Running with the Daedra 20

Don't Fear the Daedra

Shortly after his mother’s death, and the mysterious “disappearance” of his stepsister, the Artist and his father had moved from Ald-Ruhn to a small hamlet on the outskirts of Vivec City. Chased out of town by mounting debts and blood-thirsty creditors, they had made their way south in an effort to find safety. Dust-storms and ash sands had given way to gentle rains and endless fields of produce, well fed from the Inner Sea to the south. There, they had set themselves as general laborers and farmhands amongst the many saltrice farms found therein.

Life in the village was poor, but preferable to the one they had in Ald-Ruhn as far as the Artist was concerned. Their income consisted of days in the Netch Fields, farmhand work, and the occasional odd-job that needed doing. The people there were the traditional Dunmer stock; hard-working and stoic to a fault. Aside from the work they did, families did little to interact, aside from worship at the Temple.

His father had reduced the beatings since then, although they never quite stopped. Perhaps he had an inkling of what had happened to his lost stepdaughter. Some inner knowledge that the child he reigned blows on was somehow responsible for her disappearance, though he would never be sure of the lad’s guilt. They never did find her, although that was not surprising, given that the Artist had disposed of her in a nearby Foyada where wild-beasts were known to roam. Ever since then, his father had taken to the drink more and more; it wasn't odd to find him in a drunken stupor when he wasn't working. Only on occasion, when the old rage surfaced would his father take out his belt. As of late though, the Artist had been growing strong and now there was a hint of concern in those eyes when the lashings were dealt.

The Artist much preferred the arrangements here, as on the off-seasons of farming he had much more free time. His schooling was done and his letters known, all the knowledge a poor-man would need for a short and miserable life. Despite this, the Artist though had loftier goals in mind. In secret he had been honing his craft, the art that his father had so previously shunned. Of course he kept this secret from his father who would still disapprove. That and he also kept other secrets from his as well.

The Artist had never told anyone about his sister or what he done that night. That revelation of destiny and all its splendors had opened itself to him like the petals of a flower during first spring. There were no accidents, no twists of fate. There was a plan and in this plan he had a central place. For some time, the Artist had begun to regards those around him as "shadows" or "mannequins." Fake people, not really alive. In some small part he had begun to think of himself as perhaps the only one who was "real." The others, those shades who mimicked life, were merely moving through the world in a foul mockery of himself. Perhaps, he would think, perhaps he was the only real thing in this universe.

Had he lived in a more civilized time and society, they no doubt may have noticed something wholly wrong with the boy. His mind was slowly giving into a nihilistic and solipsistic out-view that regarded the world as merely a projection of his own psyche. He had begun to consider himself as not just a higher lifeform to those around him, but the higher lifeform. Had he lived in a better place and time, they would likely have confined him to a sanatorium for both his safety and others. Alas, the boy was allowed to roam free, and so his madness continued unabated.

He often roamed the foothills around his village, on the search for whatever may spark his interest. He'd take a small piece of parchment or paper and strove to capture what he saw in those hills. Sometimes he'd take a stick and do his work in the dirt there. Once or twice he saw a cliff racer fly, up up up into the sky and dive with startling speed at a small animal on the ground. He'd see beautiful sunrises and breath-taking vistas. Other times he'd spy on the people of his village as they scurried about, taking notes on all their dirty secrets or comings and goings.

After one particularly harsh beating, his father had sent him out to the neighboring village, to procure therein a bottle of bootleg liquor. He was hiking through the hills with his purse jingling, parchment in hand and a little bottle of ink and pen along with him. HIs left cheek throbbed from the shiner his father had given him, reward for spilling a droplet of tea on their table. But he was peaceful now, glad to be free of his oppressive progenitor.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon, just cooling from the day's heat and the air crisp and refreshing. The grass was slightly damp from a brief shower, it was green and springy and came up to his knees. A small grove of parasol mushrooms provided him a bit of cover for which he often spied out the comings and goings of animals and people along the nearby path.

He leaned against the stalk of one mushroom, chewing on a bit of tobacco stolen from his father's stash. The strong musky scent of the mushrooms filled the air, the gummy but firm texture strong against his back. It was times like these that the voices in his head grew quiet. His sister, his mother, sometimes his father. Never silent, but almost.

He began to sketch idly, glancing occasionally at the small piece of art that he created days earlier and that he had left hidden here in the mushroom grove. He was beginning to branch out, not just drawings and sketches, but more concrete forms of art. Days ago he had left a ghastly prize, a physical expression of the mental degeneracy that plagued him. Though he had never once considered what he did to be “degenerate.”

A Vvardvark was pinned against a makeshift cross that he had constructed out of sticks and twine. Its paws were pinned against the thick wood with nails he had stolen from the village smithy, its tongue lolling out from the side of its mouth as its crucified form decayed in the open. The thing had struggled at first after he had captured it, tiny squeaks of protest turning shrill when the nails first went in. It had taken hours to die.

For the past few days he had visited the shrine he had made, admiring the work that he done. He would sketch what he saw, and compare today’s notes to the previous, marveling at the advancing decay that took its toll each day. His eyes glazed over when he stared at the animal, remarking that the Imperials had come up such a wonderful manner of torture and execution. He had learned all of this from his father; the drunken mentor teaching him the Imperial punishment for criminals, one of the few times that his father’s words held him in rapt attention.

He became aware now that there were other voices, coming up the path. Not the ones inside his head, but others. Shadow people. Shades. He leaned into the darkness provided by the mushroom trees and silently observed the people coming up the hill. The dimming light of the day made him squint, the shapes forming themselves into two distinct individuals. Small laughter elicited from the mouth of one and a hearty chuckle made him realize that they were both a man and a woman.

Coming closer he saw that the man was a local farmer, large and firmly in his middle age. The woman was the miller's daughter, petite and barely into her early womanhood. They jostled each other playfully, like a father and daughter out for a walk. The Artist scowled at this interaction, finding nothing to be had in establishing a relationship with parents.

The relationship took a sudden turn though when the older man wrapped the woman in his arms and embraced her in a fiery kiss. This was no father/daughter relationship. Wryly, the Artist smiled. The farmer was a married man with children of his own. The daughter was to be engaged to a Temple acolyte from the city. The comings and goings of the village were interesting indeed.

He almost pulled back, content to let the two have their fun. But something made him stay. He leaned closer and observed the two increase that passionate forwardness of their kiss. His face was placid and unmoving with no hint of any sapience within. The two were moving far from kissing into something more. Clothes were being removed at a fast pace, and the two began a playful romp on the grass.

The Artist leaned farther forward, fascinated by the act the two were engaged him. Of course, he knew of sex, but he had never engaged in it himself. He leaned in and watch the two ravenously pour into each other, wild in abandonment.

It was almost comical at once. He strained not to laugh. Such haughty individuals, members of their community, and here they were disregarding all pretenses of civility. Rutting in the wild like animals. The girl moaned in pleasure and turned her head and the Artist pulled back so as not to be seen. He contented himself with listening to the dull wet slapping and toying with the idea of moving on. He didn't.

He leaned back in and watched some more. They were full in their rutting, moving back and forth rhythmically and staining the earth with their filth. He sneered at this. Pure, unaltered nature was preferable to the mess that living beings created when they encroached upon it. By deign of their very existence they fouled Nirn.

His face began to screw up into revulsion, his pulse throbbing with unrestrained hate. Their ardor, previously and act of amusement, became increasingly an act of supreme aberrance. Their features, plain and unassuming, were becoming sub-human and apelike. It was though they had truly turned into animals, but animals of the most twisted and deformed kind. Foul abominations that screamed to be killed lest they spread their own foul taint through reproduction. The impression became so strong that he soon became filled with a mixture of terror and disgust and fled, disregarding his materials and headed out in the hills in a direction he had never gone before.

He ran in an unknown direction for some time, his mind awhirl with terror and disgust. He didn't see the angular black protrusion sticking out of the ground, not until he banged his knee hard against it. He went down in a sprawl, end over end and was dazed. He came to and searched the ground for what had tripped him. It was easy enough to find, almost hidden by a nearby bush.

It was a dark black stone, an angular and chiseled piece of obsidian rock. On it were inscribed all sorts of indecipherable symbols and images. They were obviously daedric and the images didn't leave much to imagination. They were scenes of torture, sacrifice, and supplication. Clearly one of the House of Troubles eliciting it's dark nature over the people of Vvardenfell. It didn't take much to figure out what this was. He searched around, moving aside some branches and soon found it. A doorway, made of the same stone as before, and sealed shut against the elements. The door held the images of yet more sacrifice, this time more dreadful and dark than before. It chilled him to behold it.

Any sane man would've left the moment they'd seen that terrible door. Day was fading fast and in the dark, dark things grow bolder and daring. It was an ill omen to find a Daedric ruin, especially one that clearly had not seen man's eyes for many years. The Artist though, was insane. There was an air of calling from the door that drew him near. Perhaps, the door had even called him to find it. Perhaps, just perhaps, the door had sent the couple. That was a thought that frightened him.

He put one hand on the door, heavy stone wedged against its frame, and took one last look at the setting sun. It was half disk against the horizon, fiery copper melting away from the sky. It gave him no heart. The door called. He looked at it and gave a firm shove. It held fast for just a moment, and gave way once he set himself against it. It strained against the granite floor and finally stopped, just enough for him to slip in.

It was dark and musty as expected, the stench of untold decades hanging on the stone. Only the sliver of light provided from the setting sun illuminated the room. From what he could tell, it was little more than a room no bigger than an average bedroom. The inside was dark obsidian, with more of the same drawings and runes. Their condition was worn with age and rotting; their design electing an image that was puzzling geometrical and yet at the same something beyond the normal measures of geometry. Against one far wall was an obsidian table, low to the ground and roughly two meters in length.

He stared blankly at the designs, daring to gleam some meaning from them, but nothing came to mind. He turned and mutely began to leave when something more caught his eye. A bit of wood, attached to the wall, that differentiated itself from its stark onyx surroundings. Studying this wood closely he saw that it was part of a large frame, rectangular in size and huge in width and length. In this frame of wood was what looked like a piece of rotten linen or cloth; it was smudged with stinking dirt and mud, leaving its surface totally undecipherable.
The Artist took one hand and swept at the surface in an effort to clear it. After some work he began to make some progress. Ignoring the setting of the sun or the faint sound of stone scraping on stone behind him, he set himself to his task. Finally he managed to clear await a small square of fabric stepping back to admire his work.

Faintly, behind the mud and grime which had caked the painting, a piece of that beautiful image could be seen. Whereas others would've recoiled in horror at the disordered fancy of that solitary craftsmanship, the Artist instead welcomed it warmly and felt nothing but a deep appreciation for the steady hand that had supplied such wonder to canvas. What unaccountable madness had painted that daemon would never be known by any living on Nirn today. This was something passed out of the age of legend, wherein the world was first born and even the stars had yet to open their unwinking eyes.

In his rapture, The Artist had failed to notice the growing sound of scraping stone. Had the thing that made this sound remained silent, perhaps many today would still live. But, the Artist became presently aware of raspy breath filling the room. IT was a hissing breath, between clenched teeth and filled with hunger and anticipation. This called his attention away from the painting and towards the table he had dismissed earlier.

The top of this table was now slightly ajar, revealing itself to be a great stone box. From the gap between the lid and the body of the container could be seen one solitary and hungry eye, glowing red in the darkness and gazing at him. Four worm-like fingers, each tipped in a blackened claw drummed at the bottom of the box while another four was inexorably pushing the top askew.

One eye became two, and a face revealed itself. It was a balding human, the last fringes of hair on his pate like black wires. His skin was pale, almost translucent, the veins showed starkly even in the dark. He looked starved, his stomach almost sunken into his thin ribs and his muscle fibers were tight cords that looked barely able to support his thin frame. He wore no clothes, leaving his shriveled and decayed nudity open to sight. He stood nearly six feet tall though, and he angled his face up so as to look down on the Artist. This also had the effect of highlighting the gleaming fangs that dripped with saliva.

He knew it was a vampire. The core of his being screamed this without him ever actually seeing one. But by the din of the vampires sight, which held him entranced, he was bound to the spot he stood. His blood now pulsed conspicuously loud in his ears, the life within him that the vampire thirsted after.

It lifted one arm straight forward, fingers flexing and grasping for his throat. Its lips parted, a foul hiss that whistled between fangs emitting from its throat. Its eyes widened, deepening into crimson pools that held the Artist captive. A shuddering step forward propelled further from its resting place, its shambling gait bring it inexorably forward.

It was almost upon him, its lips were gibbering with unabashed hunger and its eyes nearly bulged out with anticipation. It was so close now that the Artist could even see the stains of dried blood on its lips. In another step it would be feasting on his neck and so would end his life. The vampire reached out and suddenly pulled back with a screech that broke the spell it held over him. It clutched its hand and bared it's fangs in a cat-like manner, hissing at the pain it had felt.

The Artist saw the orange sliver of light from the waning sun had created a momentary wall of safety that would vanish if he waited any longer. The door was cracked open to the evening, and his time was growing short. That moment was to be seized if he wanted to leave and he fled for all his worth down the hill and back towards his village. He didn't bother to see if the beast had followed him, choosing instead to blow straight through the night and back home.

It took almost half an hour, but felt like a year, and before he knew it he was back at his door. The sun had set and he took the time to look around despite his misgivings. There was no one around. The few solitary huts of their farming village were full of life, hearths flickering in the dark and faint laughter echoing slightly. No death or undead creature coming to get him.

He took a deep breath and entered the cabin. His father was sitting with his back to the door and facing their own hearth. The remains of a pot of stew sat cold on the table. His father was plucking one or two notes on a decayed lyre from years past. He was silent and obviously moody. The Artist became aware that he had left to buy bootleg liquor for his father only hours earlier.

"You got the stuff?" His father grunted and placed the lyre down next to his chair. The Artist reached into his pockets and to his dismay found that at some point, he had dropped his purse of money.

"I..." The Artist dawdled, "I...got waylaid...bandits..."

His father sighed, hung his head, and turned around. He levelled his son with a steely gaze that brokered no entertaining of his lie.

"Bandits aye?" His father rolled his sleeves up with shaky hands. "Bandits stole my booze money? Is that right?"

"I-" The Artist didn’t' get to finish. His father's fist came swinging out from the left and clocked him squarely in the jaw. He went sprawling, hitting the floor hard and jarring his elbow. Lightning pain shot up from his injured elbow and he bit his lip to avoid crying out in pain. He didn't want to give his father the satisfaction.

"I don't know if you're lyin boy..." His father rubbed his jaw, "But I can't let you get away with losin my money."

His father strode over to his son's prostate form, his silhouette highlighted by the dim fireplace behind him. The boy looked up at his progenitor, the black steeped figured rearing back for a savage kick. Normally he would've curled up to defend himself; many a beating had taught him well. This time though, he was inspired; what he had viewed in that eldritch tomb had given him an all new sense of purpose and life. The painting he had found and its wonderful subject had been made all the more poignant by the death that he had narrowly avoided.

"Wait!" He yelled out and held up a hand to his father. "I know where you can find some treasure!"

"Treasure?" His father paused. "What do you mean...treasure?"

"I lost the money earlier." The boy eagerly said, "But I found some ruins on my way back! The old Dunmer must've left it!"

"Ruins...near here?" The man narrowed his eyes, "Are you lyin to me boy?"

"No!" He cried out, "I swear! I found it just southwest of here?"

"Southwest." His father replied suspiciously, "I must've been around these parts a hundred times. I've never seen any ruins."

"It's hidden!" Panic flooded the Artist, "Up in the foothills! I can show you!"

The man rubbed his chin again and considered his boy. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, obviously dulled by the lack of alcohol. He burped, scratched his groin, and took a step back.

"Show me then." He grabbed a lantern off the table and lit it, "But the Nine help you if you are lyin!"

"I'm not lying!" He protested, a mean glint in his eyes. "I think you'll be very surprised by what I found."

They set out. The night had set in late, plunging the sleepy village into total darkness. Only the dim light of their candle and the pale waning moons illuminated their way. The Artist led and his dazed father stumbled on their path.

The Artist worried, terrified that he wouldn't find the old ruins once again. In the dark everything was different, the path barely visible to him and it was if he had stepped into another world. Only his father, breathing down his neck, kept him focused on the task he had set before himself. Only the promise of what was to come, the plan that had formulated in his head, kept him following the path.

Only twice did he stumble in the dark, father chuckling at each fall; once he became overcome with panic, lost as he was in the darkness. Only his father clearing his throat stopped him from totally being lost. Then, he espied the dark angular features of the ruins he had entered earlier. Their torchlight glinted ominously off of the strange angles and menacing runes that lay hidden in the dank blackness of the night.

"Ohhhh..." His father said in wonder, "This is old boy! Is this the treasure you spoke of?"

"Inside..." The boy answered his father gravely, "Just...inside..."

The Artist started forward and pushed through the thick vegetation on this side of the ruins. He came upon the path that he had cleared shortly and nervously peeked at the ruins. The door he had opened earlier was barely open, pulled almost tight against its frame. How it had happened was a mystery, but that didn't matter now. They were too far gone.

His father shoved him roughly aside and ran up to the doorway. Whereas before the Artist had treated the ruins earlier with reverence and esteem, his father disregarded any form of admiration for those ancient ruins. He pulled hard against the edge of the door, budging it inch by inch until they were inside.

The Artist followed his father, who was cautiously scanning the room for any sign of danger. Behind his back, the Artist peered again at the Vampire's tomb. It was closed. Yet, almost quiet, he heard the telltale sound of stone scraping on stone. While his father peered at the decrepit runes on the walls, the Artist saw five clawed fingers peek out around the stone tablet topping the coffin and grip it with inhumane strength.

"Boy!!!" His father roared, "There aint no treasure here! You worthless little pup!! How dare-HEY!"

The Artist had escaped outside and was pushing the door shut. His father slammed against it and for a moment he thought that he'd escape. But something in him held strong and he pushed the stone door against its frame.

"Boy!!!" His father screamed, "Open this door now!!!"

"Open the door he says!!" The Artist screamed gaily. "Open it! Open it!"

"You're in a world of hurt you little shit!" His father pounded his fist hard against the door, "Open this door!"

"Open this door!" The Artist mocked him.

"How dare you!" His father yelled, "I raised you! Fed you! Clothed you! What do you expect out of this?"

"Raised, fed, clothed!" He returned, "What do YOU expect?"

"Boooooyyyyy!" His father said and then stopped. For a minute he said nothing. There was no sound from the inside. The Artist almost gave up, when suddenly there was furious pounding on the door that gave him pause.

"There's something in here!!" His father screamed, voice dripping with fear. "Open it boy, open it open it open it!!!"

"Open it!" He returned with a voice full of rage, "What is it? What do you see!?"

"Please boy!!!" his father screamed pitifully, "Please open it!? I'm begging!!!"

"Beg beg beg!!!" He screamed back, laughing and capering.

"For the Gods sake!!!" His father screamed.

"NO GODS HERE!!!" The Artist laughed madly in a sing-song voice.

There was no reply here, only a strangled cry from his father and a wet crunching sound. The Artist screamed in triumph, the night echoing his cries of victory. Only the moons held witness to the dark deed that was done that night.

For a while he held the door shut fast, pressing an ear against the door and enjoying the occasional grunt and wet slurping sounds coming from within. Like a lullaby these noises lulled him into a deep slumber, better than any he had ever had before.

When the morning first peeked its way over the mountaintops, the sounds within had ceased. Groggily he got to his feet, damp with morning dew. He stretched his limbs and admired the ruins, etched in blasphemous runes and eldritch writing. He pushed the door open, inching it bit by bit until it was fully opening.

A damp red stain covered the dirt floor. In one corner laid the crumpled form of his father; his throat nearly torn open and red ruin. His body was twisted and broken, arms skewed at odd angles and his head thrown back to expose his ruined throat. There was no life there.

Almost immediately the Artist saw that the tomb of the vampire was thrown open now. The hand of that dreadful beast gripped its coffin and once it drew itself up he saw that the former gaunt and starved face of the vampire was now flushed red and full of vigor. The skin had smoothed and the features softened; yet, those eyes remained the windows into a hunger so deep that it would never know true satisfaction. Claw tipped fingers reached out to wring his neck and tear into his flesh. There was no life there.

The Artist was prepared though. His father's death had left him with inspiration and a new zest for life. Bringing forth his hunting knife, he stepped into the light where the vampire would not tread. He lifted his knife just so, the morning sun glinting off its mirror-like surface; an orb the size of a melon illuminated the darkness, and aiming it thusly, he directed the light into the vampire's twisted face. It recoiled in pain and horror, hissing like a snake, and held up one hand in a vain attempt to ward off his attack. The Artist was not deterred. As the vampire shrank back into the darkness he turned and kept the reflected sunlight on it.

It was a matter of seconds. The vampire shrank further and further, its foul hisses fading into a whisper and then nothing. Eventually it was reduced to nothing but ash, which blew away with a strong morning wind.

In the corner there was motion. His father's form, twisted and broken as it was, moved with an all too familiar aura of hunger. A vision of nightmare had brought forth the monster that was within his father, the outside reflecting what was within. Given access to the blood that he craved, surely his father would've become just as horrible a monster as the one the Artist had just slain. The Artist's shadow was obstructing the sunlight and he moved back so as to allow it's brightness to hit the undead form of his father.

He screamed now, low and gurgling through the remaining blood in his throat. His body jerked and twisted in the sunlight and finally collapsed into a slowly blackening meat-sack. The Artist felt no emotion at this passing. Nothing but the slow and sure certainty that this was meant to be. There were no accidents. He had killed again. The elation and joy he felt, the erection in his trousers, and the new life swelling within him, all but guaranteed that he would kill again too. Something had been set in motion, and now it would never stop.

He turned to the painting on the wall he had seen earlier. It was there, in all its hidden majesty and glory. Dirt covered though it was, soon it would be restored by his hand to be seen by the world. What marvelous things he would do now that he was free? What grandiose images lay hidden on that beautiful canvas? Soon, they would go forth into the world. And what then? Only time will tell.

"What beautiful things we will make..." He whispered and rubbed the dirt on the canvas. He saw what was there beneath. And he smiled.

Submitted April 05, 2019 at 05:49PM by TheBravestarr http://bit.ly/2TULFF6