"Come now, do not weep." I lay dying upon the stone floor, my hands held upon my stomach, where pain flooded through me, and held me aching, shaking, trembling at the sickening sensations that poured through my very being.

The voice that spoke belonged to a shadow, which oozed across the floor and drew towards me, slinking into the shape of a human, a dark skinned negroid from the darkest depths of africa. His teeth gleamed as he smiled down at me, and I shuddered, avoided staring into those eyes.

"Come now. There is no reason to weep. You did exactly like I hoped you would."

I gazed upon the dead cultists, over the great book of horrid things, and at the slowly resealing void, where great and terrible things clawed to get out, but could not, for the Elder Sign still stuck, having been painted in my blood upon the floor. I had been shot for my efforts, but they had failed another day. My attacker lay dead, wheezing a breath.

His hand took the consistancy of the umbral broth of pre-life, and his hand touched my brow, with a sickly, cloying hold, like mildew climbing upon wet glass. He touched me there, and the chill flowed through me.

"I will tell you a secret before you pass. Take heart in it, for you have kept your race alive for one more day." And he leaned down to whisper to my ear the secret, before I fell into the darkness of oblivion. I can say I did so gladly.