Fiction!

As we start reworking the site and what-not, I feel like it would be good to get back to what Blurred Productions used to be about: poorly written short stories. Since I have the awesome responsibility of writing about anything and everything, I have no problems with distracting from comic talk for a minute. This is a short story I never finished, a companion to one I wrote in March. The idea was to write a series of stories about the possible effects of good intentioned powerful beings without much control. I stopped because I felt it might be getting repetitive, but I’ll write a few more if these are well received. This one is based on the Lovecraft Mythos. If you ask for more I’ll finish the story and post the finished super hero one.

Far below the charred remains of a thrice-burned monastery, through winding catacombs long forgotten by all but the most elderly of the Franciscan order’s leaders and those few steeped in the darkest myths of the Christian faith, down even deeper into black caves stinking of rotting creatures and filled with the sound of countless chattering insects. There, in from the deepest pit of the darkest cave awoke the dread Shoggoth known by many names, but most remembered as Hyldrenthaleth the Baneful.

Releasing a horrid moan and grasping the slime covered rim of the pit with a claw covered black tentacle, the mass of flailing appendages and gaping mouths squirmed out of its slumbering place of two centuries and into the light of one hundred and six blazing torches. Hyldrenthaleth saw before him twenty one half-breed priests of Hastur, cloaked in bright yellow and black cloth and swaying back and forth in a circle around the pit. In each of their hands was a bloodied knife, and blades could be seen pushing through their fists from the hilt of the terrible weapons. Blood ran down their legs and into a channel, pooling and flowing into a main duct which poured into the pit and had awakened Hyldrenthaleth. Suspended above this duct was the desiccated corpse of a small child, drained of all fluids and twisted into a most unnatural pose. In moments the awful beast surveyed the cultists and took in the chanting of the dead languages of Ryleh. He found himself overjoyed at the chance to make friends.

Hyldrenthaleth, the rapist of the town of Morton’s Landing and the downfall of the Kingdom of the Otsostsi, released a squeal of delight at its new friends and began to ask them their names, how they liked to spend their time, which of the unspeakable books they preferred. After two hundred years of slumber the beast was overwhelmed that so many would go to the trouble of finding him, of finding the lost tome of Ali ibn Fallad Bakr and locating the unbruised white daughter of a descendant of the last Aztec king to sacrifice. His excited questions and exclamations were to no avail however, as the frail mortal minds of the Hasturites could not comprehend the unspeakable terror of Hyldrenthaleth’s voice. To them there was only a great tearing sound, the sound of a million dead souls being rent asunder, the horror of the great alien mind of a Star God. And beneath this sound the constant beating in their head of “DOOM DOOM DOOM!” Those that were not killed outright became gibbering masses of insanity, and soon they plunged their blades into their own skulls, trying to silence the endless echo of that horrible sound.

The great Shoggoth looked around through pulsing blood red eyes that held the secrets of eternity at the dead friends around it. The air had become thick with the smell of voided bowels and the smell of charred flesh, as the torches began to fall and light the cloaks aflame. To have so quickly lost its companionship was hard for the End of All Things, as the Phoenicians had called him. Letting forth a low moan of sorrow that set birds on the land above flying for miles around, Hyldrenthaleth began to slowly pull the bodies into his gaping maws, first ripping apart their flesh with his claws. He could think of no more fitting memorial for his short lived friendship than to make them a part of him. The taste of madness and fear in their blood made the flesh that much sweeter for him, and he hated himself slightly for enjoying it so much.

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One Comment on “Fiction!”

  1. The Kaiser says:

    If they are so poor why don’t they just go to Morton’s?


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