The Elder Recompense

E

Envy

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Original poster
Somewhere in a city in Eastern Iraq, by the border of Yemen, 1356 A.D.:

Ahmed, a young scholar of about 23 ran down the causeway. Looking behind him he could see the thing which chased him in the darkness and coming his way with unholy speed. He ducked into a thoroughfare and wound his way through several smaller streets but no matter how fast he ran the shadowy figure of his pursuer was always at his heels. He was tall, lithe and with a moderate complexion for a Middle Eastern student. He wore a yellow tunic made from the poly-blend of satin and cotton, and across his chest was slung a satchel. On his right was the sigil of the Damascus College where he studied. At the present moment he was terrified beyond all belief. What had chased him, so that he could not run and escape? In his hands he had been clutching a package that contained scrolls, copies most likely, of ancient texts. Also in his possession was a large vellum bound codex that seemed to bear the sign of what he presumed to be nonsensical gibberish written in blood.

Ahmed looked exacerbated at the continents of the material that he had just stolen. He did not look at their meaning nor did he read the inside scrawling of the vellum codex. Sweat was pouring down the side of his face. He seemed unable to breath and the dull pain that throbbed in his legs from running seemed to increase when he moved. He rested his back against the wall of an old building that was going to ruin and for a moment he breathed a sigh of relief, under the assumption he had gotten away from his pursuer, as he tried to catch his breath. But a moment later the figure appeared again staring hard at him from the shadows. He groaned in annoyance, reluctantly picked himself up and began running again. But his strength failed him. The pain in his leg shot throughout his body and the insidious figure who had chased him through the streets reached out to him with ghostly hands. Then they vanished, the thing and Amed, into the shadows of history.

Modern day University of Miscatonic, Arkham Massachusettes:

Professor Pabodie continued his speech with his usual tone. "Long before the dawn of our universe, when the stars and planets were nothing more than specks of dust and gas there existed creatures that lived in the space between the spaces. They came to our realm from this space and created our world out of nothingness. It was thier home for as long as memory could allow. It was peaceful while the starlight was harmonious. The Elder Beings raised enormous onyx cities like man shell have never seen, nor will ever see again. It is these same creatures who truly created human beings for their amusement. They would watch and laugh for it was humorous to them that a creature would receive pleasure and procreate from the same place they excrete their waste. For thousands of years everything was perfect. Then came the Old Ones: Shub-Nigurath the infernal mother-goddess; Chthulu the Warrior of the Deep; Nyarlathotep the Creeping Chaos; Dagon the lord of the Ocean and their brothers and sisters. Shub-Nigurath was consumed in a bitter hate with Dagon, constantly battling with him for supremacy. Nyarlathotep watched in amusement everything that transpired. But it was Chthulu, the great warrior, who raised an army against the Elder Race and banished them back to Kadath. This was all before man came, before the stars became poisonous. Though all but Nyarlathotep sleep now or lie in hiding, some say there are servants who still remember, who still serve if only they could hear their master's call." Dr. Pabodie looked up at the clock. "Remember class, to reach chapter 9 of your text book and your second essay will be due in three weeks. Dismissed."

Soon now, the time draws near when the stars are right and the Old Ones shall return and the seal will be broken. Do you hear the calling? The old ones are speaking to you saying
'Arise, arise my servant and wake me from my slumber so that I may bring swift death to my enemies.' Whether it is the ancient mystery of these beings, or the strange events that plagued your life or a secret heritage these words stick in your mind. And the fact that several professors have gone missing, or experienced unfortunate ends has been bothering you. What then will you do when you learn the terrifying truth?
 
Jon yawned as he stood up out of his chair. He had heard all of this before. He had even memorized that thing that the mad arab had written before. "That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death may die." With everyone gone he could now go do his research. He looked at the same clock Dr. Pabodie had looked at. "%&@! Its time for work." He started off with his books in hand.
 
"Dammit."

Silence.

"Dammit."

More silence.

"Dammit!"

William nearly threw the book he was holding on the floor. The space he was in was littered. Different obscure books of different topics littered the area as he searched relentlessly on the shelves. The information he was looking for was elusive. Strange cults, unknown gods...how could such a fascinating subject have so little about it? Even as he hunted for a book that would something, anything, he search was in vain. He simply didn't find out what he was looking for.

"Dammit! Where do I need to trek to find out more about this Necronomicon?!" He yelled at his bookshelves.
They did not respond.
 
Jon walked into the library and heard quite clearly someone shouting at his books. The Occult serction he remembered was nothing more that superstitious material and he pitied the poor guy. So he walked towards the slew of curses casually. Then stopped and half leaned against a book shelf as William threw a book at one. His proverbial ears perked up at that moment, but his eyes grew narrow at the mension of the book.
"Hey you fool." He said as if they had met, "you should keep quite about search that subject. Dont you know that a lot of professors have died in that search?" There was a long detracted moment with nothing said. Then Jon stooped down to look at the books William was reading. "Foucault's pendulum, Mysteries and Cult by Zoe Crossland...I read these last summer. There's some good stuff in there but a lot of mistruth." He put two books down. "Im Jon by the way."
 
<img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/Archive/Snowy_by_pokkuti.jpg align=right width=250 style="padding:5px">January snow, like clockwork death, had crowned the Massachusetts winter. Seven inches a day - one for every sin. Yet nothing pure was in this white of bone and fish scales. It was the snow of uncaring ages, the debris of star dust.

It was oblivion's palette.

And as the first classes of the Miskatonic University ended that morning, it was to the parting of the blizzard gloom. Revealed there, on the lawns, between the skeletal trees, a coated figure beheld at last his destination.

Perhaps the taxi cab had brought him here. Or perhaps he had walked for ages, across oceans and snow-drenched fields. By the pallor of his skin one might think he had died upon his journey and was but a stumbling corpse.

Yet his eyes told otherwise.

Snow fell from him as he found the half-buried pathway running through the campus grounds. Layer after layer, like a dozen coats shed, the white fell from him, unveiling ever-deepening black. And by the time he reached the lobby his hat had been removed. Red hair, like anchor rust, was smoothed through as he opened the door.

For a moment the receptionist thought him a professor. For sure, his well-trimmed beard and brooding stare gave such impression. But when he spoke it was English - and not the smooth English one might have expected. The dulcet tone of aristocracy had been hacked into by a sharper edge of Celtic, like an Oxford Don being stabbed by a fisherman. He asked to be given access to the library, and when the receptionist asked if he was alumni there was no answer but this:

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A card, edged like Tarot, placed silently on the desk. One the young receptionist could only puzzle, yet one which caused an older registrar to approach, placing a hand on his colleague's shoulder, taking over and granting a more courteous smile.

"Right this way, Sir," he said.

And with that, Randolph Cargwyn had begun his part in the story.
 
William didn't even look away from the book shelves. At first he said nothing. Then he abruptly turned around and barked out,

"Mind the books! They're worth a lot. Maybe even more then you."

Sometimes he didn't mean to be rude. When you were a man of books and paper with nothing else on the side sometimes you just grow as cold as the crisp pages you often gazed at. To him, books were more valuable than people sometimes. William straightened up, smoothed out his suit, and began to pick up his discarded books. A bit ironic once you considered what he had just said. He neatly put them back on the shelves. Somehow he didn't bend their pages or damage the spines. William was good like that.

"Professor William Thomas Bloch." He barked out again, putting emphasis on the professor. He usually spoke in a rough, loud tone of voice that would make most people flinch. You'd think someone who spent most of his times in libraries would be a quiet person. "Misinformation...misinformation! In books like these? What drivel! Superstition never did me justice!"

William then noticed the new figure walking into the library.

"Yes? What is it? I'm busy!" William said loudly over Jon's head.

A loud librarian. Who would've guessed?
 
<img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/asmo.jpg align=right width=250 style="padding:5px">"...as a hen digging for daylight."

To a library accustomed to voices that were, in varying degrees, both American and educated, it was strange to hear one that seemed as neither. With snow-flecked coat folded over one arm, and tarot card in the other, the stranger stood by the doorway where the registrar had left him. He was in the midst of stamping his feet, as if to accustom himself to strange surroundings.

Yet perhaps he was not so different. For to see the tattoo on Randolph Cargwyn's face was to imagine that the ink of the library had bled from the books to stain him.

He regarded William and Jonathan, a stare of matching intensity. Then clarified, "A Cornish saying: As busy as a hen digging for daylight."

The Englishman took a step forward, to the edge of the book clutter that William had left. His other hand secreted the card he had been holding, the briefest flash of the Rose Cross vanishing into trouser pocket. "Apt, don't you think? Since you are here obstructed by the Language of the Birds."

His hand, callused and rope-burned, made indication to the books. "Lies and riddles, made to confuse the uninitiated. My people call it Language of the Birds. For even in mistruth there are secrets to be told."

He stooped, knee-bones creaking like the masts of old ships. And, scooping up the last of the books that William was gathering, he held it out with the slightest smile. "Forgive me if I am wrong. But I very much hope I am speaking to Professors Bloch and Pabodie."

With arm extended, his sleeve rode back to show the glimpse of other marks. Perhaps more rope burns. Perhaps more tattoos. It was not certain.

"For I have crossed an ocean to be of service to them."

 
Jon stood up with an odd unsettled feeling. This was a professor and librarian? He sighed heavily and put a book on a shelf totally out of place but without thinking of it. Suddenly a lithe man covered in snow barged in. Stranger by the minute? Hardly. This was Jon's third year and had seen midnight trips to graveyards and the occational attempt at reanimation. So a man bursting in was rather plain to him. But, the markings on his face. Jon turned away sharply and threw several books on the shelf to the ground until he found one well used by him and other 'researchers'. He thumbed through the pages and point at one suddenly. It was a picture as it seemed of a man exactly resembling the newer one, only without markings. But how could it be that a book printed in the late 19th have THIS MAN's photo. Jon searched for words then decided something else. He tossed the book at ghe man haphazard. "Page 190"
 
William stared at the stranger. "Yes? What do you want?"

The strange said few words, but the markings intrigued William. He studied the man for a few brief moments, hearing his words. Though they only added to his confusion and frustration. He arched a confused eyebrow at the man.

"Services? Oceans? Blah, speak some sense, man!"

Of course he was immediately turned to attention by Jon pulling books out and throwing them to the ground. He whirled around.

"Hey! Those books are very valuable! If you damage them...!"
 
John turned to the librarian. "A book only has value if its words serve necessity. Most of these here were history and hearsay. The book I showed him is probably the one you were wanting, and unless I'm off my mark you're all here for the same reason I came to Arkham. You, but the library is hardly the place to cha-" Suddenly the fire alarm went off. The people were screaming outside and inside the sprinklers began to soak everyone.
"Whats going on?" John asked a tall student as he ran in.
He began to mumble. as he ran to hide. John followed but only found a man crting and shaking uncontrolledly.
 
"A man will turn over half a library to make one book."
-Samuel Johnson​
Click to expand...

It was a bleak Massachusetts afternoon that I found myself at the doorstep of the University. The sounds of Clamoring feet and a howling wind pulsed against chilled glass as it closed behind me, creating a symphony all its own. The sounds decrescendo into a calm letting the crisp solo of my cane sound out as it tapped lightly against the cold tiles of the floor. It was here that I found myself drawn that fateful winter day. Whether such direction came from forces greater than I or just a longing solace away from the ice, I could not say. As the bitter edges of the cold left my bones I caught the hint of a smell most familiar. Ground wood and vanilla crossed my senses, an after effect of terpene compounds, deriving from rosin. An age old process used to make paper more impermeable to inks.

It was that smell, that draw back to nostalgia of a day long past, that lead me to the open doors of a library. Passing through the corridors of the building, I moved unseen through a sea of wandering eyes lost entirely in the frantic waves of life. A walking pair lost in conversation too engrossed to see my passing. A carpenter erecting a notice of sorts, turned to reach for a tool as I stepped by. A professor turned to his colleague, recalling a thought as I slipped just past his shoulder. It was not a strained exercise on my part. It was simply how nomadic years had taught me to travel. A sightless man slipping through the cracks of a sighted world too busy to perceive change.
As I stepped through the door the aroma of ethylene adhesives mixed with the pungent presence of dust found me. Past the arch I recollected a time where I had spent what seemed like ages in a place not so different. Habit struck me and I found myself placed before a shelf, the pale outline of my fingers reaching for a book. The flesh of my hands ran along the edge of a hardback and I pulled it from the wall. Tracing the pressed outline of a paper sleeve I read the title that had been lifted during printing.

A Tell Tale Heart and Other Works by Edgar Allen Poe.


I was in a fiction section. Specifically one segmented off to display works of American gothic literature. I mused and opened the book, its words lost on me as I traced my hand over the ink. I could feel definition beneath my fingers but it was too light to really make out. It was of no consequence however, I knew the work almost by heart. The tale of a man so stricken by the lame eye of his neighbor that murder is entertained. Slaying the defected individual in cold blood warranted for no reason besides the unease left behind by that all seeing, evil eye. A cleansing of sorts, removing a stain from the flow of the world he hid his deeds beneath the floorboards of the murdered man's house. A perfect crime if not for the matrimony of guilt and pride. Driven mad by the pulsing of what he hears to be the dead man's heart, he turns himself in. A tale not often shared at the bedside of an infant child. It was curious that from everything here I would pull it from the shelf. An omen perhaps? Perhaps not. Despite the peculiar message placed before me from the image of Poe's short story it was his more famous work that seemed to fit more appropriately to the setting at hand.

Oh so surely I remember, it was in the bleak December and every up and dying ember wrought it's ghost upon the floor…

It was to this passage that I heard a voice chime out against the eerie quiet of the University Library.

"Forgive me if I am wrong. But I very much hope I am speaking to Professors Block and Pabodie." The voice was a grim one that sounded with the edge of a man bearing purpose. "For I have crossed an ocean to be of service to them." These were not words spoken lightly but it was the names that seemed to resonate iron bells in the birdcage of my mind. Names I knew quite well from the whispers of many a circle.

"Only this and nothing more." I found myself speaking audibly closing the book in hand with a resounding thump and placing it back upon the shelf.

((Yes I know the quote is slightly off, he's recalling it from memory, as did I when I wrote it))
 
(Wd be sure to check the ooc for the latest news)
 
John took the other student by his shoulders and tried to shake him into his senses. But there was nothing he could do that would work it seemed. What was going on? He stood up from the boy and looked back at the professor, looking over more books it seemed, and the sailor-looking man. John grimaced and rubbed his chin in wonderment. Then he began to leave the room to investigate. Something had shaken this man's mental capabilities. He put his hands on the door and pushed it with ease, entering into a virtually empty quadragngle.
[more later]
 
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