The RPG Blog Carnival is an idea to get groups of bloggers to all writing about a monthly topic, the aim being to build a dialogue across many different blogs, providing different viewpoints and ideas to the viewer. The way it works is that a blog discussing a monthly topic will post the RPG Carnival Logo and will link back to the ‘hosters’ post.
This month the topic is Spooky Spots; this actually the third one of these i’ve done – links to the others are given below:
Spooky Spot 1 : Rose Corner – http://wh40krpg.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/rpg-blog-carnival-october-2013-spooky.html
Spooky Spot 2 : Noises in the Pipes – http://wh40krpg.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/rpg-blog-carnival-october-2013-spooky_9.html
The Mist at the End of the World
This entry is inspired by a facebook post made by Lorraine McKee prompted by the very foggy mornings we are experiencing at present in the United Kingdom and the following photo that accompanied the post (used with permission).
What if one morning you looked out of your window and all you could see was a hazy mass of dull grey vapour hanging in the air? A thick fog, the thickest you’ve seen in a while, veils almost all of the rest of the world from sight, muffling sounds and lending the air a biting chill. Normally the comforting outlines of buildings and larger man-made structures can be seen, providing you with at least some assurance that you are still part of the world that you know, and that out there, behind the shroud of the fog, life continues as normal, as it always has.
However this morning the fog is so thick that not even nearby buildings can be glimpsed and the shapes that can be dimly glimpsed through the haze appear strange and provide little comfort, the noise of pedestrians and passing traffic is completely absent and an eerie silence, like you were the only one alive in the world, hangs over the scene. Occasionally the quiet is broken everso briefly by a strange echo, an odd clicking or strange roar like that of a strong wing, but the sounds are alien and provide only brief respite as the silence washes in after them, becoming all the more noticable for their passing. Normally at about this time the refuse collectors or street cleaners would be busying themselves, chugging up and down the street in their vehicles, their clanking and bustling mixing with the huffing and puffing of the newspaper delivery man on his rounds as the first sounds that wait you from sleep; however, this morning none of these sounds comfort you and your alarm doesn’t seem to have woken you either. Glancing across at your bedside table you grab hold of your alarm, but the LCD display is blank and unexpressive, feeling isolated and alone you shout out just to reassure yourself that you still have a voice and your shout sounds ragged, all too quickly fading away and being engulfed by the silence and the mist.
Running through the house you try first the television and the lights, none of them seem to work, the rational part of your brain tells you that it is no doubt just a power cut, but deep down inside you feels as though another connection between yourself and the outside world has been cut, isolating your once comfortable home and making it a lonely island amidst the sea of swirling grey outside; then, as you peer out of the window, straining to catch a glimpse of another human in the fog, one of the large, strange, cyclopean shapes begins to move.