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Date Posted: 00:50:52 03/04/02 Mon
Author: Tristan
Subject: Horrors unspeakable

OOC: Caution: post may be unsuitable for readers of tender age and/or disposition! :O)

Rowan lay with his bandaged head in Tia’s lap, his eyes momentarily closed as the pounding in his head slowly faded into nothing. His thoughts became gradually clear again, although he was having difficulty recalling what had happened. The most he could tell was that they had entered this temple a little while ago and that something had happened—a battle, a disaster of some sort, he didn’t know—causing him to become somehow injured. He thought he recalled Val’s calm, soothing voice as the healer’s hands helped him turn over onto his back, but he couldn’t remember what the man had said.

He held both Tia’s hands in his own, so that his fingers would have something to do while he lay in the dust and the dirt on the ground. Eventually, he thought to open his eyes and slowly sit up, groaning softly at the pain in his bandaged arm—he guessed he’d been injured there, too. He turned to face Tia, his face for once completely empty of his usual charming, cocky nature. At the moment, he was only slightly confused, if a little anxious to be on his feet again.

“Where am I?” he asked, feigning a dazed look, but it didn’t last long when he saw the alarmed expression past over her face. “Just kidding,” he said, breaking into a grin. He turned to where most of the others were now standing, staring down into a dark hole leading into the ground by an altar.

“Come on,” he added, standing up and pulling her up next to him. He didn’t think to thank her for staying by him, partly because he didn’t comprehend the seriousness of his injury, and partly because he was dying with curiosity to see what was going on over there. Still holding her hand, he hurried toward the others, grinning again when Erlic turned right on cue to inquire after his health.

“Right as rain,” he chirped, giving the man a pleasant wink. “You greedy bastards aren’t doing any underground exploring without me and Tia, so don’t even think of leaving us behind.” He nodded toward the stairway leading downward. “Lead on. Anyone who wants to stay can stay, but we’re going under!”

~*~*~*~*~

Tristan wasn’t happy that everyone seemed so determined to explore the spiders’ lair. The smell reeking out of the place disturbed him, as did the haunting voices that had begun to whisper in their ears as they descended. The disembodied white face hadn’t exactly been encouraging, either! But he sighed and stroked his sword hilt with one hand, holding the glowstick before him as they once again moved downward, this time accompanied with a few of their friends.

He didn’t hold on to Marz the way he wanted to, mostly because he didn’t really want anyone else to think he was afraid. And he wasn’t really afraid, just a little freaked out, maybe, a little uncertain about what they were getting into. There was no uncertainty on Marz’s face, he noticed, although it was clear his lover had been just as alarmed by the voices and ghostly face as he had been. They would have both liked to hold on to each other for various reasons, but refrained from doing so. Tristan figured they’d probably get dirty looks from that Argus guy, anyway, and he didn’t really feel like dealing with that right now. Best to look cool and collected, and prepare oneself not to bolt back up the stairs a second time when the face reappeared.

They descended, cautiously, glowsticks held forward and in the air like beacons of good intent. The voices began, swirling up and pressing mournfully against their ears, hissing and sighing and singing of horrors unspeakable.

“Go baaack…”

“Back, go baaack…”

“Oh, return mortals, return…”

“You do not know…”

“Danger!—

“Horrors, oh horrors!—

“Pain, filth, panic, undying, unquenchable torment and pain!—

“GO BACK, GO BACK, GO BACK!!!”

Tristan sucked in a breath as a moaning, sexless face materialized in front of him, the whispers pouring forth form its lips momentarily freezing his limbs. He closed his eyes and pressed onward, hissing through his teeth as he passed through the thing, the coldness seeping into his skin like ice. He opened them again, watching as his friends tensed and gripped their weapons, the glowsticks shaking as nerves began to slip—but they were a brave group, curiosity and a determination to know spurring them onward as always.

Ahead, he heard someone shout, Rowan, he thought, and the sound of tripping feet and a stumbling body. His own feet touched the last step, and he held his glowstick aloft, the voices still muttering eerily all around them. Now they seemed to echo, as though whirling above and about, all around, sweeping in wide circles around a cavernous interior.

“Oh, shit! Sweet, bleeding mother of us all…”

Tristan tensed at Rowan’s voice, and everyone piled into the room after him. He was standing in the middle of the room, apparently unscathed from his little stumble. But his face was a mask of horror and fear. As one, they all glanced about the room, taking in the sights of the place with the dim light of their glowsticks.

Bodies hung everywhere, strung from the walls, their limbs outstretched and supported by a white sticky substance, presumably spider spittle. They were all naked and bore the shaved heads of the Sharm, though whether they were followers or victims of the fanatic religion remained uncertain. The stinking odor positively reeked now, for each dead prisoner had been split from his or her chin to the belly, the remaining innards rotting and decaying in the musty darkness of the lair.

In one corner lay a pile of clothing and valuables, obviously belonging to the dead victims.

“Stop!”

Tristan turned, swallowing the bile in his throat, and looked at Rowan, who raced back up the stairs. “Stop, don’t come any further,” he urged those who had yet to descend. His sister was still above. She asked why and he could be heard trying to frantically persuade her to turn away.

Tristan returned to stare at the horrors about them, his stomach churning unpleasantly. Finally, he reached out and gripped Marz’s hand tightly, no longer giving a damn about what their friends thought of his cowardice. He wasn’t so much afraid as utterly stricken by what they were looking at, his mind trying vaguely to grasp at who would do this. The Sharm? An opposing religious group? Or perhaps a break-off from the original believers? More important than the identity of the slayers, however, was the question of whether or not they were still around—and if they would be returning to this place of torture and sacrifice.

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