You haven’t been able to gasp for breath in minutes, it feels. Flee. Turn a corner. Jump back up in haste when you stumble down and scrap your knees and hands. Fly. Your feet are raw, nearly bloody from running. It’s right behind you! Breathlessly look for a hiding spot. No. It can smell you, can track your blood splatters. Flee faster. Turn another corner. That cold emptiness in your chest, from your blood rushing out of your pumping organ to your extremities way too fast to replenish itself, is overwhelming, freezing in your chest. You’ve gained some distance from it. Your heart is about to explode. It’s getting closer. Relentless. Flee.
You’re lost. The cobblestones of the alley are unfamiliar. The colorless masonry of the square, bland and uncompromising buildings towering over you, is alien. How did you get here. Flee. It is catching up. Urine and bowel evacuate down your legs, you think, but it was several minutes ago. Your wet legs have grown cold again. But you can’t run any longer. You can’t take a breath. Flee! The sky far overhead is a thin, yellow-gray fog. Where is this place?
There is no one else here. No noise. Only your gasping rasps, faster and briefer than earlier. Why is this city empty? Abandoned. You turn a corner and stumble again. Your elbow hits a cracked cobblestone and spits blood. You have exhausted your sweat by now. Get up. Flee. Ahead the alley closes in a dead end. It’s getting closer.
Beyond Exhausted. Wheezing. Flee.
Do you try to climb up a wall to an empty black window, twenty feet above?
Do you turn back and run left?
Do you turn back and run right?
It’s back behind you. You’re disoriented and dizzy.
Flee.
I run.... I turn around. Where is it? It was following me? I stop to listen. All I can hear is me. I need to stop. To hide. Catch my breath so I can run more.
Where is it? WHAT is it? I don't know. Why don't I know. I find a corner and sit down. I'm still breathing too hard. I have to tuck my head down so I'm not making so much noise breathing.
Focus. Breath deep, and slower. Listen. Is it there? Can I hear it? Breath in. Slowly breath out. Again. Again. Now listen.... Did something just move? No. Listen....
Sitting in a dark corner in a blind alley, your panting and gasping sounds louder than a Dragon's roaring breath weapon. You try to hold your breath; you try to muffle the sound. Save your own sucking-in-oxygen sounds, however, all is silent. A splatter trail of your blood leads right to your corner.
It's getting closer. It can smell you.
On the ground is an object.
But you must run!
I hold my breath to listen. Nothing. But I can't hold it long enough. And I need to catch my breath. Did something move? Yes. It must hear me. I need to move. Find a safer place....
I scramble to my feet, making too much noise again. I feel my foot hit something. What is it? No matter. I pick it up and start moving again, looking back and forth as I move. I force myself to slow. Don't rush, it makes too much noise! I'm holding something....
'What?' A child’s Doll of compacted wax and porcelain, with a silk dress and blond hair of silk – but with no face. About the size of a grown man's hand, perhaps a bit larger. It's just cold in your hand. If it had a face, perhaps it would stare blankly.
You begin running again as you feel more than see the terror getting closer. Tall. Impossibly thin. Tatters of cloth bandages. It's so close.
Where am I????
The figure runs through the streets in panic, but even so, some part of the mind is trying desperately to ascertain location. Panicked eyes scan the buildings for any familiar landmark-- a shopfront, a sign, a familiar fountain-- anything. Anything. Anything to give a clue, a hint, as to location. Once they know where they are, they'll know the nearest safe place, bolt hole, hiding spot...
But nothing is familiar. Nothing. The fear only rises.
A black window, far up. Too far. But the runner knows they can't run forever. Already exhaustion claws blackly at them and their lungs burn.
They desperately try to scrabble up the wall for the possible shelter of the window and whatever unknown lurks beyond.
Climbing up to the darkness of an open window you can almost feel the masonry of the building's wall sweating with cool condensation. It's slick.
Poking your head into the cavity before clambering in, visibility only permeates a few feet from a shaft of sickly, yellow light. Inside you gasp for breath and find yourself in a small room. the size of a closet, perhaps six feet by eight.
There's something on the floor.
But the closet, the cavity, is otherwise empty. There is no door. No stairwell. No entry or exit from the room. A smear of your bloody raw feet streaks up the outer wall that you climbed -- a veritible arrow pointing to your location.
It is madness. Why is there a closet with no entry or exit? What could this room be?
It's getting closer. If it reaches the alley it will instantly find you in the closet above. There will be no place for you to run. You musat leave. Flee!
A doll? He runs. Then he slows. Gasping for breath he slows. The thing. The thing chasing him was still there! Chasing him. He couldn't run fast enough. He couldn't breath. He had to hide. Had to catch his breath so he could run faster! The doll is still in his hand. It has blond hair. He wonders, Do I know anyone with blond hair? Do I know anyone with a doll with blond hair? Do I know anyone?
Never mind. It didn't matter. Was the thing closer? Yes! He could feel it. He couldn't run faster. He couldn't breath enough. He was making too much noise. He needed to find a place to hide. Was there anywhere to hide? Anything to crawl under? He had to stop. Catch his breath! He had to.
Turn a corner. Run to the next and turn again, the same way. Find.... Something. Somewhere to hide!
...There's something on the floor.
...
If it reaches the alley it will instantly find you in the closet above. There will be no place for you to run. You must leave. Flee!
Bloodied fingers scrabble for-- whatever it is. A weapon? If only.
The same fingers then scrabble at the walls of the small room in disbelief. Door! Door, where is the door?!?! there MUST be...
But there isn't. Or it's hidden too well to find.
A lunge back to the window, a panicked scan of the street for the pursuit. What about-- up? The rooftops? Keep going, flee that way. Run. Run. Run.
What was he running from? If only he could remember, he could think of something... did it track by scent? By hearing? Sight? If he knew he might be able to lay a false trail, buy himself a minute or two...
The dead end brings him up short. He can't stay here. Is there...? No, there's no way he was climbing up to that one window. What kind of city was this to have an alley...? No time. Back, and to the right. Keep moving, surely there had to be... something. Something that could save him.
He ran. He did not know why, but he ran. There was a reason for it, a good one. Of that he was sure. Perhaps something was chasing him? Or it was already inside of him? Perhaps if he ran fast enough, ran far enough, then he would escape it. Or himself. He knew not which, and he knew not why. He only knew what he had to do.
He looked around wildly. There was something he was looking for. Or perhaps something that would help him. Regardless, he was desperate to find it.
[spoiler=Dice Roll as needed]
[/dice]
Dien's Character:
The closet has no doors. No entry to the rest of the building. Just a window. Just a round'ish hole in the side of the wall leading down to the cobblestone street.
And in the center of the room: A cobblestone. Rough/Rounded square.
Jumping out of the window to keep moving, keep away from it, you land on the cobblestone alley. It's not missing any cobblestones. You pick yourself up from prone having twisted your ankle, look at the cobblestone in your hand -- three pounds -- and try to ignore the ankle sprain as it swells to almost the size of a cobblestone and continue to run.
Almonihah's Character:
Backtrack, then to the right. Hopefully it will keep chasing the forward trail not realizing you backtracked.
You turn right and flee.
'Why do all these alleys look the same?'
You backtrack again as fast as you dare to not run into it face on. You make another right. Twenty feet down is a dead end. A blind alley.
The yellow-gray fog is getting thicker. You can barely see the roofs of the masoned structures.
You turn to sprint away too quickly and fall down out of breath. Prone on the cobblestone road your lowered center of gravity helps you gasp in a huge breath.
On the ground only inches away is a Yellow ‘finger’ of chalk for drawing, very dirty yellow – hard almost as rock; smells of sulfur. It just lies there as if a child or street artist dropped it before coloring.
It is very close to you now. You must run!
Grumbaki's Character:
It is going to kill you. It knows only murder. Slaughter. Pain and Fear and certain death. Unavoidable as Old Age or Dragon's Breath. If it sees you, you will die.
Run
You turn corner after corner running. It may not be inside you but maybe it can hear your thoughts. Maybe it can sense your Soul. It is coming.
The alley you are running in has no more turns left or right. It is a straight line. The building left and right has no end. No windows; no doors. A straight line. Hopefully the fog will lessen and you'll soon see when the alley finally comes to an intersection.
It doesn't.
Something stabs your foot. You fly to the ground roll after roll as your forward momentum sommersaults you across the cobblestones.
Sticking out of the soft sole of your foot is a long sewing needle, except not a needle because there’s no ‘loop’ at the base in which to thread a filament. Yet not a nail as it is too thin and soft. Made of Electrum!
Random Person,
Clutching the doll as a child may grasp a comfort-blanket regardless of its soiled condition, you run.
Something stands out, barely noticeable through the fog.
A stairwell on the corner alley goes up. It's narrow, black stone, spiral. Perhaps it leads to a roof or vantage point.
The doll feels.... Did it sweat? No. My hand is wet from my sweat. And sweat is running down my face, getting in my eyes. I wipe them. The doll is in my hand. I wiped my eyes with the doll. I wiped my eyes with the other hand. I'm panting hard but now I can see. ?? A stairwell? A spiral stair. It leads up. Maybe to some place where I might spot the thing that chases me!
I run to the stairs. But, as I place a foot on it, I think. And I stop. How close is it? There weren't stairs on the other side. If it chases me up the stair I'm trapped!
No! I jump off of the step and continue down the alley. I'm running hard again. To the corner and turn left. Then to the next corner and turn right. The doll feels slippery but I switch it to my other hand and continue running. Is there a door? I need to hide! Where can I hide?
The figure had tried for the rooftops but it's impossible. It's back down again instead, and lancing white hot pain as they land. That leg. Useless now. No, gods no...
The cobblestone in hand is too heavy. Dead weight only. If it's a weapon it's a poor one, and in their heart of hearts, the runner knows they can't fight this. Escape lies only in speed. They drop the rock, letting it clatter dully away over the other cobblestones, and they run-- or limp. No more running, not on that ankle. But limping, as fast as possible, one hand on the walls for support.
Shivers. Gasp. Sputter.
"Cold Damp, Dark'ran through her head. A head that was clouded and throbbing.
She blinks and looks about, taking in the scenery, her body heaving from the grueling activity she put it through. It was coming through the fog and pain. A Chase, something was after her. Something dangerous? Enough to flee in abject terror.
Grumbaki's Character:
It is going to kill you. It knows only murder. Slaughter. Pain and Fear and certain death. Unavoidable as Old Age or Dragon's Breath. If it sees you, you will die.
Run
You turn corner after corner running. It may not be inside you but maybe it can hear your thoughts. Maybe it can sense your Soul. It is coming.
The alley you are running in has no more turns left or right. It is a straight line. The building left and right has no end. No windows; no doors. A straight line. Hopefully the fog will lessen and you'll soon see when the alley finally comes to an intersection.
It doesn't.
Something stabs your foot. You fly to the ground roll after roll as your forward momentum sommersaults you across the cobblestones.
Sticking out of the soft sole of your foot is a long sewing needle, except not a needle because there’s no ‘loop’ at the base in which to thread a filament. Yet not a nail as it is too thin and soft. Made of Electrum!
He gaped at the long needle. No, not a needle. A nail? Made of electrum? He laughed at the absurdity of it all. So much wealth, but it meant nothing. It could buy him nothing, because he was going to die. He was going to die a wealthy man, and he was going to die exactly the same as a poor one.
He ripped the needle out of his foot, the pain reminding him that he was still alive. Wealth? That meant nothing here. But if it caught him, then he could share the pain. Maybe it would remember him if he got even a single stab in. Fear gripped him again, his body flooding itself with enough chemicals to make him forget the pain.
He got to his feet and began to run again, this time clutching the needle. A door. A window. Nothing existed. But he had to find something. It had to exist. He had to keep moving. The fog had to give way to something, be it an entrance, an exit, or even a turn. It had too...right?
Critzible's Character:
You feel for a moment, just a moment, that you have put some distance between you an It.
The alley before you opens up and there is a small fountain -- dry, dead of water -- with what was once a statue at its centerpiece. The statue is destroyed. Only feet and the base of legs remain. The composition of the ruined statue-and-fountain is not bronze, not marble, some alien design.
There is something on the lip of the fountain. A finely crafted Ebony-Wood Chess game-piece of a Rook (castle like) the underside of with has a scratched-in image of a door. You'd rather just have fresh water from the fountain. But it is dry.
And it is getting closer again.
Aside from the way you came to this opening are four more alleyways leading through tall, unknown buildings in this completely unfamiliar city.
Perhaps when you choose which way to run, it will choose one of the other four in this 'Five-Points' intersection.
There is no discerning direction; you are lost. But quickly you arbitrarily associate each of the four cobblestone roads with a cardinal direction: north, east, south and west. You just need to pick one and run.
Flee
Grumbaki's character:
Finally after running something stands out in the fog. A small door in one of the buildings. You'd have to squeeze through it almost as, though the height matches your height, it is very narrow. A door made for a Pixie or a Goblin or a skinny Gnome.
You barely noticed it through the fog, only a draft parted the gray-yellow mist for a moment.
It is about thirty or forty feet away down the alleyway you just passed. You can run back ten feet, turn down that cobblestone road, and reach the little door of hope.
There is no hope.
Random Person:
A fleeting moment of confidence could almost curve the corner of your mouth to a wry smile -- avoiding the staiwell trap. But you're too out of breath to crack even the slightest smile.
How are these tall buildings standing?! There are no buttresses! Why don't they topple? They are endless!
Suddenly a windowsill emerges on the edge of your vision, sixty, eighty feet ahead. A large window you can barely see through the fog down this alley. Only the lip of the windowsill protrudes far enough out to notice, or you would have passed by without seeing it.
Dien's character:
You feel your ankle throbbing but it is numbed with the hollowness of your chest as you're out of air. Sucking in the oxygen, mouth agape.
Leaning on the building the pallid masonry feels unnatural.
Turning right along the right-angle of the building you move forward. Another right turn perhaps 120 steps past. Another right turn. And another.
You believe It is just behind the corner you just turned.
You must reach the next right turn before It reaches the corner and sees you. Another right turn. 120 feet to the next right turn. Hurry! You just barely make the next right turn before It turns the corner to see you.
The cobblestones have become pavement.
Your right hand supports your running frame as your left hand actually touches the towering building to your left. The paved alley is less than five feet wide. 120 more feet to turn right!
Approaching in haste the next turn you see the left wall also turn right -- there is no other way to go. You turn right. 120 feet ahead is another right turn, the building on your left four feet away. It is getting closer.
This is impossible! How did you get into a blind, narrow alley?! With no exit?
Run!
Grumbaki's character:
Finally after running something stands out in the fog. A small door in one of the buildings. You'd have to squeeze through it almost as, though the height matches your height, it is very narrow. A door made for a Pixie or a Goblin or a skinny Gnome.
You barely noticed it through the fog, only a draft parted the gray-yellow mist for a moment.
It is about thirty or forty feet away down the alleyway you just passed. You can run back ten feet, turn down that cobblestone road, and reach the little door of hope.
There is no hope.
This hole was not made for me. He though, glumly. But what options did he have? There was a limit to how far he could run. He would slow. He would tire. He would die. The door was not one of hope, it was one of split section decisions. With an injured foot, he knew that running was a losing proposition. Better to force his way through the door and towards whatever was within.
Maybe it was a “good” thing that it was a tight squeeze? Perhaps whatever chased him wouldn’t be able to get in. And if it did try, it would also taste his needle….
Grumbaki's character:
You squeeze through the short, narrow door. It is dark. A narrow, horizontal shaft. A light at the end of the tunnel. You crawl toward the light and bump into another small object. You can't make out its features in the darkness.
You exit the shaft at the other end and find yourself in another cobblestone alley. Identical to that from where you came. Hopefuly It can't crawl through the shaft; it was barely big enough for you and It is far taller. But very thin. Awkwardly thin and tall.
Three alleyways look to exit this cobblestone path.
But they are all dead ends.
Dead Ends.
Each of the three alleys end a mere thrity or thirty-five feet down. The cobblestone roads go nowhere. No doors on the buildings. No windows.
Just the tiny crawlway from which you came.
The object! What is the new object you found in the tunnel?!
Critzible's Character:
You feel for a moment, just a moment, that you have put some distance between you an It.
The alley before you opens up and there is a small fountain -- dry, dead of water -- with what was once a statue at its centerpiece. The statue is destroyed. Only feet and the base of legs remain. The composition of the ruined statue-and-fountain is not bronze, not marble, some alien design.
There is something on the lip of the fountain. A finely crafted Ebony-Wood Chess game-piece of a Rook (castle like) the underside of with has a scratched-in image of a door. You'd rather just have fresh water from the fountain. But it is dry.
And it is getting closer again.
Aside from the way you came to this opening are four more alleyways leading through tall, unknown buildings in this completely unfamiliar city.
Perhaps when you choose which way to run, it will choose one of the other four in this 'Five-Points' intersection.
There is no discerning direction; you are lost. But quickly you arbitrarily associate each of the four cobblestone roads with a cardinal direction: north, east, south and west. You just need to pick one and run.
Flee
She grabs the Rook. As she does, she then bolts going right. She would look for an alley or door. Something to pop into and see if she can get to the high ground and fly away?
Fly Away?
Why would she fly? She didn't have wings. She shook the thoughts away, as she does, she instead takes a course, moving to the east. Seeking to find a place to get higher and then execute a plan of escape.
Critzible's Character:
Rook in hand you run right -- East(?) -- and the sound of your footfalls on the cobblestone road echo off the towering buildings above. You wish you could fly, 'A leaf on the wind / Watch how you soar.' At the very least it would give your legs a rest as your arms would do the work.
The alley seems to go on forever. You look back to see if It has chosen the right direction or a different alley.
But It can smell you. It knows your scent. It is getting closer.
The fear is so palpable that you should at least try to fly.
But it would be of no use even if you could: The ceiling overhead is low. Less than ten feet from the floor. All around you, the floor, walls and ceiling are yellow-gray. A color reminiscient of something -- an outdoor fog that you vaguely remember. Regardless, you're in this odd warehouse or library now, with the low ceiling and narrow walls. A library with no bookshelves? -- FLEE!
You turn a corner, feet aching from running. Out of breath. Turn another corner.
You hear It behind you. The scraping of its movement is like fingernails on a schoolroom chalkboard.
Is this right? Were you just outside in a city? Impossible, no city looks like that with straight-up buildings.
Run!
Grumbaki's character:
You squeeze through the short, narrow door. It is dark. A narrow, horizontal shaft. A light at the end of the tunnel. You crawl toward the light and bump into another small object. You can't make out its features in the darkness.
You exit the shaft at the other end and find yourself in another cobblestone alley. Identical to that from where you came. Hopefuly It can't crawl through the shaft; it was barely big enough for you and It is far taller. But very thin. Awkwardly thin and tall.
Three alleyways look to exit this cobblestone path.
But they are all dead ends.
Dead Ends.
Each of the three alleys end a mere thrity or thirty-five feet down. The cobblestone roads go nowhere. No doors on the buildings. No windows.
Just the tiny crawlway from which you came.
The object! What is the new object you found in the tunnel?!
He groaned as he looked around, despair gripping his heart. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain in his foot was so intense. He took a tentative step and grimaced. He'd run if he had to. Using ne hand to steady himself against a wall, he thought about his options. That *thing* was going to come after him. It was going to crawl through there, and it would get through. And all he had was a needle. A needle to stab it. A needle to make it feel pain. A needle to give him the illusion of a chance. A..the...the object! He had found something in the tunnel! With his free hand he pulled it out...
Turning right along the right-angle of the building you move forward. Another right turn perhaps 120 steps past. Another right turn. And another....You must reach the next right turn before It reaches the corner and sees you. Another right turn. 120 feet to the next right turn...
...
Your right hand supports your running frame as your left hand actually touches the towering building to your left. The paved alley is less than five feet wide. 120 more feet to turn right!
Approaching in haste the next turn you see the left wall also turn right -- there is no other way to go. You turn right. 120 feet ahead is another right turn, the building on your left four feet away. It is getting closer.
This is impossible! How did you get into a blind, narrow alley?! With no exit?
The impossibility is in more than the blind alley. The fourth turn sends the faintest of alarms through the runner's mind, but panic is much too loud to hear it. The fifth turn though.... the sixth...
This is a square. A box. What?
And the walls are closing in. Literally. At first the far one was too far to reach, then touchable with fingertips, now full contact with palm.
The animal panic urges flee, flee, flee. The rational brain struggles back against it. For a ragged few seconds, the figure stops, their chest heaving for breath, their eyes darting wildly around the buildings. Their fingers have left a smudge of blood on the far wall. Is it the same wall they touched before? Are they going in circles?
None of this is possible. None of this... This is... a dream? A nightmare? No. It is much too real. No dream or nightmare has ever included the sensations so acute, so tangible. The sting in their knuckles and eyes, the tightness in the chest, the dizzy vertigo.
It isn't possible. It breaks the rules of the world. But it's real.
And all they can do is run. Down the ever-narrowing corridor, knowing with sick dread that this is a dead end as well, that the corridor will narrow and narrow until even turning around is impossible... and yet, standing still and waiting to die is equally impossible.
Grumbaki's Character:
Soft, almost malleable in his hand, while seemingly trapped in the blind alleyways, is a mere Beeswax candle, 4/5 remaining. An electrum needle in one hand, a used candle in the other. The size, it looks to have been a five-hour candle with approximately four hours remaining, should it be lit.
Standing in the cobblestone road you hear It -- tall, lanky, wrapped in tattered cloth bandages -- crawling and scrabbling through the narrow hole-between-buildings to reach you.
Dien's Character:
This can't be a dream; it's too real -- the shortness of breath, the exhaustion in your legs. But it can't be real!
Still running in circles, trying to stay ahead of The Tatterman, you briefly close your eyes screaming to yourself it has to be a dream!
I stop again, only for a moment leaning on the wall. Not too hard though. Don't want to knock a building over by leaning too hard.
That causes another pause. Could I actually knock a building over? Surely not! Unless I was really strong, and as big as the building. But I'm not.
It was good that I stopped. In the distance, almost hidden in the mist I see it. A window sill! There may be a way to enter a building! A place to hide!!!
I think I hear something? No. I 'feel' something getting closer. I sprint down the alley to the window sill. Can I see through it? Can I open it? I look around for something hard, to break it. What am I looking for? I used to know what things were.
I look at the doll in my hand. I know it is a doll. How do I know that? Why doesn't it have a face?
Doesn't matter! Can I open the window and get through it? I have to do it. I have to do it fast. Otherwise, it will catch me....
Grumbaki's Character:
Soft, almost malleable in his hand, while seemingly trapped in the blind alleyways, is a mere Beeswax candle, 4/5 remaining. An electrum needle in one hand, a used candle in the other. The size, it looks to have been a five-hour candle with approximately four hours remaining, should it be lit.
Standing in the cobblestone road you hear It -- tall, lanky, wrapped in tattered cloth bandages -- crawling and scrabbling through the narrow hole-between-buildings to reach you.
For a moment he froze up. Everywhere he looked was a dead end. There were no windows, no doors, no walls that he could climb. And even if there were, his foot was injured. Each step sent a sharp reminder that the best he could do was hobble, not run.
He had an electrum needle. It was thus an alloy of gold and silver...and he had a candle. The former *could* be used as an improvised weapon, but that was more about defiance than victory. It was valuable, but the material and the size made for very little practical use.
So he took the needle and he struck it against the cobblestone streets, repeatedly scraping it against it. He hoped and he prayed for a spark. Something which could light the candle.
Maybe this wasn't real? Maybe it was all in his head. Or maybe it was a test. Why else would he be in such a horrific place? Why else would he have found what he did? It was a test...or a lesson. A lesson in that something as valuable as electrum was only valuable because others thought it so. But at the end of the day, the rich and the poor alike died. And the candle? It was like faith. If unlit, it was powerless. But lighting it required sacrifice. The sacrifice of the valuable needle. He prayed as he struck the cobblestones, not caring if the needle bent or broke. He prayed for a spark. The smallest bit of light in the dark...
With the candle lit, he stood up as tall as he could. He stood before the opening, from which the awful, cloying darkness awaited. It was the only way in, and the only way out. And the *thing* was coming out. It was coming for him. Forcing his voice to be steady, he prayed. He did so devoutly, saying words that came from somewhere deep within. He could not remember where they came from, only that they felt right. Slowly his voice stopped trembling, as he forced himself to pray with his eyes open...if he was going to die, he wanted to face it. He wanted to see it coming. And he told himself, that he would have to continue to pray, even in the face of death. There was no other option. For even if he died now, as he was sure that he would, this was his only hope that his soul would be judged fairly.
The mind continues to rebel. Insisting that this is not reality, that it is not possible to make six right-angle turns in the same direction at the same intervals and not cross one's path again.... that buildings can't be built like this, it makes no sense...
It still seems much too real. The runner knows they cannot possibly go much further. Their heart will explode before they reach the dead end, perhaps. Quite possibly.
They stagger several more steps.
Random Person:
You run the sixty or so feet to the windowsill. An object is on the ground in front of the window. It's small. When you get about ten feet from the windowsill you can start to see -- there's no window inside of the large frame. Just a blank cobblestone wall. Surrounded by a large, meaningless windowsill.
...It's practically nothing, a few stones from a broken cobblestone brick, and a forearm-sized log of dried manure, twigs, and goat-hair made into a fire-log.
Grumbaki's Character:
"Maybe this wasn't real." Of course it is real. Illusins don't give morality lessons. Phantasms don't cause pain and exhaustion.
No sparks from the electrum. No flint for a fire.
Yellow-Black fog billows from the hole as The Tatterman arrives.
Inwardly you scream, "It's not real; it's not real!" as you hold aloft your electrum tack.
Dien's Character:
The Tatterman turns the corner, 125 feet away, as you fall and try to wake yourself up from what you feverishly and foolishly think is a mere nightmare. There's something on the ground at your feet. You had been running so hard in circles, blindly, that you hadn't noticed it the first couple times you passed it.
A small cowbell with the image of a goat-head artistically engraved upon it. Perhaps ringing it will wake you up.
It wasn't possible! But it was. It was possible, and it was there, right in front of him. A fake window? What kind of idiot?
He grabs a little piece of stone and throws it at the wall in the frame. He kicks the window sill. And again. He throws himself against the wall in the frame, then collapses to the ground.
Wait.... His breath is ragged, but slowed. Then he hears it. The thing. It's still coming for him. It's coming. Is it on the other side of the wall? The wall in the frame?
He holds his breath and listens....
Almonihah's Character:
Backtrack, then to the right. Hopefully it will keep chasing the forward trail not realizing you backtracked.
You turn right and flee.
'Why do all these alleys look the same?'
You backtrack again as fast as you dare to not run into it face on. You make another right. Twenty feet down is a dead end. A blind alley.
The yellow-gray fog is getting thicker. You can barely see the roofs of the masoned structures.
You turn to sprint away too quickly and fall down out of breath. Prone on the cobblestone road your lowered center of gravity helps you gasp in a huge breath.
On the ground only inches away is a Yellow ‘finger’ of chalk for drawing, very dirty yellow – hard almost as rock; smells of sulfur. It just lies there as if a child or street artist dropped it before coloring.
It is very close to you now. You must run!
He pants for a moment, grabbing at the chalk as much for the sake of having an excuse to stay here a moment as anything. Chalk. What was he to do with chalk? Should he leave marks? Was he going in circles? But then it would know where he'd been... but it always knew where he was, what did it matter?
Leaving, intentionally or not, a big yellow mark on the road as he pushed himself to his feet with the hand holding the chalk, he turns back and looks for another route to run, away from this dead end. He sniffs at the air as he does, wondering if he can catch a scent of what's pursuing him.
”No!” He yelled out. ”This. Isn’t. Real!” He hissed through clenched teeth, saying it to himself as much as the figure. Abandoning his attempt to light the candle he threw it with all of his might at the figure.
Random Person:
A wax doll encased in a porcelain shell and a fire-log of manure, twigs and goat hair. Sometimes one just has to pray to Desna for Luck, or to Pharasma for one's Soul.
You hear The Tatterman behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut, hold your breath and listen.
At first you feel the heat of your blood gushing over your back. Then the cold emptiness as your body loses the heat. Your eyes try to open for a moment but a yellow pall, a moist blur slowly closes them again.
Another dead body.
Almonihah's Character:
You smell sulfur and a hint of arsenic waft in the air as you rise and begin running again. Another direction. Another alley.
You have put some distance between yourself and The Tatterman. The cobblestone road looks different as you turn again and run.
Ahead is a mark in the street. Yellow.
It is the mark you left with the chalk when you picked yourself up. You have impossibly made your way back to this spot. You were disoriented and out of breath, but you know you did not make the turns that would bring you back here. Something's not right. Flee!
It is close to you again. It has caught up. You run. A different direction. Faster than before. Turn again. You have to get some more distance between you and It.
The cobblestone road slopes upward, a slight incline. Not steep but your shins burn in agony at the change in degree as your legs are so exhausted. Run
Ahead you can see something on the road.
It is yellow. The same mark you made with the chalk minutes ago. You're back where you started. There is also a smear of blood over your mark. A scrape as though The Tatterman smelled your scent and, stopping over the mark, wiped its own bloody talon over your mark.
You look back behind you hoping It has continued to go forward after you. The cobblestone road now slopes UP! Running backward would be running upward!
There is something else on the ground a few feet away. It was not here before. A hand-sized piece of broken slate or concrete plaster as though broken off from a stone structure.
The Tatterman is coming for you. It was here, going forward chasing you. But you ended up back here.
You must choose to flee forward -- or backward.
How...? How was he back here? What was going on? How did...?
No, he couldn't think... he couldn't think. Move. Which way?
Did it really even matter in the end?
...backward. The way he came wasn't the way he'd come from. Maybe... maybe it would help. Somehow. The slope would... he would manage the slope. Somehow.
He ignores the piece of slate.
A small cowbell with the image of a goat-head artistically engraved upon it. Perhaps ringing it will wake you up.
The cowbell is as surreal and impossible as anything else here. Doom is approaching, the rags of its tattered garb sounding like the fluttering wings of some carrion bird. Doom is approaching. Death is coming. There is still some distance to run...
But the figure stands still, staring dully at the cowbell, their brain still, stupidly, stubbornly, trying to make it all make sense. Why is there a cowbell ... here? In the middle of an alley, otherwise bare, no sign of market stalls or livestock passage. A cowbell. An inanity, a non sequitur.
None of it follows.
(Death is coming, run--)
Instead the figure slumps against the wall, sags down. They are too tired. They are too tired. They want to understand and nothing makes sense. Bloodied fingers reach for the bell. An attempted ring-- does it make sound, has it a clapper? Or is it as broken as everything else in this city?
Death comes closer. Step by step.
Every breath hurts and tastes of blood. The runner-- no longer a runner-- coughs weakly, trying to ring the bell. Come, then. You can hear me. Come finish me....
She pushed herself. The shoes are loose on her feet. The pants were a bit too tight, the shirt, well, was there. Why had she chosen said garments? They were not good for running or more.
She powered through and made her way further into this ruin. Strange ruin.City or Building she had to flee. Why she had to flee and from what is confusing. She continued on course.
'Keep moving, Keep Alive,
I hear him. He's behind the wall. I was trying to break through the wall....
Then, I hear him behind me. Right behind me. I hear him stop. And I feel. The doll in my hand falls to the ground. Why did I drop it?
I feel, and I bend over. I reach for the doll. I bend over more. My face hits the ground. It hurts.
I feel. Then I don't.
.
Your night terror ends and you awaken, naked (save a threadbare, soiled loincloth) on a table in a confined, stone room with bars.
The lock on your cell is tight.
Through the bars of your cell you see others, similarly locked in cells, across a rectangular room. Some are asleep, thrashing in a nightmare. A few are dead -- bloody pulps of gore.
One of the sleeping victims suddenly stops thrashing and breathing stops. Killed by the nightmare. Perhaps The Tatterman.
In the center room is a medical table with a barely breathing, naked patient. A glazed-eyed nurse, dumb and expressionless, uses a scalpel on the unconscious patient.
First she inarticulately slices away his ears. Then his fingers -- at each joint. Slowly she moves on to slice off his toes, nose, genitals, tongue, and nipples.
The nurse, dumbfounded and expressionless, deliberately puts each body part into a wide-brimmed jar of embalming formaldehyde. She seems oblivious to her fingers dipping into to the viscous fluid, dripping over the man's body as she resumes her surgery.
She inadvertently cuts herself but doesn't notice.
The patient briefly gains consciousness and whimpers, too dehydrated and injured to scream.
More people awaken in their cells.
.
.
.
As you come to consciousness, realize your near-nakedness and predicament, the terror of The Tatterman chasing you in your nightmare remains but is fading like, well, like a bad dream.
You are severly dehydrated. Malnourished and feel feverish. And trapped in your cell.
Oddly, you see whatever item you found in your nightmare inexplicably lying on the floor in your cell. It came with you through the dream!
Did The Tatterman, too?
Almonihah's Character:
You turn back, yellow chalk in hand and hope that going uphill the wrong way will will somehow be the right way in this madening situation.
The cobblestone road runs for minutes, the buildings left and right have no end -- they have become like walls rather than buildings, a city wall left and right offering no option to duck down an alley.
You hear the scraping on the cobblestones of The Tatterman behind you, tall, impossibly thin, coming deliberately and methodically toward you.
The yellow-gray fog is thick in the air -- you are relieved that you can't see more than about fifty feet behind you as that would meant The Tatterman may have you in his line of sight. But as distressing as that fact was relieving is the fact that you can only see about fifty feet ahead of you -- desperate for a corner to turn, a hiding spot to exploit.
The incline grows steeper. It feels that you are running up a near 45-degree angle!
The mist looks to part ahead of you as a draft of wind moves the fog.
All it reveals, sadly, is a dead end fifty feet ahead. The walls to your left and right have converged. The slate masonry extends past your vision.
The Tatterman is behind you. Twenty seconds? He can smell you.
Lemming's Character:
You haven’t been able to gasp for breath in minutes, it feels. Flee. Turn a corner. Jump back up in haste when you stumble down and scrap your knees and hands. Fly. Your feet are raw, nearly bloody from running. It’s right behind you! Breathlessly look for a hiding spot. No. It can smell you, can track your blood splatters. Flee faster. Turn another corner. That cold emptiness in your chest, from your blood rushing out of your pumping organ to your extremities way too fast to replenish itself, is overwhelming, freezing in your chest. You’ve gained some distance from it. Your heart is about to explode. It’s getting closer. Relentless. Flee.
You’re lost. The cobblestones of the alley are unfamiliar. The colorless masonry of the square, bland and uncompromising buildings towering over you, is alien. How did you get here. Flee. It is catching up. Urine and bowel evacuate down your legs, you think, but it was several minutes ago. Your wet legs have grown cold again. But you can’t run any longer. You can’t take a breath. Flee! The sky far overhead is a thin, yellow-gray fog. Where is this place?
There is no one else here. No noise. Only your gasping rasps, faster and briefer than earlier. Why is this city empty? Abandoned. You turn a corner and stumble again. Your elbow hits a cracked cobblestone and spits blood. You have exhausted your sweat by now. Get up. Flee. Ahead the alley closes in a dead end. It’s getting closer.
Beyond Exhausted. Wheezing. Flee.
Do you try to climb up a wall to an empty black window, twenty feet above?
Do you turn back and run left?
Do you turn back and run right?
It’s back behind you. You’re disoriented and dizzy.
Flee.
Critzible's PC/NPC:
Warehouse? Library with no books? Maze?!
It is getting closer. It is in the building already. You think you see Its shadow -- tall -- all the way to the ceiling, impossibly thin. The Tatterman.
You turn past another corner, left, then right, again. Everything looks the same. Every isle. Every corridor. You're wearing so much clothing, how many smocks? How many dresses under those smocks. A mantle, a cape, leggings. Twenty pounds of clothes. twenty-five pounds of finery.
Almost passing it runing so fast you see what looks to be a window down an isle to your left. If you can get out of the window maybe you can escape.
There is no escape!
To the right of the window a bookshelf free of books -- but something is on it.