The Demon Lurking
The demon lurks in the dark, ready to pounce, to consume, to feast … but I am not certain if I speak of another or of myself. - Llachmora
Bubshur sat on the edge of vast expanse of desert, a town that served as a portal for trade from across the shifting sands; once thought of as a haven, there was a haunting in the eyes of the those still living there, a tightness in the facial muscles that spoke of a people cowed by nightmares, either coming from the desert or from the depths of their own insecurities.
Real or imagined, it was a piece of all that the young woman had once called home.
Her clothes, a patchwork blouse and long skirt, ragged and torn in places, bespoke of her lack of finances, but those who would think ill of her held their tongues for fear of that which hung casually across her back – a great two-handed axe. The blade was notched from many battles, and there were dark reddish-brown stains stubbornly clinging to deep grooves in the metal. It was obvious the blade was well used, and the eyes of the woman confirmed that she was the one that had used it. There was strength there, but something else, perhaps a madness, or maybe it was a hunger – one could easily be mistaken for the other, but whatever it was called it was not of the world the Stygian people would willingly tread. They avoided her gaze, when possible … all save one man, huddled in the shade of a tent near the edge of town.
He mumbled on and on, torment underscoring his words. She was drawn to him for some inexplicable reason. She could hear the words, and she understood the near madness that compelled them to find verbal expression.
The old man merely looked at her, disbelieving her attempts of compassion.
“Madness? What do you know of madness?” the old man, Betarmes, said. “Voices call me down to join them in black depths. I dream of dark abysses, where tentacled horrors writhe in foul ecstasy to the beating of some otherworldly drum. The Lurker in the Dark waits for me.”
“Lurker?” she asked.
“It is an old tale, older than Bubshur itself,” the man spit out, apparently lucidity quelling the madness within him for a moment. “A strange cult made their home here, performing rituals so blasphemous that it would strike you dead to hear of them. Eventually the cult disappeared, swept away by Set’s priesthood. But the thing that they worshipped … it still resides here. The Lurker.”
