It had been a long day. The scent of half smoked cigars lingered in the stale air of the bedroom. A single poster adorned the pale walls; Van Gogh’s famous Starry Night did its best to clutter an otherwise empty wall space. Light from the moon trickled in through a crack in the blacked out window, but in the distance thunder and rain could be heard. This was the usual state of this city, or at least how he saw it, anyways.
Laying sprawled on the king sized matress was a rather scruffy, but fit, looking man still wearing black jeans over his greying and, albeit slightly ratty, boat shoes. His undershirt was only barely visible through the unbuttoned top of the green flannel that clung loosely to his chest. In the right pocket of his shirt was a clearly marked (and already opened) sleeve of Port Backwoods cigars and a bright red Zippo marked with the slogan, “Red Apple Cigarettes”. A marked sign of his taste in movies and pop culture.
Consciousness was just beginning to slip away, with Starry Night hanging in the corner of his sight. His eyelids dropped closed, too tired to prepare himself for bed properly.
A silent flash racked his eyes back open.
Torrential downpour forced his eyes shut as soon as he had opened them, soaking every bit of him in an instant. He was laying on cold and wet black rock, rain filling the cracks all around him, his room and bed long gone. Sitting up quickly, he wiped his face and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. He was outside alright, but not anywhere he recognized. All around him were sheer cliffs of black rock which shone like obsidian in the flashes of lightning that illuminated the otherwise pitch blackness that permeated the rain.
Standing to his feet, he could see directly in front of him was a steep staircase that had been crudely cut from the rock face. At the bottom was a very sturdy looking jetty accompanied by a large sailing ship, which curiously still had its sails unfurled. Furthermore, the ship and sails themselves did not seem horribly affected by the howling storm surrounding it. Turning to look around, he immediately stumbled backwards and almost down the stairs; for before him stood an impossibly massive lighthouse, if it could be called that. For it looked more like a circular skyscraper made of stark white rock, contrasting itself against the backdrop of the surroundings. Far off towards its peak, a magnificently bright light bespoke the purpose of such a structure, although its size was a whole different matter. No lighthouse in recorded history was even close to a quarter of this cyclopean monument’s size. And the light at the peak was not rotating, but instead appeared to be shining the same luminosity in all directions at once. Directly in front of him cut into the face of the structure was a large and sturdy looking double-door, which neither looked intimidating nor feeble.
Gathering himself and shaking the rain from his clothes, he jogged briskly to the entrance of the lighthouse, not knowing where else to go in this strange place. He had ruled out the possibility of it all being a dream when he had realized his cigars were soaked. Now he just needed answers. Reaching the doors, he saw that they stood close to fifteen feet tall, were made of a dark, waxed wood, and had large golden handles in the shape of rolled up scrolls, each bearing a faux wax seal of a lantern resting atop books set inside of a chevron. These doors themselves were rimmed with gold, atypical to standardized ports of this make.
Gripping the handle of the left door, he pulled gently and surprisingly the large door easily gave way. Warmth, a welcoming glow and a pleasant dusty smell greeted him as he stepped into the entrance of the lighthouse, noticing a large fireplace at the far end of the hall he had just emerged into out of the rain. Above the mantle was the same lantern chevron that he had noticed outside on the door handles, with the word “Thornmouth” written in very proud lettering above that. In front of the fireplace was a welcoming arrangement of cushions on a splay of very large bohemian looking rugs, reminding him of his state of tiredness he was still in from his day. On both sides of the room were sweeping staircases that circled the hall, ascending into the ceiling. These staircases were lined with strange bioluminescent rocks placed in sconces that gave off a warm white glow that was both enough lighting, but not blinding even when staring directly at them. Lines of bookshelves filled the majority of the gaps under the stairs, each full of many different sizes and kinds of books. The very base of the stairs had a curtained nook that had stacks of books piled haphazardly next to it.
Feeling drawn to the fireplace due to the state of his clothes (and more importantly cigars), he strode over. His care for who set this fire or made this place could be catered to later, but for now he had to avoid hypothermia. Upon drawing to the edge of the mantle, he could see a book with a scrap of paper on top of it sitting in the middle of the cushions. Feeling curious, he grabbed the scrap of paper and turned it over. He re-read it twice,
"Joe,
Welcome to Thornmouth!
Below is a copy of The Monarch Papers, which you should read while you dry off.
Stay warm, enjoy the book, and go introduce yourself to your guildmates when you’re ready!"
The note addressed him by name. This was either a very elaborate dream or a strange reality, but none of this felt threatening. Not even the storm outside. Feeling still quite wet, he sat down among the cushions by the fire, set his cigars closer to the heat to dry off, and grabbed the book that was under the note. Flipping to the first page he began to read, feeling quite safe despite the change of scenery.
Well, at least the journey has become a little easier since then.
I was immediately intrigued, and further perplexed upon opening, to find an invitation to a guild known as Thornmouth…