Call of Cthulhu

Cold. No...freezing. My lungs! They feel coated with that ghastly smell...that smell...I know it. Of course I do. I've been beating these late night streets for at least ten years now. The smog of London...my home. No...not home. Not now anyway. My feet feel strange. What is this? Flowers. White lotus' maybe? No, white and red. Red splashes? I must smell them but the air...it's too thick. Something's wrong. My feet are wet but how? They're red! Am I bleeding? "No". Who was that? I see a light...a fuzz. A man...?

I know you! Gherman! My idle...but why are you here? Haha, I'd imagined a bit more of an appropriate setting.

Are...are you alright, sir? What are you doing? Please, I'm not threatening you! Put the weapon down!

AHH STOP! PLEASE NO!

W-why...?

Ugh, what's that smell? With a half cracked eyelid, caked in black from three day old mascara, my vision focuses on the foul-smelling culprit: a half eaten chicken leg I stole away from Carson's slapdash plater.

A crack of light dashed sharply against the age old shelves that decorate my bedroom wall, reveal specs of dust floating through the air as carelessly as they were made.

Carson's getting old, I thought, too harshly for my liking so I stirred myself awake. But what is this? It must be almost seven in the morning, did I sleep through the night? What a poor hunter I am.

Upon realization, my brain begins to buzz with fear or maybe anger over the violation of last night's nightmare.

Of course this must mean something. It has to. The only person, I suppose, I must consult is Gherman.

A muffled half shout to my family butler, "Carson!", distracted my overslept self from noticing the rush of action my physical body had made: grabbing the silk French gown, I threw it over my shoulders, neglectful to the "reputable status" this garment carried as my parents had put it the day it came into my possession.

Carson came in in quite a manor: tie slightly askew; a button poorly sewed to the Prince Albert waist coat my father bestowed upon him during Christmas of 1912; and an odd look of small pain that he attempted to twist out in an unusual grin.

"My lady." He bowed his head lowly, thankful to relieve the pressure on his fifty-eight year old back.

Sadly, I smiled, "Carson. You can always ask for help. I'm sure father wouldn't mind at all employing an under-butler for you to lean on-"

"No no, I'm quite alright. Now, Miss Edwards, how may I be of service?" he straightened proudly.

"Ready Traveller. I'm in an awful state, Carson, so please, you must hurry", I regretted my societal position during moments such as these. I love Carson dearly, he cannot take the life of a servant for a hunter. Which is clearly a heavy ordeal. However, the weight my mother and father held over me was similar to the pressure of a knife across my throat.

You are the daughter of a politician and a businessman! This is your life, Alice. Do not betray us. Do not follow the path of Christopher...you are our legacy, my child. Mother was always so dramatic about preserving the repute that the Edwards had inherited.

These echoes cannot deter me today. It is imperative for the academy to hear of my dream. After all, if I've learnt anything from the decade I spent there, dreams are never to be taken lightly. Especially hunters dreams.