Non Loquor

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Non Loquor
Topic Started: May 20 2008, 05:50 PM (174 Views)
Mr K	May 20 2008, 05:50 PM Post #1
Lodger Posts: 233 Group: Admin Member #2 Joined: May 22, 2005	Non Loquor “…and then they all died. Horribly.” finished Pippin, the glowing embers in the hearth reflected brightly in his harrowed eyes. “Jesus,” whispered Baz hoarsely. My hand trembled as I gulped down the last mouthful of whiskey in my glass, it’s brute strength tried to warm my chilled innards. Steve just stared at Pippin in disbelief, waiting for a punch line to break the tension. But no punch line came. “Still,” said Pippin, shaking the morbid effects of story off himself, “it’s not like I haven’t seen worse. Much, much worse.” He smiled a broad, easy smile. ‘Simon, more drinks I think.’ The Lion’s Den waiter walked into the Smoking Room where we were sat at the fireside table. He filled our glasses with murmured pleasantries before disappearing like a shadow back to the dining room and the bar. He must have ears like a hawk, I thought, to have heard Pippin’s drinks request. “But your friend that got impaled on that spike,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “at least it was quick for him, not like the others.” Pippin shook his head. “As a lesson for those who seek to subvert HIS will or foul HIS plans, he keeps him alive to this day and maybe forever more writhing in agony on the end of that thorned spear. But lets leave that alone now, shall we?” “Actually,” I said, “that reminds me a bit of that time we bust that Cultist network. It got pretty nasty because we’d had to use this summoning spell…” “Don’t talk to me about Cultists,” interrupted Pippin, “let me tell you about the time Jonathan and I…” Pippin talked on for half an hour, revealing a story so diabolical it staggered belief and left images of shadows writhing in the dark, amphibious behemoths hibernating in frozen mud, blood-fuelled insanity raging across continents, artefacts lost in time. The story was so fascinating that I was only marginally put out that I hadn’t been able to tell my tale. More drinks were ordered again and the conversation lapsed into more casual fare until… “Hey,” said Steve, “I’ve got a good one. There was this one day when all the rooms in Crooked House changed position at once. Every door we tried opened onto an alien landscape and it wasn’t until…” “Oh don’t talk to me about alien worlds,” said Pippin, jumping in with his proverbial conversation crowbar. “There was this one occasion when Running Wind had been tricked into burning the wrong smudge-stick…” A story unfolded that felt like the bottom of my stomach dropping out. Cold, distant wastes glittering under dark suns, the worship of beings that drifted between the stars, men falling through time desperately clutching to a manuscript that held the key to their survival, their redemption, running in terror to avoid the pitiless gaze of a deity so alien that its desires and motivations are beyond comprehension. “…and at the end they had all gone violently insane. Horribly,” Pippin finished. By the time Pippin had ended his third tale the need for alcohol to soothe our senses had reached desperation point. Somehow, the sensation of creeping horror that Pippin’s stories evoked managed to pierce through the alcoholic haze to leave us nearly sober. We ordered more drinks, bigger ones, doubles, no! triples. This was a night when dignified restraint just wasn’t going to cut it. “You know,” said Baz, “I can’t help thinking about the time Mr. K had that accident with that particle accelerator and caused a wormhole…” “Oh, don’t talk to me about parallel dimension,” Pippin interjected, “there was this time when…” “Oh shut up you old bastard!” we all shouted in unison. “Christ on a bike,” I winced, “don’t you ever let anyone tell a story?” “Huh! You interrupted me,” said Pippin looking hurt, “how rude.” Steve sniggered into his glass. I ordered another drink. Baz told his story.



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