The Chorrol Community Contest 2013 Entry Thread Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Voting is now closed. Do not send me more votes, you peons.

First of all, to make this as obvious as possible:

DO NOT POST IN THIS THREAD!! AT ALL!

Thank you

Now, I'm posting all of the stories up anonymously, and will be taking votes for the next two weeks. Since everyone found the whole timezone thing confusing, to make it as simple as possible voting closes the moment your day becomes the 19th of April. Send your votes to me via PM, and I'll keep a running tally up here.

Also, as I was going for a final shortlist of five stories, I've decided that as only six were entered in the end, I'm posting up all six of them as it just seems like a bit of a dick move to leave one person's entry out in the cold.


Winstad Manor votes: 3
Ang Anghel at ang Demonio votes: 2
A Question of Guilt votes: 2
The Tenth Divine votes: 2
Absolution votes: 2

Good luck to all contestants!

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 20 2013, 07:27 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Entry 1

WINDSTAD MANOR

Entering Rorikstead from the south in the late afternoon, the peace is shattered almost instantly. Ahead of me are two girls in the midst of an argument, defiant body language aggressively facing one another.

"You're going to get it, Sissel!"

"Why? What did I do?"

"I told you to weed the garden by sunset, and you didn't..."

The girl speaking the words abruptly stops as she catches sight of me, her squabble with the other girl she was speaking to temporarily forgotten. Sisters. Same bone structure, same pug noses. The similarity is striking, only a variation in hair colour and clothing. Without turning my head, I take a closer look at the clothing, trying to ascertain what is bothering me. The belts, I realise. Tied too tightly, in an attempt to provide shape, and hide the fact that the dresses are far too large and ill fitting. Two inquisitive little faces study me with undisguised curiosity as I walk on, the slight squint of the eyes, noses wrinkling, the heads tilting in unison, as if carefully synchronised. I pretend not to notice, gripping the long handles of the wooden cart I pull behind me tightly. A superfluous gesture, seeing as I have strapped a harness around me that connects to the cart, but it makes me feel less self-conscious and gives my hands something to do.

"Is that a boat on the cart?" One of them says.

"Be quiet Britte, he might hear us."

"But why is he pulling a boat?"

"Britte!"

A farmer in the midst of harvesting cabbages in the field to the left, pauses in his work, walks over to a ramshackle wooden fence, and leans against it watching. He wears cheap clothes, torn and stained and a bushy, unkempt moustache that obscures half his weathered leathery face. I wonder if he is about to say something, but no words emerge. Instead, he pretends to stare to where I have just come from, though the prickle of heat in my neck suggests his eyes never stop following me.

Ahead two Hold guards are patrolling the hamlet.

A warm flush spreads across my cheeks and I study the ground ahead intensely.

Don't stop me. Don't stop me, I think over and over. Why did I not hire a horse? It would have been less conspicuous. Maybe. What if they think I am carrying war contraband? That is what they thought of that Jester they arrested outside Whiterun, that turned out to be a coffin and the crazy fool went on a killing spree.

As I reach them, they step off to the side to let me past, their arms folded, bodies still. Their faces completely covered by the helms they wear, stopping me from seeing their expressions. The helms have always disconcerted me. Gaps cut for the eyes and mouth and an iron spike sticking straight up to the heavens. The effect is alien and intimidating. Should I look across and smile? Alternatively, that might draw attention, which is the last thing I want. Instead, I settle for keeping my eyes on the road, as if watching for stray rocks or uneven ground.

I walk on.

It is a nice afternoon, just a gentle breeze blowing through the long, withered grass on each side of the road, causing it to sway, the sun's warmth making the stonewalls and thatched roofs of the houses look warm and inviting. Any other time I would be thinking it looks a nice place to live.

Any other time.

* * * * *

Outside the settlement, I pass between two rocky outcrops, jagged edges looming over the road casting shadows that cross and form patterns of no discernible form, past trees with dead branches and no leaves. Ahead the road drops sharply downhill. I pause at the top and look down, trying to decide how difficult it will be to keep the cart under control. I have no other options, so I take a deep breath, grasp the handles firmly and set off, keeping my legs bent slightly to take the strain.

Halfway down I pause and look carefully around. A cart, similar in design but smaller than the one I pull, sits in the middle of the road, an empty chest upon it. Lying around the cart are multiple dead bodies, stripped of all clothing and belongings. From the bodies, a mix of male and female, Orc and Nord, pools of blood dribble down the path, thick at the top and thinning as they descend. Who or what ever killed these people is not far ahead of me. I glance up at the sky. An hour or so until it starts to get dark. Down the road, off to the right I can see water, a river or fast moving stream, the sun glinting reflections off its surface. I set off again, cautiously, my eyes glancing from side to side, ears straining for suspicious sounds. My pace is slower, the descent steeper, and I can start to feel the muscles in my legs burn with the effort. Breathing through my mouth, I press on, with one final wary backward glance at the bodies and cart.

* * * * *

I reach the bottom of the slope exhausted. Dusk begins to fall, the final rays of sunlight disappearing behind ominously dark looking clouds. Hoping it does not start to rain, I pull the cart off the road, behind a large boulder and down a gentle grassy embankment, toward the stream I saw earlier, and proceed to set up camp for the night.

Grimacing, I peel off my shoes, annoyed with myself that I rushed out unprepared. What was I thinking? Pleated shoes are not suitable for hard walking, not that I thought it through. Rash action very rarely is as effective as a well-planned endeavour, and this I acknowledge ruefully, was rash. Everything about my outfit is wrong. Whilst silk pants and a brocade shirt might be elegant in the city, perhaps even rakish, out here it just looks overly flamboyant and tacky, and the material has gained a few disturbing sweat stains and rips. The skin on my feet feels tender, warm to the touch, especially at the front just below the toes. I sit down, bend my knee and twist my right front toward me. The skin does not look good, red and raw. The shoes I hit firmly against the ground, heel first and then shake out, to remove any dirt or debris, and then hobble the few feet to the stream. With a sharp intake of breath at the cold, I plunge both feet into the water, and let them soak.

When I can stand the cold no more, I gingerly walk over to the cart, stepping on the heels as I go, and look through the belongings I thought to bring with mounting dismay. No medical supplies, no potions of cure disease or restore health, no bandages. I carefully avoid knocking the rugs covering up the small boat, and reach to my designing supplies which I have tied to the cart to the side of the boat. Plans, measuring instruments, sketchbooks. I pause, then tear out two pages from the largest sketchbook, fold and shape them, and put them into each shoe as padding.

I do not dare start a fire in case it draws attention; either from animals or whatever killed those people back up the hill, so I eat a cold meal of braided bread washed down with water. When I finish eating, I lie on my back, put my hands behind my head and look up. Stars play their teasing game of hide and seek behind the clouds that drift across the sky, a sky that oozes green and purple auras. I drift off to exhausted sleep amidst the flickering glow of Lunar Moths and the sounds of the stream rushing over rocks.

* * * * *

I wake early to a muted grey landscape and walk the short distance to the stream. Mindful of the blisters, I determine to be more careful, and wash accordingly. The reflection I see in the stream disturbs me, a fleshier face than I recall stares back, a monument to years of soft living and comforts. My hair looks lank and greasy, unruly straggles falling over my eyes. If the Imperial girl I hire to come style my hair each week could see me now, I think ruefully, she would be horrified. I carefully take the necklace off that I wear round my neck, a gift from a woman I was married to long ago, and place it on top of the pile of my clothes. Naked, I climb back into the stream and duck my head under the water, and then scrape my hair back with my fingernails into a long ponytail. Very different from the teased look I usually favour, but I do admire how the water has darkened it slightly, adding shades to the spreading grey.

* * * * *

The stream I camped by joins into a river. The day is overcast and dreary, though no rain falls yet. I pause at the start of a stone bridge that crosses over the wide river, and look ahead with trepidation. A raised embankment is to the right, and high, grey rocks to the left. Across this gorge is a raised wooden platform and rope bridge, underneath which heavy boulders are scattered on the ground. I walk ahead slowly, the muscles in my arms and chest tense as I pull the cart carefully behind, avoiding the obstacles.

My eyes stare, unblinkingly at the sight. Bodies neatly lined up against the embankment, naked body after naked body. Some sliced, some missing limbs, one scalped, one with legs crushed. Arranged in a tableau of horror, like those plays where no one speaks and the audience feels stupid trying to decipher the meaning, of which I have always been fairly convinced there is none, and I am being subtly mocked. Why arrange them like this? Was it perhaps to make it easier to collect their weapons, armour and anything else valuable? I shake my head; this land never ceases to amaze me. I kneel down by the nearest body, and sniff. There is no smell of decay yet, no insects swarming. I take a closer look at the faces. Old scars, crudely drawn tattoos, hard, weathered skin. Bandits, I presume. Did they run into an Imperial patrol, I wonder, perhaps a rival gang? A Khajiit trader I met back in Whiterun described Skyrim as a cold, hard land. Looking at the bodies now, pitiful in their nakedness, I find it hard to disagree. Perhaps this is what we have all become, scavengers, living moment to moment, day to day.

* * * * *

The rain begins. Black clouds race overhead, rumbles of thunder sound like they're coming from every direction at once, the landscape looks grey and devoid of life. The rain is relentless and unforgiving, soaking my clothes and stinging my eyes. I bow my head, and trudge on, seeking shelter that is not there.

Wiping the rain out of my eyes for what seems like the hundredth time, I see a shape up ahead, not moving, and hurry towards it. A dead horse lies on the ground, with a carriage behind it. A large carriage, I notice with excitement, with large wheels, high enough that I can climb under it. I quickly check the area, but visibility is poor, and the rain and thunder are making such a noise I can hear nothing. I can only hope that anything else that may be nearby has also had their senses impaired to the same extent. I walk around the back of the carriage, rolled up rugs lie in the rear, now soaked by the rain. I pull the harness off me as quickly as I can, my cold wet fingers struggling to undo the clasps, then crouch down, climb under the carriage and squat there, protected from the rain.

The face of the corpse startles me, and I cover my mouth quickly, the bitter taste in my mouth threatening to become overwhelming. An elderly Redguard woman, glassy eyes staring straight ahead, straight at me. I pause, then lean forward, grab the nearest arm, and pull the soaking corpse under the carriage with me, cold to the touch, eyes still staring nowhere. She is fully clothed still, rough garments and a cheap hat. With a hollow feeling in my stomach, I realise what is troubling me. Unlike the bandits earlier, nothing has gone. The horse not been flayed for meat, the clothes not taken and the rugs are still in the back. It seems senseless, and I find myself wondering if the killing itself has become the motivation?

* * * * *

When the rain stops, I leave the carriage, refasten the harness to me, and pull the cart back onto the road, following the path-curving round to the right. As morning progresses the terrain starts to change and the sun comes out. Trees here are a vibrant green and have plentiful leaves. A dog barks loudly near a shack I can see off the road, but does not come near me. Even the stone road seems friendlier in the sunlight.

* * * * *

A short distance ahead of me I see the figure of a man slouched against the trunk of a tree. I walk nearer, and he raises his hand in greeting.

"Hello there, fellow traveller. One itinerant minstrel and wandering wastrel, at your service. What brings you out on the trail today?"

"I'm travelling to Morthal," I reply, looking at him carefully, taking in his deeply tanned weathered skin, scruffy facial hair and eyes that seem to be finding amusement in something.

"Morthal, our destinations are the same I see." A wide toothy smile slowly spreads, lightening his face and knocking years off him, and he leans towards me. " You mind if I travel with you a while then?"

"No, not at all."

"My thanks. So what brings you this way then?" he asks. I smile politely. His eyes watch me for a second, and he laughs. "Me first then. Well, I heard tell of a Bard in the tavern there, an Orc, my colleagues say he's supposed to be the worst in all of Skyrim, I had to see with my own eyes."

"You're a Bard?" I ask.

"That I am my friend, that I am. Talsgar's the name, though most call me Talsgar the Wanderer, on account of my wandering nature. You are?"

"Lasska," I say. "Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine. Just Lasska? Not many Nords I know that weren't given a nickname that stuck at some point or other."

"You're right. Lasska the Designer. Not the most original I'm afraid."

"Ah, I've heard that name many a time," he says, and nods his head to me. "Seen much of your work I might add as I've travelled the road."

"You're too kind."

"Well, it's not every day I meet a celebrity. You won that award a short while back, from High King Torygg, may he rest in peace. The Services to Skyrim award. For bringing, what was it now, I heard the song when I was in Solitude last."

I grimace. "For bringing beauty to Skyrim's rugged landscape, I think it was."

"That was it, beauty to the rugged landscape," he observes my discomfort. "Nothing to be embarrassed about you know. You heard the song about you? It was quite poetic, I must admit."

"No, not yet."

"Ah, well, you must ask to hear it the next time you visit Lisette in The Winking Skeever, she was quite proud of it, and I'm sure would love the chance to perform it to her inspiration."

"I'll be sure to do that."

We walk on in companionable silence. A large fort stands off the side of the road, and figures are visible on its walls. Without speaking, we veer away and give it as wide a berth as possible. Few signs of life are on the road itself, foxes and deer that view our arrival with interest, before scampering off into the woods. The journey feels peaceful. The sun illuminates the frozen snow and ice on the hills above us, bright and brilliant.

"You heard any news on your travels?" Talsgar asks.

"No, I've only been on the road a short time. You?"

"Only what happened in Whiterun."

"Oh?" I turn my head to him, my pulse and heart beating rapidly. "What did happen in Whiterun?"

"You haven't heard? The new Thane of Whiterun killed the notorious bandit, Hajvarr Iron- Hand, in White River Watch."

"Oh, that," I reply, and look away to the road ahead. "Yes, I did hear about that."

"Ah, but did you hear what happened after?" Talsgar grins with pleasure when I shake my head no. "The Whiterun guards had brought the bodies of the bandits back to the city, Jarl Balgruuf had been thinking of displaying them I believe to show the townsfolk that they were safe. Anyway, before they could be displayed, someone broke into where they were being stored, and stole the body of Iron-Hand. From right under the noses of the guards."

I glance away, and then look back, my mouth dry. "Why would someone steal the body of a bandit?"

"Exactly, that's what got everyone talking. The latest theory, or the last one I heard anyway, was that some members of his gang survived, and were going to use necromantic rites to bring him back from the dead."

"Necromantic rites?" I say with a smile. "Embarrassing at any rate."

"For the Jarl? Oh aye, very. But it gives us lonely travellers something to discuss on the road now doesn't it?" Talsgar turns around his head, and looks at the cart I pull. "Forgive my inquisitiveness, but would that be a boat back there tied to the cart?"

"It would, yes," I reply, my attempt at calmness sounding forced to my ears. "I'm looking at a plot of land, right on the coast. The fishing is supposed to be excellent."

"Combine a little business with pleasure, eh?" he laughs and winks at me. He turns his head and looks at the cart once again. "Would it not have been easier to use a horse to pull your cart?"

"It would have been, yes. If I wasn't terrified of them. Bad experience in my younger days, I don't go near them," I look him in the eyes, and sense the questions he is not asking. Questions I do not want him to ask. Hurriedly, I continue. "Besides, this isn't as difficult as it looks. The wheels take a lot of the strain, and I designed the cart to carry my equipment, so it's balanced to my height and weight. Common in other parts of the Empire, where horses can't travel so well, that's what gave me the idea in the first place."

"Well I'll be." His face shows what looks like doubt to me, but he says no more. Ahead we can see a fork in the road leading down to the left. "Coming up to Morthal from the looks of it. If we bump in to each other again, you'll have to let me know what that fishing was like. Aye, there's nothing like it. The lapping of the waves, the pull on the bait, the cold wind bracing on your face. Makes you feel alive."

"Very poetic," I reply with a small smile.

"Well, I am a Bard. Comes with the territory, eh?"

* * * * *

We stop at the crossroads. To the left, the path heads down to Morthal, winding down between two large stone rocks. From where we stand at the top of the hill, I can see all the way to Solitude, the large castle there perched atop the rocky peninsula. I bid Talsgar farewell, telling him I want to have a drink and a bite to eat before heading down. His eyebrows arch slightly and he does not move for a brief second, but then his shoulders shrug and he sets off with a wave.

When he is out of sight, I look around me carefully. I cannot afford to take the cart into Morthal itself, as I will have to leave it outside Highmoon Hall, and the last thing I want is some nosy resident peeking inside. To my right are a cluster of trees, dense with snow covered leaves, and I pull the cart over to them, and pull it behind. I pull several shrubs from the ground, covering the cart as best I can, then pull a branch off one of the trees and walk backwards, brushing the snowy ground with the branch to obscure both my footprints and the carts tracks. When I stand back on the road, I throw the branch deep into the undergrowth, and study where the cart is, feeling satisfied that it is safe, then I head down the pass to Morthal itself.

Long wooden walkways stretch across the water Morthal lies upon, leading to wooden houses with thatched roofs like Rorikstead, bland and generic. Highmoon Hall though I approve of. A clever design, I think, as I admire the subtle symmetry of the building, the clear lines, and the layers providing the illusion of size. A house I would have been proud to design myself.

My hand holds the necklace around my neck gently, rubbing it, as though I am seeking help or guidance from some obscure enchantment. Walking towards the hall entrance is the Jarl's daughter, Idgrod the Younger, who I have met several times in Whiterun as she seeks help for some ailment her brother suffers from, what I am unsure as I always thought it impolite to ask. With a smile fixed on my face, I walk toward her.

* * * * *

"Lasska the Designer," says Jarl Ravencrone. She looks at me with interest, keen eyes peering out from under severely plucked eyebrows, as if trying to see my thoughts. Her eyes fascinate me, dark eyes that seem to switch colour between black and brown depending on her mood. She is sprawled in her chair, the regal manner of speaking and distinguished black hair with specks of grey at odds with her posture, legs spread in a most undignified position. "The last time I saw you was at your awards banquet in Solitude."

"I do hope you didn't find my speech too interminably boring," I say, bowing my head to her slightly.

"Nonsense, it was a lovely evening. And a reminder of happier times. Now, my daughter said you wished to ask me my permission for something?"

"Yes, Jarl Ravencrone," I reply, straightening my back. My left hand twitches, and I rapidly put both arms behind my back and clasp my hands together, hoping I look suitably formal. "I'd like your permission to build a house here in Hjaalmarch. Well, rebuild to be more precise. The house that Alfhed Windstad built."

"Why?" she asks."That house has been a ruin since the incident, going back twenty years now."

"I know," I reply, looking around the room. It is spacious, not warm or cosy, I note disapprovingly, but ornate in a formal way. The centrepiece of the room is a huge open log fire built into the floor, there is a row of mounted mudcrabs on the wall behind the Jarl and animal heads of various types mounted high on the walls, their dead eyes staring down on me in judgement. Everything gleams. The cleaners that work for the Jarl are certainly dedicated. Although I still believe that better use could be made of the space. Idiot, I think, and I pinch the nail of my index finger sharply to my thumb. Focus; do not let your mind wander, not now. "It's a little embarrassing Jarl Ravencrone," I answer. I try to keep eye contact with her, but I can feel my face flush. "It was at the awards banquet. I had a few hours before the meal, and I was shown Windstad's original plans that he'd filed. It reminded me," I pause, and take a deep breath. "It reminded me of that time. We were competitors back then. I would win an award, he would win an award. I'll be honest, at the time I didn't always appreciate the competition. I suppose we all want to believe we're the best at what we do."

"I can understand that."

"When I saw the original plans though, I had a realisation. That competition, which had so annoyed me, had also driven me. My best work was in fact because of that competition. The two designs, for which I'm best known, Heljarchen Hall and Lakeview Manor, were actually specifically designed in response to designs of his."

"Really?" she says. "I didn't realise that."

"Since Windstad's tragic," I pause, my mouth dry. My tongue rolls around the inside of my mouth in an attempt to replace the saliva. "Incident, as you said twenty odd years ago, without that competition. Well. My work never reached that level again. And here I was, about to be honoured for work I knew had fallen in quality, and I had his design in my hand. I never saw the house, but I could feel what he'd been trying to achieve, and I had the thought that if I could complete his vision, if I could feel that competitive urge one more time. That perhaps it could be the point at which I fall in love once again with what I do."

She looks at me, leans forward and favours me with a slow deliberate examination. One of her fingers taps against the arm of her chair, and I stare at it fascinated. Tap, tap. She leans back. Tap, tap. Her mouth opens. Tap, tap. Time seems to stretch longer than I thought was possible. "Is that true? I would like to believe it."

"Jarl Ravencrone?"

"I don't suppose it matters," she replies with a sigh. "I won't deny that the ruin is an eyesore, as well as a bad memory. Yes, Lasska, you have my permission to rebuild the house, although I'm not sure who will live there. Unless of course you were planning?"

"No, Jarl Ravencrone," I say, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat off my brow, but unwilling to bring my hands out from behind my back, as they now seem to be suffering from involuntary spasms. "I'm quite settled in Whiterun. Perhaps it could go to one of your Thanes?"

"Perhaps," she answers. "That can be decided later. In the meantime, yes, you have my blessing."

I exhale quietly. It feels like I have been holding my breath, although I have no recollection of having done so. My mouth feels dry, and I fight the urge to collapse into a chair, instead backing up a few paces, before turning and heading to the exit.

* * * * *

I pull the cart through what I hope is the last bit of boggy terrain. It is only a short distance from Morthal, but the journey has taken me a couple of hours, and the bright afternoon sun replaced by the dull onset of dusk once again. With a heave, I manage to pull it onto firm ground, and I can see my destination. I am not sure what I feel. Relief maybe, nerves. Memories come back, unbidden and unwanted. I try to push them out of my mind, and walk forwards to where I remember, accosted by the sounds and smells of the sea, salt water on my tongue, sensations which once signified pleasure. What once was what I had thought I desired.

I compose myself, and walk towards the ruin.

The stone foundations survived the fire. The stone now adorned with scorch marks. Patches of land where there was once grass, burnt so severely it never grew back. Burned wood, piled up afterwards, now mostly decayed. An anvil, a smelter, all stained black. Stumps of trees that had been too close to the house, where sparks had travelled and destroyed.

My breath catches, and I turn away, my hand holding my stomach, the inside of it feeling heavy. About fifty paces away is a small hill. I unclasp the cart, walk to it, and sit down on the cold ground, looking back at the house.

* * * * *

The bottom of the house is now burning incredibly brightly. I sit at a safe distance on a hill nearby, hidden in the shadows, close enough to see, too far to hear. Too far to be seen. I am not sure what the men I hired used as an accelerant, but it is certainly effective. Smoke pours upward, black and dense.

Three men in black exit the house, dragging a man and a woman, two on the man pulling by the arms, the woman pulled roughly by the hair. She is in pain, terrified, uncomprehending. So is he.

I smile.

The men drag them to near the shore, and force them onto their knees, facing the burning house. I was insistent upon that point. They had to see it burn. See that monstrosity burn.

A seething tongue of flame, incandescent against the dark night sky, shoots out the upstairs window, glass shattering, glittering shards scattering gracefully through the air. The smoke has made a blur in the sky, directly above the house, a glorious combination of yellow, orange and black. It is beautiful; the strange shapes formed by the smoke dancing in the sky in its wild celebration, reminiscent of the gates of Oblivion themselves.

She is crying. He looks at her and says something, but I am too far away to make out what it is. It does not matter. Not now. Not ever again. Bad enough that people think he has talent. Bad enough that people compare him to me, despite the ludicrous, ugly, insufferable buildings he creates. For her to choose him though, with his pretentious towers and turrets. After me.

No.

The man and woman look like they are begging. Swords rise, glinting in the reflection of the flames. The house eaten by the flames, a fervent funeral pyre consumed and devoured. In the dark of the night, it is hard to tell what is left of the wooden frames, just the flames. Flickering, dancing, gleeful.

The swords flash, the woman first. He had to watch, that was the agreement. His mouth is wide open, a silent wail, his arms outstretched. He tries to reach her. Two of the black figures grab him, and hold him back.

Time seems to freeze, my breath held, eyes unblinking.

The third man steps forward, a flash of silver, the body convulses.

The body falls.

My breath comes out in an ecstatic rush.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a shape, small, moving fast. A boy I realise, the son, running away from the house, away from the men.

I freeze. He is not supposed to be there. I am unable to stand, unable to wave in warning.

I just sit as he disappears from sight, my hand gripping the necklace I wear around my neck so tightly the knuckles are white.

It will not be viewed an accident now I realise. I can control the situation though, I tell myself, I can always control the situation. He is an orphan now, only so many places he can go. My research into the father showed only one other family member. A brother, if I remember correctly, a blind man serving time in prison for petty theft. No, for now only one place he will end up. Perhaps it is time I contributed to Honorhall Orphanage. I have heard rumours that the new headmistress can see reason when it comes to financial matters, and once there out of sight, out of mind.

My eyes return to the pyrotechnics in the dark, the flicker of the flames reflecting the flicker of my smile.

* * * * *

Dark is almost here. I walk from the hill back to the ruins, back to the cart. I reach into the small one-man boat tied to it, and pull items from it, my equipment, papers, measuring tools and put them down on the ground. With care, I reach back in, and lift out a body, wrapped in rugs. I place it on the ground, and unroll it, then reach back into the boat and pull out dry wood that it had been resting upon. I carry the wood several paces away, put it down, and go back for a second trip. The wood I carefully spread, and stack high. From the cart, I pull out the final item, a jar of oil, and walk back to the wood, splashing it evenly, leaving a small amount at the bottom of the jar. I rummage through my papers, find one of the scrolls I am looking for, and speak the words softly.

The sky is now black, but the fire gives more than enough light to work with. I untie the boat, and ease it forwards, then drag it the remaining distance off the cart, and down to the water's edge. I pour the remaining oil slowly and evenly around the top of the boat, and then walk back to the body. My eyes feel gritty and dry and I have to fight the urge to wipe them.

I pull it down to the boat, and manoeuvre it inside, lying on its back. The hands I clasp in front of the chest. Reaching around my neck, I pull off the necklace there, and gently place it around his neck. She would want that, I am sure, and I feel a sense of time having gone full circle. The scars on his face make me wince; from pity or shame, I am unsure. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my nose, which has to begun to run, roll my shoulders to relieve the growing tension, and by the side of the boat, I kneel.

"Arkay, God of burials and funerals, I beg of you, hear my plea. He never stood a chance, through no fault of his own. Take him to you. Let the necklace guide him to his mother. Let them be re-united. In your name, please hear my plea."

* * * * *

I strip off all my clothes, and step into the water, pulling the burning boat by a rope attached to the front. When it floats of its own accord, I move around to the rear, and push, watching as it catches the current, and starts to drift out to sea. I close my eyes, and lower my knees, until completely covered by the water, and allow myself to just soak, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness.

I climb back onto the beach, and sit naked by the fire. The boat keeps drifting, flames dancing high, flickering in the dark, a beacon calling out.

The tension in my neck starts to feel less pronounced, and I tilt my head back and look at the sky. The clouds are moving again, a breeze picking up. Stars start to appear, a glittering becoming brighter and brighter. My breathing slows and I start to feel drowsy. The water is shimmering under the starlight, as though awakening from its slumber.

Tomorrow I will start preparations for the rebuilding, to bring this ruin back to life. For now, I sit shivering, by the glow of the fire, my heartbeat steady and calm as the tears start to flow. I enjoy the softness as they pass over my skin, the saltiness as they reach my mouth.

Just guide him home, I whisper to the shimmering sea and it sways and splashes in reply, glowing from within. My eyelids feel heavy, and I lay down by the warmth of the fire, waiting calmly for blissful, blissful sleep.


This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 4 2013, 09:29 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Pulled


This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 11 2013, 03:10 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Entry 2

Ang Anghel at ang Demonio
(Sinner's Gospel)
***********************************************

"Oh, you were like a glass statuette of a faceless ballerina, pirouetting mindlessly atop the shinedown glories of this flithy world.
Your audience were the petty heavens and the stars themselves, and you taught the gods Beauty,
The glass-jaw fragility of this chainsaw mercury flapping its wings
as mortality. Like Icarus, you'd burn and melt when you met me.
Yes. It catches you well, my dear.
You are as unholy as an upside down pentagram,
a pentateuch of all that is gone,
a five part epic of perfection gone wrong,
And as beautiful as hypothermia,
in a hyponitizing dance of hazy ideals,
half-blind truths and quakey promises that should be crucified
and nailed down, or all of it'll go away, and we're back to square one,
coughing out phlegm and philosophies
of how cruel and cold this world is.
Or maybe the world is a victim too,
and we were the ones who made it that way..?"
**************************************

"I planned on keeping my job a secret until we were wed, you know. By that time, you and I would be adults, and the Folsing Daune wouldn't have any use for middle-aged footsoldiers. Wed be burn out from what we saw and did, they think, and the Commission'd be worried that we might get some funny ideas. Funny ideas like morality, conscience, guilt, all those sweet tonics that we drink to help sleep the nights through."

In the copper hills of southern High Rock, where the clear Illiac shines agold from the magnificence of Magnus in a hot summer's day, ten wily miles west from the city of Wayrest there stands the lonely vigil of a villa's alabaster walls, surrounded from three sides by forest trees, on the final one the loping descent to flat land. It was young and newly built, this home. The uncracked smoothness of the foundations, shining untouched by the passage of time, and the way of its structure had a peculiar magick from its architect. Clear and clean thought it may, first and foremost it was unassuming and plain, with no further machinations of grandeur upon it. When one's eyes got over it, it would be irresistibly drawn to the gate and entrance, a thing of metal beauty and ingenuity, and that was the magic. For in the grandiloquency of the gate, there lies the royal exertion of the humble architect's creative imagination, and the skill from his hands of which he has wrought it to existence.

In the sleek, black iron metal work, angels and demons fly about each other, in an unknown dance realixed only by these fickle entities. Broken curses scorches the air along with the flames from the hellspawn, fluttered feathers falling down as angels descends down to contest them with sword and spear and shield. In the center of this confrontation lies the sleeping head of an unknown god, oblivious to the cancerous clamor around him, dreaming dreams only a dead god would. It's mouth was open, and from the toothless maw, the handle of the battling gate, taking the form of a dragon eating its own tail.

Past this gate and this unknown war of angels and demons, one would walk in a paved road towards the large steps that lead inside to the innards of a three-storey mansion. This paved road, dotted by cobblestones imported from the city Anvil, was colorized with the hues of pomegranate reds and lavender's blue from the flowers beside it. This field of rubies and lapis-lazuli gave the air a fragrance of orchidal refreshment, and calmed the hearts of those who tread in its multi-hued shadow.

Tread the path of flowers, and lead yourself towards the large steps, ascending to the oaken doors that lead inside....

"Hey, remember the time when we went to Chivauch's party? Athanasiel got so drunk with that Morrowind stuff she threw up all over Timsis and the other guests! That was real funny, yeah? She never really did hold her liquor well, and she'd flap her mouth about things she shouldn't have, particulary after we did a... hit. Maybe that's why we found her body later that year, her two mouths sewn shut."

*


The decor of the lobby was grand and boastful about the owner's wealth, but those accustomed to the novelty of riches and fashions could clearly see that this was an amateur's hallmark, a man of nouveau riche backgrounds trying to emulate those old monies and bloodlines of High Rock. But no matter the voyeuristic plagiarism, the expensive taunt did its job well, with the positioning of sleek, black furnitures pioneering a contrasting image with its alabaster floor. Curtains and chandeliers retailed from ancient castles dominated the upper part and the glass windows respectively, taking light from the outside and giving the lobby a red and draconian look. Another magic here; the decor is grand, but left feeling inadequate, and once one's eyes sweep over it, it would drawn to the royal stairs that ascends left and right, with a fountain of a lion inlaid with white gold and ebony at the center, watching over the household with imperious eyes and a mouth ready to let loose roar. This was the greatest of the owner's treasures, having it specially crafted to fit in with the overall decor of the mansion.

Ascend further to the third floor.....

"This one time, we were ordered by the Commission Elders themselves about a personal favor. Can you believe it? The biggest fishes in the underworld asked US, of all people, to take care of a request from them! We were just friends back then, and the whole group was still complete..."

The third flooronly has one room. The master bedroom. There was nothing special about this particular room, save for the Breton sitting on a king-sized bed, talking to his wife with a red eyed conviction of a confessor. The man was young, in his early to mid twenties, and had an angular face that anguished at every words he said. His whole appearance was dishevelled, hair unkepmt and beard untraced, and the reek of strong spirits fermated from him staggeringly. His wife, a crystalline woman with the ageless beauty of western High Rock, was his polar opposite. Whereas his was untraceable in a crowd, hers was the grand work of the Gods on the subject of beauty. Her golden tresses curled invitingly to behold her. her blue eyes the tantamount testament of innocence, fragile as glass. As was said before, she had the ageless beauty of the elven-touchd bloodlines of West High Rock, where the ancient Nede joined with the Elves to form the Bretons of today.

She listened to her husband, without words to convey what she felt, so shocked from the revelation was she.

"What they asked of us was simple enough, at first. The usual 'show-them-a-message' type."

A world-weary sigh, as sad as an impotent animal caught in a trap, heedless of how to get out.

"That favor might as well came from the Daedra themselves. The mark was a rogue politician, a hardboil that refused to give the usual tithes and protection. I can still hear that old man's wheezing laugh. 'Make this one especially grisly, boys. As grisly as can be.' Fools that we were, and sycophantic lickspittles besides, we bowed our heads and promised that we would."

Still no words from his wife. He continued.

"Promises... I learned the hard way. Never make promises. At all. We're too cruel to see it through. It'll destroy you in return. What a mistake..."

Wiped a tear from an irritated eye, and a dangerously long swig from a bottle of strong spirits.

"So we went over to the mark's house, posing as new servants. The Commission already had feelers there for a long time, and we got in without a hitch."

A hiccup and his voice was broken. Hrash, grating, rough from both liquor and self-hatred. A hopeless stare to his wife, who still hasn't spoken.

"It was his daughter's birthday. A private affair, not too many guests apart from family, but even then, so few, so less. I said to Titus that maybe we should pull off and hit him another day, even Alennus agreed, but... We would've paid the price, Titus said. We would've paid the price and it was better that it should be him, rather than all of us. And I .. I backed off and didn't say a word when we moved in but gods know I SHOULD'VE, I SHOULD'VE but I didn't! I didn't! Because I was afraid and greedy and I didn't want to die, not in the hands of the Commission, not with those monsters...."

He was weeping openly now, digging deep in the guarded closet of his heart, a closet full of dark secrets that gave him a miasma until now, until now when he opened it and let the bad out. His wife, now too, wept with him. Shining diamond tears from a crystalline face. Even in sorrow was she ever so beautiful.

"I saw what the Commission could do to muck-ups, Elenna, and I was afraid for myself, and I didn't even.... We... Titus and the.... 'Especially grisly, boys...' Elenna."

The utterance of his wife's name, an alien on his tongue. Strange, oh so strange, but painfully familliar. Like an infant gazing into his mother's eyes and saying the words, 'mama.' Intimately instinctual.

"We crucified them all, Elenna. 'A message so severe it would dominate without swords.' We crucified them all. Even .... even the child."

An explosion from the revelation of the deed that marked him an everlasting monster. The confession was done with the cold charisma of the indifferent damned, and the eyes that spoke sorrow now cleared, and the wife stared at him, shocked as if by the very gods themselves. An explosion from the revelation.

"It was a safety guarantee, Titus said to us. No witnesses. No one left alive. And of course, 'as grisly as can be.' And the Commission wouldn't be worried now that the daughter wouldn't seek reve-,"

The wife had started screaming, screaming incoherently and sharplu, a sonic torture from one so crystalline and beuaty. For him, it was a condemnation. A rebuke. A rejection of forgiveness. He expected that their vows of love towards each other would've stood upo to his secrets, since secrets were the poison of relationships, but he should've known better. He wept.

Now came the needless and boneless justification for a deed so dark.

"B-but, I promised my-myself that th-the mon-money fro-from the favor wo-would be use-used for BETTER THINGS! LIKE YOU!"

The wretched feeling of damnation gave way to rage, and soon enough, the whole mansion was shaking with both the terrified wailling of Elenna and the loud vents of her husband.

"I DID THAT TO SECURE OUR FUTURE! I DID THAT BECAUSE I LOVED YOU! I NAILED THAT GIRL TO A CROSS AND SLIT HER FATHER'S THROAT BECAUSE I WANTED TO ... to.... to..."

He crashed his head against hers, and he held her in place, keeping their temples locked together. His voice, rough and husky, silent and damned, found the helpless words again. He wiped the tears from her already-bruised face, noting how the abuse he gave her earlier was fast on showing its marks, and Elenna gave a muffled cry of protest from the gag in her mouth, trying to clear away but unable too, bondaged and cuffed into place as she was.

".. make you happy, Elenna, my dear, dear Elenna..."

He dragged a serpentine tongue on her welted cheek and tasted the blood and salt on her crystalline face. The hand that kept her locked descended on her throat, and tightened like a hangman's noose, tight and air-tight as the current condition his heart was in. He realixed that he was whispering.

"I love you so much that I'm willing to do things like that again and again and again and again. For you. You're mine, and I'm yours. I was genuine when I said those useless vows on the altar; how about you, love? Were you genuine when you said that you'd accept me for who I am, that you'd stick with me through it all. Lies. Liar. This is why I never make promises."

He stood up and gave her ribs a spiteful kick, flattening her against the wall. To the side of the bloodied bed, covered in between the sheets, lay the corpse of a man so savaged and so mauled it looked like he was attacked by a rabid pack of wolves. He went ot the body and retrieved its head, ruined so much it was a messy pulp, held only by the smashed links of flesh and bones. He threw the piece of cadaver to the lap of Elenna, who stared at it in silence, wetting and wasting herself in pure terror.

"HOW COULD YOU, ELENNA?! HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME?! I was loyal to you! I was willing to kill just to make you smile! How could you?! In all my life, you're the only miracle I had, the only reason I had to keep on going, and now I find you sleeping with a man on OUR BED?! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I SWEAR TO THE SIXTEEN THEMSELVES I HATE YOU!"

The muscles on the knees gave way, heart pounding, blood rushing in his veins, a raging inferno. All around him, he saw only red. The most reddest of them all was Elenna, a goddess from above, looking at him with a blue stare of infinite sorrow and fear. As he fell to the ground, he wanted nothing more than to rip her to shreds. He crawled towards her, and laid his head upon her lap.

"... Gods above, I love you. How could you do this, Elenna? What the hell did I ever do to take all of these punishments from you? I'm so tired."

He stood up.

After he had murdered Elenna's new lover, Kelros made sure that every part of the mansion, the legacy he built on blood and murder just for her, was doused in oil and other inflammable substances. Along the way, he had ruined everything he could on sight, erasing the memories he had with Elenna, smashing the records and traces of what they had. He stared at his wife, at his ultimare destroyer. He didn't want to believed it. But there it was. The final strike. From her. He retrieved a flask of oil, intimately carved with angels and demons, and studied it for a whole minute.

His eyesight was blurred from the tears again, so he didn't see clearly.

Who was the demon and who was the angel in this?

In the end, he decided as he poured oil on both himself and Elenna. It didn't matter.

Only the fires would remain, their long-standing testament.

Kelros lighted a candle.

He dropped it.

Watched as the upright mass of wax danced a soliloquy in dark gravity, singing a sin all the way down.

The fire, with a pounce, ate him and his wife and their mansion and whatever what was left.

Time took Kelros to another place, catching his lesion laced eternity in a singular instant and showing it to sightless eyes. A boon. And a passing mirror to reflect upon those golden days of the past before the sweet slide into nothingness.

***

"I never really understood the part in church," comely Alennus was saying, waving a fork about with a spongy slice of applecake stabbed on it. "Where you join hands together and sing some hoo-has like a bunch of idiots. I like singing, but why join hands? Guy next beside me could be diseased or something you know."

Athanasiel laughed that ashen laugh of hers, a sound of scraping nails against a board of metal. But it had a certain twink about it, and soon her lover Chivauch joined in, this time a gentle and dignified chuckle. On the farther side of the table, was Titus, imposing and imperious as a lion, an omnipresent disdain on his face. The Imperial looked at the Bosmer and sniffed, his voice unusually mild and tempered in contrast to his brute image.

"It signifies that the church-goers are one voice when giving praise to the deity they worship. And people wash their hands with the holy waters and annointments before entering in."

Alennus cringed at him.

"A public washing facility-"

"No, a cleansing fountain."

"-eek, that's kinda dirty. Never know when someone jerked off-"

Kelros groaned and cut the elf off before he could finish his unruly opinion.

"Why don't you just shut up and eat," he said to him.

The others nodded their agreement. Alennus was forced to comply sulkily.


How he missed those days of true companionship.....

****

The rain hadn't stopped, and over the weeks, it gradually became stronger and harsher until all of High Rock was harried to the bone with a sharp punishment of cruel gales and blade-like rain. On the coastal streets of Wayrest, where none tread, there walked a lone figure, becloaked against the elements, marching with a grim purpose in his steps. He weaved upon mazes of alleyways and crooked niches, descending into squallid slums until his resolutes found themselves stopping in front of a ramshackle hut, barely supported by a series of rotten wood.

The doorway was small and poorly maintained, and he could've easily knocked it down with but a push, but he elected to suffer the rending rain and knocked, loud enough to be heard over the clamor from the clouds, but gentle enough not to be seen desperate. Sharp ears picked up a shuffle, and seconds later he was pulled by razor-thin hands. surprised by the strength from such frail-looking limbs.

The ageless beauty of Elenna stared at him, a questioning look on those eyes of her, but Kelros found the delighted quirks struggling on her lips to be changed into a full-grown grin at his arrival. She made her voice sound harsh, but once again, he could hear the undertones that she was happy to see him.

"Fool," she had said. "You're soaking wet! And I just cleaned the rugs too!"

Kelros fought back a grin and etched an innocent look on his face as he glanced below. Several rats' furs, sewn together to enlargen the whole pack, was indeed more whiter than the usual grey tone it took, and it had a fluffy look too.

"Pshaw! You call that clean?"

He whirled to face her, and she was a painting of an angel with a background fit for the lowliest beggar behind her.

"My grandma's nickers are cleaner than this during her perio- gwack!"

The breath in his lungs gave way and he let out an 'oomph' as Elenna charged at him, glomping him with such force he was knocked on the rotten floor. She was laughing as she held him down, mounting him and looking down at him with a wide smile. He reached out to cup her cheeks before he rose to kiss her gently. He then laid her beside him, playing with her hair, and she with his, burying themselves with the comfort provided by the other's company.

They stayed there for some time, just enjoying the warmth. Eventually Kelros spoke, a contradicting confidence with hesitation on his voice.

"Elenna, I have to ask you something. Real important, so I want a serious and honest answer."

Ruffled by her lover's uncharacterisically grim tone of voice, Elenna stood on her elbows and looked at him, uneasy and wary.

"What is it? Is it something about Tyclen and the other pimps? I already told you, I qui-"

Kelros shushed her with a finger on her quaking lips.

"Its not that... No.."

For reassurance, he gave her forehead a kiss.

"Its about our home."

He gestured to their dillapitated home, bare and downtrodden save for the basic necessities and some stolen item of vanity here and there.

"What about it, love?"

From the folds of his heavy and soaked cloaked, Kelros pulled out a bulging sack easily the size of a grown man's fist. Elenna eyed it warily, unsure and unsteady, but willing to indulge him. He drew the cover and up-ended the contents on the ground beside them. Gems upon gems, coins upon coins. An amount that could easily enriched a whole neighborhood.

"I got a job, love. A well-paying job at last. Things have finally looken up!"

In her joy, she hadn't noticed the tremble in his lips, the quaking regret on his eyes, and the fact that the sack had some traces of blood on it. If she inspected the robes further, she would've found a bloodied hammer and knife, instrument of a deed that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 11 2013, 03:10 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Entry 3

A Question of Guilt

Lord Harald’s broken body lay in his bed, in the manor house of Oakhold near the border between White Run and Falkreath. That location was usually a blessing, as it meant the Jarls of both tended to leave him alone. Magic could have healed him, but using magic would have brought the Thalmor sniffing around, with their long, pointed noses. Harald would rather die. So, he would either heal naturally or he wouldn’t. In the meantime, his restless spirit wandered the familiar halls, and he wondered if he was dreaming, or if the sights and sounds were real. Then his attention was drawn to a specific sound, a particular voice. It was his eldest son, Matteus, speaking in low tones to Jurgen, his closest friend since childhood.

“I should have gone with him, Gens. But I thought riding on such a snow-strewn day was foolish. I preferred to stay snug and warm in the hall. And now…. I am not ready for this. He is the Lord of Oakhold. I should have gone with him.”

Matteus looked in the direction of his father’s room and his voice trailed off in a sob.

Harald wanted to stay, to tell his son- something, to tell him that he was a fine man and that he would be a good leader. But against his will, his spirit was drawn away, down the stairs and through the empty dining hall that had only the day before rung with mirth and song. He passed unseen into the kitchen, a place of many happy memories. Gudrun Cook was stirring a large cauldron of stew using an ancient wooden spoon Harald had reason to remember. He almost expected to feel it rap his knuckles as it had when he was a boy and had attempted to steal a bite between meals. But the cook paused in her work only long enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks with a sleeve.

“Folk need to eat,” she muttered to herself, “no matter what else may be. And Mara knows, I need to keep myself busy.”

Though no one else was near, Gudrun’s voice dropped to a whisper. “After all, twas I that prepared the stirrup cup before he went out riding. What if I made a mistake?”

Harald reached with an insubstantial hand, seeking to comfort the woman who had provided far more than meals to his family. But it was no use, and he soon felt himself being pulled away again, outside and across the yard into the stable.

A light voice, filled with the sound of yellow sun on green leaves, came softly from the stall that held Greyhm, Harald’s favorite hunter. Harald’s spirit or dreaming self passed through the half door and watched Ingail, the Bosmeri head groom, brushing the steel-colored horse with slow, loving strokes. Some of the other lords scoffed at the idea of an elf tending Nord horses, and a wood elf at that, but all Harald had to do was watch horse and mer to see he had been right.

“I do not know, old friend. I think I tightened the cinch enough. But I had more cider than usual at the feast. Perhaps I let my attention wander? Perhaps I set the saddle amiss, and something galled you? I see no mark, but how can I be sure? If only you could tell me. I fear the suspicious glances of these Nords. If not for the love of you and your kind, I would think it best if I went away from here. But then, all would be certain that what happened to Sir Harald was by design. And I would be separated from you forever. I could not bear that.”

Ingail could not hear Greyhm’s thoughts, but Harald’s spirit saw them like pictures painted on a canvas that unfurled before him.

HE came from the large dwelling, breath blowing clouds into the air, face red, blue eyes dancing, hair the same color as my coat. Blue eyes met brown eyes, and I knew it was a day for fast running, a day to GO. Friend Ingail held reins and stirrup, and HE leaped up to the saddle, drank from a cup that steamed and tossed it back with a laugh.

Together, we would race across the white, just the two of us. We would be faster than the white hares, faster than the gray foxes, faster than the clouds in the sky. HE patted my neck and leaned to whisper in my ear, “ A great day for it, yes? A sharpish, clear-sky day.”

The rest stayed in their stables, four-legged and two-legged. It was only us. Only myself and LORD. We went down the track at an easy pace, warming ourselves as we left the smoke and the stalls, moving together, hearts beating with the strike of hooves on hard ground. I wanted to run, but HE spoke soft, “Not yet, Great Heart. Let’s get a bit further out.”

We crossed the small water and drops flashed in the sun. He touched me with a knee, just the smallest nudge, and I turned onto the man-path. He leaned forward and I could hardly wait for the words: “NOW! Now Greyhm! To the top of Heron’s Roost and back.”

And we flew. As one, we flew, swift as the hunting hawk, straight as an arrow. Together as we were meant to be. My hooves barely touched ground before bounding up again, all the way to the top of the high place, where we could see the sun shining on the great water. But we did not stop there. I turned, standing on rear legs as Soft Voice had taught me and spinning in place to face down the high place again. We flew even faster, wind snapping my mane and tail. HE laughed and I sounded my own joy. We flew as one, my brother and I. But then, at the bottom of the high place, it happened.

Where the sweet water flows in the spring, where the green grass grows long, there was a place…, a patch of not-ground. My hooves slipped. I tried to… I tried… HE tried. But I could feel him falling. LORD fell away from me. He struck the hard ground. He did not get up. When I nuzzled him, he did not get up. He moaned. I waited, but he did not get up. He moved his hand and I brought my head down to his face. He told me, “Go, Great Heart. Bring Ingail.”

And though I flew fast, it was not-right, without LORD on my back. Soft Voice saw me come into the gate alone, and he knew. I let him ride me. Back to where LORD was lying still upon the hard white. We brought him home, Soft Voice and I. They carried him away from me. I waited and HE did not come out. Soft Voice came and brought me to the stable. Why has HE not come to see me? Where has my brother gone? What have I done?

Harald’s spirit left the stable, but he did not find himself in the yard. Rather he was in a low torch-lit passage, with doors at either end. Shadows danced and vanished and formed again, until they resolved into an armored figure, towering in front of him. Harald recognized the figure and fell to his knees- Talos. The Divine Emperor stood silently, hands crossed on the hilt of the sword held before him with the tip grounded. Talos’ lips did not move, but Harald heard him speak all the same:

“Choose.”

The Lord of Oakhold wanted to protest that he did not understand, but he knew Talos referred to the two doors. He turned his etheric attention to the door on his right and heard the sounds of feasting and sparring and voices raised in songs of battle and hunting. Sovngarde. An end to mortal cares.

He turned to the opposite door and heard the homely sounds of his hold. The sounds of work that never ceased, no matter what else might occur. That way lay a long, painful healing and the resumption of all the cares of leadership.

“Choose.”

Harald studied the silent form of Talos, seeking a sign. There was none. The Divine stood equidistant between the two doors and looked neither left nor right. He did not even appear to breathe. Again, the voice thundered in his mind.

“Choose.”

The Lord of Oakhold cast a longing look to the door opening onto Sovngarde. But he knew- that realm was a reward for those who had lived honorable lives, who had carried out their duties. So he turned his back on it and reached for the latch of the door that would take him back to his shattered body. As he did so, Talos nodded- once. The gesture was small, almost unseen. But Harald knew it for what it was- a bow of respect.

Sun’s Dawn gave way to First Seed and Harald’s body mended. The process was aided by Gudrun’s cooking- broth at first, and later, more substantial fare. In truth, there are more kinds of healing magic than are sold in apothecaries. Within a month, he was able to move from the bed to a chair, from which he could look out the window and see Ingail exercising Greyhm and the other horses. In the third month after his fall, the Lord of Oakhold once more sat at the head of the table in his great hall. And on the morning of the 10th day of Rain’s Hand, he announced, “It is time to settle that which befell at the start of this year. In two week’s time, I will sit in judgment, as is my duty. Court will be held in the main yard.”

Accidents were not unusual, not even falls from horseback. And those falls often resulted in serious injury or even death. In the normal course of events, only a death might merit an inquest and it would be an informal business, begun and ended in a few minutes. But Harald knew the doubts that plagued his son and his people, and knew further that those doubts would weaken the bonds of trust and family that were essential for Oakhold’s survival. Questions had to be asked and answered in such a fashion that they would be forever after laid to rest.

He handed the bailiff a list with the instruction to make sure those named within were present. The estate official raised a brow at one of the names, but made no comment. It was traditional for trials and inquests to be held outdoors, as the people of Skyrim believed that all matters related to seeking for truth should be take place in the bright light of day. So the construction of a temporary box for witnesses beneath the branches of the oak that gave the hold its name came as no surprise. However, the addition of a single stall beside the dock was most unusual. On the morning of the day appointed, the servants carried an ornate chair into the courtyard and placed it on a raised platform. Then Ingail led Greyhm into the temporary stall and was himself escorted to the dock by the bailiff. He was joined there by Gudrun Cook and- to the accompaniment of a few murmurs- Matteus Haraldson.

Once the residents of Oakhold were in place, Lord Harald limped out of the main hall and took his place in the Seat of Judgment. He spoke the formal words to open the inquiry:

“Today, we are assembled to seek truth. I am Lord Harald Torvaldson of Oakhold and the dispensation of justice, high and low, is one of my responsibilities. As finder of fact, I will now question the witnesses. Matteus Haraldson, stand forth.”

Harald’s eldest son came to the front of the dock and rested his hands on the railing.

“Matteus, on the day when I was injured, is it true that you chose not to go riding with me?”

“Yes.”

“And what reason did you give for your refusal?”

“That it was cold and that the ground was treacherous.”

“And how did I respond to your reasoning?”

“You waved me back to the table and stated that you would go alone if necessary.”

“Very well, Matteus. You may stand down.”

Lord Harald next called Gudrun Cook. She seemed somehow smaller outside of her kitchen, but still stood with the dignity of her years.

“Mistress Cook, how long have you served at Oakhold?”

“Begging your pardon, milord, but if that is a way of askin’ how old I am, I’m not tellin’.”

Harald himself joined in the laughter and then put the question another way, “Can we at least say it is true that you have served as head cook since my father was Lord of Oakhold?”

“Yes, milord.”

“And you have prepared or supervised the preparation of every feast and banquet during that time?”

“Yes, milord.”

“And have you ever offered any meat or drink that did not meet your exacting standards?”

“Never, milord.”

“Thank you, Gudrun. You may stand down. Next, I call Ingail of Valenwood.”

The Bosmer groom seemed like a child standing among the hulking Nords, notwithstanding that he was the oldest person present.

“Ingail, what brought you to Oakhold?”

The elf answered clearly, his voice a tuneful accompaniment to the spring air. “I came with Greyhm’s sire, Bright Blade, as his groom.”

“And why have you stayed?”

“Because the horses love me and I them. They are my children.”

“On the day of my fall, were you responsible for Greyhm’s saddle and bridle?”

“Yes, milord. That day and every time he goes out.”

“And when he came back alone, what did you do?”

“I knew something had happened to you, milord. So I asked his permission to mount him, and told him to take me to you.”

“And did you find it necessary to adjust the saddle or any of his other gear before you mounted or at any time during the ride to Heron’s Roost?”

“No milord. But… I have no need of reins or stirrups.”

“And after we returned, who removed the saddle?”

“I, milord.”

“Was there aught amiss?”

“Nothing I could see, milord.”

“Very well. Ingail, you may stand down.”

Lord Harald folded his hands and looked at Greyhm before continuing. “The final witness cannot speak what he knows, at least not in such a way that the assembly can understand him. Therefore, I will move on to my findings.” He paused, thinking of the pain he had suffered and of the burden of responsibility that rested on his shoulders still. Then he continued.

“Hear now my decision. Matteus. As my eldest son and as the future master of Oakhold, you counseled me to wisdom. That I did not heed your words is an indication of my folly, not a result of any failure on your part. Please continue on the path of wisdom and help me to do the same.”

He nodded to the bailiff, who released Matteus from the dock.

“Gudrun. The proof of your innocence is in the fact that I sit before this assembly today. If so skilled a cook as you had sought to poison me, surely I would have died long since.”

That statement brought laughter from the people of Oakhold, which redoubled when Harald added, “Besides, if you wished to get my attention, you would have rapped me on the skull with your spoon.” As she exited the dock he stood and bowed to her, a gesture of sincere respect and affection. “I may be Lord of Oakhold, but you are the Queen of the Kitchen, the giver of sustenance. Long may you continue in that office.”

“Ingail of Valenwood. Your service has been faithful and valuable to myself and to the hold, so much so that you have become more than a servant. Let none present doubt that you are a member in full of this House. To that end, and if you will accept, I name you- ‘Ingail of Oakhold’.”

The groom’s hand reached of its own volition to caress Greyhm’s muzzle.

“Lord Harald, this is my home, and I am glad to take its name as my own.”

Then Harald looked to the last witness, the one who had stood silent throughout, because he had no voice, at least not one suited to human speech.

“Greyhm.” The Lord of Oakhold’s voice broke and he collected himself once more. “Great Heart. You did only what I asked of you. You did your best to prevent the fall. You stood by me when I could not rise. You brought aid when I asked. You brought me safely home. No man could ask for more from a horse, a friend… or a brother.”

He stepped down from his chair and released Greyhm from the temporary stall, placed a hand on his forelock and said, “The mount is not at fault for the rider’s lack of skill. Be at peace, my brother.”

He handed the reins to Ingail, and the crowd breathed a sigh of relief. But Harald was not finished. He raised his hands and said, “None of these four were ever accused, except by their own true, loving hearts. And yet, I did fall and did come nigh unto death. All of Oakhold would have suffered if that had happened. Though they are innocent, yet there is one here who is guilty.”

The people of the hold looked around, seeking the assassin in their midst, and were stunned when Lord Harald entered the dock and closed the gate behind himself. He stepped up to the railing and bowed his head before speaking once more, “My dear people, I stand before you, guilty of a most grievous error. In my pride and selfishness, I ignored wise counsel, over-indulged in excellent fare, and put at risk not only myself, not only my dear friend, but this entire holding. I humbly await your judgment.”

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 11 2013, 03:10 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Entry 4

The Tenth Divine


I woke floating in darkness, dim shapes in the gloom far above. I struggled to move, but it was like swimming through air. A soft voice spoke beside me. I couldn't understand what it said. The grey light faded, and I sank back into the black.

Then I must have really awakened. It was hard to keep my eyes open against the light. I was so tired, and I hurt. Not from any one place. Just a deep, mournful ache. At least I was warm.

Then there was that voice again, so I made my eyes open until I could see.

Candlelight. I was in a bed with folding screens around it. The air felt cool and dry, and it carried the sharp smell of healing potions. I couldn't see the ceiling. It was too high.

I felt heavy. I wanted to sleep.

"Wake now," said the voice. "You are safe here. You may wake."

I looked into the face of an Imperial woman. She had the kind of little moustache that comes when we age.

"There you are," the woman said, smiling. "I think you have finally decided to join us."

My throat felt like broken glass when I tried to speak.

"Hush," said the Imperial. "Drink this. I am Silana Blandia, and you are in the Great Chapel of Zenithar in Leyawiin."

She lifted my head and placed a cup to my lips.

"It's only water with a few herbs to help you fight the fever."

I sipped the liquid until it was gone. It tasted like grass.

"Well done, Otavia," said Silana. "Yes, we know who you are."

Silana's palm felt cool on my brow. Her face contorted as she sent healing light over me. It felt like chilled watermelon juice on an afternoon in Sun's Height. It took more than just the pain away. Then she smiled.

"Rest now," she said. "We'll speak again later."

It was a long while before she came back, but there were others who tended me. One washed my hair and put it in a braid over my shoulder. It looked like a flame running down my bed gown. Another left a book for me.

By the intercession of St. Alessia, may you be so filled with grace, and the strength and wisdom that comes from grace, that through these teachings you may come to the true meaning of the Nine Divines and Their glories.

I supposed I wasn't in any state to read about wild adventures. And perhaps the priests knew more about me than I'd like, so I read their book about the Nine and their teachings.

If only each man might look into the mirror of these Commands, and see reflected there the bliss that might enfold them, were he to serve in strict obedience to these Commands, he would be cast down and made contrite and humble. The obedient man may come to the altars of the Nine and be blessed, and may receive the comfort and healing of the Nine, and may give thanks for his manifold blessings.
Heedless, the wicked man turns away, and forsaking the simple wisdoms granted to him by the All-Wise and All-Knowing Nine, he lives in sin and ignorance all the days of his life. He bears the awful burden of his crimes, and before Men and Gods his wickedness is known, and neither blessing nor comfort may he expect.

How much did these people know about me? More than I about recent events, it would seem. I knew how I got to Leyawiin, but my plan hadn't included waking up in the chapel.

Akatosh says: Serve and obey. Study the Covenants. Worship the Nine, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests.

I started over and read that book again.

Then Silana was back, propping up pillows and smoothing my sheet. "Lerexus Callidus of the City Watch is here to see you, Otavia." I saw one of the screens move and Silana gestured at the chair pulled up beside the bed. She stepped back, wringing her hands.

Lerexus took the seat with a clank of armor, helm under one arm. He was dark like a Nibenean, but now I could see his eyes were as pale as mine. I could smell sweat in his hair. He cleared his throat, but then looked down and didn't speak.

"Good day, Officer," I said. I wasn't quite sure what I should call him. He gave me a job to do, but other than that I just couldn't remember. "It's good to see you."

"It pleases me to see you well, Otavia," he said. "I came before, but they ..." He glanced up at Silana. "That is to say, I had to wait until you were stronger before I could speak with you."

"What happened?" I asked.

"You will not upset her," Silana insisted. Her lips were in a thin line.

Lerexus looked at Silana, then back at me. "I found you on the road outside the West Gate. Your injuries were extensive. I brought you here to the chapel." He looked down at his hands, and then he pulled off his gauntlets and placed them on the table beside my bed. "What do you remember, Otavia?"

Now it was my turn to look over at the healer. She just gave me one more judgment to worry about. But she looked like she wasn't about to leave.

"I remember my arrest and the deal we made," I told him. "If I cooperated on your skooma investigation all of the charges against me would be dropped. Just in and out of the house you showed me to make sure you had the right place. You said you couldn't risk another incident."

Officer Callidus wiped a hand over his mouth. I supposed my feeble presence in the bed meant parchment for him to file.

"That's right," he said. "An outsider with your skills might succeed where a known officer of the law had failed."

"You didn't say 'might' when we spoke," I said. At the time it was me who was in a tight spot. Now he was the one who should be saying he was sorry. No matter what had happened, I was sure it wasn't my skills at fault.

"What action did you take?" he asked me.

"I waited until Lonavo's gang would be gone for the night, then I went to the house you showed me on the map. Looking for evidence like we agreed. I don't remember anything else."

"How long did you wait before you went there, after we spoke? How many days, can you remember?"

Silana made a shushing gesture at him.

I remembered this part, but his question still didn't make sense. "What do you mean? I went there that same night, right after we spoke."

There was a moment of silent but urgent communication between Lerexus and Silana.

Julianos says: Know the truth. Observe the law.

"Lerexus, tell me."

He started to speak, then stopped and cleared his throat again. "I found you on the third night. You were missing for two days." To his credit, he looked sincerely miserable. "Otavia, I'm sorry. I should never have sent you there alone."

Zenithar says: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Never steal, or you will be punished.

"If there was a mistake, it was mine only," I told Lerexus. He looked sorry enough, but I didn't feel any better. It was my crime that put me in his path to begin with. This watchman should never have met me. "Did you arrest them? How did I get here?"

Silana stepped forward. "That is quite enough for today." When a healer speaks that way, even a law man listens.

But Lerexus leaned forward and made slow business of picking up his gloves. "We arrested three of them including Lonavo," he told me. "For skooma cooking and distribution. Their woman Mirielle is still at large. I'm sorry, Otavia. We didn't have the evidence to connect them to you."

So they were in prison then, but not for long if they could pay their fines. I put my hand out on the crisp sheet, and he took it like I was made of spun glass. "Sometimes the monster wins."

After he left Silana brought me some foul-tasting tea. I made sure she saw me wince when I drank it, then I gestured to the chair. "Silana, please sit with me."

She glanced around as if some emergency might pop up and save her. None did. She slid into the chair.

"Tell me about my injuries. You took away the scars, but I need to know what happened."

"Otavia," she began. Her tone was not cooperative.

"It's upsetting me more not to know. Please, Silana."

She gave me a long look. "All right." It took a moment for her to fidget the way some do when they're gathering their thoughts. Then she looked back in my eyes. "I was at my morning prayer when Officer Callidus brought you in. It was just before dawn. He had wrapped you in a blanket from the stable. You were so cold. It had rained during the night."

She looked down at her hands, remembering. "You had ligature marks at your wrists, ankles, and neck. Lerexus said the gag is what saved most of your teeth." Silana took a deep breath and met my gaze again. "Your jaw was broken. You had a depressed skull fracture. Your bones were broken here, here, and here." She indicated by gesturing to her own limbs. "Your left shoulder was dislocated, and you had three broken ribs. You had bite marks on your torso and shoulders."

"Animal bites?" I interrupted.

"No. Your face was bruised and swollen. Lerexus..." Silana paused and composed herself. "Officer Callidus didn't recognize you until he saw your hair in the light, even though he had been out looking for you. Some of your wounds had been partially healed, but then you had received further injuries. It's likely that your head wound was sustained not long before Lerexus found you. You're lucky it was cold that night. Lady Kynareth helped slow your passing."

Kynareth says: Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury.

We stared at each other across the clean, white sheet. "I suppose I should be glad I don't remember," I finally said.

"I've been a healer for longer than you've been alive, Otavia. People have accidents every day. But injuries like yours ... Well I know it happens, but folk just don't make it to the chapel when they've gone through such abuse."

"They go straight to the undercroft is what you're saying."

Arkay says: Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world. Honor the spirits, living and dead.

It wasn't too hard to find a smile for her. "I'm hard to kill. I can thank the stars for that."

Silana gave me a look like she was searching for something. "There is a lot we don't understand about head injuries. How do you feel now?"

I shrugged. "Like it must have happened to someone else."

It took a few more days before they would let me leave the chapel. I didn't have anything on me when Lerexus brought me in, but someone got my clothes from the Five Claws. Witseidutsei let me back into my old room without paying for the time I spent at the chapel. She did go on about how she had kept it clean for me, though, but it wasn't hard just to stand there and listen.

Dar Jee waved me off when I tried to talk to him. I supposed they had given my job to someone else.

The only thing left was the leaving. I had enough coin to take a ferry back to the Imperial City and I certainly didn't want to stay, but when I started out the West Gate to the docks somehow I just kept walking.

I checked my pockets and pouches as I went, making sure I had all of my defenses ready. Clouds covered the moons, and singing crickets were much louder than my feet. I used a potion with my spell to keep an eye out for predators on the road to Greyland. Just one or the other didn't give me much range. I passed some deer and plenty of mudcrabs, but nothing I needed the Shadows to hide me from.

Yet the wicked and foolish are not doomed, for in their infinite mercies, the Nine have said, "Repent, and do Good Works, and the Fountains of Grace shall once more spill forth upon you."

Repent your crimes! Tender unto the Emperor the fines of gold, that they may be used to spread the Faith and its Benefits to all Men!

Do yourself good works! Redeem your infamy by shining deeds! Show to all Men and the Nine the good Fame of the Righteous Man, and you may once again approach the altars and shrines of the Chapel to receive the comfort and blessings of the Nine.

The Shadows failed me the last time I walked this road. I wasn't sure how I had slipped into a place between my Mistress and the Nine, but I needed to find out.

I found the house just the way I remembered it. Just a cottage really, with boarded up windows and no neighbors nearby. I crouched down behind a low wall and slipped off my larger pack. It took a moment to shift my things around and take my potions for the break-in. Then I tried to remember.

Nothing. One life sign moving around inside. I went ahead while I could still see it. My heart beat fast and strong like it always did when I was working. I used my breaths to count the time.

The lock on the door was a good one, but it hardly slowed me down. I wondered if I had picked it before. I dispelled my life detection and slipped inside.

I could take in most of the interior with one glance. Plain furnishings, open beams, and only one section walled off into a separate chamber. A woman in a skirt and blouse bent over a fire against the left wall. Plenty of candles lit meant she must be worried or expecting company. The weapons rack stood off to my right. Nothing looked familiar.

I stepped forward, knife held out in my right hand. She turned when she heard my heel scrape the boards.

The woman had dark eyes and brown hair pulled back away from her face. Her soft features made me think she was a Breton. Maybe this is the one who healed me, I thought. She was about my height and just as slim.

Recognition flared in her face, then disbelief. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. Her eyes darted at the swords neatly racked behind us, then at a dagger on the table also far out of her reach.

I walked up fast and clumsy. It wasn't hard to pretend nervousness, I was no killer. Besides, the empty place in my mind was boiling with what should have been memories. When I got close I stuck out the knife to see what she would do.

She made a lunge and grabbed my wrist. I let her. My left hand was the weapon, paralysis poison on a spiked ring in case she could resist my spell. I caught her before she hit the floor. The Warrior made me stronger than I look, but it's practice that let me get her tied down before the poison gave out. I wondered if I had ever sat in that chair. I cast a spell to loosen her tongue, Calm with some Charm usually works that way. I made sure she didn't see me do it.

I picked up my old knife off the floor and then went over and got the dagger. It was my silver one that Fathis gave me with the acorn pommel and oak leaves chased on the blade. I always carried it for luck, so that answered one question. I heard the Breton take a gasping breath.

I pulled a chair over so I could sit in front of her. "Mirielle?"

"Yeah, I know who I am. What are you going to do to me?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "I want to know what happened here."

Mirielle sounded skeptical. "You don't remember? I can't believe you're even alive."

"I know I was here for three nights. I know enough to tell if you lie to me. I know who else was here, and they are all dead. You were here, too. What I want you to tell me, Mirielle, is what happened to me here." Lying came easily. I played with my dagger as if I wasn't paying attention to it, making the blade flash in the firelight.

"And you'll let me go?"

"I know you're not responsible. I just want to know what happened. I might call the Watch, or something else. Why don't you make me angry and see what happens next? It's up to you."

Mirielle was silent for a moment. Then she must have decided to play along. "We heard Callidus was sending in a snoop, so we set up an ambush. Kylius Silenced you with a spell. Haenig and I came in behind you and took you down. Kylius put the irons on you. It was easy."

That accounted for two of the three Lerexus had in prison. I waited.

"Saprius took you in there." Mirielle nodded toward the walled off room. I could see now it was a bedchamber. "He wanted to go while you were still... what did he say, fresh." Her short laugh sounded like a bark. "You were funny, you couldn't figure out how your magicka was Silenced. Are you sure you can't remember any of this? You two were in there for a long time."

I didn't say anything back, but I cast my spell again to keep the words coming.

Mirielle was warming up to her story. "It was Saprius's day to cook, so when he came out Tyronius took his turn. He said you bit him, and oh did he yelp! Anyway, he got you back. By then it was morning, so we all got some rest. I had to sleep on the floor, since you were on the rutting bed!" Mirielle glared at me. Then a smug expression crept over her face. "Kylius didn't want you. He doesn't like Colovians."

Dibella says: Open your heart. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love.

This woman's hopes for herself and the Dunmer didn't make any sense. Why didn't he let her share his bed instead of sleeping on the floor? I could see it against the far wall next to two pallets. Parts of the picture were falling into place, but it still sounded like it could be just an ugly story. "What happened the next night?"

"Work happened, that's what," snapped Mirielle. Even given her current situation she sounded like the memory annoyed her. "Deliveries, payments, work! I had to gag you again, and Kylius made me wait around outside to make sure you couldn't escape. I had to hustle to get things done that night, I can tell you. When we all got back Haenig strung you up out here and had his fun." Mirielle nodded to a beam overhead. "That was some party. That Haenig! That's when you started to scream, the second night." Mirielle smirked at me. "And I got my bed back."

I could not believe that Mirielle was telling me all this. It was starting to sound real. I took a sip from my water skin.

Stendarr says: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.

I offered her a drink.

"I don't want anything from you, filth! Anyway there's not much more to tell. When we woke at nightfall, Kylius said it was time to send our message. Haenig cut you down and said goodbye to you right there on the floor. Who would have thought a skinny little sneak could have so much fight left. He's the one who messed your face up for you. Then we killed you with the hammer, and Haenig left you on the road for Callidus. The end."

"Someone healed me. Was that you?"

"Yeah. When Tyronius made you bleed in there I was afraid you'd soak my bed."

"How could you let them?" I still could not understand.

"Let them?" Mirielle sneered. "Who do you think tied you up? Who broke your bones? I wanted to cut you for Haenig, but Kylius said the blood would draw too many flies. Now enough of this talk! I'm not afraid of prison. Call the Watch and get it over with!"

Talos says: Be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend the people of Tamriel.

Mara says: Live soberly and peacefully. Preserve the peace and security of home and family.

The Nine say: Above all else, be good to one another.

Well, which was it? Be bold against evil or preserve the security of this woman's home? I stood up so I could think. Mirielle kept up her sneering talk. I thought until my mind was empty.

Without another word I pulled back the Breton's head and sliced through her throat.

I left the door open so that the flies would find her, and then the rats. Screw the Nine. I'll write the book of Otavia. All I need is one.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 11 2013, 03:11 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Entry 5



The rumble of the thunder shook the rafters of the house. Keeping in nearly perfect time with the sound, a flash of lightening lit up the darkened room, illuminating the toys of a child eerily. Shadows froze against the walls in horrendous forms of gaping maws and claws, black against the rough wood. Teddy bears became vicious man-eaters, the rocking horse against the wall became a dragon, and the paper dolls hanging in front of the window screamed in pain.

Ana shrieked, pulling the covers against herself. Branches scraped against the glass panels of her window, making the clawed monsters on the walls screech for her blood. She wailed and hid herself beneath the covers.

Her door burst open, her plump nanny wildly looking around the room. Seeing the small child shivering beneath the blankets in fear, she sighed, shaking her head. Most children, by the age of five, have the same fear Ana did. But hers seemed to manifest itself more violently. Ana saw and heard things that weren't there, felt people that were no longer alive, smelled things long since passed.

Ana peeked out from the covers, her brown eyes wide and brimming with tears. She reached for her nanny, and the plump Nord woman hugged the Redgaurd child.

"Hush, my dear, hush," she soothed as Ana clung to her, sobbing. "It's just thunder and lightening, nothing more."

"No," Ana sniffed. She wiped the snot from her nose onto her nanny's shoulder. Her nanny sighed softly, rolling her eyes. "There were monsters, and they were coming to get me!"

As if to punctuate her statement, there was a loud thump on the door. Ana ripped herself from the grasp of her nanny and slid beneath the bed. Another three thumps resonated throughout the small home.

"Don't answer the door!" A flash of lightening lit up the room, paling the young Redguard girl's face. The Nord woman sighed, shaking her head. A few loose strands of hair fell into her face. She tucked them behind her ear and turned towards the door.

"It's probably your father," she said lightly. "Back from the Imperial City."

As she stepped through the door, Ana watched the large woman's hips sashay through the door, leaving it open. Ana clenched her fists, hoping her daydreams weren't true this time. Her hopes were cut short as a scream sliced the air.

Ana shrank against the wall under her bed, clamping back her own scream with her small hands. She heard her blows landing dully against her nanny's body as she shrieked and begged for mercy.

"Who else is here?" the man's voice, gravelly with anger was joined in a chorus of breaking glass and snapping wood. Ana's nanny shrieked in pain as the muted sound of a slap traveled across the house. The sound of fabric ripping was covered by the booming voice of the thunder.

"N-no one! I'm the only one! I'm just a maid, please, don't-"

A sound Ana had heard before suddenly wormed its way into her ears. it made her toes curl in fear and her bowels loosen. She had heard similar noises from her father's bedroom at night, when he thought Ana was asleep. He would invite Ana's nanny into his room with low murmurs and velvety chuckles, and they would both keep Ana awake for hours.

The nanny screamed, and the man laughed. He said something too low for Ana to hear, but it had her nanny begging for him to stop. Tears rolled down Ana's face as another flash of lightening illuminated the room. She gasped as a dark, lanky figure was silhouetted in her doorway. When the next flash came a second later, the figure was across her room at the window.

Ana clenched her eyes shut, her nails digging into her cheeks, barely keeping the scream out. Ecstatic groans from the other room were dwarfed by the screeches of pain from her nanny. Then all was silent, except for the gasping sobs of the wretched woman. Ana heard the sound of metal scraping against bone, the slicing and ripping of skin, then silence.

Ana's heart pounded as the seconds passed like minutes. Except for the pattering rain the thunderstorm had brought, the house, once thought safer outside the city walls, away from thieves, was completely silent. The booming sound of thunder brought a scream to her throat, forcing her hands harder against her mouth. She shook violently, her breathing ragged.

Ice cold hands snaked their way around her bare ankles, pulling her out from the bed. Her skin squeaked against the polished floor while her nails clawed against the wooden surface. She screamed, frantically flailing about like a fish out of water, gasping and gaping wide-eyed and terrified at the man pulling her from under her bed.

The man's purple mouth was pulled back in a maliciously green smile. Dirt caked his face and fingernails, leaving streaks of grime on Ana's white nightgown as he pulled her up by the front. He tossed her flailing form easily onto her bed, atop the mussed sheets.

Ana's screams were interrupted by the unmerciful grip of the man's meaty hands closing around her throat. Lightening flashed onto the terrified child's face, again illuminating the look of horror as the man strangled the life out of her.

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

Rain began to fall on the cobblestone pavement of the Talos Plaza District. Haseel sprinted through the streets, narrowly avoiding a collision with several Imperials. Ducking under the awning of the Tiber Septim hotel, he shook the droplets loose and let himself in. He wiped his feet dry on the mat and walked briskly to his room.

There was a sharp knock on his door shortly after he shut it. Three taps, a second's wait, then another three. He recognized the signal and opened the door, letting a stringy fellow with slicked back blonde hair into his room. The man's bright blue eyes were lit up, glinting in a dangerous way.

"Listen, H, we ran into a problem." The Breton's thin lips twitched nervously over yellowed teeth. Haseel's expression never changed from neutral.

"What sort of problem, Dil?" Haseel shortened the man's name not out of camraderie, but necessity. Dil's already large blue eyes seemed to become even rounder.

"We lost a shipment." Dil sniffed and wiped his bulbous nose. A thin layer of sweat covered his oily skin. 'He ran here,' Haseel observed. He gave his dealer an appraising look.

"Who had the shipment last?"

"The Argonian, with the big fins on his head."

"You're not being specific."

"The red fins."

Haseel's face tightened in a scowl.

"Are you aware of how many Argonians I deal with daily? Or Khajiit? Imperials? Bretons? Orcs? Gods, even High Elves want what we're selling!"

"Ten?"

Dil recoiled from the slap the sent him reeling back a few steps. Haseel gave Dil a steely look.

"Names. Now."

"Bun-Zee." Dil lowered his head. 'One of these days, H, I'll stab you right in the back,' he thought sourly. Haseel kept his steely glare on Dil. The Breton only saw the flash a half-second before the metal was to his throat and his shirt bunched in the Redguard's fist. A thin line, as thin as a length of string, cut into his neck. The Breton's eyes bulged as Haseel smiled, his voice low and dangerous.

"You listen closely, worm. You work for ME. When I say jump, you ask 'How high?' When I say 'Tell me something,' you better be damn sure you tell me what I want to know. Otherwise, I'll skin you alive and feed your corpsemeat to the slaughterfish. Do we have an understanding?"

The Breton kept his face locked in a cool expression, in spite of the stinging on his neck. He kept the saliva building up in his mouth, wanting to spit at Haseel, and to keep him from seeing Dil swallow in fear.

"Yes," He said in a thick voice. Haseel kept his cool smile on his face as the threw the Breton backwards.

"Get out."

Dil kept the satisfaction of imagining Haseel's face when he found out the lost shipment was on its way to his house as he made his way out the door. He sauntered over to The Feed Bag in the Market District and ordered the biggest mug of beer they served.

"Celebration?" The bartender asked.

"It will be, soon," Dil said, his malicious grin spilling into his eyes over the mug of beer. The oil on his skin reflected in the light of the maps, giving his skin an eery yellow glow. The bartender quickly began to wipe the counter, pretending to find a stubborn speck of dirt far away from Dil.

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

Haseel urged his horse down the dirt road from the Imperial city to his house outside the city walls. The horse knew the trail well, but he refused to let his mind drift too far.

'The lost shipment was about twenty cases of skooma, each case holding around ten bottles. Each bottle was worth fourty septims, which makes the loss around-"

The horse's leg hit something, causing it to whinny and lurch. Haseel nearly lost his balance. He gripped the saddle and spotted the problem. A broken wooden crate. His dark eyes traveled up the pathway, the trail littered with empty bottles and broken crates. Haseel swayed in his seat, nausea rising in his throat. The lost shipment.

He urged the horse on, gripping its mane ungently. The mare bolted forward in a flash, and Haseel nearly keeled over by the site that greeted him.

The wicked, slanted windows of the house glared at him unblinking, its maw agape and accusing. Haseel clutched his stomach at the stench of the breath that the monster made of wooden beams blew at him. He covered his nose against the foul smell and walked inside.

Inside the beast lay the corpse of his daughter's nanny, eyes sunken in and skin pale. Blisters covered her body, and the once plump woman was now grotesquely bloated. Congealed blood pooled beneath her in a canvas of agony, her skirt above the ample hips he used to love, her undergarments strewn somewhere he did not see. He saw where a sword was thrust into her neck.

Immediately he screamed for his daughter, the hollow echoes of his voice numbly beating against the walls of the monstrosity that held the bodies of two people he loved. He found her in a similar manner as her nanny, spread on her bed, blood painting a picture of the last horrible moments of her life. Haseel grabbed the stiff body of his daughter, gagging against the stench, sobbing against the pain.

He stumbled out of the howling house, covered in rotted gore and blood. The nostrils of his horse flared as the stench reached her, but she stayed. Haseel lifted himself onto the mare and urged her towards the main road.

He came upon a Legionaire, and Haseel barely understood the words coming out of his mouth. The soldier heard the babbling of a madman covered in rotten filth, and subdued him. Haseel bawled, finally able to point the Legionaire in the direction of his house. An hour later, when the young Imperial came back, he untied Haseel, his face white. Together they rode back to the Imperial city.

-----------

Dil smiled and swirled a complimentary glass of wine from the wench across the room in the goblet. Things were about to look up for him, with Haseel on his way out of the picture. He winked at the woman, and she giggled drunkenly, her frizzy black hair matching the budding hair on her lip. Dil shrugged. He wanted what was between her legs, not what was on her face. 'Unless she does that too,' he thought to himself, allowing himself a laugh that distrubed the barkeep.

A man burst into the inn and went straight to the barkeep, slamming his hands onto the bar.

"A man just found his daughter and nanny dead in his own house!"

The barkeep looked interested. "Oh yeah?"

The Imperial nodded vigorously. "He says he knows who did it. The Watch told him to not do anytihng stupid, but he's headed here right now for a drink."

"Why wasn't he detained? How do we knows he didn't kill them?"

The Imperial gave a shrug. "He was here on business, said he only returned to find them already mutilated and long dead." The Imperial ordered a drink. "My guess is it was a deal gone wrong, maybe he was doing a side business along with what he was trading." The Imperial took a long pull on his drink, belched, and slammed his mug down. "I want to be good and drunk once he gets here. Gimme another."

Dil's hearing ebbed, the barkeep's voice barely echoed a reassuring sentiment that nothing would happen in his bar. Dil stumbled off of his stool, and a few patrons laughed and remarked he had had too many drink. He sprinted drunkenly out of the bar without paying his tab, ignoring the shouts of the angry barkeep. He slipped into an alleyway, panting.

The empty streets were lit up by the twin moons. The pale cobblestone gleamed wickedly in the moonlight. Dil's chest heaved up and down while he caught his breath.

the lonely echo of a single set of footsteps snaked its way into his hearing. Dil held his breath. The footsteps halted, and the sound of Dil's heart made him curse. He couldn't hear anything over his own heartbeat.

A high-pitched scraping sound made Dil's teeth itch. 'What IS that?'

His question was answered when he saw the form of a man with short cropped hair dragging a dagger along the wall of the building. Dil whimpered. The moonlight caught the face of the man when he turned his head towards the sound.

'Haseel.'

Dil bolted towards the main walk, screaming and sobbing. Haseel ran after him, tackling him and punching the air from his lungs. He dragged Dil to the alleyway. propping him against the wall.

"Before you die," Haseel hissed, "I want you to admit that you killed my daughter."

"What? No! I didn't-"

Haseel plunged the dagger into Dil's gut, wrenching it.

"Don't you lie you me! She was five! You sent the skooma to my home so the buyer would kill me, didn't you?" He withdrew the dagger and plunged it into Dil's leg. Dil screamed. Haseel knew he didn't have much time. He pulled the dagger out and wormed it under Dil's ribs. Dil screamed again and gurgled.

"I did it!" he gasped, his breaths shallow. The confession spilled over his lips like the blood in his lungs. "I've always hated you, and I thought you would be killed, not your daughter! I didn't know you even had one!"

"Stop right there!" The gravelly voice alerted Haseel that he had no more time left. he wrenched the dagger from Dils' lungs and stuck it in his left eye. Blood gurgled out as Dil let out a death rattle. An arrow struck out of Haseel's chest, straight through.

'I did this. I chose this. And the only forgiveness for my daughter's life is bought with my own,' he thought numbly. He dropped the dagger. he metal clanked against the cobblestone, once gleaming with a pure and serene light, now stained with the blood of two criminals.

The clank of the steel-toed guard's feet echoed loudly in Haseel's ears. Behind the guards filing in a chaotic line into the alleyway where one dead man, soon to be two, lay bleeding, he saw the briefest of silhouettes. A small girl, with brown eyes that bore into his soul, holding the hand of the women he had loved for the last two years.

With a nod and a wave, both of them were gone, leaving only Haseel and a dozen or so guards.

Haseel collapsed, breaking the shaft of the arrow. He figured he had about thirty second or less of life on Nirn, then it was off to wherever murderous skooma dealers posing as a straight-edged merchant and a loving father. He was not a religious man, and neither were his folks, but that didn't matter now. As far as he was concerned, he was forgiven.

Maybe the Void, maybe the Dreemsleeve, or Aetherius. He had no idea. The last of his thoughts were less and less coherent as he went into shock. The arrow had pierced his heart, and though he heard of miraculous individuals surviving injuries like his, he didn't want to survive. For him, the only way for him to rest in peace was to pass on.

Haseel welcomed death gladly. He breathed his last breath with a sigh of contentment.


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


Anyone trekking in the woods near the house outside the Imperial City heard the howls of the demon house that had once housed three people. Every time it was told, it changed. First the nanny killed her charge, then the father. Eventually the story was that the child had killed her nanny, then waited for her abusive father to get home so slaughter him.

That area of the woods became a legend in its own right. Panic-stricken youngsters and jumpy couriers would swear up and down at Weye that they could hear the outraged screams of the daughter, looking to exact her revenge on the one that had killed her, whomever that might be.

The house with the angry eyes and howling mouth was never torn down. For years it would lie in wait, its unblinking windows glaring at anyone who dared step foot onto the property. with no one to claim it, it fell into ruin, becoming a ghost of its former self. The horrors it had witnessed had tainted it, the foul stench of rot and death staining the very wood and stone used to build it.

When the last of the beams had fallen, long after the bodies were removed, no grass grew there. No animal housed itself there, and the birds never sang within earshot of the clearing.

The actions of one man, though rectified, haunted the land.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Apr 11 2013, 03:11 PM