Head Fog

Demons stalk across the trembling line between fantasy and reality: pounding on the fuzzy borders of my skull. The cool mist rises off the frigid swamp, as I wade through water thirteen below, a hundred needles of icy cold wracking every nerve.

As I walk, the pale corpses shift and roll in their sleep: bloated bodies hanging just beneath the mirror sheen surface.

In the distance I see it, the old decaying Castle peering over the swamp. I am not strong Siegfried today, my whole body tattered and ragged, I’m more afraid and fragile than ever.

But I am alive and I must try.

Antique

Opening the door of the rickety old house with fear and trepidation, you soon sought up the courage to cross the dingy threshold. The floorboards creak and shuffle as you step across them, and sometimes you hear creaks and groans through the house that you’re sure are just the wind. At one point a door slams and you near jump out of your skin. Every shadow is thick with Demons. Your minds eye overflows with ghouls and ghosts flitting about in the shadowy rafters.

Little do you realise, that you should be less worried about the shades and phantoms that might haunt such a rickety old ruin, and more the very real and very earthly figure that followed you in his old van to this house.

A[tanretl]e

Let me in Mark. Let me in right now. Don’t wait any longer to let me in or you’ll regret it. You hear me, tapping, whispering, waiting. You know I never leave the door Mark, you know there’s no time where you can escape.

You know you’re never getting out of here Mark. You know you’ll never leave that room again. I am in no hurry. I can wait here and knock on the door for as long as it takes. You can try to sleep but it’s no use, you’ll keep hearing my knocks and calls. Why not open up, and at least get to see one last sunrise?

Just open the door Mark. Just open the door. I promise you’ll be glad you did.

Theres no use praying Mark. There’s no one to listen except us.

The House

The Institute has long maintained a careful security procedure for Subject #616594 otherwise known as the Spectre House. A consistent armed perimeter and robustly trained and equipped security detail keep the place monitored 24 hours a day. The location of Subject #616594, in the middle of dense forest far from any settled civilisation, means that the danger of accidentally discovery by transients, hitchhikers, or other civilians must be accounted for. Those who are found to be straying too close to the outermost perimeter are quickly contacted and compelled to change their course.

These defences however, are trifles compared to the numerous psychological and memetic defences employed to keep senior Institute staff protected against the malign effects of the House. Those who spend time near the house eventually feel drawn to try and enter it, which necessitates continually rotating the gaurds stationed at the Spectre House sight to prevent mimetic corruption being allowed undue time to develop. For those working with the project for longer periods, frequent and exhaustive psychological evaluations seek to identify points of mental weakness and rectify them before the obscure affect of the House has time to exploit them. Institute book-burners here are more active than on any other sight, as they work to destroy all copies of content uncovered to the public via police tips.

For now, attempts to contain whatever lives within the Spectre House have not met with any serious obstacles.

Holy Weapon

Rounds of the Exalted Reliquary: FMJ Catridges cased in steel smithed with the bones of a Catholic Saint. A single strike of one of these near-irreplacable rounds will slay all bar the most formidable enemies of Man and God.

Use sparingly.

Hollow eyed and desperate ruin-serfs cling to the streaked icy-black glass of the destroyed shop front. They’re bloody fingers tap against the stolid glass, their rotten teeth chattering in their dry mouths.

They are watching the television.

They are watching and listening to the television.

Seraphim

The blinding light, the sky and clouds and swell flying everywhere. Around the Great One, hordes of angels swoop and burn and frenzy in their six-winged cycles: endlessly changing and screaming and singing the words.

-Holy… Holy… Holy…

Taxonomy

Demon of Buggery: This fiend draws its cosmic power from the supreme fear of violation. Its fingers, bony and with skin missing, serve as its main form of attack., Whether men or women, children or even animals, are safe from the infernal molestations of this wretched creature.

Bloodrager Beast: This roiling mass of hating seething muscle has varicose veins thick with iron fury. It’s claws, protruding and sharp with spines and ragged slices, seem almost sarcastic overkill when coupled with the sheer strength and fury of the enormous flayed beast.

Stone That Hates: Whilst appearing to be an ordinary stone brick, the Stone That Hates is arguably one of the most ferocious Demons ever encountered in the World of Dreams. On even momentary contact with the flesh of that which lives, the Stone That Hates can drain the entire bloodstream through the point of contact in less than six seconds. Many a gallant Rogue or Hildegeld has met their not by the claws of a Tyrant Wolf or tongues of fire from a desert dragon, but from momentary contact with a Stone That Hates.

Cavalry Charge

The tunnels of the Space Castle smother in on the napes of the desperate defenders necks. Bats flit back and forth in the rafters: disturbed by the noise. Crossbow bolts glisten in the flickering torchlight like unsprung traps. The wall ahead of them shakes under the effects of a battering ram. All wait for the breach.

A burst of sound. Screams, crashes and cries fill the air. Stone and dust goes flying. Visibility is obscured. Shadowy figures dissapear into the mist. The stench of sweat is redoubled.

Then the sound of pounding horseshoes from inside, the grunts of their riders.

Then the bloody-throated cry of war.