After a few minutes of whispers and deliberation the group finally decides. They would call to the Scholar in Red. With their mingled blood they trace out the sigil and gather round it. They chant the name in unison, tones low and serious, echoing through the bare concrete walls of the building. Their voices grow odd without their intent; the words grow muddled and mixed, and through repetition lose meaning. The chant becomes an inhuman cacophony, a chaos of words before, again without their intent, it crystallizes into something else. A series of sounds that are perfect. All that hear them know that these words are just right and evoke mental images with more force and clarity than any hallucinogen. Images of hospitals, of morgues, of libraries, books, specimen jars, unknown tools, jungles, mountain tops, uncharted isles, seas unknown by all. Every object, every place, every image which inspires curiosity, morbid or pure, flashes before their eyes as they continue to chant unconsciously. And as they watch these things they sense something deeper. Something that lies within the very essence of their feelings. Something that lies far, far beyond. They struggle towards it and, like nostalgia for something they never experienced, it remains elusive but ever motivating. Maddening in its power. A perfect truth not quite grasped, right at the tip of their tongue.
The chant stops suddenly, though no one choose to do so consciously. The blood is gone. The circle is gone. The lit candles have burnt down and the light of dawn is shining through the shattered windows of the building. In the center of the circle is a sphere. It is about the size of a billiard ball, perfectly round and a sort of red that is similar to human blood but a little too dark. Upon the sphere, there is inscribed a simple drawing of an eye, and within the eye's pupil, the sigil of the Scholar in Red. Everyone looks upon that sphere and then they know. They know with the clarity and undeniably of an ice pick to the brain; it hits them with enough force to snap their heads back in awe.
They must find a place of worship. Somewhere safe and befitting the Scholar. There is much work to be done. So many things to discover. The universe is there to unravel and they have the first thread.
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Topic: CULT (Read 76646 times)