Threadbare Volume 2

by Andrew Seiple

  “The Gahdess of Knawledge would straight up start killing bitches fah this,” Madeline said, surveying the damage.

  “How are we supposed to find out anything useful?” Fluffbear asked.

  Garon thought for a bit. “Your blessing skill, it’s up to twenty or so, right?”

  “Right!”

  “Slap it on Madeline, boost up her luck and let her search.”

  “What? Why me?” Madeline protested.

  “Mom doesn’t have the patience to sort through hundreds of books. And I don’t have thumbs. So that leaves...”

  “Shit. Awright, but ya owe me one.”

  They boosted Madeline’s luck, and turned her loose. Threadbare tucked in and helped as well. Fortunately it was dark enough in there that their Darkspawn buffs came into play as well.

  Missus Fluffbear picked up a heavy tome, and waddled over to some light streaming in from a narrow slit window. After a few minutes, she cheered. “Yay!”

  “What did you find?” Garon walked over.

  “Oh, nothing. But my intelligence went up from reading about swamp plants! Did you know that every mushroom around here is bad for you in some way?”

  “Yes. Zuula not need book to tell her dat,” Zuula confirmed. “Wait. You get smarter from reading books?”

  “Yep,” Madeline said. “Well-written books can give mental experience. Not always to intelligence.” She had her nose buried in an ancient ledger. “Okay. So this is interesting. Turns out the fish harvest doubled a few years ago. ‘bout the end of the northern wars. It’s been going good evah since... well, up until last year, that’s when tha last entry is.”

  “So what?” Garon asked.

  “So nothing yet, but ya look at this, and about the same time, tha priestess of Pau in town dies from a mysterious illness. Right, Threadbeah?”

  “Yes, the dates are about a week off.” He waved a book labeled ‘dearly departed – deaths in Outsmouth, volume four; cows, goats, and humans’

  “That’s when a new fella steps up as tha local pastor of Pau, a newly-arrived guy called Hatecraft.”

  “We’ve heard that name, just that morning,” Garon said. “So unless there’s two of them, we know he’s a cultist.”

  “Right. And he’s blessing the fishing boats instead of the old Pau priestess doin’ the blessing.”

  “So he impresses the fishing town by increasing their haul.” Garon nods.

  “Yeah. And if ya look, tha Crown steps up BOTH the tax AND the fishing tithe a month later.”

  “Ooooh...” Garon shook his head. “Dick move.”

  “It’s when the dwahven wah stahted, but still...”

  “Yeah. A jerk move like that means lots of converts to the cult.” Garon lay his head down, and thought. “Who is this guy?”

  “I didn’t find him in the local family birth records. So he probably came in from somewhere else,” Madeline said. “First record of him is actually on the library payroll. Dude was an assistant. Lived in the basement of the library.”

  “Jinkies!” Said Missus Fluffbear.

  They all looked at her.

  “What? It says jinkies!” She held up a book, with brightly-colored children’s toys on it. “I think that’s a fun word.”

  “To the basement then,” decided Threadbare.

  They eventually found it, after moving some piles of paper around until they revealed a trapdoor. Garon went down first, and froze. A blue ‘8’ escaped from his head, as he recoiled from something out of their line of sight.

  “He being attacked! Is old one! Or eldritch!” Zuula shrieked, and the toys piled down, ignoring the ladder entirely...

  ...and stared in silence, at the tiny room below.

  And the horrific images plastered on the wall.

  Sanity damage rippled through them, all save for Threadbare, who took off his top hat and rubbed his head, puzzled.

  Fluffbear was also spared. She squinted around, with her dagger out and ready. “What is it? I can’t see!”

  “Good,” choked Garon. “Someone please cover her eyes. Or get her out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?” Threadbare asked. “It’s just more pictures of tentacles. Well, I mean, there’s women in these pictures, too. And they sure don’t look comfortable. But that’s not really anything to fuss about, I’d say.”

  “Let me see!” Fluffbear said, trying to get a better angle in the bad light.

  “No!” The doll haunters chorused. Zuula covered her eyes.

  “Aw...”

  “I don’t think you’re missing much,” Threadbare reassured her. “It’s kind of boring, honestly. But since it seems to be upsetting the others, maybe you could keep watch upstairs? I’m not sure where Pulsivar got to and sooner or later he’ll come looking for us, I’m quite sure.”

  “Well, okay. Um...” She considered the ladder. Definitely not sized for her six-inch frame. “Could you?”

  “Of course.” Threadbare had Annie come down and pick her up, then return upstairs.

  “Dis be why humans make de worst cultists,” Zuula sighed, keeping her eyes well below visual level of the homemade drawings on the wall, and looking around the small, dank basement. “Dey get WEIRD about it.”

  “Never have I so regretted being unable to vomit,” Garon muttered. “Come on, let’s search. Dibs on not under the bed.”

  “Not it!” Zuula and Madeline chorused.

  Threadbare shook his head, and started poking around under the moldy bed, while Madeline rummaged through crates and the few items of furniture down here.

  CRACK!

  Everyone jumped, and Fluffbear peered down into the hole again. “What was that?”

  “Mom!” Garon howled.

  Zuula looked over from the wreckage of the barrel she’d smashed, and put down the rusty crowbar. “What? Is barrel!”

  “Geeze. Not this again. Mom, look, you can’t just go around smashing every barrel you come across...”

  “Yes she can! Sometimes is loot inside!”

  “Mom, look, no, that was ONE small dungeon, and Taylor’s Delve had that one sealed years back—”

  “Ho, so you tell de story? You want Zuula to stay awhile and listen?” The little half-orc grinned.

  “Don’t get me started. Just... please, no more barrel smashing. Not now.”

  “Psh. Could have been somet’ing in dere.” Zuula said, sitting down and pouting. “Maybe dat one kid’s spare pegleg. Never could find it for dat little fucker. He would have had good loot for reward, too!”

  “Yeah, he was totally an item smuggler. Pretty sure pegleg was code for reagents.”

  “Found it!” Madeline whooped. “I think so, anyway.” She held up a pink book, with bunnies on it, labeled “Dear diary.” The bunnies had tentacles.

  “I want to see!” Fluffbear said.

  “We’ll come to you,” Threadbare said, coming out from under the bed, covered in dust bunnies. “There’s nothing under there but more drawings. I’m pretty sure they would cost you more sanity,” he told his friends.

  Upstairs, in the moldering library, they read the book. Some of the words took a little guesswork, the guy was fond of using obscure words with way too many syllables.

  It didn’t take long. For all he was verbose, his entries were very short, all things considered.

  Also pretty blasphemous.

  By studying forbidden lore you have unlocked the Cultist job!

  You cannot become a Cultist at this time!

  “We need to find this guy,” Garon concluded. “Quickly.”

  “Someone’s coming!” Fluffbear said, scrambling down from the windowsill. “A whole bunch of someones! They have crossbows and spears.”

  “Shit,” Garon said. “We need to get out of here—”

  “Why?” Threadbare asked.

  “Well, if they’re armed, they’re not going to be friendly. I think this is going to go bad.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re using the dummy?”

  The
toys considered Annie in silence. She waved.

  A minute later, when the cultists shoved the door open, Annie was sitting in one of the lone chairs in the room, reading through a storybook. Her toys sat around her, still and clearly deanimated. “Oh, hello sirs and madams!” Annie said, closing the book. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” Daav said. “The pastor wants to see you. Now.”

  “And no funny business!” Mhorty said, his voice squeaking and breaking as he waggled a fishing spear in her direction.

  “Of course not. I was just practicing some stories for your little dears. Such cute little scaly kids.”

  The half-dozen cultists relaxed. “Yeah, they’re little angels, ain’t they? Maybe you’ll be blessed with one of your own!” Phred said.

  Annie went peacefully with the group, who seemed much relieved at her acceptance of the matter.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten. And then Threadbare twitched, and stood up. “I think that should do it. Also, I caught a glimpse of Pulsivar. We can collect him and Mopsy on the way, I think.”

  “On the way where?” Fluffbear asked.

  “The place it all started...”

  CHAPTER 11: UNSAFE SECTS

  Pastor Elpy Hatecraft lingered for a moment more, dwelling on the artifacts of an antediluvian nature retrieved from the very depths of what in aeons past had been a submarinic trench. The local peasantry had mistaken it for a mere lake, and more ignoramuses they, for it was clearly a hoary relic from a bygone age, when squamous tentacles reached forth deep from umbral places beneath the earth, to rend and manipulate the soil and the geography about them. Lake? Bah! The brobdingnagian body of water the quaint and curious locals referred to as Lake Marsh deserved a far more Sesquipedalian surname. He had a few in mind, but he’d been waiting until the engraver got back to him with quotes, for changing all the signposts.

  Unfortuitously, the engraver wasn’t a member of his society of forbidden lore (and bingo twice a week,) or else Hatecraft could have offered elevation into the highest eldritch mysteries of the Society of Indefatigable Exploration of the Unknown Elder Antiquities. Namely, the bleachers that Hatecraft permitted the most elevated brethren to utilize while they observed the chamber of blasphemous conception, during the rite of manifestation.

  But all that, as had many of his more enabling and eminently profitable plans, had evaporated like morning dew as inaction turned to action, and he’d awoken from his late-night slumber to the tintinnabulation of bells, bells, bells, and the somewhat unanticipated revelation that a revolution had occurred, thanks to the brethren and sistren on watch receiving the long-awaited sign that great YGlnargle’blah, an inscrutable entity that Hatecraft had chosen specifically for his dormancy and turpitude, was, in fact, engaging in unanticipated somnambulism.

  Which was not Hatecraft’s plan at all.

  “Load faster! Make haste!” He commanded the beast, and it muttered and grumbled, in its loathsome way. The barbels on its cheeks twitched in time with its irritable susurration, its very existence evidence of an uncaring cosmos full of helpless gods, a form that offended the reasonable man’s eye and raked at the very sanity of all logical onlookers.

  Though, the effect was somewhat spoiled by its pants.

  The brethren and sistren had put their foot down about that, they wanted YGlnargle’blah’s envoy to wear pants when he wasn’t engaging in blasphemous rites. Which was absurdity of the first order, but they HAD insisted, and so the herald of the octopodlian apocalypse, the evidence irrefutable of the truth of YGlnargle’blah, and the prominent celebrity in the rite of blasphemous conception now had to wear canvas shorts when he was off duty, as it were.

  Initially concerned but somewhat relieved to find that this increased the eagerness of the female gendered of the society to engage upon the rite of conception, Hatecraft had grudgingly agreed. He would have hated to give up his Saturday nights at the peephole, after all.

  But the pants proved no hindrance to the primary usage that Hatecraft employed the thing from below the waves at this minute; namely, engaging in longshoremanship of a most mediocre quality. The beast dropped half the crates he loaded upon the boat, and Hatecraft was reduced to mere scrabbling at the sands in the hidden cove, uncovering every fallen coin from every shattered container, and ensuring that not a single silver candlestick or precious metal adornment that he’d painstakingly milked from the society’s coffers went astray.

  The small bell he employed as both an early warning system and a doorknocker doled out its brazen peals, and Hatecraft hurled imprecations and threats at the beast, until it revolved its bulging, piscine eyes, and retreated to the depths of the dark cove, descending beneath the boat until such time as his viridian orbs and herring-enhanced exhalations could best be utilized for the purposes of intimidation.

  Besides, when encountering a fellow ineffable lore-seeker, even one within the same blasphemous pantheon, it was best to have an ace kept in the proverbial hole.

  Arranging his features into a pleasant countenance, Elpy Hatecraft pushed his spectacles up on his narrow face, and smiled at the stranger as she entered the cave below the church, escorted by half-a-dozen of his acolytes. “And you would be Miss Mata,” he greeted the woman, her robes jaundiced and unhealthy as doubtless was her quaint and curious obsession. “Welcome to the true temple of the Society of indefatigable exploration of the unknown elder antiquities.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be here,” Said the woman. “I had no idea this little cave was here, you can’t really see it from the outside.”

  Elpy smiled, and gestured to the small hole in the wall where the lake entered, luxuriant with weeds and verdant marshgrass, offering concealment of the most fortuitous sort. “Yes, that’s the objective. Are you here to enlist into the incipient revolution, my dear Miss Mata?”

  “Actually I was wondering if you knew anything about a girl named Celia. She’s the King’s daughter.”

  Hatecraft found his angle of conversation entirely derailed. Intellect temporarily disengaged, he blinked at the shrouded woman from behind his spectacles, mouth opening to emit a rather undistinguished croak. “Bu-what?”

  To his amazement, the woman started to twitch, and mutter in disjointed exclamations. “You didn’t know— Well she is, I saw him— of COURSE I’m sure— Zuula knew. Zuula, please explain it— Hold on he’s looking at me funny, I think it’s still on—” She fell silent.

  Hatecraft pulled off his spectacles, as his mouth moved, trying to make sense of the entirety of the inexplicable affair. Ultimately, he directed his gaze to the acolytes, who were looking at each other and whispering.

  And to his horror, he realized that they were staring at the boat, encumbered to the brim with boxes, barrels, and crates, with a few shattered containers gleaming with unrevealed treasure in the dim green glowstone lanterns that he’d had to rig extremely carefully to get just that right shade of ‘eldritch’.

  “Ascend the stairs forthwith,” he told them. “I can ensure that the treasury is moved to an infinitely more secure location myself, and I must communicate with the blessed messengers that are afflicting Miss Mata’s mentality in an insalubrious manner.”

  Daav turned to Phred. “Wot’d he say?”

  “He’s just moving the stash. And he wants to talk to the lady alone.”

  “Aw, I wanted to watch,” Mhorty sighed.

  “Psh, don’t get greedy, it’s not even Saturday. And she might say no. And no means no, that’s the first rule of the rite. Come on, let’s get going then. Bye Pastor!”

  “Farewell!” Elpy flapped his hands at them, in the sacred sign of the guardian marshfowl that he’d taught them early on in his theocratic regime. It looked impressive and did absolutely nothing save stretch the fingers, but it pleased the congregation nonetheless and a few of them even dropped their spears to return the sign.

  With much clattering and a few lingering suspicious looks from some of the less-fervent acolytes at the boat ful
l of treasure, the acolytes departed.

  Hatecraft waited until he heard the door upstairs shut, and marched forward to Mata, shaking his finger in her face, chastening and intimidating simultaneously, he was certain. “You’re no devotee of the Thing In Yellow! If you were, you would have surely drawn comparisons to this subterranean sanctuary to the lake of Holi, in lost Corcasa!”

  “I never said I was a devotee to anyone,” said Mata, returning his gaze unblinking, eyes just visible through her veil. “I’m a little confused about why your cult thought road signs were significant.”

  Hatecraft smiled. “And now I’m certain that you’re no cultist. We don’t call ourselves by such plebian apellations. Tell me, Miss Mata, what brings you to Outsmouth? Are you perhaps here to spy on our holy revolution?”

  She still didn’t blink. “I’m trying to find news about my little girl. But I don’t think she’s here. She’s the king’s daughter, and I’m worried about her.”

  Now, and only now, Elpy blinked. That wasn’t the alibi he was expecting an agent provocateur to operate underneath. He pulled back from her, retreating to rally his ruminations, and best consider the concepts to conjugate. “You claim to be a mistress of royalty, then? A jilted mother, seeking her royal bastard?”

  “I don’t think you should talk that way about Celia. Please apologize.”

  “Celia? You claim to be Princess Cecelia’s maternal originator?” Elpy laughed. “Unless you’re Amelia Gearhart under there, that statement is magnificent within its ludicrousness. If I were you, I would observe your perambulation warily around such worrisome embellishments.”

  “I never claimed to be her mother. Her mother’s dead. She’s my little girl, that’s all.”

  “Mmm. Madness, then. Insanity and fixation... fortunately I know all about such afflictions.” Elpy spread his arms wide, convinced he was dealing with a madwoman. “I think, that I can recommend religion. You’ve already paid your dues, as it were,” he nodded to the boat. “Would you enjoy true enlightenment?”