Disclaimer: The following contains references to things which (as far as I know) originated with TSR and Wizards of the Coast. To the best of my knowledge I neither own such properties, nor do I derive any financial profit from this piece.
Note: The following piece takes the form of a sort of 'kaleidoscope' of glimpses of 'something' (or of 'somethings', in the plural) and seems to me in structure perhaps more poetic than regular story - and is accordingly identified as such. It is also identified as 'horror' and rated as 'M'. This is not Harry Potter fanfiction.
Further Note (Hallowe'en, 2013): I'm currently experiencing difficulty with writing new material, and this seemed to me to be the creepiest thing on my files, previously unposted on this site, and suited to posting on this site, so here it is. An older version (slightly different in the odd turn of phrase) was originally posted by me under a different name on a different site.
It hunts in the darkness, but at least then it often wears a beast's shape; when it hunts beneath the sun it walks in the form of a man. –insane scribbles found in the journal of a monk
The constable of Aguileron surveyed the room. Behind him several of his men, less used to violence, were sick. The room's occupant had been torn to shreds.
Beneath the moon it chases me, driving me ever onwards across the moors towards some goal it can see but I do not. I have tried to turn and fight it thrice, and each time I could not even scratch its scales. Those awful eyes mock me. It did not even lift a claw to strike back at me. It has some purpose for me, and each time, I have tried to turn on my pursuer, my nerve has ended up failing a little sooner and I have fled. –writings in the diary of a lycanthrope
"The latest patrol to return from the mountain, my Lord, report discovering the tracks of some completely unknown creature – indeed possibly of several such unknown creatures. They took sketches, and the royal loremasters are attempting an identification from the bestiaries right now."
Something is following us, picking us off, one by one. It comes in the night, with flickering green lights, and carries whoever is on watch away to some unholy dimension, and we never see them again. We camped last night in the ruins of an old fort on the plain, surrounded by the crumbling earthworks and ditches of the ancient Tugari – and for once the creature did not attack. Does it fear the open? When we have camped amidst the fallen boulders, at the foot of the Thor Wall Crags it has never once failed to strike. –Commander Alison Nhile, paladin, journal
The necromancer surveyed the carnage and – despite himself – muttered an oath. The bodies had been torn limb from limb and yet not so much as a single drop of blood had been spilled. He was used to seeing undead creatures, shrivelled and dried of fluids, rent thus – but not so living creatures, with the vital fluids still running through their diverse organs, arteries, and veins.
The signs left at the scene seem to indicate that some sort of blasphemous ritual was underway, which the watchmen disturbed, causing the celebrant to flee. There were symbols which could not be identified, until a priestess of the elven deity Alathrien Druanna was summoned. She blanched, and muttered a prayer asking for her goddess' protection when she saw what had been going on.
"It is evil, pure and simple, and ancient even in the reckoning of my race." was all that she would say. No more than that she would explain, beyond to enjoin us not to seek for answers, and to state that presently her colleagues would be dealing with the problem. Oddly, no other clerics or wizards in the town seemed to know of or even be able to hazard more than a guess at the intended purpose of those particular markings; It is as if there is involved some closely guarded tradition within the lore of Alathrien's church concerning such marks which will not be shared with any 'outsiders' to their faith, no matter what the circumstances. –Report by Watchlord Rasmos Overseer, on a strange 'religious incident' disturbed by a watch patrol in the Graveyard District
"I don't understand." the swordsman said, swinging his silver blade to dispatch yet another half-fiend. "The house has been under watch, night and day for the past six months, every last person coming in and going out counted and noted. Here in the Dawvon District of the city, all magic fails. How, then, in the named of accursed Aphrael, have the conspirators come to furnish themselves with so many sweepings of the lower planes to cover their escape?"
He looked at him, and smiled – no more than that, I swear – and Jason flew apart in an instant. It was horrible. Just as if poor Jason had been a paper doll. And the worst part of it was that he did so without shedding a single drop of Jason's blood. Then he turned back to me and his smile broadened greatly. "Now do we understand one another?", he asked.
I won't name him. I simply won't. You can make whatever promises you like, but nowhere's safe from him if I break my word. No dungeon deep enough, nor tower too high. He can find me, if I turn on him, anywhere, and what he can do to me is much worse than anything that can be achieved by mortal men. –Excerpt from confession of the axe murderer of South Woldwood
"Our foes are nothing of this world.", the cleric of Dumathoin said gravely, his fellow dwarves impressed by his sombre mood. "Once, according to the lore, our race could have defeated their masters and put an end to such miseries for all time, but in our pride we thought to fight other enemies instead, and so loosed great evils upon the worlds and planes. These creatures are amongst the more powerful servants, according to the lore-books, but can be confronted and defeated by those who know how – though at likely high cost. Dumathoin is Keeper of Secrets Under the Mountain for good cause, however, and anything I disclose to you must be kept closely guarded lest those of other, more foolish, races hear half-twisted words and imagine that such things could be harnessed to give them power."
She gestured and chanted, naming ancient and terrible things, which I am unwilling to commit to paper, and drawing a nimbus of horrible power down about herself, exalting in the awful might that it seemed to lend to her. At one point she turned and looked straight at me, and smiled, as if it did not concern her that I was watching, and after that I found that I could not leave, with the weakness which had suddenly assailed and overcome me. She left me there, having taken her time to complete her unholy rituals, stepping disdainfully over my prone form as she departed. She did not care that I had seen – for she seemed to know that I could not stop her, and a look which she gave me as she left made clear that it was because it supplied her with cruel amusement that she spared me, and not for any other cause. –Account of the former royal magician, Tosartost at the inquiry into the massacre of the Cujlivon royal family
The silver dragon, Phemaedis, woke to find herself in her human form, but relocated to the caverns beneath deep beneath the castle. Drakos sat in a folding chair, regarding her, one leg crossed over the other, and his fingers steepled, a pensive look on his face beneath that dark mop of hair. Like her, he apparently found the absence of regular illumination in the cavern little problem.
"I'm afraid that I have a confession to make." he said, sardonically. "I think that the most important thing that you know is that Drakos is not, in fact, my real name, although I find it a useful affectation to have when travelling a world of the prime-material plane such as this."
Phemaedis winced, at the ache of her head, and in other, unfamiliar places. Had she really had so much to drink last night?
"I'm afraid so." he said, as if guessing her thoughts. "At least on the three most likely counts that I can think of which might be crossing your mind right now. Yes you did have a lot to drink last night, no I did not attempt to resist your earlier advances, and yes I am an utterly ruthless…. 'fiend'…" he curled his lip at the word, as if it amused him, "who's taking advantage of you to furnish himself with tools to get the job done which I was sent here for. Actually I am a 'fiend' able to engage in very important calculations, at that: the precise hour yesterday afternoon to most optimally advantage myself of your charms, how much concentrated alcohol your assumed shape could metabolise before rendering you convincingly incapable, how to space your consumption out at the feast so that you would require escorting out at the right moment, before you began to become too noticeable. I have to optimise the time, you see, before people will come looking for you. Well I don't, actually, but I regarded it as a challenge to do so. You are a beachhead, which I have established, for the invasion of this world. Half a dozen of my colleagues are active in other realms and kingdoms, making preparations of their own as well, and the little nation of Ruehavia will likely go unwatched in the chaos which is being arranged to follow, until it is far too late."
Phemaedis longed to flee, to warn the Lord President and Council, but strangely, she felt also a much more overpowering urge to remain here, a craving for Drakos' company, and even for this human shape. She was the realm's protector…. this was ridiculous…. and yet.
She finally looked down and saw.
"Ah yes; you aren't likely to be around when this world falls. Well not in person you understand, but in a manner of speaking, perhaps.", Drakos chuckled.
Sometimes a world or crystal sphere drops into inextinguishable darkness, simply like that, overwhelmed by tides of primordial evil and chaos more terrible than any orc horde, flight of dragons, or undead armies of an insane lich. One month all seems to be progressing as normal, and the next, civilisation, if formerly extant, has been snuffed utterly out and a night in which lurk horrible and nameless things – or perhaps worse, things which must not be named – holds sway. No-one will admit to knowing how such terrible happenings come to pass – generally survivors who have fled from such events are few, and their tales confused, with no clues seemingly discernible as to the origins of events. Wild theories and speculations abound throughout the planes as to the circumstances and causes of such events – fortunately, these events are ridiculously rare, and so this opus will not concern itself with them, beyond noting, for the completeness of the record, that such things sometimes occur. –Merrick Grasswater, 'An essay on the fall of civilisations'
Kurdar had seldom seen Lady Speladrin Kaltharûnír so watchfully wroth. The speed and precise anger with which she had dispatched their attacker, wiping it into a smear with a volley of spells he had never even seen before – and for that matter, archmage and loremaster though she was, it was seldom that he saw Lady Kaltharûnír use so much as a cantrip to light a fire – spoke of an intense dislike for that which she had just obliterated.
Kurdar inspected what was left of the vaguely humanoid creature, trying to make out what it had been although – to his relief – it was Astophia, shivering slightly in the snow who asked the question he was afraid to ask.
"What exactly was that, Lady Kaltharûnír?"
"That, Astophia," Lady Kaltharûnír replied, her expression grim, "was a Hound of Fenric. And that means that if I did not exist as a resident of this world, then likely the world would right now be under the threat of a great and imminent peril. Since practically the dawn of time, these spies and agents of malevolent powers have been selecting sleepy worlds, little prepared for attack by certain things that lurk beyond the planes, and laying the way open for their capture and fall into the darkness. Once they mark a world, certain doom almost always follows. We must return to Citadel Adbar at once, Kurdar, to do something about this."
Through the darkness beyond the worlds, they stalk, seeking fresh strands that might lead them back to conquests ripe for their masters. I was sorry ever to meet them, to serve them – however unwillingly – and to see some of the things which they planned and did. My final escape, aided by fortune and one of The Great Ladies, was nothing but pure relief.
But it was a cruel escape; for I cannot leave the safety of my lady's castle. The only thing which they commonly fear is the light which was ancient, and which is no longer, or perhaps its echoes if such a one as is gifted as a daughter of them trains herself in defiance. I, alas, was not, and so they took me, and made use of me as countless millennia passed. Until and unless I have trained myself in some of the ways of war, I dare not leave this place of safety from them – for they are waiting out there for me, in the company of my children. They know me, how I can easily be bent to their will, they have my scent, and will have it until I have slain every last one of my tormentors. But it will take time to rebuild the courage I will need to face them, and to gain the skills to put their existences to an end. I do not care what worlds they may rape and pillage, but I do for the freedom which my fear of them has taken from me. Had it not been for the Most Gracious Lady, I would be a hapless pawn in their schemes, still. –Diary entry of Chassanthra Xivranivi, a penitent Succubus
Author Notes:
To comment briefly on some of the TSR/Wizards of the Coast derived material, Alathrien Druanna and Dumathoin were deities (albeit a perhaps obscure one in Alathrien's case) in 2nd edition AD&D. In AD&D some types of dragons, once they were old enough, gained the power to transform themselves into the shapes of certain races of humanoids. Crystal spheres were a concept of the 'Spelljammer' AD&D expansion, and were zones each of which encompassed a planetary system. Citadel Adbar was a location in the 2nd edition AD&D version of the 'Forgotten Realms'.
Occasionally 'Lady Speladrin Kaltharûnír' shows up in some form in a fictional universe I'm writing about. The one mentioned here was the Forgotten Realms incarnation.