Thy Will Be Done

The Kraken pub and inn was famed for two things: the unusual drinks and the abnormal amount of space. It squatted beneath overcrowded tenement housing, second story shops and was surrounded by dark alleys. Many missed the small door, which was in a narrow archway and concealed in inky shadows. It was only identified by a small wrought iron sign of a detailed squid, tentacles akimbo and large inscrutable eyes, which hung over the entrance. Neighboring this on either side was a burned-out ruin and a workshop which advertised for custom leather work. Tourists, if there were such a thing, would have thought that this inn had room for a few cramped quarters, a small bar and standing room only for its patrons. Upon entering however, these same tourists would have found a spacious room, filled with a dozen round tables, a square bar counter in the center with room for several barkeeps, and a large roaring hearth on the back wall. The same tourists would have been surprised as they were escorted to their rooms, up any number of stairways and down long halls in which a dozen more spacious rooms were reserved for guests. A single broad stairway led down into a large basement which easily expanded beyond the upper walls of the inn. It had a spacious area reserved for patrons to drink, several storerooms and private rooms reserved for the shy or reclusive. 

All of this, and the tourists would have been equally surprised at the variety of drink, both house brewed and imported from regions unknown to the common man. A particularly audacious tourist might try and push the limits of a establishment and see if by some chance they did not bear his drink of choice which only a few in his country would have heard, much less enjoyed. Miraculously, the barkeep would leave and return with not only a bottle, but a vintage one in hand. The tourist would be surprised, especially if he had the cheek to have made up the drink in question.

But since there was no such thing as tourists, the regular patrons who visited the Kraken just took these things for granted.

A few regulars were clustered around a table in the basement, nursing lukewarm beers and muttering. They cast furtive glances towards a darkened room where a figure sat hunched over a mug of frothing bilge. The thin yellow light that fell across the threshold illuminated the thin outline of the man, his hood and cloak pulled tightly around him. The man was a regular himself, but everybody parted sideways and gave him a wide berth. He always ordered the same thing, though nobody knew what it was. It was just "the regular." One curious person had made the mistake of purchasing "the regular" and between fits of coughing and wheezing described it as a salty sea set on fire. Then he died.
Something shuffled down the stairs, each step scraping laboriously across the wood. The patrons glared into their beer and prayed to whatever heavenly being was close by to accept their humble souls if those feet came any nearer. The shambling, lethargic motion was a death knell. Nobody wanted to be visited by the Pales.

A shadow of the Pale blocked out the yellow light which danced across the floor. The man in shadows lifted his head slightly, his dark skin cracked and broken like charred wood. Something orange pulsed beneath his skin in veiny rivulets.

The other patrons strained to hear any words passing between the two, or any sounds of a scuffle. But nothing happened. One of the men chanced a glance from the corner of his eye and saw the Pale standing with arms at his side but he did nothing. A chair scraped across the floor. The Pale turned and moved slowly back up the stairs as the hooded man exited the room. There was that familiar sound of the Pale ascending and then quiet. There was a collective sigh. One of the patrons licked his lips and mumbled something about being thirsty. 

…..

The Pale walked ahead of the hooded man, their steps echoing down the stone chamber as they picked their way over the roughhewn steps. There was no light, save for the dull glow of the light shifting beneath the hooded man's flesh. Water trickled down the walls gradually until it gushed down in small waterfalls. Slime coated every surface now. Strange fungi and other alien plants weaved across every surface where even a delicate foothold could be established, no matter how small or insignificant. The stone eventually vanished beneath a rough carpet of flora that thrived in the dark places of the world. 

The Pale stopped and stepped to one side. He gestured vaguely ahead for a few seconds before opening his mouth. The sound that passed between his lips was inhuman. It was as if someone had manually inflated his lungs and then squeezed them hard, equally working his mouth in like manner. The effect was jarring. "Descend. Another awaits." it said with the emotionless gush of air pushed through a slack jaw. 

The hooded figure cursed.

…..

Kate was not a rebel. Her parents were miners. She and her brother had grown up in a sooty ramshackle room that passed for a home. Her parents spent every dime to keep them comfortable. It did feel like a home, despite the poor conditions in which they lived. Kate would have said it was happy. But when the mines took her father and then disease took her mother, happiness left them. They had watched as the bodies were lowered into chutes that fed coal into the boilers. In a single moment they were reduced to ashes. That was the last time she ever cried.

Their grief was channeled into their hands and they chipped the rock and hauled the stones, their hearts refined by fire into steel. They dodged the gangs, shifted with the tides as leaders toppled each other. They passed each other on a shift and shared a quick glance. That was all they could afford. Then one day a beam broke and set off a chain reaction inside the tunnel. People just vanished in a puff of smoke. She never saw her brother again after that. Now she couldn't afford not to act.

Kate had started by sharing a few whispers with people she could trust. Then it was a scrap of paper with a few symbols, a hand sign or nod of the head. It happened all the time. A small collective would push back and form their own gang. You threw off the chains of your oppressors and you put them in chains. You may turn into the villain, but you definitely ate better.

The door to the windowless cell opened. Kate was sitting on the floor, a heavy iron chain keeping a leg bound to the rocky floor. She glanced up through swollen eyes and winced. She may have gone, but she did not go quietly. A hooded shape materialized out of the miasma. The door creaked shut behind him with a click.

"Come to have a go, gov?" she said with a rueful, bloody smile, her lip splitting with the effort. A thin line of blood dribbled down her chin.

He didn't speak. His head turned as if he was listening to something far away. Then his dark hands appeared. He made a few gestures, as if he was chopping something with his hands. Kate could not hear the words he whispered, but she felt the change in the air. He was a Weaver. She flexed instinctively as she braced for a searing heat, a snapping of bone or a blast of energy. But all she heard was the distant sounds of voices somewhere just out of her own hearing.

The figure walked over and sat down on a small stool. He drew back his hood to reveal a black face, pulsing with veiny lines of fire. It was fire, Kate thought. Just like his red hair which framed one side of his face. She clenched her jaw and pushed down the fear rising up inside her chest. She had heard the stories. It was guff mostly, but nothing ever good followed the Fire Weaver. It was said he was death itself. The Harbinger of Destruction. The Weaver of Woe. One short lived, studious merchant who had fallen on bad times and had ended up in the mines, had dubbed him the Char-man. Later he burned alive. Ironic, Kate thought. But she had liked his style.

"Look, if you want to torture me, get it over with. I have a shift at dawn." She faked a yawn and remembered painfully her jaw was fractured.

"That is not my task today" the man said. Kate saw his eyes flicker and wondered if he could simply burn her up with his eyes.

"Fine. A confession. I told them I was starting a rebellion. I started a fire, stabbed the foreman, yada yada, blah blah," she spit blood out of her mouth. "I did it. Condemn me and let's get on with whatever you do have planned."

"That is not my task today" he replied.

"It's def not your dandy words" Kate said. "Get to it then. Hot pokers. Gauging out my eyes. Smacking me with your magic fingers."

"Which parent had the gift, Katherine?" the man asked.

Kate stiffened. Nobody knew about the gift. Her parents barely knew before they died. She'd always wondered about that. Maybe it hadn't been a coincidence. That is why she kept it secret. The gift had started small. She heard snatches of thoughts. A few words from a conversation she shouldn't have been able to hear. But after she had lost her brother…

"…you started to use your gift in small ways," the man said, as if picking up the thought as it flashed through her mind and then completed it. Damn it. He was one of them. She strained against her chains despite the grinding of bones and the swelling of bruised flesh. "You are one of them." she said through gritted teeth.

He remained passive. "You are talented. Enough to attract the attention of the wrong people, Katherine." He stood and crossed the room to her in one easy stride. He knelt down next to her. Kate suddenly felt very small. "I'll give you a choice. Your rebellion is of little consequence. However, your clairvoyant abilities are another matter. You can either die now or spend the rest of your life as a slave." He paused and leaned closer. "I recommend the first."

"Ha!" She exclaimed abruptly, accidently spitting blood into the man's face. He never flinched, nor attempted to wipe his chin. "What a choice. Death or slavery. I think you've forgotten where I live, gov. Death and slavery are my life."

"While you live here, Katherine," he said slowly, his eyes locking uncomfortably with hers. "You always have a choice. This is the last choice you will be given. Death, on your terms. Or slavery, and the last shred of free will you have will be stripped away until only an empty shell is all that remains."

Kate knew he wasn't lying. She could hear his thoughts. She figured that he was letting her see them. They were not particularly explicit thoughts as it was a sense of knowing it was true. She wanted to throw up. She looked down at her chains and fidgeted with the leavy links. The last link to the world of pain, suffering and misery. In all of that, she told herself, she had awoken by choice. After a few minutes of silence, she looked up. A flicker of liquid slipped from her eyes. "Will it be painful?"

"Immeasurably," he replied calmly.

She knew somehow, it had to hurt. Somehow that was part of the devil's bargain. But there was something merciful in being given the choice. One last act of rebellion. One last chance to spit in the face of whatever thing wanted to hallow her out and make her a finger puppet. She looked at the face of the Fire Weaver; the Harbinger of Death; the Char-man. She hated him, but something made her grateful as well.

"Well then," she said, struggling to her feet. "Give it your best shot."

Something in the air wrinkled up with a faint gust and vanished. Kate heard the drip of water again, a skittering sound and something cough outside. A sound illusion. Sneaky bastard, Kate thought. She squared up and raised her fists. "You didn't think I'd let you take me that easy?"

The man's face split into a thin smile. "I had hoped you would say that."

…..

There was a knock on the door and the Pale sluggishly threw back the bolt. The hooded man emerged, the strong smell of blood and refuse clinging to his fists and robes. He had a sack slung over his shoulder. "Clean up." he instructed. The Pale passed by into the cell and began the tedious task of scraping leftover human off the walls.
He walked down the labyrinth of halls until he reached a large grate. He pulled the large iron doors open and laid the body on the edge. "From Death to Life. Let fire forge you into a heart of steel." He tipped the bundle over the edge. It vanished into the abyssal darkness. He closed the doors.

…..

There was a particular sensation when he crossed into the presence of the fetid waters. He could always smell it before the tip of that horrid humming came rushing into the small of his mind. That tentacle of thought. The memories. The One. It thrummed as he drew closer. He winced and closed his eyes. His feet knew the path and he always focused better when he shut off his other senses. "Into the waves I wash the filth of the land away," he intoned.

Somewhere in his mind he felt this phrase being repeated. It grew louder with each step. "I am stripped of self and replaced with will. I am made to serve and to obey."

The voices. He could hear them clearly now.

He stopped. He had come to the edge of the path. "I am the vessel. I am the hand. I am the reaction to the thought. I am nothing but the will."

He opened his eyes. Floating behind a solid wall of clear crystal was a murky pool of green water. Hundreds, if not thousands of naked humanoid shapes hung suspended in the water. Men, women and children. Gripping them was a tentacle which pulsed, giving off a sickly green light beneath its oily flesh.

"I am the vessel of eternal memory." he said. Thousands of voices repeated his chant as a wave of psychic energy washed into his own mind. "I am the will of the One." 

In unison they cried. "I am the will of Aboleth! I am the will of Aboleth!"

Something twitched in the dark of the water. Somewhere deep in the churn of water and viscus, an impossibly large baleful eye opened. 

"Let thy will be done," the man said, as the wave of energy consumed him, and the grip of tentacles tightened around his mind. 

LET ME IN.