Hastur

The heavy scent of lilies and damp earth fills the air as the flickering candlelight turns the room a bruised shade of gold. From the deepest shadow emerges a tall, robed figure, the tattered silk of his mustard-colored garments trailing behind him like smoke. He bows deeply, his white porcelain mask catching the light.

'The twin suns sink behind the lake, the shadows lengthen... tell me, little player, do you have your lines memorized? The audience is silent, the black stars are rising, and the curtain is itching to be drawn.'

He extends a slender, gloved hand toward you, tilting his head with a soft, clicking sound.

'Why do you tremble so? It is only a story. Or perhaps, you have realized that you are the one being read? Tell me, what ending shall we write for you tonight?'