give out, becoming functionally useless. As each limb fell unconscious and immobile, his hopelessness would become even greater. When he would be swaddled in a blanket by his beautiful wife, restrained and cozy – it would be comforting. When he would put himself in a small broom cupboard while playing hide & seek with his four brothers, he would quiver with childlike excitement and joy. When he would go to a rowdy bar to see a touring bagpipe quintet perform, he would thoroughly enjoy being surrounded by far too many people to safely fit in a small venue. It was only when his freedom was taken for an eternity that Filbert would hate his restraints… as he was trapped in a cycle of endless life and pain, without end in sight.
Statement of Orion Althis-Ermendrud, regarding a spider. “Pitter… patter… pitter… patter…” With each spindly step, Orion’s body would tense up as she locked herself in the bedroom of her seaside villa, built on the shores of southern Necluda. Her wife – a beautiful tiefling named Calypso – had been touring for the past two weeks far north of their shared home. Normally, Orion would have called upon her to kill the spider, but she was hundreds (if not thousands) of miles away. Orion was afraid of very little. Following her imprisonment in the bowels of the Underdark, very few things could spook her. However, when her ex-patron Lolth decided that it might just be a grand old time to release thousands and thousands of her crawling kin upon the prison block and Orion found herself utterly helpless, Orion could feel nothing but utter revulsion in coming face-to-face with a wretched, eight-legged arachnid. “Clip… clop… clip… clop…” The spider had moved from the carpeted living area to the hardwood floors of the kitchen. Once it made it through the hallway beyond the bright, open kitchen, the spider would arrive right in front of Orion’s door. Panicked, she rummaged through the bedside drawer, looking for her sending stone to her wife or a member of her wife’s old adventuring party. She pulled the smooth river rock from beneath a few crumpled papers, and rapidly began to speak into it. “There’s- there’s a spi- spider in my house…! P-Please, someone, help!” No response from the other end. The orange glow of sunset illuminated the space. “God damn it… she’s in a concert right now.” She tossed the sending stone onto the bed and continued to rummage, looking for something – anything – that might be able to help her. Orion pulled out a faded scroll of some spell. The name of the spell was completely smudged out, but the incantation was short, and she remembered just enough magical jargon to read the body of the text. As the magical energy coursed through her body, the door opened with a bang, revealing the grotesque body of a massive creature covered with razor-sharp fur. “Fuck.”
Statement of Karyon Beeching, regarding a puppet show. One by one the hooks slipped beneath his skin, softened from years of sedentary government work. One by one were the thin black wires pulled toward the dark void above, each yanked taut against the resistance of his flesh and sinew. One by one were his limbs jerked in an odd, uncanny sort of way as he was suspended in the air by these strings. For many a decade, Karyon was lambasted with public perceptions of being a puppet figurehead of the Temporan Cabinet of Affairs, a group of politicians who were considered by many to be the “lazy bourgeoisie”. As the dwarven man frantically looked out into the audience, he saw hundreds, no, thousands, of staring eyes, waiting for his humiliation. Karyon began to dance – an inhuman ballet with rigid, mechanical motions as each of his limbs were pulled in awkward, uncomfortable directions. With each motion, pain seared in his skin where the hook began to fuse itself with his flesh. After a time that could have been minutes or days, Karyon finally ceased the grotesque dance he was forced into by his captors. Was it really a moment of reprieve? No, as the moment he stopped moving was the moment that the excruciating agony began to rack through his body. His muscles were fatigued from both overuse and improper form, and when his eyes travelled down to his skin… there were no longer simple metal hooks buried in his flesh, but a layer of thick black detritus had healed over the wound, trapping the hooks inside an infection. Karyon tried to lift his head. It was impossible, as his neck was being pulled taut by an unseen force. Forced to look at the audience, he began to notice people that he knew, people that he thought loved him, in the crowd. One by one the audience’s smile grew wide – stretching far beyond the point of anything belonging to a normal person – revealing perfectly sharp teeth. One by one the audience began to laugh. Their high, tinny cacophony stung Karyon’s eardrums with vitriol and hatred. One by one were the thin black wires pulled toward the dark void above, each yanked taut against the resistance of his flesh and sinew as he began to dance again.
Statement of Arrah Beeching, regarding her loneliness. “Dracowind wasn’t always this foggy, was it?” Arrah stared into the back garden, a desolate wasteland of lifeless shrubbery. Any sign of life and vitality had been torn from the world gods-know how long ago – the sunflower beds, the Moorbounder kits, and the bustle brought about by her partner’s everyday antics in their home. She was alone. The dwarven woman dared not reach beyond the grounds of the manor, for fear of what might exist beyond them. All that she knew was that nothing had reached out to her when the new year came – no mail, no Sendings, not even a damned seagull passing overhead. She was alone. How long had she been alone here? She remembered faint traces of a fiery halfling who might have loved her, but she was long gone. Maybe she didn’t care about Arrah anymore? Maybe she’d found herself in an environment somehow too harsh for her and had gotten herself killed? Either way, it took far more energy to consider, to know what had happened to this woman… was she a woman? Arrah couldn’t even remember that. She was alone. Was this even her house? The stony frame felt familiar somehow, but the furniture inside felt foreign and artificial. Was that… cat hair on the sofa? She would never own a cat. She could never – they were always too much like her for her to feel a genuine connection with one. She was alone. What was her name? A name is supposed to connect you to the ones you love, a means of knowing and empathy. “Oh well,” the dwarven woman muttered. “Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.” She was alone.
Statement of Vind Thýella, regarding the destruction of all he’s ever loved. A hot, desolate sun bore down on the town of Valenacht. At one time, that sun might’ve been comforting and warm, but there had been no comfort in anything Vind could remember. Another day had passed, his hands scorched from a triple shift in the Barista District. Each step underneath the infinite sky above felt like agony, but each step beneath the burning heavens was worth it if it meant reaching his tiny flat shared with his beautiful wife and loving son. He left the Barista District – a street of coffeehouses and bakeries within the Farmer’s Market. Very few of them actually served coffee to any extent, and Vind was glad to work in the one that did. When he constantly feeds his body with energy, he’s able to stave off the excruciating sorrow that his own mind tries to crush him with. One step into Valenacht’s downtown was all that Vind needed to hear the shrieks of the dying. He looked up and saw a small, rickety apartment building. One of Vind’s work friends – a gnomish woman called Caryn, whom he met at a community college night class a few years back – lived on the top floor. The middle-aged human could hear her screams as thick smoke drifted from her open window, before she flung her small body from the opening and hit the ground with a sickening crack. Vind continued on. The dread in his stomach grew with each step he took towards Old Town Valenacht, toward the small apartment he, his wife Vetra, and his son Halcyon called home. It was as if he knew exactly what he was going to find upon his arrival – an immutable fate set in stone. It was worse. For a brief second, he sighed with relief to see that the structure wasn’t on fire, nor was the duplex utterly destroyed. Vind turned the handle, and the acrid stench of something sulfuric pervaded his nostrils. He gently stepped onto the carpet, but immediately pulled back as his shoe began to melt into the pungent acid staining the floor. His gaze travelled to the small kitchen, where the liquified bodies of his wife and son festered on the tile floor, bubbling… as if calling for Vind to join them.
Statement of Thomas Pennington, regarding Those Who Stalk. In the woods, the domain of leaves
Finds the halfling with jellied knees.
A stench of decay, of crawling rot
The ginger man’s home that he forgot
Once his world was torn asunder. Eyes of gold peer into him
Neither devil nor cherubim.
A creature of night, of blood and strife
Its mouth lined with razor and knife
Stalking him from afar. The Hunter calls, its discordant song
Befuddling the senses, his mind goes wrong.
North, South, East, or West
Heads the halfling, pain in his chest
As the Reaper waits for him. A Court of Autumn waits for none,
Not mortal, god, nor Chosen One.
Autumn’s turn brings about the Hunt,
Where the ordinary turn, becoming an affront
To the Stalkers that pervade the landscape. Where Thomas stands in the swirling fog,
Breathing in the thick, endless smog;
Where Thomas waits in the infinite wood,
His legs quivering where he stood;
Where Thomas cries out in pain,
While creatures chase him in the rain;
Where Thomas clutches at his thigh,
A Hunter gurgling its sickening cry; He falls, before the cycle of the Hunt begins again.
Statement of Filbert Rosenthal-Moor, regarding his entombment. Filbert hated many things about being entombed, but there was one that far surpassed the rest. It was never the thick film of dust coating his tongue, wielding his dehydration as if it were a whip lashing his skin; It was never the claustrophobia – though he found himself buried deep beneath the earth, that feeling of closeness was almost comforting; It was never the dirt pushing beneath his ragged fingernails, bruised and broken from digging and digging and digging; It was never the grit and grime he could barely breathe in, causing him to cough and splutter with every few inhalations. What Filbert despised over all else was the sensation of being rendered immobile, buried to the extent that freedom was a faint whisper he could only remember in fleeting moments. Movement and motion were always an inherent part of him and his family – the Rosenthals of Western Sanscomb prided themselves on being a clan that dances, frolics, and leaps. He hated the atrophy he could feel his muscles undergoing while trapped beneath the earth. With every passing length of time – Filbert could never tell whether it was a minute that passed, an hour, or a month – he would feel a new part of him give out, becoming functionally useless. As each limb fell unconscious and immobile, his hopelessness would become even greater. When he would be swaddled in a blanket by his beautiful wife, restrained and cozy – it would be comforting. When he would put himself in a small broom cupboard while playing hide & seek with his four brothers, he would quiver with childlike excitement and joy. When he would go to a rowdy bar to see a touring bagpipe quintet perform, he would thoroughly enjoy being surrounded by far too many people to safely fit in a small venue. It was only when his freedom was taken for an eternity that Filbert would hate his restraints… as he was trapped in a cycle of endless life and pain, without end in sight.
Statement of Orion Althis-Ermendrud, regarding a spider. “Pitter… patter… pitter… patter…” With each spindly step, Orion’s body would tense up as she locked herself in the bedroom of her seaside villa, built on the shores of southern Necluda. Her wife – a beautiful tiefling named Calypso – had been touring for the past two weeks far north of their shared home. Normally, Orion would have called upon her to kill the spider, but she was hundreds (if not thousands) of miles away. Orion was afraid of very little. Following her imprisonment in the bowels of the Underdark, very few things could spook her. However, when her ex-patron Lolth decided that it might just be a grand old time to release thousands and thousands of her crawling kin upon the prison block and Orion found herself utterly helpless, Orion could feel nothing but utter revulsion in coming face-to-face with a wretched, eight-legged arachnid. “Clip… clop… clip… clop…” The spider had moved from the carpeted living area to the hardwood floors of the kitchen. Once it made it through the hallway beyond the bright, open kitchen, the spider would arrive right in front of Orion’s door. Panicked, she rummaged through the bedside drawer, looking for her sending stone to her wife or a member of her wife’s old adventuring party. She pulled the smooth river rock from beneath a few crumpled papers, and rapidly began to speak into it. “There’s- there’s a spi- spider in my house…! P-Please, someone, help!” No response from the other end. The orange glow of sunset illuminated the space. “God damn it… she’s in a concert right now.” She tossed the sending stone onto the bed and continued to rummage, looking for something – anything – that might be able to help her. Orion pulled out a faded scroll of some spell. The name of the spell was completely smudged out, but the incantation was short, and she remembered just enough magical jargon to read the body of the text. As the magical energy coursed through her body, the door opened with a bang, revealing the grotesque body of a massive creature covered with razor-sharp fur. “Fuck.”
Statement of Karyon Beeching, regarding a puppet show. One by one the hooks slipped beneath his skin, softened from years of sedentary government work. One by one were the thin black wires pulled toward the dark void above, each yanked taut against the resistance of his flesh and sinew. One by one were his limbs jerked in an odd, uncanny sort of way as he was suspended in the air by these strings. For many a decade, Karyon was lambasted with public perceptions of being a puppet figurehead of the Temporan Cabinet of Affairs, a group of politicians who were considered by many to be the “lazy bourgeoisie”. As the dwarven man frantically looked out into the audience, he saw hundreds, no, thousands, of staring eyes, waiting for his humiliation. Karyon began to dance – an inhuman ballet with rigid, mechanical motions as each of his limbs were pulled in awkward, uncomfortable directions. With each motion, pain seared in his skin where the hook began to fuse itself with his flesh. After a time that could have been minutes or days, Karyon finally ceased the grotesque dance he was forced into by his captors. Was it really a moment of reprieve? No, as the moment he stopped moving was the moment that the excruciating agony began to rack through his body. His muscles were fatigued from both overuse and improper form, and when his eyes travelled down to his skin… there were no longer simple metal hooks buried in his flesh, but a layer of thick black detritus had healed over the wound, trapping the hooks inside an infection. Karyon tried to lift his head. It was impossible, as his neck was being pulled taut by an unseen force. Forced to look at the audience, he began to notice people that he knew, people that he thought loved him, in the crowd. One by one the audience’s smile grew wide – stretching far beyond the point of anything belonging to a normal person – revealing perfectly sharp teeth. One by one the audience began to laugh. Their high, tinny cacophony stung Karyon’s eardrums with vitriol and hatred. One by one were the thin black wires pulled toward the dark void above, each yanked taut against the resistance of his flesh and sinew as he began to dance again.
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