[Land of Nog] Hnrógh and his Books

Probably going to re-write this one later. It ended up really long-winded and dry
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   On my long journey, I had the fortune to spend a needful rest at a small inn. It went by the name of Thrûmonn's, though I could not, for the life of me, find any man named 'Thrûmonn', nor any indication that there had ever been one. The name simply was. The inn was located far into the Zygomish Highlands, at a cross roads, in the shadow of Mount Blemish, which stood as bone-gray monolith to the east. In my mind I was convinced that it was watching me, the mountain that is, as though it were some great barren skull looming in the distance. It was a relief to be indoors, out of its gaze.

   My time at the inn was that of mundanity-- inns, it seems, are all very nearly the same, no matter where one goes. And so, as there is very little of note to say about the experience, I will write on the matter in brevity. Perhaps the only article of note was my encounter with a foul-tempered beast of corpulent proportions and foul temperament.

   As I did not speak the tongue of these people (although the language of coin has so-far proven universal in most situations) I never was able to ascertain whether the beast was employed by the inn, or was a guest such as myself. Perhaps he was even the proprietor. (Through he was no 'Thrûmonn'-- he seemed to answer to the name 'Hnrógh', though, only when it was pronounced with care. I have a suspicion that this name bares a similar sound to a vulgar word in the language of this land's people)

   I will describe this beast for you, so that you, as I, can first experience his strange countenance before learning of his prickle-some mood. The inn had a large back lounge, which one could access by passing through a pair of heavy hanging curtains. The curtains were there, presumably, to contain the thick hazy air of the lounge, clouded by the scent of opium, hashish, and tobacco. However, the smell was not the first thing I noticed-- sitting right beside the door was Hnrógh, his large body impossible to ignore. He was easily as big around as a dinner table. He had no distinction between head and body- indeed, perhaps one could say that he was only a very large head. Around the base of his thick, pear-shaped mass were several bearded mouths, each one with a slightly different scowl. His graying beards were twisted and braided near their ends, adorned with small beads. Between the  cracked lips of his several mouths were held the pipe of a hookah- save for one mouth (which is the one he used to admonish me later).

   At my first glance, it seemed ot me that he was wearing above his mouths a thick glittering belt of gemstones. Only as I looked closer did I see that this belt was one of eyes, not jewels. Each eye seemed to be a different shade, though all were either blue or gray-- incidentally, the same color as his wrinkled flesh.. Above these multitudes of glassy eyes sprouted dozens of long, sinuous arms- or perhaps you would call the tentacles, like that of a sea creature. These limbs did different things each. Some would pick through baskets of dried meats placed nearby. Some would change out coals on the hookas. But many simply hung idly in the air, occasionally reaching down to turn the page on one of the many books that sat in a great circle around this beast. And he seemed to be reading all of the, all at once, as his eyes darted back and forth over the pages.

   It was my love of books that overcame my revulsion, and urged me to approach the hyper-literate monstrosity. I bashfully attempted to introduce myself to this creature. When I was ignored, I realized with embarrassment that the creature almost certainly did not speak my language. I tried instead to communicate through gestures, moving my arms about and pantomiming. When this too got me no-where, I considered that perhaps the creature could not see me. The books were not far from its eyes. Perhaps it was simply near-sighted and deaf. It was then, when I took a single step closer, that all the myriad of eyes turned to look directly at me. It was as though I had unknowingly crossed some sort of invisible barrier to its attention. Before I had a chance to speak, Hnrógh's single unoccupied mouth opened, and (in my own language, without a hint of an accent) said "Go away."

   Over the course of my stay at Thrûmonn's, I spent a great deal of time watching the beast-- from a small distance, of course. Never once did I see him move from his spot by the door. The staff would dutifully refill his baskets of dried meats, hookah, and skeins of wine. One morning, very early, it was only I and Hnrógh in the lounge (even then, he would still ignore me) and a young servant came in to bring a new basket of food. A stray pillow had fallen from the pile on which the creature sat, and the servant tripped, flinging the basket onto Hnrógh, and falling herself onto one of his books. Enraged, the beast snarled curses in a foreign tongue, and began to beat at the servant girl with several of his long arms until she fled sobbing.

   Occasionally, he would finish with a book, and set it in a stack near the pillar beside him, and retrieve a new book from a similar stack. In the evening, a servant would take away the finished books, and bring out several new ones. Each time they would speak to him, presumably to ascertain what he wished to read next (this is how I inferred his name, by the way). His responses were always as curt and brief as I assume he could manage. Curious one evening, I followed this servant in his retreat. He took the stack of literature down a narrow flight of stairs, and through a narrower hallway, which let out into an enormous library. The ceiling was low, but the rows of books stretched back far from the doorway I'd entered through. There were plush chairs set up here and there. I found my manservant in one of them, book in hand-- it seemed he had found this treasure before I-- in part, no doubt, because of my obsession with the beast above. I asked him then, as the thought occurred to me, why that dreadful, many-eyed monster didn't hide himself away down here, considering his love of books, and hatred of company.

The answer my manservant gave was quite apparent in hindsight: Hnrógh simply couldn't have fit through the narrow hallway or staircase.