Chapter Eight: Dark Waters

"We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far." H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu


Two Years Ago

The brickwork crumbled apart at the very touch of Ludwig's fingers. The doorway, which had been subtly built into the existing wall and was nearly indistinguishable from it, was a faded lime green. It was sufficiently weak that so much as a stray breath could have provoked its collapse, and indeed, even approaching it had cause dust to fall from its cracked body like a waterfall of ruin.

The connecting room, a small antechamber of sorts, was flooded with a luminous green light, and as Ludwig stepped over the threshold, he felt strange warmth emanating from the cavern. A powerful presence, akin to a wave of air - but much less corporeal - seemed to push out at him, as though urging him to turn back. But Ludwig was not deterred – the other members of his expedition had completely left him behind and were unaware of his discovery, so encapsulated had they been by the prospect of finding more dusty tomes.

In the centre of the chamber was a large block of tinder, swathed in purple and green ivy. Protruding from the top, like something out of a fairy tale, was a large sword. It was the source of the verdigiris that flooded the cavern, as well as the force that continued to push at Ludwig – that much was clear just from staring at the thing, and feeling it stare back.

The scholar started to move towards it, as though caught in a trance. No coherent thoughts would come to him – all that mattered was the valuable find that he had in front of him; a treasure all of his own, far apart from the faded parchments and sickly-coloured herbs which his colleagues had been so entranced by.

Before he knew it, Ludwig's fingers had curled around the blade's hilt. Strangely comforting to the touch, Ludwig pulled the sword from its rest as though it were buried in a mound of butter rather than stone, and held it out in front of his face.

"Beautiful…" he whispered, the blade's green hue reflected in his widening pupils. "By the cosmos – where did you spring from?"


The Present

The last remnants of the village militia attempted to stop the Workshop Hunters as they ploughed through the cindering town, spilling blood and guts with maniacal abandon. Men with harpoons and knives for disembowelling fish rushed forwards, the points of their weapons aimed at the attackers. But, like the rest of their kin, the fishermen were no fighters, and in the face of inhumanely-enhanced soldiers like the hunters, they were but cattle for slaughter.

Logarius, who had previously held back from most of the carnage for fear of giving in to his own, primal bloodlusts, could no longer resist his urges as he saw the fountains of crimson all around him, and quickly butchered the hook-wielding fish-man who leapt at him from out of the treeline, pounding him over and over until his bones were dust and his flesh was but a flattened mass of red.

To the blood-crazed hunters, it mattered none whether or not their enemies were actually attacking forces or not. Older, wheelchair-bound sailors and women - young, frail and everything in-between - were cut down on the spot, their wails completely ignored.

Amidst the maze of identical shacks lined with fishing poles and nets, there were a couple of buildings that seemed out of place. Shrines, no more than a few months old, erected in the glory of the townsfolk's beloved Mother Kos, adorned with flowers, trinkets and any possession deemed valuable by the fanatic villagers.

Most of these were destroyed. The idea of worshipping another faith than the Healing Church was heretical enough to warrant the wanton destruction of these peaceful statues, either pounded into pieces by the hunters' blunt weapons or buried under a pile of burning wood.

A whole culture was wiped off the face of the earth in mere hours. Priests dressed in fine, silk robes were dragged, kicking and screaming, from their homes, beaten to death in the street in front of their congregation. Scaled children of ages ranging from the more mature to the mere infant were hacked into pieces without restraint, their wailing mothers often following suit. Prayer books were torn apart. Incense was burnt. Eerie, yet innocent sketches of otherworldly beings were torn off of the walls of houses, stamped into the earth, and left for the trail of fire to devour.

And, as the town above was destroyed, deep below, in a network of caves, a branching group of hunters had reached the tidal inlet where, in times past, the fishermen of the town had cast out their boats, and later, brought in their day's haul. However, the hamlet had long since ceased to be a fishing town, and such histories did not apply.

The beach was now home to a deity from beyond the cosmos. The one who had granted Yearnsmouth its eyes; a vision of the terrifying world that surrounded them, which they were invited to join.

Kos lay out flat on its stomach near the edge of the rough grey waters. It was barely moving as the Hunters approached it, but nevertheless, life still remained in its horribly misshapen body - a fact that Izzy intended to rectify immediately. The hunter raised her claws high above his head, savouring the thrall of her power over the stricken Great One. The unearthly creature's skin, pale white in the sun's glorious yellow gaze, seemed to shudder with every fleeting breath it took. It arms, thin and long like that of an insect, flailed helplessly in the sand. It made no sound, no attempt to evade the terrible fate that awaited it. Izzy held her hands steady as her wicked talons started to fall.

"Hold!"

Izzy stopped, in spite of herself, and turned to see an old man in a white cloak striding towards her from across the sand. His face was mostly obscured by a tattered hood, but a grey beard hung low from his chin. His movements were weary – pained, even. However, he didn't let up his speed even for a second, and within a few moments – where not a single sound was made from anyone – he was upon the group.

"You're too late," he spluttered. "It has begun."

"Step aside, old man!" Izzy challenged. The man sighed, and bowed his head even farther.

"When Mother Kos came to us, she did so in great agony. She bore us gifts so that we could become her kin – it was the only way to save her. And we have succeeded."

At this, the man drew back his hood, and the Hunters let out a collective gasp. The man's entire head was ensnared by a strange white mass, with writhing tentacles that clung to his flesh like limpets. In the centre of the mass was a single, unblinking eye, dulled grey and lifeless, but with a strange presence that was unlike anything that the group had witnessed prior.

"What… are you?" Gehrman whispered, disgust and terror seamlessly intertwined on his features.

"I am a herald of the new age," the man wheezed. "Our Mother was attacked and left in great pain, and in her throes of agony she saw a vision of a future. A world where humanity and the cosmos were one – a beautiful and grand new life. Now, as the sole villager who shares in this vision, I am sworn to defend our Mother until her time has come. And that time is mere moments away…"

"What are you talking about?" Laurence interjected. The arching of his eyebrows confirmed Gehrman's suspicion – the vicar was fascinated by the man's words.

"The one who will lead us forth… They are nearly here… I need only hold you off a little longer…"

At this declaration, the man drew raised his palm, and from the churning sands beneath him, a short staff rose out, embedding itself within his curled fingers. On instinct, Izzy swung at the man, but he brought the staff up with surprising agility, wrenching her claws away, and knocking her into the surf at the edge of the waters. Upon seeing his companion fall, Ludwig rushed forward, but stopped as the man fixed his icy glare upon him.

"Your sword…" the man whispered, his newfound prowess briefly faltering at the sight of Ludwig's glowing blade. "It bears the light of the betrayer. You… were sent by them?"

"Sent by whom?" Ludwig asked, as he drew back from the reach of the man's staff. "You make little sense, but your aggression will not be tolerated. By the good blood, I will cut you down if you take one more step."

"Yes, I am certain of that," he coughed, drawing his staff back up for another attack. "You may talk of righteousness, but don't forget, your people have slaughtered our town. And, I can assure you, their lives shall not have been lost in vain."

The man suddenly struck his staff hard on the sand. With it, a bright white light erupted from the tip, and the ground beneath the hunter's feet began to shake.

"What's going on?" Maria shrieked, already unsheathing her Rakuyo.

Her question was answered shortly as the sand was suddenly and violently blown open, geysers of white shooting into the air. In its wake, the broken ground gave way to a frightful visage - a veritable army of tiny, wriggling creatures burst forth, their tiny eyes seeking out the men and women that had threatened their mother. In the ensuing chaos, Ludwig was sent sprawling, and his sword hit the wet sand with a thud.

Maria swung as the first of many launched itself up off of the ground, its tentacle limbs reaching out for her face. The Rakuyo's arc chopped the creature cleanly in half, and it hit the ground with a wet thud. As one of its kin attempted its own attack on Maria, and another on Gehrman, the contortion of Kos' body seemed to reach a climax, and the creature let out a long, guttural moan that seemed to shake the earth itself.

Gehrman cleaved two of the squid-like creatures in half before his gaze fell on the fallen Great One. The mage's eyes were also fixed on his beloved mother, and, in his distracted state, Gehrman took the opportunity to charge him, driving his blade through the man's chest. As he fell, blood spewing from the corners of his mouth, he gave one last fleeting cry – one that sent shivers down Gehrman's sturdy spine.

"He is awake…"

As its host body fell lifelessly to the sand, the creature leapt away, slimy arms stretched out hungrily for Gehrman's neck. The hunter reacted just in time, sweeping the monster away with his blade, its icky white blood slapping across his face.

Across the way, Maria and Ludwig, who had been frantically fighting off the attacking beasts, stopped dead. Their quarries lay still again on the surf, turning their solitary eyes towards their ailing mother, whose cries continued to lay siege to the silence.

"What's happening?" Laurence cried. "Is it dying?"

Gehrman scrutinized the flailing Great One, seeing how the movement in its body was staring to slow, and focus in on one particular spot.

"No…" he replied, voice faint. "Oh… oh, gods…"

Kos finally fell still, a final, pathetic moan escaping its maw. However, the trembling of its flesh continued, and as the horrified assembly watched, the folds of its skin began to part. A huge mass rose up through the Great One's hide, edging closer to the outside with every painful, everlasting second. Finally, the bulk reached the edge of its mother's womb, and burst out onto the ground.

The figure was comparable to a greyish humanoid, but any links to humanity ended there. Sodden with the insides of its dead mother, the abnormally large and gangly creature slowly and clumsily rose to its feet, stumbling on its own, and newly-developed feet. Its face, long and mournful, parted as the creature took in its first breath, back facing the hunters. A deep, resonant sound escaped from its mouth, which Gehrman quickly realised was a sob.

As the new-born had gotten up, it had slowly pulled out a large, gooey-wet red object, tethered to its arm by its own umbilical cord. Now, the blade-like placenta lay at its side, as it let out a further few wracking sobs, eyes fixed on the afternoon sun across the expanse of sea that lay ahead of it.

For a moment, it seemed as though the creature was so fixated on the light that it may start to walk feverishly toward it. But then, the thing turned back towards the humans that had witnessed its abhorrent birthing, and let out a long, petrifying wail.

The wriggling white masses seemed to be bowing to the new born Great One, their small heads lowered to the ground as their fleshy, sopping master took a few measured, unsteady steps towards them. Gehrman, who had not so much as moved since the creature had been born, jolted with panic as the creature's eyes met with his, and an odious sneer drew across its dishevelled face. For an infant, Kos' demented child seemed acutely aware, its glowering gaze seeping with hatred and rage towards those that, it seemed, had been responsible for its orphaning.

Gehrman reached hesitantly for his blade, and the creature watched him closely, yet reproachfully, waiting for him to make a move. Only a few feet away, Ludwig was on the ground, hand outstretched and reaching for his lost sword. Maria was completely rigid, her Rakuyo hanging limply in her hand beside her. However, it was Laurence whose response was the most disturbing. Upon his lips, rather than fear or repulsion or tension, was a gurning, lunatic's smile, and he made no attempt to mask it. The vicar was absolutely and completely enthralled by the demonic presence before him.

The stillness was more than Gehrman could bear. Just the thought of the creature watching him with such intensity was enough to contort his chest and strangulate his breaths. Suddenly, as though by no choice of his own, he had cocked his blunderbuss and pointed it at the infant Great One's head.

"Gehrman, stop!" Laurence called. But it was to no avail.

Taunted by the creature's malevolent glare, Gehrman's finger itched for the trigger, and found it, pulling it without further hesitation.

The explosive recoil of his gun caught the transfixed hunter by surprise, and his aim was smeared. The bullet, which had been intended for the creature's skull, instead found its left shoulder, and burst through it with a gush of red and a sick thud.

What happened next was a blur. The orphaned Great One erupted in a chorus of horrifying shrieks, lunging forwards at its attacker with speed that only a child, frenzied with fear, could sustain. Gehrman could barely react, and his hand only brushed his blade before the nightmarish new-born was upon him, striking him with its fist. The slap was like a wall of stone, and Gehrman felt his nose splinter and haemorrhage with blood as he whizzed back through the air, rendered weightless by the sheer force.

"Gehrman!" Maria shrieked, already charging the Orphan with her Rakuyo drawn out and raised high. The infant let out another warped cry and swept her aside with a frenetic rush of swipes from its placenta blade. The hunter saw the splashes of blood – all her own – and then black, as the Orphan smashed her head against the sand with grotesque force, and tossed her limp body aside.

By now all of the hunters had started to charge the Great One. Izzy, who had risen from the sea with renewed fury, leapt at the gangly creature, both beastly claws outstretched. However, she was knocked away with little effort, landing back in the riptide with a colossal splash. A couple of hunters tried attacking in unison, knives and hammers brought down against the Orphan's frail form. However, the blows barely affected the Orphan, the pain inflicted only serving to heighten its all-consuming fury. As one of the pair tried to sever its sword-arm, the Orphan pierced his throat with its blade, before pulling the man's corpse of the ground and driving it against his companion. Both men were split open on the blade like a pike, and the Orphan flung them away, the effort near trivial to the enraged child.

Laurence had been snapped out of his awe as the screams started, and he was nearly halfway across the inlet by now, but he could still see the fountains of red as the Orphan slaughtered his party of hunters as though they were mere play toys, trouncing their corpses into mush, and screeching all the while.

"Fall back!" the vicar cried. His order was heard by none, however, and in absence of any sort of control over the situation, Laurence resorted to cowering inside the cavern from whence he and his party had come. He sat with his back to the massacre, covering his ears and sobbing in a desperate attempt to block it all out.

Ludwig was next to charge the abominable child. His blade, alight with the passion of the moon, swung against the Orphan whilst its back was turned, busy strangling a fellow hunter who had foolishly attempted to strike the creature head-on. The Holy Blade beamed with grit teeth as he felt his blow connect explosively, a spasm sent through the Orphan as a pain-stricken screech left its lips. Ludwig dodged back as the Orphan swung its blade behind it, trying to catch its attacker. As the Great One recovered from its draining swipe, Ludwig struck again, blade piercing the Orphan's side. More inhuman wails followed, and Ludwig let out a cheer of triumph.

"My my, you have a temper, don't you beasty?"

The Orphan was struck again, and it fell back, blood pouring furiously from its wounds. Its cries grew feebler; its hands scrabbled helplessly in the sand, and Ludwig could practically feel the will flooding out of it.

"May you find salvation in the next world," he whispered, drawing back for a final, killing blow.

But then, something strange happened. As if all that they had seen previously was just a warm-up act, the Orphan suddenly started to convulse, pores on its back opening up and translucent, bluish wings tearing their way out. Ludwig slashed at the Orphan, but it reared up suddenly, and his blow was negated as the Great One barrelled into him with even more force than it had possessed before. The Blade was sent nearly six feet into the air, and when he landed, he felt his ribs shatter like a wine glass. The pain was white hot, and under the intensity of it, he quickly blacked out.

The battlefield was almost completely silent now, save for a few dying moans from stricken hunters. The Orphan seized its placenta blade in both hands, and leapt around the empty inlet like a wild animal, taking enormous pleasure in the success of its slaughter. But then, it came to a halt, its maniacal gaze landing on a lone human that had risen to their feet.

Gehrman.


The First Hunter faced off with the Orphan of Kos, neither making a move. The raw emotion that hung between the two was so real in that moment that it could have been seized and put in a museum case. The aroma of blood, both human and not-so, hung in the air, entangled with the salty sea air that blew in from across the waves.

Then, the two tore themselves at each other, blades swung with such ferocity and energy that the very air seemed to tremble under their blows. Gehrman's blade, now hooked up with its scythe counterpart, severed one of the Orphan's baneful butterfly wings, which the sand with a wet thud. The screeching Great One was quick to pay him back, driving its placenta straight through bone and lopping off Gehrman's right foot.

With both combatants suffering extreme wounds, they collapsed, just inches from each other in the gravel, and lay seething as their blood spilled out across the earth. Kos tore its eyes from Gehrman for a few moments, focusing on its dead mother across the way. The demented infant let out a chorus of soft moans, perhaps yearning to join with its mother, whilst still unwilling to forfeit the fight for its life. Gehrman, between pained roars, found himself looking out across the inlet for Maria, eventually spotting her lying about twenty metres away.

Seeing such a faint glimmer of hope still existed, willpower flooded him once again. In spite of his newly-inflicted crippling, he managed to rise, and with his scythe in both hands, swung for the Orphan one last time.

The Great One tore its eyes away from its mother just in time to witness the first and last human it had ever seen, as their curved brand cleaved through the base of its neck. The Orphan's face, forever a canvas of pure, malign loathing, fell away, and its lanky, misshapen body slumped onto the sand onto which it had been born only minutes before.

The world began to revolve around Gehrman, sky meeting sea and vice-versa. He fell on one knee, feeling a dull pain throbbing in his other leg, and a rush of blood pounding at the sides of his head. Just a few feet away, the herald of the new age stirred one last time, his eyes - crusted over with blood –straining for one last visage of the world he had been so cruelly promised.

"Sweet… child of Kos…" he whispered, before his head lulled.


The hunters that had been absent from the beach were disbelieving at first of the accounts given by the survivors, but after taking a look for themselves at the cluster of bodies that lay upon the shore, being slowly carried out to sea by the tides, their scepticism was quickly silenced.

The walk home was a long and quiet one. Gehrman, who travelled only with the assistance of two of his colleagues, saw Logarius at a distance, carrying his bloodied wheel upon his back. His face was mostly-clouded by ash, but what remained visible was stricken with sorrow. Many of the other hunters seemed unfazed by the slaughter of the hamlet's inhabitants, seeing it as justice, but those who saw past this veil of the truth were similarly mournful.

Laurence walked slowly to keep level with his exhausted colleagues, carrying in his arms the blood-sodden and meaty umbilical cord that had been severed from the Orphan's corpse. After he had emerged from his hiding spot, he had ordered its retrieval.

"It could prove useful to us," he had claimed, much to the apathy of his fellow scholars.

Maria held back, desperately trying to avoid Gehrman's gaze. There was no visible disdain toward her in the older man's face, but she still felt his despair over her actions pressing down on her – the experience was what Maria imagined it must be like to carry the world on one's shoulders.

As the sun started to dip beyond the horizon, grey clouds forcefully rolled in, covering the evening sky like a battalion. A clap of thunder soon followed, succeeded by a literal opening of the heavens as buckets of misty blue pelted down onto the travelling hunters. As Gehrman stopped to pull up his hood, he took one last look back in the direction of the hamlet. The last embers were dying away in the rain, and the smoke that had once billowed magnificently from the ruined town was almost-entirely dissipated.

In the direction of the beach, whereupon the corpses of Kos and her orphaned child lay, a fierce bolt of lightning dropped, briefly illuminating the whole coastline. For just a fleeting moment, the booming sound seemed to be shadowed by another – much softer, yet still faintly audible.

A sob.

Gehrman closed his eyes, waving his hand across his face as though to ward away the nightmares that were soon to come.


The breath came to him so suddenly that it was accompanied swiftly by a strangled yelp.

Barkley the Powder Keg, still drenched in his own blood, rose shakily to his feet, and surveyed his surroundings.

"There's something wrong with the sun," he whispered to himself, finding his voice hushed, and more ethereal than real.

Indeed, the sun appeared most peculiar. It seemed to be shrouded in darkness, more faded than usual, as though shining through a window. Dark tendrils seemed to emerge from its rim, as though a hand was outstretched for it from behind.

Then, in a flash, the memories came flooding back.

Death. Lots of death.

His death.

Barkley felt for his hip, fingers pressed against the gaping wound that the knife had left him. His parting gift from the world of the living. The flesh was cold, and the blood was freshly wet, but there was no pain.

There was very little… anything. The whole world seemed empty and vacuous.

As Barkley looked about him, he saw other members of his party coming to terms with their surroundings. Their faces were stricken by horror, fear and grief.

It was like something out of a dream.