From a vision that struck me just now.
From the depths of the shadow, a figure strolled forth.
A mask of pure white hung on his face without any sign of strap nor string.
Ripped and worn, stained and tainted by untold distance traveled a yellow robe was stretched across a tall skeletal frame.
The fingers of the hands were made all the longer by the unraveling bandages that dripped from each.
The faint smell of rotting roses assaults the senses.
Eyes that both seem mad and coldly calm speak to you from underneath the emotionless mask.
Perhaps a smile flickers on the lips as the light hits it. Perhaps the mask is sad.
I know not how I understand the words.
The feeling of crawling sounds, creeping towards me from under the mask, are what I hear.
The sounds are not spoken in English and perhaps not even by a throat of any human kind.
But their meaning and the promises are clear.
The King in Yellow stands before me and speaks of the end of all that is upon the galaxy.
His mate shall lose the battle.
Mankind, accident that it is upon the fabric, shall finally know his true form.
The crawling chaos shall play the horns that sound the ending of the world.
The ending of this is foretold, as the light shall blaze between the mountains of Yory’th and Say’eth and I shall stand upon the earth for all time.
The king speaks more.
Words and images and future secrets and past truths roll into me. Burrow into me.
Crawl and itch under my skin.
And I as a hold back a scream that if given voice would have ended me there and then the king speaks more.
His true name is spoken once, and my ears bleed.
His name is spoken twice and the teeth in my mouth bite the tongue to stop it repeating that which I know.
I am told that the third time it shall be spoken will be the end.
The king removes his mask and bows low to me.
An honor for not breaking my place upon the ground at his feet.
I lose consciousness for a time. The wind was now from the west… The sickly light from the fainting sun splashes like blood over the stains of my encounter.
The name echoed in my ears for the score of years from then to now.
It is now a dull roar against my brain.
I must speak it to be free.
But before I do I must do what I can to stop this.
Here, inside this journal, are my notes on how to stop what I have seen happening.
I know you will take up the challenge, for I have seen you fail.
But if you take this with you perhaps you can change what is to be.
What has already been.
A hand written note that falls out of an old book you picked up at the library. It was perhaps a disappointment to someone that you didn’t see the note and returned the book to the shelf when it wasn’t the one you wanted.
A mask of pure white hung on his face without any sign of strap nor string.
Ripped and worn, stained and tainted by untold distance traveled a yellow robe was stretched across a tall skeletal frame.
The fingers of the hands were made all the longer by the unraveling bandages that dripped from each.
The faint smell of rotting roses assaults the senses.
Eyes that both seem mad and coldly calm speak to you from underneath the emotionless mask.
Perhaps a smile flickers on the lips as the light hits it. Perhaps the mask is sad.
I know not how I understand the words.
The feeling of crawling sounds, creeping towards me from under the mask, are what I hear.
The sounds are not spoken in English and perhaps not even by a throat of any human kind.
But their meaning and the promises are clear.
The King in Yellow stands before me and speaks of the end of all that is upon the galaxy.
His mate shall lose the battle.
Mankind, accident that it is upon the fabric, shall finally know his true form.
The crawling chaos shall play the horns that sound the ending of the world.
The ending of this is foretold, as the light shall blaze between the mountains of Yory’th and Say’eth and I shall stand upon the earth for all time.
The king speaks more.
Words and images and future secrets and past truths roll into me. Burrow into me.
Crawl and itch under my skin.
And I as a hold back a scream that if given voice would have ended me there and then the king speaks more.
His true name is spoken once, and my ears bleed.
His name is spoken twice and the teeth in my mouth bite the tongue to stop it repeating that which I know.
I am told that the third time it shall be spoken will be the end.
The king removes his mask and bows low to me.
An honor for not breaking my place upon the ground at his feet.
I lose consciousness for a time. The wind was now from the west… The sickly light from the fainting sun splashes like blood over the stains of my encounter.
The name echoed in my ears for the score of years from then to now.
It is now a dull roar against my brain.
I must speak it to be free.
But before I do I must do what I can to stop this.
Here, inside this journal, are my notes on how to stop what I have seen happening.
I know you will take up the challenge, for I have seen you fail.
But if you take this with you perhaps you can change what is to be.
What has already been.
A hand written note that falls out of an old book you picked up at the library. It was perhaps a disappointment to someone that you didn’t see the note and returned the book to the shelf when it wasn’t the one you wanted.