It was quite cold on the old beaten paths pocked with gaping potholes, all the way back to the small coastal town of, Dunkurt. The winds had picked up very recently, whipping Mr Glariks clothes violently about in the chilling breeze. He clenched his coat firm and wrapped it around as firm as possible. The moon was only half-full; giving an eerie sheen through the rigid forest pines that grew through the east banks, and down into the steep hillside gullies, garnering wicked spikes and sinister twirling shadows that danced to an unearthly rhythm.
Mr Glariks wasn't the type of man to go out into a potentially violent storm in the monsoonal seasons of the year. Yet, what is a man without his booze? He always had to trek quite far if he ever wanted a splash of alcohol, the nearest pub was two miles away.
He pushed his hand into his tightly wrapped trench coat and unveiled a small silver flask. Bleached walrus ivory adorned its lower half. It was splendidly crafted with the etchings of fishermen, fighting what seemed to be a sort of shark with hands and feet, splashing violently within the waves, relentlessly combating its opponents in the trickle of twilight. Glariks had found it while fishing one day at the old jetty. It just happened to float past from the craggy reefs, down the beach a few miles away. He would have had to believe; it was his most cherished possession his ever owned. He flicked the metallic lip off of the flask and took a deep, well drawn out swish of gin. Some lazily dribbled down his chin on the way down his neck. He quickly stopped and caught the stream with a damp sleaze.
A short but audible sound emanated from a chain of large ivy bushes. A distinct rustling sound could be heard, passing through the thick undergrowth. Suddenly it stopped, as soon as Glariks had noticed its presence. Glariks always knew about the different types of species of life that could live out near the coasts. Bears; possibly, deer; why not, they're bloody everywhere, and same goes for rabbits. But none ever made him feel like this before. A sort of feeling that made the hairs on the back of his neck; stand on their very ends, his very being shed into slithers. He'd stared down the nostrils of a three-ton grizzly before, and he still didn't feel like he was going to eject his bowels. This time it was different. It was if, something was staring right at him. Not at his face, but into his mind.
Glariks stared fixated on the last bush that had recently moved in the billowing winds. He crept closer with a curious but fearful composure. The moonlight didn't pay much advantage to his sight. As it was hindered by large overhanging pine branches. He'd quickly retrieved his old pig gutting knife from his small leather sheath on the side of his belt, and was prepared to gut whatever it may of been lurking deep in shadows. He quickly swung out with a flurry of stabs and slashing movements in a pre-emptive tactic, along with a quick burst of screaming moans; which may as well been, the curdling cries of a lunatic. Through thoroughly decimated undergrowth, there was nothing but an unearthly statue, staring blankly and unhinged into the moonlit path. Only a mason with a personality riding on the back wheels of insanity and obscurity would of ever considered, or even allowing this creation oozing out into reality. Its features were almost life-like though. The sheer extremity of details was amazing, even if it was ghoulish.
Strands of well chiselled tendons stretched over a long mesh of gnarled muscles and narrow stone bones, looping through and over a long craning neck connected loosely to a face that could of only resembled the face of skinned whale; with eyes that were nearly human in proportion sunk deeply into a portion of raised grey flesh either side of its maw, leading down from its lower waist was three major growths jarring out from its lower stomach and two from diagonally from its back, they dipped down to a sitting possession of large pincer legs and long needle like protrusions, cradling on a mould ridden sphere, Though, one of its most curious features though, was its granite hoop it held within its fleshy tendril like talons, outstretched horizontally; that had curious runes carved along its outward rim.
Glariks stared at the hoop for a mere moment, swearing he'd seen a shimmer as bright as a star pass across its circumference. He brushed it off and packed away his knife, then began to quickly stroll away as the faintest of rain mists settled in and drenched his face. As he was just around the bending corner of the slopes, the stone eyes of the never-moving sculpture, blinked through a sudden bolt of lightning, illuminating the seaside roads, towards Glariks hastened jog.
Down the road, but not much further than two hundred metres from Glariks location, was Dr Nummits clinic, if you'd call it a clinic that is. He was well stocked in medical supplies and the likes. Yet, he wasn't really a physician. Just some self taught fellow, who thought it would be a splendid idea to help those in need.
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