Eve of the Gods--NaNo 2011-12 Prep

October 16: Setting #2 Story *CONTEST*

Step forth, reader, and take your life into your hands. It is dangerous here in the depths of this place, this factory of dreams-turned-nightmare, where the mind of a punished soul is tortured unto madness. But you wish to see it, do you not? It is a House of Horror, a roadside attraction, a place to willingly feel the stench of fear in your nostrils, to in turn offer that selfsame fear to the gods for their enjoyment. It is, ultimately, a brief interlude into the deranged imaginings of a ravaged soul.

But, my dear reader, this is no illusion. And the danger is real. Because there is much that you cannot see, that you cannot hear or smell or even taste. Perhaps, if you are lucky, or unlucky, you can feel the danger resonant in the air, palpable as the blood thrumming in your veins, rich and ripe for the taking. Because you are mortal, my dear reader, and the man behind this factory of loathing and despair, is more.

It appears as nothing more than a small factory, mainly offices decorated in beige and other shades unoffensive to the human psyche. Perhaps there are pictures of oceans or fields, a few of those motivational posters. Above all, there are pictures of great destinations, of places so beautiful and so inspiring that your soul weeps. And it weeps precisely because you are not there; you are stuck in this place, this dreary English nation and its blustery days that leech the warmth from your marrow and freeze your spirit within you.

This is precisely the point. You are meant to wish for escape, to part with your money in the hope of great adventure. And with every trip, with every dig to the far reaches of the world, you are furthering his goal. Welcome to Conrad Amtiage Inc., where your dreams of adventure can come true. Where you can bring the world to a horrifying close.

They keep it smelling of adventure, though you don't know it. The scent of a mountain top, piled high with snow, or a desert breeze passing through the rarest of oases. A dirty street in Bangkok, rich and indolent with spices, foul with the stench of too many human bodies. There is just a hint of incense here, perhaps to dredge up images of saffron-clad monks collecting alms as they have done for centuries, millennia even. And all around, without you knowing, there is the scent of adrenaline, the pumping of a beating heart as it races in excitement and anticipation.

It is there because you reek of it, reader. It drips off of you, mingling with the sound of your breath, the feeling, though you cannot recognize it, of your pupils dilating in what your body is now tricked into believing is arousal. Perhaps it is. I am not you, reader, and cannot tell you what you may find arousing. But the endlessness of adventure, what our intrepid businessman-not-man can offer you, it is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Do you hear that sound, my beloved reader? It is the music of far away. It is the sound of precisely where you want to go. Perhaps it is merely a sound system, a series of wires and speakers piping the music of the world throughout the building. One may hear sitars, or perhaps a bagpipe, if that is your wish. Conrad Amitage is here to give you exactly what you want, because you are giving him precisely what he needs.

The world.

He is searching for something, is our immortal mortal man. And it is the taste in your tongue, the taste of longing, that will lead him to his goal. Check, dear reader. Feel that tingling along the edges of your taste buds? This means you have already lost and he has already won.

So come forth into Conrad Amitage's House of Horrors, dear reader, and get everything your soul has ever wanted. But don't say I didn't warn you.