Ok, this is my massively over-the-top response to this: viewtopic.php?f=4&t=947&st=0&sk=t&sd=a&start=750#p101688

It is a rather transparent tribute to H. P. Lovecraft, because he rules. Enjoy!

~ ~

Edited from the Journal of Nathaniel Berkham, M.A., F.R.S.

It was on my second geological expedition to the sun-baked South Sea islands in 1781 that I first encountered the uniquely loathsome tribespeople of Leisrue. Our trusty science vessel The Martlet had anchored off the western shore of an island of curiously rocky complexion, and I decided to make a rowing boat reconnaissance of the vicinity whilst the bulk of our crew made ready for the long sail to New South Wales, mapped by James Cook eleven years previously. I took with me a sharp-eyed ship hand by the name of Christopher Lamb; a young man who had shown great interest in my cartographic charts and multifarious rock samples; and also a weathered continental fellow named Jacques, who was sparing with words but tough as old rope and a good rower.
I remember vividly the craggy silhouette of that speck of island against the cloudless southern hemisphere sky as we bobbed closer and closer to its jutting coastline. Pockets of vegetation were quite apparent here and there even from a distance, but these seemed mostly stunted and less luscious than the Polynesian paradises which our long journey had previously encountered. An ominous peak punctuated the island at its centre, as though some mountainous horned being had begun its dreadful rise from the black billows of the surrounding ocean. As our boat scraped against the dark shingle of Leisrue’s western beach (for this became the island’s name), I recall a hesitancy to alight which had not tainted any of my earlier landings onto unknown shores. Something deep in my soul clung to the boat’s familiar world of oak and tar, and numbed feet usually eager to stride into new arenas of discovery. It was Master Lamb who made first footfall, and I put it down to embarrassment that I quickly followed my naïve companion onto that place of untold emptiness.
Jacques set about tethering the boat whilst Lamb and I tramped up an escarpment of grime-grey pebbles until reaching a ridge bristling with thin coastal grass. I remember the few traces of sand being of a remarkably coarse, pitch black nature, and I stashed my satchel with samples of this and other geological curiosities. We had just begun to approach a copse of limp and gnarled trees when an impact sent poor Master Lamb crashing to the ground. I turned swiftly to see a quivering shaft of bamboo driven deep into his left shoulder, fletched with greasy-looking black and red feathers. I barely had time to kneel to his aid before a blunt object to the head condemned me to the timeless black abyss of unconsciousness.

I awoke to the unmistakable sensation of being carried. What colour that ever dwelt on that God-forsaken island came leaking back into my vision as I regained awareness, only to find my limbs tightly bound and my body being bourn aloft by several bony hands of a humanity quite distinct from our own. Above me hung a leafy canopy of leering, malnourished branches, pierced by the weakening rays of the evening sun. I strained an aching neck to catch sight of my captors or what might have become of poor Christopher Lamb, but in the gloom I found the procession of which I was a part difficult to distinguish from the twisted tree trunks that swooped past in the shadows. Of Lamb there was no sign, and I soon fell into a delirious, death-like dream, the clutching fingers beneath ironically rocking me to sleep like the efforts of hideously warped cradle-maids.
The tremor of drum beats shook me from my hellish hallucinations and I found myself sitting with my back to the peculiarly warm wall of an expansive cave. The true dimensions of the place were impossible to gauge, as the light of a large fire sent crazed shadows slithering across the dripping stone. It was then that I first laid eyes on my insurmountably abhorrent foes. Dozens of the creatures lurched erratic courses around the raging flames in a bizarre jig of duality, some making the inferno spit and steam by hurling cups of water into the fire whilst others fed it with armfuls of brushwood. The frenzied troglodytes were garbed with very little, although their emaciated bodies appeared to be smeared with the same grimy sand which I had casually scooped at our landing point. Some individuals wore headpieces which can only be likened to the carcasses of ravens, with nasty black feathers swaying like carrion plumage to the morbid rhythm of the dance. Most bloodcurdling of all were the cruel weapons which many of the cave-men brandished as they whooped and cackled in the firelight: sword-like in form, but with barbed edges made by scores of what looked to be sharks’ teeth nimbly tied to a wooden frame. How I wished at that moment that my life could have been snuffed out with the merciful blast of a flintlock pistol. Above all, I remember that the grim cave echoed with a repeated, guttural chant that still haunts my every waking and sleeping hour: “Leisrue! Leisrue! Leisrue!”

* [see below]

As the odious ritual subsided, I was greeted by the horrific sight of a wretched form staggering through the smoky cavern. Christopher Lamb swayed on enfeebled legs, his body still impaled at the shoulder by the arrow shaft, but the lunatic’s babble that emanated from his frothing mouth suggested that he had long escaped any hope of revival. Perplexingly, Master Lamb seemed to be gibbering his newfound creed in a totally unknown dialect, proclaiming what sounded like the names of horrible foreign deities in syllables alien to the civilised world: “Ganttnag! Bannab! Lockkcol! Oboeeobo!”
Before long I was hauled to my feet and dragged behind the rancorous congregation as they led the unfortunate Lamb down a series of torch-lit, intestinal tunnels of ever heightening humidity. Just as the air became almost intolerably hot and acrid, our journey into those tartarean bowels halted at an enormous cavern, at the centre of which there bubbled and glowed a great pool of viscous magma. Whether the doomed Master Lamb had been fed some evil hallucinogen or was simply reeling from the delirium of an arrow wound I increasingly suspected to have been quickened by poison, the scene which presently unfolded is one whose horror I cannot expel from my mind. Without provocation the stricken ship hand danced and skipped dementedly towards the gaping lake of molten rock, his laughs mingling with screamed exaltations as he moved closer and closer to his sulphurous destiny. At last his tortured form was engulfed, and his very essence joined the undulating sea of hellfire with a splutter of black smoke.
My own screams of appeal had been useless of course, so enraptured was my afflicted companion by the noxious lure of Leisrue’s volcanic soul and its enthralled retinue of cave-dwelling underlings. In all probability I was to have been the second drug-induced victim of the lava cult’s irresistible calling that night, if that wily soul Jacques had not appeared at the mouth of the tunnel down which we had processed, finally making good on his efforts to track our capture, and no doubt guided by the echoing screams. The rugged Frenchman let off a shot of his pistol and cut my bonds in the ensuing confusion, after which we both fled up the tunnel in a desperate sprint for the main cave and then out into the night.
I know not when they got to him, but I was the only one to emerge onto the rocky mountainside of the volcanic fortress, with no sign of the gallant Jacques. With ash-choked lungs and fatigue burning throughout my battered body I stumbled down the slopes of the mountain and flailed wildly through the hideously oppressive tropical trees which throttled the peak from every side. I remain amazed that I managed to make my way west across that horrible unknown wilderness, and that I was able to crawl across the rock-strewn beach bloody and tearstained until reaching the rowing boat, still dutifully tethered as waves lapped serenely around its rough oaken hull.
As I madly rowed in the direction of the distant twinkle of The Martlet’s night lanterns, a mighty rumble shook the air. I raised eyes that had witnessed the horrors of ten lifetimes towards the shadowy summit of Leisrue to see a great explosion of fire and smog rent the midnight sky. The Volcanic Gods had been satiated, and now belched forth fathomless breaths of ash, fume and magma to engulf the island and its hideous tribesmen with a cathartic shroud of ashen oblivion.

Few of my shipmates believed my grim tale of course, and I was kept bolted away on suspicion of foul play for many weeks. In the gloomy cargo hold of The Martlet I re-lived the diabolical ordeal many times, and wept bitter tears for my innocent companions whose molten skeletons had surely helped to form a fresh layer of volcanic sediment on that loathsome island of black rock and death.
Many months later in England my family’s wealth and influence helped to clear my name in the courts, but my geological career was shattered. It was only after many weeks of listless moping in my London townhouse that I thought to take out the contents of my expedition satchel, which had miraculously stayed with me throughout my ill-fated travels. I placed the collection of strange rocks and sands onto a tabletop, and quickly became drawn to a small canister whose contents were grimly known to me before I opened it. I poured out the dark, sooty sand of Leisrue onto my trembling palm, and shuddered at the awful memories that the stuff invoked. Nonetheless, that night I had a curious dream of flames dancing to savage tom-tom rhythms beneath a gibbous moon, and awoke chanting that word of nightmares, again and again: “Leisrue! Leisrue!”
It was the following morning that I made the decision to apply for the next South Sea expedition I could find, sure as I now am that my fate lies within the warm embrace of that volcanic haven’s mountainous core. Be patient my Lords; I am coming.

~ ~

[* this is the exact point at which the door incident happened: viewtopic.php?f=4&t=3577 ]

Anyone that reads all of that will have earned my contempt.

I just thought you were drunk and couldn't spell Leisure. I will probably read it, as I don't care what Scotch Iain thinks of me.

Herzeleid wrote:I just thought you were drunk and couldn't spell Leisure. I will probably read it, as I don't care what Scotch Iain thinks of me.

Get a hair cut!

As if I'm reading all that. Gimme the jist.

I'm only reading that if you pay me.

Emma has a red ball. Emma likes her red ball. Do you like the red ball? The ball is red. [/Levification]

Ooo, I've read those. There's this brilliant one where Dick finds this ball, this big ball, this big red ball. It's amazing stuff.

I haven't read it yet,I've drunk a lot of rum,so I'll read it tomorrow,for two reasons;
1) It's Lovecraft related=brilliant
2) Apparently some drunk scotch loser doesn't like it=win

ribbons69 wrote:2) Apparently some drunk scotch loser doesn't like it=win

Get a haircut!

I don't have the foggiest what Lovecraft is; I merely pointed out that James's was one hell of a long post and that anyone who took the time to read it all would 'earn my contempt'. Furthermore, even I don't know whether or not I like Lovecraft because I don't know what it is. If you could handle your rum you may have noticed this but, alas, nae.

He should handle his rum like you handle his maw's gape you mean?

Metal Iain wrote:

ribbons69 wrote:2) Apparently some drunk scotch loser doesn't like it=win

I don't have the foggiest what Lovecraft is;

errr what, surely you've heard of H.P. Lovecraft?

Herzeleid wrote:He should handle his rum like you handle his maw's gape you mean?

Since when do you 'handle' gapes? You can't handle anything with your tongue. Besides, his mum is dead, you insensitive fuck.

Bangover wrote:

Metal Iain wrote:

ribbons69 wrote:2) Apparently some drunk scotch loser doesn't like it=win

I don't have the foggiest what Lovecraft is;

errr what, surely you've heard of H.P. Lovecraft?

No!

I had to use Wikipedia just there. I'm assuming we're talking about the writer, then. I've never really been into reading novels. I do read quite a lot these days now that I'm done with Uni but there's little on my 'to read' list asides Crime and Punishment that I would call a novel. I did mean to start reading War and Peace but I keep putting it off because I usually get Soviet History books at birthdays and Christmases.

Aaaanway, is he shite?

He is quite boss, never wrote novels just a load of short stories.