Clack. Clack. Clack. Every third step, the gentleman's polished black cane struck the cobblestones. Every fourth step, his heart beat louder than the previous three beats, but the beat that followed drummed with the same force as the beat two before. Every twelfth step, his lips stretched and curled a fraction further.
By the time his impeccably polished leather shoes reached the RhyDin Museum of Anthropology and Cultural Heritage, his maniacal grin split his face nearly in half.
The guard out front was a portly man with thick, muscular arms and the pole of his spear leaned just so against his shoulder. He scowled around his corn cob pipe around the stranger, but to his great surprise, the strange beat of shoe-clicks and cane-clacks did not pick up tempo. Instead, abruptly... it stopped.
Click-clack! Shoes turned to face the guard, and the cane bounced off the cobblestones, let to sail through the air one half of a second, then snatched, twirled, and pressed to his chest as he bowed. "Good afternoon," he sang in a baritone, and the guard just frowned in the inky blackness of the night. His question was unvoiced, but still Vaire read it and answered, "Past two, why yes, clever boy, you're quite right. But!" He pointed, extending his index finger over the top of his cane, and the guard moved uneasily. "Even at noon, it is following the past noon and a thousand billions of noons before that, so! It is always, my dear friend, the afternoon."
"Who the hell are you?" the guard asked gruffly.
"Ah, Hank my dear friend, how rude of me not to introduce myself." In a fluid motion he tucked the cane up under his arm and bowed once more. "I am Vaire, and I have come here to, how shall we say, open your mind."
Hank frowned. He didn't remember giving this man his name, but maybe he'd picked up somewhere before. "If you're some kinda missionary, take your gods and shove 'em."
Vaire appeared flattered at the accusation, and clutched the knob of the cane over his heart with both hands. "Why, Hank, I am on a mission, you're right! But it is brought home to me, friend, that you do not follow my meaning, when I say I mean to and certainly shall open your mind." He placed the cane out in front of him, clack! and folded his hands atop it, and leered over the arrangement as if looking through the sights of a rifle.
"What the hell are you on about? I never... never once..." And he dropped his spear, bowed his head, and clutched at his eyes. Images flashed before him, images drawn out of his head, one at a time. Scattered pieces of the evening, isolated words, the routine of his nightly security procedures, played themselves out in front of his eyes. Dinner with his family... the Amulet of Kravagor... the neighbor's fence that still needed fixing... another dinner... the dinner with his boss... the Amulet... his boss's house...
Across the street, Vaire was rejoicing. He was humming and singing, and conducted the orchestra with his cane. He spun and laughed, and Hank lost control of what he was seeing.
He would go through the security procedures. He would procure the Amulet. He would hide it. He would pay his boss a visit. He would slit his throat. He saw the whole plan play out in his head, and he groaned, resisting it.
The routine played out three times more, and Hank's eyes opened. Vaire stopped in the middle of a pirouette and turned his head to his shoulder, and pointed with his cane. "You'll need that, my friend, before the night is done."
Hank bent mechanically, picked up the spear, and proceeded inside, and Vaire laughed and continued his dance down the city's darkened alleyways.
* * *
Two hours later, Henry Hawkins was killed in the home of his boss Aerik, who acted only to protect himself and his wife. The Amulet of Kavagor was missing from the museum, and was nowhere to be found.
((Note from the author: The title of the thread is the title of a short story by H.P. Lovecraft. I like to give credit where credit is due, never mind it's the best horror short story I've ever read.))
By the time his impeccably polished leather shoes reached the RhyDin Museum of Anthropology and Cultural Heritage, his maniacal grin split his face nearly in half.
The guard out front was a portly man with thick, muscular arms and the pole of his spear leaned just so against his shoulder. He scowled around his corn cob pipe around the stranger, but to his great surprise, the strange beat of shoe-clicks and cane-clacks did not pick up tempo. Instead, abruptly... it stopped.
Click-clack! Shoes turned to face the guard, and the cane bounced off the cobblestones, let to sail through the air one half of a second, then snatched, twirled, and pressed to his chest as he bowed. "Good afternoon," he sang in a baritone, and the guard just frowned in the inky blackness of the night. His question was unvoiced, but still Vaire read it and answered, "Past two, why yes, clever boy, you're quite right. But!" He pointed, extending his index finger over the top of his cane, and the guard moved uneasily. "Even at noon, it is following the past noon and a thousand billions of noons before that, so! It is always, my dear friend, the afternoon."
"Who the hell are you?" the guard asked gruffly.
"Ah, Hank my dear friend, how rude of me not to introduce myself." In a fluid motion he tucked the cane up under his arm and bowed once more. "I am Vaire, and I have come here to, how shall we say, open your mind."
Hank frowned. He didn't remember giving this man his name, but maybe he'd picked up somewhere before. "If you're some kinda missionary, take your gods and shove 'em."
Vaire appeared flattered at the accusation, and clutched the knob of the cane over his heart with both hands. "Why, Hank, I am on a mission, you're right! But it is brought home to me, friend, that you do not follow my meaning, when I say I mean to and certainly shall open your mind." He placed the cane out in front of him, clack! and folded his hands atop it, and leered over the arrangement as if looking through the sights of a rifle.
"What the hell are you on about? I never... never once..." And he dropped his spear, bowed his head, and clutched at his eyes. Images flashed before him, images drawn out of his head, one at a time. Scattered pieces of the evening, isolated words, the routine of his nightly security procedures, played themselves out in front of his eyes. Dinner with his family... the Amulet of Kravagor... the neighbor's fence that still needed fixing... another dinner... the dinner with his boss... the Amulet... his boss's house...
Across the street, Vaire was rejoicing. He was humming and singing, and conducted the orchestra with his cane. He spun and laughed, and Hank lost control of what he was seeing.
He would go through the security procedures. He would procure the Amulet. He would hide it. He would pay his boss a visit. He would slit his throat. He saw the whole plan play out in his head, and he groaned, resisting it.
The routine played out three times more, and Hank's eyes opened. Vaire stopped in the middle of a pirouette and turned his head to his shoulder, and pointed with his cane. "You'll need that, my friend, before the night is done."
Hank bent mechanically, picked up the spear, and proceeded inside, and Vaire laughed and continued his dance down the city's darkened alleyways.
* * *
Two hours later, Henry Hawkins was killed in the home of his boss Aerik, who acted only to protect himself and his wife. The Amulet of Kavagor was missing from the museum, and was nowhere to be found.
((Note from the author: The title of the thread is the title of a short story by H.P. Lovecraft. I like to give credit where credit is due, never mind it's the best horror short story I've ever read.))