The dim glow of the street lamps, lit up by oil, casts an ominous light upon the city. The marble streets twist in and out at impossible angles, in a dreamlike spiral pattern. They are bustling with all-a-manner of eldritch-looking creatures. The Lake Hali lies motionless, saturated with ash to the point where I can, and frequently do, walk over it. They usually hold festivals on it when it freezes over during the winter, and I do enjoy watching my people hold festivals, such as the Festival of Scribes, to honour the storytellers of ages gone by, or the Festival of Swords, to commemorate the good soldiers we’ve lost to the cruel machinations of Man.
The frigid winds resonate through the spires, singing softly. It acts as a kindly lullaby of gratitude to me from the citizens of the city. My dear, sweet son, The King In Yellow, sits austerely on his throne. He leads the people in my stead, while I, Hastur the Shepherd-God, Bulwark of the Weak, watch over the city. His appearance is heralded by a small platoon of soldiers. Then the sound of his hushed footsteps, like slabs of lead falling upon veils of silk. I may be invisible, but he is very visible. His yellow robes drag silently behind him. His face, a smooth white mask-like thing, his eyes behind two holes in what could almost be porcelain. Sometimes, he sits motionless in the Palace, for weeks at a time, deep in thought. Though he loves the city as much as I do, I worry about him, as his melancholic mind and pessimistic personality can cloud his judgement at times. One day, I hope he’ll take my mantle and make a fine god of the city, leaving his own son, when I move onto the next world.
My Palace lies in the core of the city. A shining beacon of peace and hope. My Court is silent, the air cold with void-chilled frost. The walls have many engravings, detailing our rich history, though it has suffered damage from the brief periods of human rule. All are welcome, though a long waiting list stands between them and their ability to voice their concerns. My throne sits above it all, at the highest point of the tallest spire. It stares up at the deep abyss of space, and the abyss gazes back, with an impossible amount of bright, shimmering eyes. It is rough and spiked, representing the pain of immortality. I quite like it, though. The three suns would melt anyone who sits there, except for me. My temple lies just before the palace, hallowed ground. The halls within are smooth like eggshells, black as knives and emptier than hate. The altar lies in a chamber, in the centre of the temple. The people come, to worship and to celebrate, under my watchful gaze. Even now, a family celebrates the birth of their child by leaving offerings of prayer and wine to me. Though I have no use for them, it feels nice to be appreciated. Farther above, the Hyades watch, gleaming down from an otherwise lightless sky.
In the far distance is the Sea of Graves. Oh, the Sea of Graves, where Carcosa buries her dead. The children sit at the edges of the sea, releasing little paper boats, with gifts to ancestors, long gone. I go there to pay my highest respects to Gurgan, my predecessor, who lies in a tomb built by my many hands, itself placed upon a boat sent out into that sea. The air smells of peppermint and brimstone, materials used in the rituals of Man. I see silvery fires alight in the distance. I sigh, and turn back to my city. She is brighter than the stars above, more vast than the madness of the Daemon Sultan. And yet . . . are these. . . tears running down my face? It’s been so long since I’ve seen something to make me cry. The city, it’s so beautiful. Every spire. Every street. Every soul. So precious.
I truly wish I could share it with them. And to think, they attack her constantly. Killing, pillaging, slaving, trying to torture and hurt her citizens. My citizens! They could be so happy, if only they’d stop to listen! I know that, to them, that my people are incomprehensible to look at and they speak in a tongue that no man can understand, but they are loyal. Adoring. Kind, even. They are far from insane beasts like men have assumed, they have scholars, soldiers and luminaries in their ranks. They have created a rich, wonderful culture to be proud of. They are Carcosan.
They are my people.
