Aprilos 13, in the 2,002 year W.K
Sir Huerney, Templar of the White Brik
Manor of the late Baron NeMo
West-end, Barony of the Western Kingdom
You might remember our conversation late in the fortnight after the Feast of Friar Bulkington, wherein you described your knowledge of certain texts of shall we say, "an arcane nature"? I was most intrigued by your mention of a certain "Brikthul-something-or-other", whose name is known to me, but I shan't mention here. You see, as a priest of St. Cutblok, I am interested in such matters, and in more capacity than is sufficient for a priest who seeks to better his understanding of the arcane arts insomuch as fighting nay, conquering and mastering evil.
I have spent many a sleepless night in the rectory, pacing the halls, longing to gain further insight and knowledge of these things. Last night, sleep came to me unusually promptly, yet I was plagued by a recurring dream. In this dream, I was wearing armour, bearing a great sword and a shield. To say 'I' is a stretch in truth, for I perceived and knew that I was the one in my dream, yet I happened to glimpse a reflection of my dream-self in a mirror.
What I saw was a hideous mutation of a figure, my skin a sickly yellow with no shade or flush in the cheek - only the ghastly jaundice of a dying wretch. Upon my bloated, cylindrical head, I bore a smile, yet somehow without lips. An up-turned black line, incapable of movement or expression of the horror I truly felt, was this mockery of happier emotion. The worst part, and it is with great apprehension that I recount it to you, were the unblinking, unfeeling, empty black eyes that stared back at me in that haunted window. No apple, nor cornea, nor white, nor lid, nor lash had they, only the deep, writhing agony of all-seeing terror. At this time in my dream, my physical body, strained at my mind not being able to wink and wet my eyes, must have begun to seep tears, for when I woke, my pillow was soaked through, and my eyes were red as one weeping for the recently-departed dead.
That is not the extent of my nightmare, for I was left with much more reason to tremble the next morn. Dreaming, I looked down at my feet which had been removed in some twisted experiment concocted by my sub-conscious mind, or as a result of a savage wound from countless aeons of war against the demons of my past leaving only two square pegs to maintain a shaky balance on this broken plane.
My hands! Sweet St. Cutblok! MY HANDS! Two molded yellow appendages mounted like the severed claws of a hepatitic lobster. Inscribed upon the pommel of the sword I carried was a word that taunted me -for unable was I to "le' go" of the weapon I brandished. The shield I carried was fitted with a handle to accommodate my unbending arm - like some evil malefactor had produced masses of these to equip a dying, elbow-less army.
I turned from the mirror, goose-stepping because my knees were frozen fast whether from terror and the strain of too much knocking, or yet another evil inflicted by the same malice that had taken my feet. Down a dark corridor I plodded, to a chamber at its end. A light shone upon a pedestal in this room, a pale light with no apparent source; yet glowing faintly -as that given off by the last firefly in the autumn before a winter that will never end. As I stepped up to the pedestal, I saw a book, an ancient tome bound in Pleather, and the title upon it burned in my mind as if writ in fire.
Even as I write to you, I am feverish. The abbot is making some soup and preparing to give the weekly message to the congregation tomorrow, in my absence. My hands grow clammy and I am coughing in fits, but I must convey the title to you, ere I return to my bed. The title upon that ancient and arcane text was CHAPTER FNORD.
I remain, Sir, your most respectful comrade,
Weyoun B, priest of St. Cutblok
Last edited by Nemo20k
on Mon Apr 13, 2009 2:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.