Night Eternal

Nightmare Prophecy

a fitful night in a desecrated tomb-temple

At first it merely seemed as though hypothermia were setting in upon the mer-prince’s bare, slender frame in the damp chill of the misty crypt where you rest. His long, frilled tail would sometimes twitch and jerk as he shivered, tossed and turned all a coiled huddle in the corner. The salt smell of the waves and the periodic sound of distant dripping was a constant backdrop to the long day you spend in the crowded reliquary where Hiemal had so long kept vigil over his sacred charge. The wailing spirits of the saints interred here echo mournfully through the fog blanketed corridors above.

And then the royal prophet’s eyes flash open, streaming blood-hot tears from pearlescent blank orbs even as he lay still in apparent torpor. The holy artifact upon his breast murmured a whalesong while it crept upward, the leather cord tangled about it writhing like a somnambulant swimming serpent, following the stream of lachryma as a slug tracks the slime of a mate.

The words which emerge into the unfamiliar atmosphere from his gill-slitted throat are clearly his native tongue, their burbling consonants mostly likely formed only crudely without the aid of the proper medium. It is a ululating and unceasing monologue with the rhythm and meter of foreign lyrics, but the chords of your soul vibrate in sympathy as though the sirens’ webbed fingers reached past your ribs to play upon harps.

With all the haste of a glacier, the Ocean’s Tear takes its throne upon the smitten prince’s forehead, seeming to melt into his pale flesh like one of the opaline scales which freckle his temples… But its size makes the transformation uncomfortable to witness: the bulk of a small fist, it buries itself within a new orbit to pour out upon the world its fathomless gaze.

Once it is ensconced, the chanted words become strangely familiar. The voice of Fate wields a tongue known by all souls:

Phuralq niest oumblammin,
Mai nasse gleglum ultrannen,
Eblid orl vouln
Nasse tip wult Douln
Yuls Thob kul tin quelonmen!

Phuralq awakens at long last,
No more to dream before He break fast,
Our Fate unspun
As Dawn now comes
With all Death’s dreadful haste!

And that was when he finally began screaming.



I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.