The Father’s City

by Anthony V.

Somewhere in the unfathomable pristine depths of the Pacific lies an aeon dead city that sleeps in eternal darkness. The ancient architecture of this forgotten city lies deep within an underwater valley that, long ago, was warmed by the sun’s golden rays. In such times, long ago, the white marble would glisten in such light, while the smell of orchids from the many great gardens drifted though the air.

A river once flowed here, and great bridges were constructed to cross the serene but vast expanse of water. The sound of the running water was accompanied by the songs of archaic birds who soared through the cloudless blue sky on wings of fantastic colors, and by the faint piping of flutes emanating from a distant temple that sat upon a hill near the city’s center. The piping would grow loud sometimes, and increase in pitch until all other sounds would bow down in silence before the daemonic sound of the flutes.

But that was long ago. Now, the once white marble is encrusted with mud, and many of the buildings that once stood in spender now crumbled in decadence at the mercy of the ocean. No longer does light touch the marble, nor the scent of orchids loft about.

The river no longer flowed as it did in the olden days. It is now a empty gorge carved into the sea floor. The lone temple that sat on the hill is choked with seaweed and the mire of the ocean...nothing is left that used to be, only darkness.

It is in this eon-damned city where the father resides in solitude, away from his many followers that are the Deep Ones. He swims here, abhorrent and silent amongst the muddy cyclopean monoliths and buildings of an elder age.

He swims through the desolate streets, the barren gardens, up the hill, and slithers into the immense temple, where the blasphemous silence of te deep is broken by the whining of shrill, monotonous flutes once again.