Carnevale: Cult of Dagon, Teil 4

Eine neue Story, eine neue Miniatur für den Dagon-Kult von Carnevale.

Carnevale: Increased Cult of Dagon Activity, Diary Entry 4

19th of November, 1797. Venice.

I am sane.

I have no need for the Doctors of the Ospedale, they cannot help me. This is not a sickness of the mind. It is a sickness of our world. The poor boy at the ferry proved that these monsters are not only real but dangerously active. That said, they surely have a source. All my terror, all of these constant whispers, the attack on the child, it all points to an open, festering wound in Venice: San Canciano.

I am here. While it may have taken me all morning to gather the courage, I had to know why this place calls to me. Looking around, this district is dead. It is a graveyard sinking into the surrounding waters. Many of the streets are partially submerged in the murky canals, the buildings collapsing onto one another. Algae and rot have seeped into every crevice, and smashed gondolas barely float atop the water’s surface. The fog never leaves this place; it is a permanent fixture. The silence is near absolute, broken only by the slapping tides and unseen creatures skittering through the ruins.

Wading through the water, I cautiously proceeded through the district. Often, I’d lose my footing and nearly plunge headfirst into the sludge; thank God for the decaying masonry providing ample places to grip for support. Yet, the deeper I ventured, the louder and clearer the whispers grew. At first, they were the same sibilant muttering I heard from my home, but now they have gained a terrible clarity. Clear words, spoken by a bubbling wet tongue filled with moaning vowels, I could still barely understand them, and yet, I know what they are saying. They are calling, they are beckoning me.

Come…See…Pray…

I find myself being drawn towards the abandoned Church, its clerestory a broken ruin, exposing the interior to the sky. I tried to move silently through the city like a ghost, but they found me. I heard a wet, drowning breath emanating from a flooded sotoportego and flung myself against decaying walls of a nearby building. The clam-man. The beast from San Polo was here! It shuffled past, its shell clicking and pulsing, its numerous eyes peering through the fog. It was not looking for me, but it was looking for something. As it passed me and shambled further down along the sunken cobblestones, a huge swirl erupted from the water. The Eel beast from San Piero di Castello sprang from the water, wrapping its tail and talons around the clam-man, it sank fangs and fists deep into the shell. With such strength, it tried to pry the two pieces apart and gorge on the flesh within. Suddenly, the clam atop the man’s head slammed shut, and the two beasts toppled into the canal and below the waves.

Taking this opportunity, I fled, scrambling over a pile of collapsed masonry, and I nearly fell into the canal myself. Below me, I saw it. The pale, fish-like hybrid man from San Simone Piccolo, its cod-like eyes staring up at me from the black water before darting away. Perhaps it was a trick of the fog, but it looked afraid. They are all here; this place must be a nest for the monsters. I ran, blind, deeper into the maze. No longer investigating, I felt like prey. Bursting through a rotten door and into a sinking campo, the water suddenly rose to my chest, and the whispers began to roar. Just as I was sure I’d be deafened by their cries, he appeared.

He rose from the water inside the campo, and I thought my end had come. A mockery of a man, his skin was a patchwork of glistening scales, decaying human flesh, and gills flaring from his neck. His left hand was a massive claw, while his right was all too human. From his back sprouted a nest of small tentacles that writhed around his shoulders. Standing on one good leg, the other was a crude, decaying wooden peg, he struggled for balance in the ruins. We stared at each other, the animalistic hunger I saw in the other beasts missing in this new one, and replaced with a crude, gurgling intelligence. It raised the claw, not to strike but to point. Making a clicking sound from deep within his throat, he pointed towards a narrow, flooded alley, deeper into the district. Then he turned, and with a thudding snap of his peg leg, began to limp away out of the campo.

Not chasing but leading me, he beckoned me to follow him. I do not know why I followed him. Perhaps because the monsters behind me were a known horror, and this impossible creature was something entirely unknown. Maybe because he led me towards the whispers. We travelled together through a maze of collapsed buildings and submerged walkways, though he kept me safe. He guided me around hazardous masonry and beckoned me to be silent whenever an unseen predator circled nearby.

He has brought me here, to the very steps of the decaying Church in the centre of San Canciano. Now the whispers are a symphony. They are a choir of angelic voices touching my very soul, pleading with me to enter this holy place and pray at the altars within. My guide, the strange protector, gave me one last glance before lowering himself into the canal, and just like that, he was gone. I was alone once more. I am writing this all with a trembling hand, my back pressed to the great decayed doors. They are not locked, and the angels call me to enter. I keep this account to remember the Lord’s trials, which have led me to this moment.

My next entry shall be my last. I hope that whoever finds this journal may follow in my steps and find themselves closer to God.

Quelle: TTCombat