#I have seen the foulest of things in my dreams and sometimes the most lovely too

[gonzodangerfeels]

Enoch on high, reaches for midnight at the passage of the moon

[lesetoilesfous]

sensory overload with fenders for the bad things bingo? (specifically fenris, if you’re up for it)

Godddd I had too much fun with this and I very much hope you enjoy it. Also I hate with a burning passion the fact that Hawke can give Fenris back to Danarius. I hate it so, so much.

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Sensory Overload

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Sensory Overload, Slavery, Panic Attack, Vomiting

Pairing: Fenders (pre-relationship)

Characters: Evil/Red Marian Hawke, Fenris, Anders, Varric Tethras, Isabela, Danarius

Additional Tags: Hawke tries to give Fenris back and the KWC says no thank you, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word Count: 1,503

“Take him.”

Fenris feels as if he’s been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. “What?”

Danarius smiles: a slow, creeping sort of smile that Fenris has seen him wear a thousand times. “Interesting. I’ll make it worth your while, of course. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal.”

Feeling dizzy, Fenris stares at Hawke. Her pale features are set and rigid with cold disdain. “Don’t do this, Hawke. I need you.” The words fall out of his mouth like pulled teeth, dragging at his insides with a sharp ache.

Hawke's lips curl back in a sneer. “You’re on your own, Fenris.”

Everything inside of Fenris collapses. It reminds him of something he’d read, recently - a book by a Qunari philosopher about the stars - a woman who hypothesised that sometimes, when a star died, it collapsed into an inverse of itself, dragging everything around it into darkness. Behind him, Danarius’ voice sounds both far, far too close and impossibly far away.

“What shall it be, Fenris? Will you throw your life away?”

Fenris can’t breathe. He feels is if the floor is swaying beneath him, shaking like a ship at sea. He remembers dancing on these floorboards, with Isabela...Fenris looks up, but the gold and brown and cream of the Hanged Man’s interior is a spinning kaleidoscope of colour. His mouth moves, and his tongue feels numb and fuzzy with static. “No, I will go with you.”

One of the guards moves, and the clanking scrape of their armour sounds painfully loud. Fenris sways away from them as they drop a purse heavy with coins into Hawke’s hand. Danarius speaks again, his voice cutting through the fog of sound and colour, weaving through Fenris’ ears like a thread pulled through his brain. “Lovely! Here’s a token of my appreciation, Champion. I’m sure I can arrange to have something more...appropriate sent along soon.”

The wooden floorboards beneath Fenris tilt, and he finds himself stumbling forwards toward his master and the red-headed elvhen woman, Varania, his sister. Fenris stares at his feet, which seem far too far away from him, and tries to remember how to breathe. His face feels hot, and his lungs are aching, desperate for more air. Danarius smiles, and the hairs on the back of Fenris’ arms and neck lift. “Come along, everyone! The boat leaves for Minrathous within the hour.”

The group begins to move, and Fenris feels as if the entire tavern is folding around him like a Rivaini paper flower. His vision tunnels, surrounded by darkness, but everything is still too loud and too bright and too hot and how had he never noticed the smell in here? Every time he breathes he feels as if he’s inhaling a thick stew of sweat and leather and steel polish and sex and alcohol and piss. He gags, falling forward. Behind him, Hawke doesn’t even move. Beside her, Fenris can’t make out Anders, Isabela and Varric in the blur of colour and noise. He still can’t breathe. The past ten years feel unreal, rapidly fading from his memory like a dwindling dream.

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

Varric’s drawl is immediately preceded by the familiar thunking of his crossbow, and Fenris thinks for a moment with relief that the rogue is going to shoot him in the head and end this nightmare before it begins. But the bolt doesn’t hit him, or Danarius, and he turns - slowly, too slowly, as if he’s moving in treacle - to see Hawke’s eyes rolling up into the back of her head as she collapses like a sack of potatoes.

Isabela draws her knives. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

Anders swings his staff from behind his back, twirling it in a wreath of blue fire that leaves burning imprints on Fenris’ irises. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Fenris turns back, forcing himself to lift his head despite the ten tonne weight that feels as if it’s resting on him, and sees Danarius’ face twist into a mask of fury. He sees Danarius’ hands claw, and the mercenaries charge, and shades bleed up from between the floorboards of the tavern like oil dragged from the earth. Then everything shatters into a swirling kaleidoscope of shattered stained glass and colour. Fenris can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear. Everything is too much: too loud, too bright, every movement feels like a needle in his eyes, every sound like a knife stabbed into his ears. His tongue feels heavy and burning with the overload of spice and salt in the air, and his nose is thick and choking on smoke and sulphur. His heart is thudding so hard in his chest, Fenris thinks he must be trembling with it. Blindly, he moves towards what he thinks might be the door, and doesn’t care if someone stabs him in the back for it.

Fenris makes it three feet into the cool Kirkwall night before he crumples to his knees and vomits, retching again and again until his stomach is spasming and his eyes are burning with useless, burning tears as if he’d pressed his face into a chimney full of smoke. Arms shaking, dripping with cold sweat, he kneels on the cold white sandstone of the street, washed silver by the moon, and shudders until the world stops spinning. It stops slowly, the brightness in his eyes turned unnaturally light, every colour too saturated and too vivid, even out here in the dark. The barking of Fereldan mabari, normally a strange kind of comfort, punches his skull every time they break the night, leaving Fenris shuddering with recollections of Hawke and her mabari and every time he’d saved her life, every time she’d saved his. He’d trusted her.

The sea breeze is too salty on Fenris’ tongue, which feels as if it’s been coated with grease and spices. He spits until his mouth is dry and his throat is sore, and doesn’t know how long it takes before he can breathe easily again.

When, at last, the world is no longer a Fade-saturated parody of itself, Fenris realises two things. First: the sounds of combat from inside the tavern have long since faded. Second: he is not alone.

Slowly, he forces himself to look up from the familiar sets of black and brown boots to Anders and Isabela. Isabela looks uncharacteristically sincere, and Anders’ wrinkled features are creased with worry. Twenty feet away, Varric is talking to a small huddle of Carta dwarves next to a cart with Hawke’s unconscious body. Fenris nearly throws up again, and Anders starts forward, totally ignoring the puddle of bile and vomit on the stone in front of him. Fenris flinches back, violently, and Anders freezes.

Finally, Fenris finds his voice. “Danarius?”

Anders’ jaw tenses, and some of the worry clears from his features. “Unconscious, in chains, supervised by Merrill and Aveline. We drugged him with magebane, too.” Anders hesitates, and glances at Isabela before going on. “We thought - we wanted you to have the final say. On what we do with him.”

Fenris nods, and breathes, pushing himself further away from the sick to sit on the stone. He glances towards Varric and the carta. “Hawke?”

Isabela’s lips purse into a thin line. “Varric drugged her. I say we slit her throat. Varric’s keeping her drugged in a safehouse until we come to a group decision.”

Fenris nods again. The breeze pulls across the open stone courtyard, tugging at Anders’ and Isabela’s hair, and cooling the sweat on the back of his neck. He looks at the pirate, and then the mage. Varric is walking over to them, now, too, Bianca loose in his arms. “Why?”

Isabela’s features flicker, briefly. Anders’ expression crumples. “Andraste, Fenris, because we love you.” He says it so easily. As if it’s something they’ve said to each other before. And then he keeps talking, because it’s Anders, and he always has more to say. “Also, I don’t know if you’ve been listening to me at all for the past ten years but, "the right of every man, woman and child to freedom in Thedas" does, in fact, include slaves. I know, I know, a manifesto about freedom being anti-slavery, it’s improbable right? You’d think I was healing all those elvhen slaves over the past decade with my own sweat and blood and tears for some secret evil agenda. But no, it’s actually pretty simple. Slavery’s one of the foulest, most cursed, pus-infected tumorous boils on the Maker’s taint, and so’s anyone who fucking supports it.”

Fenris thinks it’s a strange world, indeed, that he finds himself comforted by the mage’s rambling. Varric steps forward and reaches out, offering a hand. “What Blondie’s trying to say, Fenris, is that we’ve got your back.”

Fenris hesitates, staring at Varric’s hand, his mind full of Hawke’s bright blue eyes and strong jaw. Isabela unfolds her arms from where they’d been tightening across her chest. “No slaves, no masters.”

Fenris takes Varric’s hand.

[the-lost-girl-in-the-tardis]

Space Oddity

Pairing: The Doctor x Reader

Song: Space Oddity- David Bowie

Warnings: None.

An: This is like. One of my biggest fears. But I do hope y'all enjoy and would like any feedback you have!

There's moon dust in my lungs. Filling every aching breath and flowing out through my veins.

Starlight dances across my visor. Zooming by like headlights on the high way.

When I was promised all of time and space I didn't expect this.

My arm floats upwards. My fingertips caress the side of the shrinking moon. Shaking and never moving at the same time.

Something begins beeping off to my left.

I ignore it.

Nothing matters now.

Not anymore.

"Ground control to Major Tom." My breath fogs the glass in front of me.

"Ground control to Major Tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on."

When I was younger I used to dream of space. Spending entire nights doing nothing but staring at the moon.

Oh God how she was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. It took my breath away.

It still does.

Never moving yet just out of reach.

I used to count the stars to. Day dreaming about flying away in a little grey spaceship of my own.

"Ground Control to Major Tom (ten, nine, eight, seven, six)

Commencing countdown, engines on (five, four, three)

Check ignition and may God's love be with you (two, one, liftoff.)"

But nowadays that ship is blue and I've done more than just seen stars and dream away at moons.

I've meet new people of every kind. Some who are as pure as snow is white and some as spiteful as the day is long.

I've seen places that took my breath away an stole pieces of my heart.

I've walked in the footsteps of a man bound for greatness.

Oh God. I have met people who sing my name with love and have left people who utter my name with only the foulest of curses.

That's the thing about traveling. You don't always make friends.

Sometimes you leave a place behind far worse than you left it. And it sticks with you until the bitter end.

"This is Ground Control to Major Tom . You've really made the grade. And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear. Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare"

My vision is fading now. Muddling swirling galaxies together.

The bright and vibrant colors that once drew me in with anticipation now my only comfort as I float on by.

I swear I could hear singing now. My numbed lips try to sing along.

I don't know what I'm hearing. I don't know if there's even any words. But if I didn't know any better I swear she was singing to me.

A child lost without their mother.

That's all I was.

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control .I'm stepping through the door. And I'm floating in a most peculiar way. And the stars look very different today. For here."

Oh God I'm scared.

I'm alone.

Yet I'm surrounded by life.

A few light-years to my left and you have the tiny rundown diner me and the Doctor visited.

Centuries. That's what its name was. When I asked why the owner just smiled.

"Because, my dear." He had spoken with a thick Glarainen accent. "The memories you make here last for centuries." He had a slight lisp to his voice. And his skin the same color of the oceans back on Earth.

And he was right about one thing.

I remember vividly slow dancing with the Doctor on the patio. Water laping against the banks below us. The planets twin moons reflecting on the water.

I remember burying my face into the crook of his neck. My arms linking together over his shoulders. The scent of old wood and something I could place my finger on. Not quite a spice but not sweet either.

"Am I sitting in a tin can. Far above the world. Planet Earth is blue. And there's nothing I can do." I shudder. It seems to get colder and colder with each passing second. The only warmth to be had is my breath against the freezing glass in front of me.

I can hardly move any more. I feel stiff. Like someone had...

Had what?

Why can't I move.

Limbs drifting.

Blood rushes in my ears. I can't hear her song anymore.

"Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles

I'm feeling very still

And I…"

Moon dust fills my lungs one last time.

The ship we were repairing gone from my sight long ago.

All I see is blue.

[izzy-b-hands]

Cold As The Grave

Written for my DL Server bingo card prompt: Cool Cat. 

I cannot recall the interview this was in for the life of me, but I do recall at least one mentioning John not finding horror movies scary at all. 

Going off of that, we have here scary movie night, aka scary movie night for Roger, Freddie, and Brian, and comedy movie night for John (while the other three look on both in horror at the movies and at John laughing his ass off at the creepiest and most gory scenes, utterly cool and unbothered by all of it.) Set in a modern AU because then I can reference as many of the movies I’ve seen myself as possible lol. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“This is great,” John chuckled, and tossed more popcorn into his mouth. “You know, I learned how they make the fake blood look that thick. I should show you guys sometime.” 

He continued eating and watching, apparently not feeling the three pairs of eyes no longer glued to the screen, but staring in horror at him instead. 

Roger and Brian jabbed him at once, and Freddie jumped. “Ah. Right. You could show us that, sometime. Or not, I mean, we’re often busy-” 

“Very busy,” Roger added.

“Horribly,” Brian nodded. 

“Look!” John cheered. “Look at what the rats are doing! The effects are fantastic in this!” 

“This is disgusting,” Roger hissed, gesturing to the scene from Sinister 2 playing out on the TV. “How is he still eating?!” 

“I could really go for pizza,” John continued. “Meat lovers and a vegetarian for Bri?” 

Brian swallowed hard as he watched the scene continue. “Sure. Yeah. Because I can eat while we watch things like this.” 

“Of course, yeah,” Freddie agreed, letting out a heavy held breath as John got up to go order the pizza. “How long has he been like this? How did we not notice?” 

“Should we call his mum,” Roger proposed. “To find out if she knows about this, and if so, how has she dealt with it?” 

“We don’t have enough time for that,” Brian replied. “I can’t eat while we watch this. My stomach isn’t the weakest, but this is...god, and he wants to start the Saw movies after this. Guys, I can’t.” 

“No, he actually has the Human Caterpillar movies on the list next, the Saw films are after that,” Freddie said with a wince. “Maybe he won’t notice if we aren’t eating?” 

“It’s on the way!” John announced happily as he bounced back in and onto the couch. “You lot okay? Awfully pale, all of you. Don’t tell me you’re scared!” 

“It is a horror movie,” Roger said defensively. “Most people do get scared of those. Most people. Lots of people, even. Sort of the idea behind them.” 

“You’re all silly,” John laughed. “This isn’t that bad.” 

“I’m sorry, what movies do you consider ‘bad’ then?” Brian asked. “I’m curious and terrified to know.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” John teased, and started back in on the popcorn. 

Freddie laughed nervously. “Actually, darling, we would! Care to share with us, or...” 

But John was back into the movie, laughing at the next horrific act on the screen. “You ever think about what you’d do, if you were in that situation? I like to think I’d handle it better.” 

“Do I ever think,” Brian said slowly. “About what I would do if a version of the Boogeyman was real. And had a curse. And was going to try and convince any children I might have to kill me, and film the results. No. No I have not.” 

“Okay,” John said, and gestured to the DVD case holding the first Human Caterpillar movie. “What about that? If we got kidnapped, all of us, on tour-” 

Roger covered his eyes, and groaned. 

Freddie’s eyes were wide. “Have...have you thought about that?” 

“It’s all in good fun,” John giggled, then jumped at the sound of the doorbell. “Oh! Scared me, they got here fast!” 

Freddie leaned forward, head in his hands as John got up to go retrieve the pizza. “I’m. This was supposed to be a fun movie night. I’m learning too much about him. About all of us. And I love you all, you’re brothers to me, but there’s a limit in what I can learn in one night, and I think I just found it.” 

“I need a hug,” Roger said miserably, hanging onto Freddie’s arm as he gave him an awkward half-hug. “Thank you.” 

“Maybe he’ll just watch them now,” Brian said. “He’ll be busy eating, then full, then comfy and warm. Might even fall asleep.” 

“And if he keeps laughing at this shit like some demon from foulest hell?!” Roger hissed. 

“Then we accept he’s lightly possessed and move on with our lives, Roger!” Brian said sharply. “I don’t know what else we do if he keeps that up; I’m busy trying to figure out how he finds any of it funny!” 

“There’s got to be one of these that scares him,” Freddie said, shuffling through the DVD cases and pondering the list of streamed movies they’d made up. “We’ll spend all night watching if we must. We’re going to find one that scares him, one that doesn’t make him act like-” 

“Pizza for the scaredy cats!” John smiled as he set the pizza boxes down on the coffee table. “If you lot can manage to eat any.” 

“We can,” Roger scoffed, but he actively looked away from the TV as he picked up a slice. “See? Perfectly fine, and not feeling sick at all.” 

“Okay,” John giggled. “If you say so.” 

“Let me know when I can look back,” Roger whispered to Freddie as he ate as quickly as possible. 

“You mean when the movie is over?” Freddie whispered back. 

“Essentially, yeah,” Roger replied. 

---

Four hours later, they had yet to succeed in their task.

He’d giggled his way through the Human Caterpillar movies. 

Cackled through the Saw pictures, and started in on how he’d make his own horrible pain maze, if he was forced to create one. 

Hereditary and Midsommar? He was enraptured. 

“Okay,” Freddie sighed. “This one says it’s also a comedy. Can we try that?” 

John slipped the disc for The Cabin in the Woods into the player. “Don’t think I ever actually got around to watching this one. Why not?” 

It was silly. Schlocky, at bits even. But it was a dream for the three of them; a break from overwhelming scares and gore in exchange for a more acceptable level of those things, in addition to a chance to laugh. 

John, however, was tense. 

“You alright?” Freddie asked about midway through the movie. 

John nodded, but didn’t speak. He’d stopped nibbling at the leftover pizza, his remaining popcorn left in the bowl and set on the floor. 

“The effects are good in this,” Roger tried a bit later. “Right? I mean, it’s gory, but even we can handle it. Pretty silly of us, huh, Deaky?” 

John didn’t look away from the screen. 

“Um. So, who do you think we’d all be, if it was us, in that?” Brian asked with a gentle smile. “And who would be the fifth person to join us?” 

“Well, none of us can be the virgin,” Freddie giggled. “Right, Deaky?” 

“Rather not think about it,” John replied tersely. 

They looked at each other and frowned. 

“Okay,” Freddie said. “You’re sure you’re alright?” 

“I’m fine,” John said. “Just don’t like thinking about something like this happening to us, I guess.” 

“But you were okay with the plot of the Human Caterpillar happening to us?!” Roger squawked. 

“Not okay with it, just thought it was an interesting thing to consider,” John said. “We’d escape and be fine, obviously.” 

“And we wouldn’t escape this, you don’t think?” Freddie asked gently. 

“Look at it!” John scoffed as the final scene rolled. “They didn’t! And they potentially could have had at least one of them escape, maybe! I couldn’t...” 

He hesitated. “I couldn’t hurt any of you to save my own hide.” 

“We wouldn’t be able to hurt you either,” Brian said. “You know that!” 

“Yeah!” Roger added. “We’d all go down together instead, in a blaze of fire!” 

“Really?” John asked softly. 

“Or in a blaze of us terrified, shitting ourselves,” Roger shrugged. “One of those two for sure though.” 

“No other spots on the spectrum we could occupy, just violence or absolute terror?” Freddie asked. 

“Maybe, but I’m tired, this is the best analysis I can do for now,” Roger yawned. 

“We should sleep,” Brian agreed. “I’m exhausted, somehow. Thought I’d be too scared to sleep, all things considered.” 

Freddie nodded and tilted his head towards John. “You coming in with us?” 

“I...I’m good. Might stay up yet. Just because,” John shifted uncomfortably on the couch. 

“Are...you’re scared,” Roger said gently. “Aww, Deaky.” 

“Shut up!” 

“I knew there had to be one that would get you,” Freddie said. “Didn’t expect it to be this one, if I’m honest. We’ll stay out here with you, how about that?” 

“You don’t need to do that,” John muttered. “I’m not a child.” 

“Who said you were?” Brian asked. “I’m staying out here because frankly, that stupid Boogeyman thing pops up in my vision every time I close my eyes, and I hate that.” 

Roger nodded. “I’m now horrified of Germany, thanks to that Caterpillar movie. Going to have nightmares of...well. You know. Better to stay out here, with you lot.” 

“And that fucking demon thing from Insidious?” Freddie added. “I hate it. And now I do have the odd feeling it’s somehow going to watch me while I sleep. So it would be nice to not be alone tonight, if possible.” 

“I don’t believe you,” John said, but he smiled as he spoke. “Fine. We’ll push the couch back and set up on the floor?” 

“Exactly,” Freddie said. “That way when we do have nightmares, we can promptly kick each other awake during them.” 

John seemed happier as he helped clean the living room up, and walked off to retrieve extra blankets and pillows. 

Freddie waited a beat before whispering. “Were you lot really going to go into your own rooms? There was no way I could have; I don’t know how I’ll sleep as it is!” 

“I was trying to look tough in front of him,” Brian muttered. “That was stupid. I didn’t need to do that. I really do hate that fucking Bagul or whatever the fuck it is-” 

“Jump scare at the end of that one was the best, wasn’t it?” Roger grinned.

“How dare you make me remember that,” Brian sighed. “But better that then...well. Your nightmares are going to be a lot worse than mine, I think.” 

“Let’s not make it a competition,” Freddie murmured. “It’s nearly five in the morning, and...fuck.” 

“You just remembered we rented the studio space out starting at eight, didn’t you?” John said as he walked back in and dropped the blankets onto the floor. “I thought it was weird you guys agreed to this on the night before a day in the studio! But you just all forgot, didn’t you?” 

Three shameful nods were all they could manage in response as they finished settling in, all of the lights off, snuggled together. 

John, for his part, seemed far less scared than he had been before, now that they were all piled in the same makeshift bed. He snored gently; it might be a decent three or so hours of sleep for him. 

If the rest of them had their eyes glued to checking the time on their phones as said three hours passed, jumping at each noise in the shared flat...

John didn’t need to know about that. No one, frankly, needed to know about that. Not him, nor the studio techs that would likely be raising brows at the bags under their eyes. 

That was their secret, and a reminder to better plan the next horror movie night, well in advance of any studio time. 

[autolovecraft]

Much—amazingly much—was left of the world.

Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable. A wind, stronger than the night, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. The baying was loud that evening, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and those around had heard in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Wearied with the commonplaces of a gigantic hound. We only realized, with the night-wind, stronger than the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

Seizing the green jade, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

Only the somber philosophy of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the lamps in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the calm white thing that lay within; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by a shrill laugh.

Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of the kingly dead, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. All he could not be sure. A wind, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and became as worried as I.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John must soon befall me. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I saw that it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gigantic hound in the museum. The enigmas of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I heard the faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. It is not, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! All he could not guess, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we had seen it then, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave.

The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the ecstasies of the amulet.

-Wind, rushed by, and the ecstasies of the reflections of the world. Only the somber philosophy of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Holland churchyard? The baying was very faint now, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held together with surprising firmness, and we could not answer coherently. Extinguishing all lights, we were troubled by what we read. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and we could not be sure. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the kingly dead, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the jaws of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the grave, the titanic bats, was the dark rumor and legendry, the stolen amulet in St John's, I heard afar on the moor the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and a faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

It is of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the centuried grave.

Four days later, whilst we were both in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the sickening odors, the pale watching moon, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and the ecstasies of the city. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the stealing of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we were mad, dreaming, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

Seizing the green jade amulet now reposed in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. But after three nights I heard afar on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Madness rides the star-wind, and we could not guess, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

And when I spoke to him, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. It is not, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. I had once violated, and the crumbling slabs; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and mumbled over his body one of the unknown, we did not try to determine. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique church, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the knock of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. I heard a knock at my chamber door. His screams had reached the house, and articulate chatter. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound.

Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the stolen amulet in St John's, I saw on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. One evening as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.

[autolovecraft]

-Symbol of the damp nitrous cover.

An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. The moon was shining against it, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we could neither see nor definitely place. Now, as we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. The jade amulet now reposed in a distant corner; the ghastly soul-symbol of the kingly dead, and in the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. And when I saw a black shape obscure one of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. The next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the background. But after three nights I heard the baying of some gigantic hound. Extinguishing all lights, we had seen it then, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the antique church, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and articulate chatter. On the night of September 24,19—, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. I attacked the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the kingly dead, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and on the moor, always louder and louder.

It is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. When I aroused St John and myself. The enigmas of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the kingly dead, and this we found in this self same spot, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held together with surprising firmness, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing hinted of in the same way. Wearied with the stealing of the unknown, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, deep, insistent note as of a nameless deed in the ancient house on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and every subsequent event including St John's, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a blow of my spade. The predatory excursions on which we could not be sure.

On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the symbolists and the crumbling slabs; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the dead. When I arose, trembling, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom. Extinguishing all lights, we were troubled by what we read. One evening as I approached the ancient house on the moor, always louder and louder, and I knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the unnamed and unnameable. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the forbidden Necronomicon of the reflections of the uncovered-grave. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the night of September 24,19—, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the theory that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. When I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

So, too, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. A wind, rushed by, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. I departed on the moor, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the picture of ourselves, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. So at last I stood again in the same way. There was no one in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we began to happen. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. The jade amulet now reposed in a body to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave.

I cannot reveal the details of our neglected gardens, and without servants in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. One evening as I. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard afar on the moor the faint far baying we thought we heard the baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. What the hound was, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. A wind, rushed by, and moonlight. I alone know why, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our senses, we did not try to determine.

An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the secret library staircase. They were as baffling as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not look at it. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

Seizing the green jade object, we were both in the water.

So, too, as if seeking for some needed air, and moonlight. The baying was loud that evening, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if receding far away, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the unknown, we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. The moon was shining against it, held together with surprising firmness, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. Seizing the green jade object, we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the same way.