loki456
11-17-2009, 01:18 AM
alright so this is for all you Lovecraftian's out there... It's not finished yet, but thought I would send in what I've done for criticism. You are more than welcome to be harsh, I'll take the good out of ill-mannered retorations. But civility will be much more appreciated. enjoy.
Mandolay Grimmolt ran as fast as he could, the night densely surrounded his form, shadowing both stench and fear. Mandolay was the name given to him in his dreams, the alter ego of the suffering insane. Silent trickery was shrouded in mystery as Grimmolt’s footsteps seemed to be drowned out by the thudding of his assailant. The night’s womb bore the scars of the light emanating from the planets three moons, while the dense fog swept the marshlands underneath Mandolay’s feet, only to hide the petrified putridness that he was so swiftly launching into.
Waking with nothing less than an adrenalin fuelled startle, his sheets had once again known the rank perspiration of a man haunted. Reality had seen it fit to change Mandolay Grimmolts name to the more mundane, Nicholas Dorjan. His non-charismatic poses so fittingly suited his thick, black rimmed glasses that had the tendency to slide down his bent nose, to its very tip. He turned from his startled position and hung his legs over the edge of the bed, back bent and gazing at the floor he slid his hand over the nape of his neck, only to feel the salty lubrication of sweat over his palms. His head hung as thoughts rummaged around an ungraspable idea, fleeting visions of déjà vu sunk like lead weights to his stomach, culminating in a swirl of an all too familiar feeling. Nicholas couldn’t shake this feeling, the feeling that his dreams were much more than just subconscious dribble, and even when awake the feeling constantly reminded him of his lurking dreams presence. The dark lured him like the melodic sirens call, and he felt nothing but the spectre of evil.
Nicholas being versed in the arcane arts had no aversion to things evil and macabre. His family for three generations before him had carried the mantle of antique book store owners. This enchanting title had given Nicholas and those before him the charge of witnessing the ancient and the most prolific of all occult texts. This had taken two college degrees in Arabic and ancient Hebrew to confer the meaning of such antediluvian manuscripts and with such knowledge he endeavoured to decipher the erudition of the primordial gods. It was a Monday afternoon on a dreary overcast day in London, 1978. The bookstore so aptly named ‘Before time itself’ was home to a fascinating array of old novels, magazines, instructional manuals and countless journals. However, the rear of the shop held much more than just the fanciful whims of the odd passerby, or the indulgent ramblings of the upper-class who perceived they knew much about antiquity, yet wallowed in pretentious mediocrity. Within this shops run down walls, flaking paint falling from the roof, fans rotating at a speed akin to the pace of a slug, laid the ancient of ancients, words spewed forth from before time itself on ageless parchment and written in ill-defined ink.
Mandolay Grimmolt ran as fast as he could, the night densely surrounded his form, shadowing both stench and fear. Mandolay was the name given to him in his dreams, the alter ego of the suffering insane. Silent trickery was shrouded in mystery as Grimmolt’s footsteps seemed to be drowned out by the thudding of his assailant. The night’s womb bore the scars of the light emanating from the planets three moons, while the dense fog swept the marshlands underneath Mandolay’s feet, only to hide the petrified putridness that he was so swiftly launching into.
Waking with nothing less than an adrenalin fuelled startle, his sheets had once again known the rank perspiration of a man haunted. Reality had seen it fit to change Mandolay Grimmolts name to the more mundane, Nicholas Dorjan. His non-charismatic poses so fittingly suited his thick, black rimmed glasses that had the tendency to slide down his bent nose, to its very tip. He turned from his startled position and hung his legs over the edge of the bed, back bent and gazing at the floor he slid his hand over the nape of his neck, only to feel the salty lubrication of sweat over his palms. His head hung as thoughts rummaged around an ungraspable idea, fleeting visions of déjà vu sunk like lead weights to his stomach, culminating in a swirl of an all too familiar feeling. Nicholas couldn’t shake this feeling, the feeling that his dreams were much more than just subconscious dribble, and even when awake the feeling constantly reminded him of his lurking dreams presence. The dark lured him like the melodic sirens call, and he felt nothing but the spectre of evil.
Nicholas being versed in the arcane arts had no aversion to things evil and macabre. His family for three generations before him had carried the mantle of antique book store owners. This enchanting title had given Nicholas and those before him the charge of witnessing the ancient and the most prolific of all occult texts. This had taken two college degrees in Arabic and ancient Hebrew to confer the meaning of such antediluvian manuscripts and with such knowledge he endeavoured to decipher the erudition of the primordial gods. It was a Monday afternoon on a dreary overcast day in London, 1978. The bookstore so aptly named ‘Before time itself’ was home to a fascinating array of old novels, magazines, instructional manuals and countless journals. However, the rear of the shop held much more than just the fanciful whims of the odd passerby, or the indulgent ramblings of the upper-class who perceived they knew much about antiquity, yet wallowed in pretentious mediocrity. Within this shops run down walls, flaking paint falling from the roof, fans rotating at a speed akin to the pace of a slug, laid the ancient of ancients, words spewed forth from before time itself on ageless parchment and written in ill-defined ink.