Bite Size Mythos

Rota Harrenga

The Rota Harrenga. Once a story used to scare the little ones from the wild rivers and deep lakes. Now, I know better.

It was a night just like any other, the fisherfolk and children gathered by the fire for stories and song. That night, we had a guest, Tarkis, the fur trapper. Tarkis was a regular at our fires, loved by the village. For a trapper, he was kind, gentle, and so full of stories. A little strange for he is well versed in the unknown, but we trusted him. That night, he told us of Rota Harrenga.

Old wife tales describe the beast as not quite a man, standing taller than any of us, with a head long like a horse but a muzzle of sharpened teeth. They tell of the colourful scales that could blind or mesmerize a man and how the Rota Harrenga lurk amongst the shallow waters waiting for a prey, in particularly, little boys or girls. They stalk them through the reeds, not making a sound or splash, and at the right time, pounce on their prey and dash their heads open with a rock. With a gruesome tongue, the Rota Harrenga then drink deep. Once full of blood and dreams, the Rota Harrenga will then lay an egg and retreat with the body into a cave deep in the woods. Under the next new moon, a new Rota Harrenga comes forth.

Tarkis' story spoke of one such meeting. Of a hunter who came too close to a lake on a moonless night and was stolen away by a Rota Harrenga. While everyone else enjoyed it, there was something in the telling that didn't felt right. Something haunted his eye that told me, it was not a mere story. Tarkis then sang a song, or chanted, or something. It was a language none of us knew. But he is a knower of things and knew of ways we didn't. It was not a pleasant song. Harsh, painful to hear. It cracked his voice and hushed the night sounds. He was in pain in that screeching sound. When it finally ended, Tarkis quickly left the fire and set off, not staying for the night. Unsettled, we returned to our homes, not speaking about what happened. That night, that first night, was the start. What restless and horrifying dreams we had that night! More than once we were awoken by someone screaming or shouting in the night. And when sleep takes us, it was like hot fat worms crawling blindly behind our eyes. I still feel them now. They never left.

That was the last we saw of Tarkis.

A week later, Burap's youngest disappeared near the river. We scoured the land and river for the boy but all we had left was his tattered clothes and strips of bloody skin. Burap was inconsolable and vowed to hunt down the creature, whatever it was. It was then that someone spoke that accursed name: Rota Harrenga.

It was the third night that Burap was camping out with Ay and Gurtak. I decided to join them for I feared the man's health. His eyes were bloodshot, and he barely ate or drank. Our elder worried that the beast had claimed his soul in a different way. She never knew how right she was.

The moon was sliver in a cloudy sky. Burap refused to light a fire for he was on the hunt. And just as sleep was about to claim me, we heard the song. The same song that Tarkis sang, yet, it was guttural and throaty yet high pitch like a whine. I can't explain this well, but the four of us, the hunters, started singing that damn accursed song too. I didn't know the words yet I sang it. I didn't know what I was singing yet it came unbidden, unwanted. And those worms. They grew so hot! Like coals! And how they crawled and wiggle! The pain was something I have never felt!

Burap was the first to charge the source of the voice. When we got to him, his spear had flown true, embedding deep within the chest of a small Rota Harrenga. It looked exactly like what the stories tell. Long limbed, oily scales and a long, horse like head, mouth full of sharp teeth. Except those stories never spoke of the eyes. They never said how human the eyes were. Or that those very eyes, were the eyes of Burap's youngest.

The small thing cried in pain, coughed up black sticky blood and wheeze out one word. One word.

"Papa".

Burap screamed and thrashed into the water. Watching a father lose a child was unbearable. Watching a father realized he killed his child, I have no words for that. Ay and Gurtak waddled into the water to restrain Burap. But it was then that the damn moon showed its face. If it hadn't I would not have seen what was happening to Burap. I would not have seen how his skin was peeling off in wet bloody strips, showing the oily scales beneath. Or how his face, moaning in grief and despair, was lengthening like melted wax into that not unlike the dead thing at his feet. That face! It was not a horse, but it can't be a man! That can't be Burap! Ay and Gurtak too started shrieking in pain and agony – the curse had taken them. I could only run in fear and terror. I should not have looked back but I did. Where once one small Rota Harrenga lied, now three of those things writhed in pain and madness above the first small corpse. My friends, my dear friends became those monsters.

I sang the song that night. We all sang that accursed song that night. I cannot go to the waters anymore. I dare not. I have not heard the song for many years now. My old village is now nothing but ruins and charred earth. Some people have gone in to burn the cursed place to the ground. They now call it Carn Rota Harrenga, the grave of the Rota Harrenga. How many hunters took up the swords and torch to march on the small fishing village alongside a river? Too many. Far too many. And too many in the village was put to the torch. For every one of them sang that song. Some became the monsters, some did not.

But everyone in the village heard my song. The song of the Rota Harrenga.

-----------------

Background

Legends tell of the Rota Harrenga as a monster that roams the waterways and hunts people. It has a very short lifespan - less than a month, and hence if left alone, the threat would die out by itself. They seem to prefer the moonless, dark nights. But that's the surface of it.

The Rota Harrenga is a song virus, a malevolent intelligence that invades and breeds in the mind of its hearers. Perhaps it was a potent spell brought to life, or an alien form plucked from another plane of existence. It feeds on dreams and thoughts, gestating within their host for days before the virus transforms the host into the equine-head monster of legends. The trigger for this transformation is exposure to a substantial body of freshwater - river, lake, moat. If the trigger is not encountered, the virus can persist until the host's natural death. In this state, the virus remains in its reproductive state, and the host may unwittingly and unwillingly burst into song and story to infect others around him...

----

This little brainstorm activity was written in response to a forum member request for Mythos-like creatures to insert into his fantasy game. The moment I heard of the vague physical description, I immediately thought of the Catoblepas, an Ethiopian legendary monster that is known to kill with a stare or has a poisonous breath.

From there, I need to had to write a story.

http://www.yog-sothoth.com/topic/30144-advice-wanted-completely-new-mythos-monster/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catoblepas