The Pen is Mightier: Literate Roles for Literate folx

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Haïta the Slave

Status: Open
Genre: sword and sorcery, Cthulhu Mythos
My Character: Male
Your Character: Female/ Mulitple

The character of Haïta in this prompt is inspired Haïta the Shepherd by Ambrose Bierce and the broader Cthulhu Mythos.

Haïta was a simple shepherd who lived his life sheltered within a valley of the Arcadian Mountains. Haïta did not know that the mountains that sheltered him from storms were called the Arcadian Mountains by the lowlanders who lived in the plain beyond the two hills that marked the mouth of his valley. All that he did know about the world he had learned from the hermit who resided at the head of his valley, who had taught him about that capricious maiden known as Happiness and the force of nature called death that took sheep from the flock that Haïta tended from time to time and left them to rot in the hills. When storms came and Haïta took shelter beneath the rocks of the mountains he would pray to his god, Hastur, to protect the people of the plain below that had did not have mountains to protect them, nor sheep to huddle with for warmth. The hermit had told him of these cities and had told him of how the name of Hastur, the god of shepherds, was not uttered there and his sign was not painted for them to see.

In his naivete Haïta asssumed that this was because there were no shepherd's or hermits in the plains for them to learn of so powerful of a god from. Once he had considered taking his flock out of the valley to the city on the plains so that they may have some sheep for themselves. But if he did that then there would be no one to feed the hermit or keep him company.



Instead, it was the people of the city who came to his valley, riding upon animals that looked like sheep without wool and that stood as tall as he was at the shoulder. These riders came to his valley wearing clothes the color of blood, shouting and hollering as they charged through the underbrush, chasing the dryads and naiads who would gather to listen to him playing on his reed pipe. They struck at them with rods made out of wood, threw their nets over their heads or wrapped lassos around their limbs and necks, hauling them into a cage with bars made of wood. Haïta had shouted at them, waving his arms and asking them why they were hurting his friends, but they only laughed at them in a speech that Haïta could barely understand, before striking him over the head with a rod and dragging him by the ankle into the cage with the other slaves.

Satisfied with their haul the slave catchers laughed and joked as they led the wagon back towards the mouth of the valley, heedless of the hermit they had cursed to starve or the flock of sheep they had scattered. Haïta lay on the wooden floor of the cage, crying at the pain in his head, still in his state he listened to his assailants speak, often repeating two words that would soon mean so much to him. "Carcosa" and "Demhe." At that time Haïta did not know of the city of Carcosa or the lake-sea Demhe upon whose shores it rested. He did not know what a 'slave' was that he had now become. But he would learn. He would learn many things in his servitude and he would become many things. Field hand. Gladiator. Rebel. Prophet. King.

These slave catchers did not know it, but they had just brought the wrath of the King in Yellow down upon the city of Carcosa.

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Red Blood, Red Hood

Status: Open
Genre: Horror
Potential Kinks: Monster fucking,
My Character: A New werewolf trapped in his monstrous form
Your Character: A content creator or someone investigating the woods

The ranchers say that there is something living up in those hills. They talk about it at the bottom of their bottles at the bar and strip club. Debating whether it was some kind of pack of coywolves or maybe a grizzly come down from Canada. One drunk even suggested that it was a boar. All that they could truly agree on was that not even the more seasoned ranchers were chasing a stray cow or sheep up into those hills at night. It was cheaper and safer to go looking for the carcass in the morning. Find it with its belly slit from end to end. All its innards torn out. Bobby Keenan had tried to go looking last month. They still had not found him, but his horse floated down the river absent a head.

Some folks, the ones who did not handle livestock for a living, were saying that it was some kind of cryptid. Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Skinwalker. Slender Man. Whatever it was, they insisted that it was not a natural creature doing all of this harm and raising all of this Cain. Conspiracy theorists talking about government experiments and cover-ups. Whatever the case, there was one conclusion that simply could not be avoided. No one in the town was brave enough to go looking up in those mountains to see exactly what it was living up there.