Kthaahthikha
One man, a word-processor, and too much free time.
26 June, 2005
Mouentaneya Puurh Ley Dheybhuton
The streets east of Mouentaneya are flocking with hosts of Beetles. They sell betel nuts to the passers-by and crouch upon the footpaths, digging their pincers into the sandstone and waiting for the sun. The weather's always hot in Mouentaneya, a combination of scorching, arid days and dense, humid nights. The only reason anyone lives there at all is because of the wells, although few admit it.
Down below the city in coiling hosts of viscosity lies a sea of aldramine, that most rare of rarities born of the encounter between coal, oil, natural gas and sulphur dioxide. All attempts to replicate this concoction in laboratory conditions have led to death by immolation or poisoning. The popular consensus is that the scientists are just making it all up.
And as to this aldramine, and its actual applications, that is an equal mystery which most are disinclined to discuss. The cities out beyond the rim where the Gaarbool live, inhabiting their giant termite mounds and birthing petty monstrosities, are the last point where any human ever sees the aldramine caravans. The drivers are all condemned murderers and priests, working the passage in exchange for a weregild for their families. They never come back from beyond that enormous clay-and-dung wall, and the humped, eggish domes seem to discourage inquiry.
So rumours abound, of course, of some heinous beast beyond the walls, some civilisation reliant upon the consumption of aldramine to facilitate some mysterious method of attaining immortality. Many young idiots have died drinking the noxious brew, and this ironic event has become something of a spectacle in the lower quarters down by the docks. Spectators, voyeurs and miscellaneous degenerates will gather about as some young fool 'takes the challenge', and shoots-down a cup of aldramine (or, as they call it, 'scham'). He'll gibber and chortle for a bit, tear the flesh from his face and legs, and the bets generally run as to whether he'll die of the poison or of blood loss. The coroners and forensic pathologists of the district are notorious for running hand-in-hand with the bookmakers. Tanisson's, most reputable gammon-house in town, refuses steadfastly to take bets. Yolande's, a subsidiary of Tanisson's owned by Ma'am D.T's neice, will give you five-to-one odds on a healthy young buck downing half a quart.
The Beetles love these little get-togethers. They usually eat the left-overs once the autopsy is over, since it's hard to identify who's who when the corpse is missing a face. They'll eat the entrails and drag the remnants over to the Temple of Azothoth, where the high priests are in the habit of giving them sacred betel nuts to sell for gold.
Tom Meade, 11:03 pm
2 Comments:
Yay for fantasy!
Verily!
