An eerie green glow emanated from the Dagon ruins casting unnatural shadows in the inky night.
The weather worn ancient figure had been on the hilltop for many hours. His first two attempts had ended in failure. The testaments to this were discarded further downhill.
Extreme concentration was required as he performed the complex ritual. The final component cast into the fire. The final words uttered.
Slowly like a nightmare given form the beast rose up and stood before him. The ritual was a success.
“Third time is the charm.” muttered Hob.
Before him was an abomination of nature. The reanimated goat waited. Maggots writhed in the rotted flesh. Its ebon horns and hooves were darker than night.
Hob threw a pouch into the fire and whispered in its ear. “Underby”
He cast another pouch into the fire and whispered. “Bucket of Blood”
The fiend goat began to walk. The scrubby grass died under each stop of the terrible black hooves. The horror headed towards the Bucket of Blood. Ghostly emerald flames emanated from its nostrils.
Hob backed away and returned to the comfort of the tavern below. The Captain’s eyebrows rose when Hob entered the room. Hob poured a glass of rum and downed it. His tattooed hand wiped his mouth.
“It is on its way.”
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Step by step the nameless horror advanced towards the “Bucket of Blood”. Bits of flesh and fur trailed behind the fiend goat. The shadows themselves seemed to follow in its wake.
Anyone who gazed into its white eyes would abandon all hope and fall into madness.
The hooves clopped on the cobble stone. In each step was a harbinger of a fate worst then death. The escort of shadows continued to follow.
Two blocks from “The Bucket” one of the hind legs fell off and yet the beast continued its unrelenting drive to reach its destination. A block later the other hind leg fell off but this would not save Underby.
When the unholy terror’s front legs gave way, a half a block from “The Bucket”, the shadows approached. The R.O.U.S. had followed the trail of crumbs. The rodents vanished into the sewers with their eldritch feast.
::Kristos paused his fingers on the braille page of the book in his lap with a shiver. He sniffed the air, turning his head towards the front of the house and grimaced:: Who on earth in their right mind brings up such foul things…? I thought the Dagonites had left? ::he turned his head back to Scald who was buried in his own little black leather journal and huddled further back in his chair with a frown and silent shrug::
Zachariah Effingham observed the entire event from the top of the hill overlooking the now-desolate site of the former meeting hall. The odd man had showed some skill in the use of nodes, but Effingham knew even as that which had been raised clomped off that it would never complete its mission, whatever that might be. The man had left out a very important part of the ritual.
He chuckled, knowing that he himself would not when the stars aligned. It would be soon.
I happened to be admiring the evening over Iron Bay on my balcony when I caught glimpse of a disturbance in the gut, a kind of ball of soot with sparks flying out of it, and an unctuous looking smoke trailing out of it. It rumbled and roiled and eventually fell into a heap several dozens steps from the Bucket of Blood and dispersed. The lingering smoke trail seemed to indicate it came from the ruins of the temple in front of my house, though having been busy I did not see the beginning of its short career. My assumption is that it was some kind of pyrotechnic device to which purpose I was not privy,— but the route from the temple campus to the Gut is quite indirect and lengthy. Whatever this was, it was not sufficient to its design.