Respect your Eldritch

It was late afternoon when Alma finally reached the entrance to the dilapidated, old building. The daylight was slowly fading, as the sun was now close to setting. On the wall near the door hung a sign that read Nemeth's Pub and Grub. The snow on the ground had been swept away by the constant opening and closing of the musty, brown door. Its wood had been chipping in various areas from past brawls, where rowdy troublemakers were often forcibly removed from the establishment by being thrown against it. As Alma passed through the entrance, the warm, musty air, accompanied by the smell of stale beer hit her face. A sensation that was almost comforting to her. She took her usual spot at the stool by the bar.

The bartender, Olney Fogdog—known famously as Old Fogdog—had already prepared the homecoming pint for the young ex-soldier. He was a rough-and-tumble adventurer with an array of heroic accomplishments and piercing blue eyes.

Alma enjoyed the fact that her sister was such an enabler when it came to drinking and even happier that the pub had become like a second home to her.

"'Hey Alma, heard about your premature discharge," the man sitting beside her had said with a wink. He was wearing a thick, leather jacket with comfortable looking fleece lining the insides.

She let out a loud, drawn-out groan.

"How the fuck does everyone know already?!" she shouted. Alma was growing more despondent by the minute.

"You know how fast word of anything spreads around this pub, Alma," the man spoke while proudly raising his glass of beer. "That young guard at the gate must've had a panic attack when he heard you didn't come back that night. He was causing quite a stir around here yesterday, asking if we'd seen you."

Alma rolled her eyes at him. If not for the drink numbing any sense of regret, she would have already exited the pub.

He smiled before suddenly looking around cautiously.

"Wait, your sister ain't here, is she? I hardly ever see you two apart."

"She's not my keeper, Ash," replied Alma. "These days, she'll just stay home and drink a bottle of wine or two. Says it helps keep the ‘maddening visions’ at bay."

She cocked her head.

"Still not sure whether she's joking about that or not."

"So where did you toddle off to yesterday? Must’ve been something good to make you ditch duty like that. Or did your wits finally get the better of you and make you turn tail?"

"I wasn't trying to ditch and I definitely wasn’t scared," she said, eyes furrowed. "Someone needed my help and I ended up losing track of time. That's all."

She looked away, taking a sip from her drink.

"'Well, I hope it was worth it."

"Doesn't matter."

She nursed her glass for a bit, lost in thought.

“Listen,” she said. “Since you’re here, there’s something kind of weird I wanted to ask you about.”

“Aw, Alma,” he groaned. “Enough with the fantasies. What? You find some ‘mysterious tracks’ off the beaten path again? It’s like this with you every week.”

“Hey,” she stammered. “I am not crazy.”

“Certainly could have fooled me.”

“I really did see those giant footprints!” She retorted, before continuing to nurse her drink meekly. “If we had only spent a few more nights out there, I just know I would have that thing’s head mounted up on The Wall.”

The Wall that she was referring to was a massive trophy board lining the area above the pub’s bar where the heads of various dangerous beasts were lined up, all with terrifying looks in their now dead eyes.

“A few more nights? We were lost from the get-go and neither of us had the good sense to bring any damn grub to eat. You hear a lot of far-fetched stories in dreary pubs like this, but yours always seem to take the cake!”

“Will you just answer one damn, simple question?”

“What? What is this burning question of yours?”

“Have you heard of somethi— someone called Derleth?”

“No. You just come up with that one?” He heaved a sigh. ”Figured as much. Only shows up at night, right?”

"Fine, here’s another question: How's scum life been treating you?"

They continued like this for some time—berating each other with the usual banter typically found among friends she’d made at the pub. Jokesters and clowns attempting to show each other up with constant tales of their childish exploits. Even the ones she found to be the biggest assholes always found a way to burrow into her heart with at least one deep-seated layer of altruism.

Some nights, she thought she’d never leave the pub.

Alma smirked. "Besides, I don't need my sister here to stop me from going home with you."

"Easy, woman. I ain't sleezy enough to take advantage of someone in such a gloomy state. Drown it in booze all you like, but I know you’re still reeling over that suspension." He pulled a few bills from his pocket and set them down. "That’d be too much work for me anyway. You come find me when you've fixed yourself up though, then I'll show you a good time."

He laughed as he walked out the door.

"Ass-wipe!" she yelled, after a few seconds of trying to come up with a good response and hoping it would reach his ears in time.

The man she so casually insulted went by the name of Ashton. He was above average in the looks department, according to Alma. A rugged, young man with shaggy, black hair who was about the same age as her sister. He had first tried to hit on her when she was new to the pub scene, but Alma's sister—in her typical way—had easily been able to keep his sleezy advances at bay. His smooth talking had amassed him some popularity among the other regulars at Nemeth's, so it didn't take long for his charm to win over Alma's friendship—even when it wasn't so readily apparent.

"I was starting to worry when you didn't stop by for your daily pint," the bartender said to her.

Alma chugged down the last of her beer.

"Why, Fog, you make it sound as if I have a problem," she snorted. Chuckling listlessly, she stared at the foam dregs sitting at the bottom of her empty glass.

Alma!

The cry of a familiar voice. Alma looked around, before spotting two recognizable figures sitting at a table near the back. Excusing herself, she walked over cautiously.

"How long have you two been sitting here?"

"Since before you came in," responded Hwalín smugly.

"Yes,” added Qu'l-Nia. “I would have called out to you sooner, but Hwalín informed me not to interrupt you in the middle of your courtship ritual.”

Alma felt her cheeks flush. She wasn't sure whether that was the alcohol or not.

"Please don't teach her strange things," she said to Hwalín.

"Gonna have to forgive us, mate. We'd have tried searching for a different pub if we knew you used this one to troll for hapless blokes.”

“I’d rather be banned from the service for life than date that guy,” she groaned then pointed at Qu’l-Nia. “And quit giving her the wrong idea.”

Alma glanced over at Qu’l-Nia. In front of her was a plate of uneaten fries while on Hwalín’s side of the table there sat three empty glasses.

“I didn’t think you ate food,” Alma said to the eldritch girl.

“I do not, but Hwalín has expressed to me her concerns that simply not ordering anything at a pub would draw some suspicions.” She shuffled around in her seat. “My true idea of food is a bit more complex.”

“Apparently it’s quite a sight!” Hwalín said, laughing. “Way she described it scared even me.”

“She unhinges her jaw?” Alma slapped the side of her head in feigned astonishment.

Qu’l-Nia let out a stiff, mechanical-sounding laugh.

Alma, despite joking around, still felt a bit of antipathy for the woman known as Qu’l-Nia. Her noticeably forced laughter and mannerisms only further reinforced the notion that she wasn’t exactly quite human. Alma wondered how she had even been able to navigate this world before meeting up with Hwalín.

“Give her the rundown, Nia.” The Hecatian snapped her fingers.

“Very well,” she replied, nodding. Qu’l-Nia lowered her voice to a whisper. “While in this body, the sustenance I require normally comes simply from the act of being observed. That observation is processed through tiny tendrils on the end of my hair.”

She grasped a few strands between her fingers.

“If I go unseen for too long, I begin to lose my shape and my presence in this reality fractures. Therefore,” she continued, raising a finger and turning to Hwalín, “it would be quite disastrous if I am left alone for too long.”

“No, no,” mumbled Hwalín. “Tell her what ya told me. About how you really sustain yourself.”

“Ah,” Qu’l-Nia frowned. “You refer to when I am not in the guise of a human form. That is a lot more difficult to explain. I do not think this is the appropriate venue for it. Besides, I do not believe even you fully understood it.”

Hwalín scratched her head.

“It’s fine,” Alma said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the first thing you were saying. Sounds really fascinating but you can tell me the rest later.”

“Sorry, Alma,” smiled Hwalín. “I can be a bit sadistic sometimes. I was lookin’ forward to seeing your brain melt.”

Alma motioned over to a nearby waitress and had her bring the trio a couple of drinks. The waitress—who was normally very chatty—did her job swiftly and silently before leaving. Having been told by Fogdog to watch her mouth around the recently disgraced Alma.

“That was… weird,” mumbled Alma. She parked herself across from the other two girls, turned to Hwalín, who was already halfway through her beer, and asked, “So, what brings you two to my very specific neck of the woods?”

“We’re still asking around about—”

“She was worried about you,” Qu’l-Nia interrupted, causing Hwalín to grumble to herself. “She felt guilty about losing your firearm and insisted on compensating you somehow. I, too, feel equally responsible for getting you involved in our little predicament.”

“Oh, how very sweet of her. But I didn’t think you were able to feel much of anything.”

“My kind bears a plethora of responsibility far beyond your comprehension,” she stated calmly. “It is an immeasurable concept that is constantly imprinting itself into our minds.”

“Nothing gets to you, does it?”

“Why would it?” The strange woman smiled.

Alma was a bit disgusted at the alien girl’s carefree attitude.

“You sure are a brave one, talkin’ to your elders like that.” Hwalín grabbed and began to drink the spiced ale that had been served to Qu’l-Nia. Something that would have gone to waste otherwise. “If you’re lookin’ to get reduced to ash, don’t bother.”

She took a long swig before speaking again.

“Only thing this girl takes seriously is her mission, and even that’s up for debate.”