The Beast

Light. Blinding and white and pure. It fills my shying eyes like a disease, first a trickle, then a painful torrent, invasive and exposing. I shut them.

I liked the darkness.

I missed the darkness. It was my home, my sustenance. I feed off the shadows, like some kind of beast. You see that is what I am, or was made. A beast. A creature. An unthinking, brainless savage, living like an animal amongst the blackness and the bleakness that I consume and that consumes me.

The shadows protect me. Hides my true identity from those hateful, accusing eyes. Conceals my hideous form and spares humanity the horror of witnessing me. They hate me, cast me out into the wilderness to fend for myself, judged me a monster on appearances alone. And that's why I hate them so. A deep burning ire that burns bright, that no amount of shadow and gloom can hide in the depths of my cave.

My dark, long-dead heart clenches at the thought of it, their leering faces, their jeering comments. They don't understand me. Nobody does. Only the shadows.

They know of my contempt. And they use it for themselves. They turn my hate of humans into a weapon. And I let them. They threaten me with perils of Sithis and the Mother of Night’s wrath, but they do not realise I am not afraid. In an instant I could but turn around and end their lives in a swift second of blood and murder and vicious gore. But I choose not to. I kill for them on my own volition.

I kill for my own pleasure.

Deep in the subterranean caverns of Cyrodiil they train me, goad me in cages, fuel my hate, and when a target is set, they release me, and like a dog I obey. I hunt the target down until his blood is on my lips and his soul is whispering in the underworld. I can imagine them all now. Wandering the afterlife as ghosts, every single victim of my savagery, watching, waiting for me to come out of the shadows.

I never will.

Sometimes they die silently. Sometimes they thrash and brawl until I decide I've had enough. And then the fun stops. The 'Brotherhood', as they call themselves, will never know what it means to be totally unhinged, to be absolutely free, to be able to enjoy the thrill of the kill.

They only use the shadows, yet I am the shadow.

They don't know what it feels like to be abandoned, to be left to die, to be so unloved even the gods despise you so. They worship false idols like this 'Sithis' and the 'Night Hag', they think they're free.

They're not at all. They're just the same as the rest. They think they can tame the untamed, control the uncontrollable. They can't control the shadows. The darkness is unstoppable. It was they who created me, made me so hideous and repulsive, and brought me into this world full of such dark hate and predujice. I used to consider it a curse, what they did to me, but now I see. It is a gift.

Screams. Blood spattering. It's almost like music to my distended ears. And as I listen to its sadistic ensemble I wonder how long it has been since I've seen the sun, felt its warm embrace and looked upon its beckoning glow.

It makes me gag. I said I liked the darkness.

The transcript has an unknown author.

These scribbled notes were found in an abandoned underground dungeon, when members of an Imperial Legion cohort uncovered a major Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary deep within the depths of Cyrodiil's hidden caverns. The Imperial Legionnaires were shocked to find every member of the secret covenant grotesquely murdered, seemingly mauled and in some cases devoured alive by some kind of beast. They sealed off the area and destroyed the entrance to the cave accordingly, though some reports from the soldiers tell of strange things moving in the darkness.

Signed Temple Archives Apprentice, Curator Illydoor

What was your name again?

Penehipumon.

Where are you?

Here. Not here...inside you. It's strange, just don't fight it, Mortal.

Where was I again?

Myn Druhr, looking for some concoction the Deep Ones left.

Thats right..Pene..

Penehipumon.

I'll call you Pene.

As you wish. Can we go now? I possessed you because I thought this might be interesting, after all you made quite the entrance with that explosion.

I'm still weak, I can barely move.

Fine, you take a nap. I'll keep an eye out.

You're a Woman....

"I'm whatever I want to be, and when I'm out here don't rely on me reading your mind, I'm not in it."

"w-what are you?"

"You mortals call me a 'Seducer'. Not to be confused with Mazken if you please. That's the Madgod's folk."

I pass out....

Trying to work my way back into the writing game. This may or may not turn into something larger.




A figure in green crept through the twilight, ducking smoothly from tree to tree, eyes fixed to the earth. It was a man; an elegantly curved wood-and-metal bow dangled from his left hand, the handiwork of the elves. His right hand gripped a pair of broad-headed silver arrows—the quiver slung across his back held perhaps thirty more. On his left hip sat a light silver short sword. The man was smiling.

The track was perhaps eight hours old, the gait a slow walk. Probably a big black bear, the man thought. Not as good as a brown bear, but good enough to make the offering. He would find it. The bear would have spent most of the afternoon bedded down, would have just gotten up. The man found the trail and resumed his effortless, crouching walk.

Forty minutes passed. The man flushed a white-tailed deer and instinctively prepared a shot, but his fingers could not release the arrow. The blessing ritual he’d held behind his cabin had prepared him to hunt bears and only bears. Though he hungered for meat, he could not take deer. Not now. He nibbled on a block of goat cheese; just enough to quiet the rumbling of his empty stomach. Another ten minutes passed and he found the bed.

The bear had scraped away a few inches of duff and dirt at the edge of a large stand of aspens. The aspens made the man nervous. With every breath of wind the delicately suspended leaves on the trees rattled about—drowning out every other sound and overwhelming the senses. It added risk. Fresh tracks, no more than half an hour old, led away from the bed and deeper into the forest. The man followed after pausing to refresh his spell of night-eye. The creeping darkness had become complete.

He smelled the bear before he saw it; a rich, musky aroma. The bear’s trail led over small rise and into a small meadow. The bear was digging up the bulbs of wild allium—onions. It was black and it was large, a male weighing at least 300 pounds. It would likely take more than one shot.

Moving into the wind and covered by the sound of aspen leaves, the man crawled behind a screen of gooseberry shrubs to within forty yards of the bear. If the bear detected him before he could shoot, he was sure to get mauled. But the bear was looking off to the side, engrossed in its digging. The man pulled arrows from his quiver, sticking four into the soft earth and nocking a fifth.

The first shot came out just as the bear turned toward him, exposing the heart. The bear bellowed and lunged forward, covering ten yards in what seemed like a fraction of a second, only to be shot once more. After one last great leap and two staggering steps the bear fell and moved no longer.

Hircine would be pleased.

*

Allow this humble apprentice to submit this offering to the Temple. It is a long short story that will be told in several installments:










Servatius Quintilius stood in his new quarters in the South Watch Tower and adjusted his gleaming silver cuirass. As he admired his reflection in the looking glass, his attention was commandeered by the latest edition of the Black Horse Courier which sat on a desk in the corner where the easel had been. The headline New Watch Captain Named pointed toward the ceiling, and was large enough to allow Quintilius a smile of satisfaction.

After completing the delicate matter of fine tuning his appearance, Quintilius carefully made his way back down the series of ladders to begin his first rounds as Captain of the Imperial Watch.

“Captain Quintilius, sir,” said a young, red-faced guard before the Captain’s feet had adequately touched down on Nirn, “I’ve been sent to find you.”

“And so you have,” said Quintilius. “What is the problem?”

“There’s been a murder, sir!”

A murder, Quintilius thought to himself, excellent! “Lead on,” he said. He followed the young guard through the door and out into the pre-dawn moonlight.

They traveled down the alley and stopped at the gate leading to Green Emperor Way. Four guards had gathered with the shift change. They each straightened when they saw the insignia on Quintilius’ chest.

Quintilius led with his chin, “I don’t suppose there’s a reason that four guards are needed to hold up this gate?”

“No sir,” two guards muttered in unison. The other two were busy searching for the answer on the cobblestones at their feet.

“Then disperse,” said Quintilius, “I’ll not have guards loitering on my watch.”

Two guards said “yes sir” while the other two continued to monitor the pavement. Quintilius moved past them through the gate. Behind him eight eyeballs rolled toward the Firmament.

Dawn crept upon the Palace District; shadows that had shrouded the trees and headstones retreated to the ground and pointed west. The young guard weaved through the graves. Quintilius stayed close behind. He warned himself not to let his pace quicken too much, to investigate a murder on his first day was one thing, but stepping over the interred bodies of generations of the dead to do it made his blood curdle.

Another guard stood watch outside the heavy stone door to the Trentius Family Mausoleum. He fixed his posture when he saw Quintilius approach.

“Here?” Quintilius asked. Ridiculous, he thought, a murder in a mausoleum! He felt the sweat on his palm drip into the fingers of his gauntlet.

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we found them like this a couple of hours ago. There is no sign of forced entry, whoev . . .”

“You said them,” said Quintilius, gathering himself, “multiple victims?”

“Yes sir. We’ve identified the first as a Nord named Agarmir. We have not yet ident . . .”

“Why wasn’t I sent for when you found them ‘a couple of hours’ ago?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, Captain Hayn was on duty but he has taken ill. We were not aware that Captain Lex’s position had been filled.”

“It was in the paper,” said Quintilius.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir. I have not yet seen the new edition, sir.”

“See to it,” said Quintilius. He inhaled sharply which puffed out his chest, and then he descended the stairs into the mausoleum.

Lamps burned in sconces along the wall, providing ample light to see. Why is there light inside the mausoleum? Quintilius thought to himself, somehow it seems to defeat the purpose.

Two bodies lay in uncomfortable repose on the stone floor. Blood pooled in copious amounts around each, originating from ghastly wounds that caused Quintilius to struggle keeping the gag reflex in check. His eyes fell upon the short blond hair of the Nord closest to him. He wore a dark shirt, brown linens, and doe-skinned shoes. One should be given the dignity of dying in more becoming clothing, Quintilius thought.

The first guard spoke up again. “That one is Agarmir, sir, late of the Talos Plaza District. He is, was, a known thief, but it is unclear what he was doing in this place.”

“Looking for new clothing no doubt,” said Quintilius. “He must not be much of a thief; one can find better raiment in the crates lying around the city.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius allowed his eyes to venture to the other body that lay propped against a pillar in the center of the room. “Another Nord?”

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we haven’t been able to identify him yet. My guess is that he is a mercenary of some sort.”

“I am sure that the Empire will not thrive if it must rely upon your guesses.” Quintilius stepped over the body of the one called Agarmir and moved closer to the other. Already the smell emanating from the bodies was straining his olfactory sense. “Steel armor and claymore, a pack filled with a shank of mutton and a restore fatigue potion, I would say that this man was a mercenary of some sort. . . ”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius froze him with a look. “It is also clear that he was in alliance with this Agarmir.”

“Sir?”

Quintilius sighed through the nose. “This Agarmir has no weapon, and the wounds on the two bodies are not those that would have been caused by a claymore.”

The second guard took two steps back toward the stairs leading out of the crypt. His hand sought the hilt of his silver longsword. “Could it have been an ancestor ghost? They have been known to guard the resting places of the dead.”

“Unlikely,” said Quintilius. “I see no ice burns on either body. Ghosts are partial to cold magic. Whatever caused these wounds was savage, precise and, for now at least, let us assume mortal.”

He raised his eyes from the body and did a sweep of the rest of the tomb. The two guards continued to edge toward the stairs.

“What’s that there?” asked Quintilius.

Both guards followed the Captain’s gaze to the object propped against another pillar in the tomb.

“It looks like a book, sir,” said the first guard.

“I would be very surprised if you did not one day wear the armor of a Watch Captain,” said Quintilius, “given your powers of observation. Being one myself, I can already see that it is a book! Does it not strike you as passing strange that someone would choose to leave a book in this of all places?”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

Quintilius shook his head. “Who, do you imagine, was the book left for?”

“I imagine that it belongs to one of the two Nords, sir,” the second guard interjected.

“Do you now? Two Nords barged into the Trentius Family Mausoleum on some Arkay-forsaken errand and decided to stop and produce a book because there happened to be ample reading light? However, that is beside the point. My question wasn’t ‘who is the owner of this book,’ it was ‘who was this book left for?’”

Quintilius could almost hear their eyelids scratching against their eyeballs as they blinked at him over and over.

“Hand me the book!” he said.

The first guard bent and secured the tome. He walked across the stone floor to where Quintilius stood. The Watch Captain did just that, and thought for all of the Mundas that the guard looked as nervous as a rat sneaking around in Goblin Jim’s Cave.

“Sir,” said the guard.

Quintilius took the book and opened it. His eyes scanned the words committed to the page.

“It appears that this book belongs to one of the recently expired Nords,” said Quintilius. “It seems to be an inventory of some sort, a list of the recently deceased and their belongings.”

“These men were robbing the mausoleum?” asked the second guard.

“So it would appear,” said Quintilius. “It also appears that they met with someone who objected to their activities.” He closed the book and held it toward the first guard. “Take this ‘Macabre Manifest’ and find the locations of any family members or associates of the recently deceased. Then return the book to my quarters in the South Watchtower.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius looked at the second guard. “Inform Commander Phillida of the situation here, I imagine that he will want to quarantine this mausoleum.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius mounted the stairs into the morning sunlight. He stretched away the shadows from the crypt and shook the tension from his shoulders. While they are engaged with those errands, perhaps I will break my fast at the Bloated Float, or perhaps the King and Queen . . .

“Captain Quintilius, sir!”

Quintilius turned. The voice belonged to yet another guard who weaved with great alacrity through the headstones and stopped panting on Quintilius’ boots. The Watch Captain waited.

“There’s . . . been . . . a murder . . . sir!”

“So I am aware. You do realize that you find me standing outside the murder scene? And I would not exactly classify it as a murder. I imagine any number of men could endeavor to ascertain the killer. Captain Hayn strikes me as the competent sort, perhaps he could be put to the task. My talents are wasted here.”

“Huh? Oh. Yes sir. I mean . . . no sir. I mean to say, there’s been another murder, sir.”

Another murder? Even better! Perhaps this one will prove a better exercise of my intellect. “Where?”

“In the Temple District, sir, I was told to direct you to the home of an Altmer named Seridur.”

This story takes place in a world that I have created. The country that I'll be writing about the most is named Rigor Mortis, the place where this one takes place. I'll be writing about it in my blog later. The land is usually a really good place to live in, you've just got to watch out where you put your feet.

Bad Luck by Saqin, Scribe of the Order of the Schola

1 E 243 Winter
The wind sighed in the snow covered pines. It sung a desperate song about a war long since forgotten, and the man who slept beneath the trees curled himself up, only to moan of the pain as his wounded arm touched a stone. His eyelids fluttered open, and he sat up. The forest was quiet except from the disturbing noises of the wind, and suddenly the man was alert. He grabbed the sword that lay next to him, and arose despite the vile ache that sometimes felt as if though it intended to crush him.

Far away, he heard the soft trampling of feet and the merry voices of men coming back from a successful hunt. But he had slept many miles away from the roads, and no one with good intentions travelled the cursed forest at night. His heart sunk where he stood, and the man covered his failing fire with snow as fast as he could, the silence was eerie. He rolled up his bedroll, and put it in his pack. Having slept with his clothes on, there was nothing more for him to do except to cover the last of his tracks before leaving.

Standing ready in the snow, he listened to the distant song that came from the east, before beginning his hike southward. Then he heard the words, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“...We come for them who flee our house,
we walk the path that no one knows
Our silent steps shall not be heard,
hear them you and you shall die
Worse is the curse that lies on us

The wind sighs and the birds flee our sights
Long ago we left these lands
We are those who you lost
In a war so very long ago

We come for them who fled our house,
with deceit and lies they brought us down...”

The man shook his head and left the trance. It was at a run that he continued, no longer caring whether they heard him or not. Panic filled him, and it felt as if though the trees reached down to hit him, to stop his passing. Snow crunched beneath his feet, and he did not slow down more than enough to leap over that which came in his way.

He no longer heard the singing when the fire appeared through the trees, and he slowed down. Panting he walked the few last steps through the forest, out onto the plains where the fire was. But the fire was blue, and there was no wood. The fire was floating, and just as his mind registered that, he saw the woman.

She looked at him with a smile. She was using a cane of white wood to support herself, and black hair fell down her shoulders. The cold did not seem to bother her, though she wore nothing but a thin robe. There was a carriage behind her, and from it he heard a scream. Then a man came out.

“That one's dead, mistress. Shall I try and revive him?” The new man's voice had a melancholy voice, as if though neither the cold nor any other feelings touched him.

“Wait boy, a guest just came to us from Darkrange forest.” She looked upon the man that had just come from the forest, and her smile took on an evil hint. The man stood as paralysed, and could do nothing when she walked against him.

“Nec-necromancer.” The man gasped, and the woman gave out a short laugh.

“Indeed boy, I am one of those that worship the gods of death and pain. It's not for nothing that the name of our land is Rigor Mortis.” She said, and put a hand on his chest. Her evil smile was the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled up, and everything became black.

The woman stood above him for a while before she turned to her servant. “Dispose of the old one will you? Reviving them is such a nuisance, and besides, we just found us a new toy.”

Sorry about the double post, but I've got another short story taking place in Rigor Mortis, and the main character ain't very forgiving(She isn't a great fan of waiting either).

Hunting party by Saqin, Scribe in the Order of the Schola

2E 145
Her steps carried her swiftly across the leaf covered ground, and she ducked beneath the branch of a tree. Hearing the sound of hoofs against the dark earth, she cast a glance over her shoulder. The riders were closing in, swords in their hands. As she ran, she reached to her quiver, but nothing more than air greeted her hand.

Suddenly, as if though to help her, a rabbit darted through the trees, scaring the horses. She spun around, drew her sword from it's scabbard, and stepped in behind a tree when the horses shied from the rabbit and the riders had to rein in their mounts.

A silent curse crossed her mind when the long black hair that was draped over her shoulders got stuck in a branch. When it was free, she climbed swiftly, hiding herself among the leaves. Pushing her back against the tree trunk, she listened as the horses calmed, and their riders dismounted.

“Yleka, come down willingly, and you will not be harmed! Our orders are only to capture you!” One of riders called out, meanwhile searching the ground for tracks that would betray her passing, tracks that quite certainly were there. His steel boots made a lot of noise when he walked through the dry leaves, and the other rider were looking through the trees.

Just as the eyes of the second rider found the silvery shimmer of her cloak, she leaped out against him. Yleka rolled around to soften the impact, and before the rider had time to react, her blade met the soft skin of his throat.

“Your orders might only be to capture me, but the orders of your general is to kill me. And your people have no right to rule our lands.” She said just as the man's head hit the ground, and his body fell backwards.

The man whom had spoken only had time to draw his sword up to block before Yleka charged at him. Her steel blade seemed almost to dance with his as they fought. She deflected his blade only to kick him as hard as she could, and the impact had him tumbling backwards. He rolled out of the way as she once again came at him, and he parried when she cut at him from every angle she knew.

But he grew weary, for his fitness was not as great as hers, and his arms became weaker. He tried to sidestep, to buy himself time. But a raised root caught his foot and pulled him down, showing to her an opportunity to strike.

In the aftermath, when she stood there looking down on the two soldiers, she felt how tired she truly were, for the strength that had kept her going had been nothing but adrenaline.

“You were good fighters, both of you. Pray the gods be as good to you.” She said, touching the forehead of each soldier with her fingers. Then she tied them to the saddles of their horses, and sent the horses on their way. And so she stood there, simply listening to the forest around her as it recovered from the fight. The faint sigh of the wind in the trees, the chatter of the birds and a snake creeping through the undergrowth, all of them masking the recent events.

Yleka looked around then, on the blood stains that covered the ground. And so she sheathed her blade, pulled her hood up over her head and began walking in the opposite direction of the horses. Mist were rolling in from the hills, and she raised a hand to remove hair from her eyes. Her cloak flapped in the wind one last time, and she vanished from sight.