Chapter 1: Dalroth, pt. two
Two days passed since Dalroth had seen Aedrich. Neither hide nor hair of his own son was present around the house after he'd slashed him the last time, and in all fairness, Dalroth did not care. He had no use for the boy other than grunt work. Most of these days he had spent sitting in his chair warming his cold bones, or sleeping until the sunlight woke him, like clockwork. His wife had also stayed far, and had taken Paor with her, leaving the only meaningful interaction for Dalroth with his son Wulfar. Wulfar was diligent, thought Dalroth, but did not talk much. A noble quality to the big menki, and despite his distaste for his children in general, Wulfar intrigued him in a twisted way.
On the 2nd day, Dalroth again found himself in his chair, mid-afternoon creeping into evening with no sign of Aedrich or his wife. He knew they were close by, they dared not leave him. Vicious would be his revenge, and swift if they dared even speak of the horrors he wrought upon them. His eyes soon began to flicker closed, and while the firelight darted back and forth, causing crazed shadows to dance in the evening dwimmerlight cast upon his wall, dreams crept into his decrepit mind, insidious thoughts etching out crevices in his pockmarked psyche. They began as soon as his eyelids were fully shut, and they were the same as every time. More reality than dream, every time he slept brought back flashes from his past, vivid, and real.
And so it began!; Dalroth, much younger, and with less strain from the cycles of hard toil, walked through Hydlaa. He appeared to be pressing on 30 cycles, the prime of life still upon him. He was wicked looking, white alabaster henna tattoos dyed deep into his fur. These tattoos coiled up his arms and across his bare back, depicting harsh scenes. The first lay on his back, and showed the emblem of a circle, through which was pitted a diamond half in and half out. Coiled around his left arm extending from the circle were two serpents, bodies twisting around each other and finally the head of the first biting into the neck of the second. On his right arm was a veritable flurry of patterns, tribal and nomadic shapes from ancient Enki lifestyles almost biting and ripping in visual intensity at each other. Both ears were pierced, with Cabachon ruby studs glittering fiercely against the warm shine of the Azure Sun. He painted an imposing picture physically, his long black fur lusciously falling from his massive, musclebound body. His legs were long and his footpads were huge, easily the size of some of the heads of his own species. Hung against Dalroth's side was only a single dagger, sheathed in the cured hide of an ulbernaut. Metal studs fastened a clip over the dagger's ash-black bone handle, and on occasion while he walked, Dalroth's hands would stray to his right and stroak, with a sense of morbid satisfaction, the handle of his dagger. In this time, Dalroth did not care for covering his torso, allowing his tattoos and body to be seen by any and all. Only his legs were covered, with simple, free-flowing and somewhat baggy pants made from animal hairs woven tightly together. All in all, Dalroth posed a near-barbaric sight, but the cold and calculating gleam on his predatory face bespoke of a sinister intelligence.
This day, he hunted for a Dermorian man. The man went by the name of Uthran, and, Dalroth thought, perhaps would not be so easy to find. Uthran belonged to a house of particular wealth in Hydlaa, for he worked as a servant for the Tursid household in the capacity of a merchant, although Dalroth knew this to be a facade for his actual purposes. The Tursids were a banking clan that had risen from Ojaveda, and then expanded their sights to Hydlaa because of the greater wealth that lay there. They owned a well-to do house in Eastern Hydlaa, some two stories high with 9 or more rooms. At least, that is what Dalroth's contact had told him. The large menki was wary - the Tursids were reputed to have dipped their paws in a host of other activities that perhaps ranged more on the less legal side of banking, and more on the side of strong arming businesses. If this were the truth, he would have his hands full with something other than poorly-trained security too afraid to face a giant. Uthran had been caught by Dalroth in Ojaveda working to strong-arm the Mikana trading clan, and had only escaped by the skin of his teeth, Dalroth's dagger a bit too slow to end the Dermorian's life that day. It was a mistake that would not happen again, and hopefully, Dalroth ascertained, may earn him some money in the long run.
Soon enough, the massive Clamod found himself near the Tursid property. The day was a mild one, small puffs of wind occasionally ruffling the fur on his scalp. He stopped a fair distance from the house itself, slipping to lean against the side of an empty house out of eye and earshot of his target. He had not seen any citizens with Tursid colors on them on his walk, but he did not judge that as any sign of safety. If Uthran was smart, as Dalroth figured him to be, he would have already told his household of the vengeful menki he crossed paths with. Dalroth leaned heavily against the wall, letting out slow, even breaths. His hands drifted a pocket that was sewn cleverly into the inside of his pants, making a cleverly hidden pouch for small objects should one choose to put them there. Eventually his sifting fingers found what they wished for; a small black stone, rife with enchantment runes. Dalroth traced his fingers over it carefully, murmuring something with the undertones of his voice. The black rock shone with a dull glow for a few ticks of the clock, then faded back into obscurity in Dalroth's hidden pocket.
The menki took a few moments to scan the empty street to his side, and then surveyed the buildings and rooftops nearby as well. No one seemed to be there, the occupants either occupied with their days or too dulled by the warmth of the crystalline sun to notice him or care for his purposes. Dalroth grinned at this, a look of simple pleasure crossing his features. Soon afterwards, he looked around the corner, spotting the street which led to the Tursid manor. He pulled a simple leather jerkin over his torso, hiding most of the tattoos and features of his body, and this made him look a bit less conspicuous; that is, as inconspicuous as a clamod of tremendous size looks in a diverse town like Hydlaa. He sauntered out across the street to the other side, then sticking enough to the shadows to hide his clear-cut features but not enough to give away his intent, he began to saunter down the street. His walk was a jaunty one, imbued with a swagger that implied that he was someone of repute, possibly. If one were to spot him, they may assume he was a high-ranking Enkian servant of one of the local families, or perhaps an Ojavedan merchant coming to peddle his wares door-to-door. Only the dull shine of the ashen dagger and his tremendous size would give away anything else. Dalroth made it a fair way down the street, and coming to the intersection the led to the Tursid's house, he paused to take a soft breath and a look at the massive house that was his goal.
The house stood solidly above the cobblestone pavement, rising like a simple bastion towards the dotted Hydlaa sky. The bottom level was made from a high quality timber, cured with some treatment to make it weather storms, age, and warp. It was shaped like a rectangle, boxy and square in form, but supported by broad wooden pillars that raised from far below the ground to the tip top of the second level. The design of the house was simple, solid, and imposing in its dominance of the other houses around it. In the bottom level were two doors on the front, both wood as well, but the frames forged from a metal substance that Dalroth did not recognize. Bars of the metal slashed downwards through the door also, forming lines dotted across the cured wood that it supported. The doors were large, large enough to fit two of the menki easily going both directions. The handles were a curvature large enough for two hands, with a lock and latch in the middle that was activated by one's index finger while he rested his thumb and palm on the handle. Between these doors was nothing; no windows, peepholes, or any other way of entrance could be seen by the naked eye. Each door was spaced about 20 feet away from the nearest corner of the house, with about 200 feet in between the, Dalroth estimated. The second floor had a terrace running around it, a good 20 feet above the ground. The terrace was also wood, with beams rising in an angle from the first level to support the underside of it. A sturdy iron railing framed the terrace's outside, tall enough for a common Ylian to lean heavily on, but not so tall as to prevent a view from over the top. Twisted iron bars supported the smooth iron top of of the railing, which was seared to to the twisted bars by an advanced Red Way user. The bars are bolted into the wood, surging deep into the timber. The terrace was luscious and spacious, roomy enough to fit entire tables and chairs, or large parties of people on it. It wrapped around the entire house, but the only way to get onto it was via two doors on either side of the house that Dalroth could see, at least. These doors were of similar construction to the ones on the ground floor, but the terrace allowed light to stream in via intricately carved stain-glass style lattices. These windows were large, large enough that Dalroth could walk through them with ease, he estimated, were the apertures open instead of covered. Six of these windows were upper sides of the house, two on the elongated sides each, and then one on the shorter sides. The roof of the house had a sharp slant to it, with tiles of timber and tar protecting it from inclement weather. The roof had a large overhang to it, allowing it to shade the terrace and allow any water to drip onto the cobbles of Hydlaa instead of the fancy terrace that it protected.
Dalroth took this all in in a few seconds time, his eyes shifting over each detail and memorizing them. He had a knack for memory; if he closed his eyes he could easily see each of the things he had looked as if it were right in front of him again. After he had taken the time to plot out a plan, he moved towards the Tursid house with the same jaunty walk that he had employed earlier - that of a well-to-do menki - but this time, he strayed much further into the shadows of the neighboring houses, masking his features. He hunched slightly as well, in an attempt to give off confusion about his size and possibly make him appear smaller than he actually was. The journey was long, Dalroth making sure that any possible posted sentries would only glance at him once, and if they did, ascertain nothing of importance from him. He knew he would not be able to approach the house in total secrecy, unless the Gods were smiling at him without care for any others.
Finally, Dalroth reached a portion of area where there was no more cover. All of the other houses in Hydlaa were far enough away from the Tursid house that it left an open square of cobblestone which spread at least 50 feet across before reaching the doorway of the house. The Azure Sun was bright on this area, and there was no foliage or cover he could use to hide himself. The menki shrugged, and stepped out into the open, adopting a large, somewhat vacant smile on his face. After a few minutes, an enkidukai clad in chainmail that hung loosely from his shoulders walked stiffly from the house towards him, closing the door behind him. His chainmail was covered in part by a tunic that bore the clors of House Tursid, bright royal purple emblazoned with a blood-red Enkian claw. Dalroth smirked to himself at the absence of any other individuals to come greet him, then moved his eyes to the enki's hands, which carried a wicked looking pike. No matter, thought Dalroth, it's still just but one.
The enki stepped in close to Dalroth, squinting his eyes in the bright sunlight to identify the giant clamod.
"State your name, Enki." the guard spoke, tersely, his eyes leveling on the clamod's grinning face.
"Diffmun, sir. I bring your master Uthran's shipment." with his words, Dalroth thumbed in a general direction. "I put it over there. . ." he trailed off, and watched the guard for a reaction.
"I know of no shipment," the guard answered, and his eyes shifted with uncertainty towards the direction Dalroth had indicated. Upon seeing nothing, the guard leveled his pike slowly at the clamod, "Wait a minute. Uthran told me someone would be asking for him. . .Show me your shipment, so I can report back to him." The guard intoned, his pike steady at the larger Menki's throat. Dalroth shrugged nonchalantly in return, and turned, slowly, his hands raising in a non-threatening way.
"Over here, then." Dalroth told the guard, and stepped slowly towards one of the emptier-looking houses. He crossed the open cobble square with slow certainty, ensuring his posture and tone were not upsetting. Soon, the chain-clad guard had followed him into a deeper shadow near one of the corners of the house, almost out of eyesight of the Tursid manor. A few more steps, thought Dalroth, but the guard stopped there, a disgusted look crossing his face.
"You didn't bring anything. Uthran warned us abou-" the enki accused Dalroth, but his words are stopped quite short as the large clamod's open palm slams into his unguarded throat with brute force. The guard gurgled and dropped his pike, hands clutching at his throat. Before his hands even reached them, Dalroth's other hand slammed into the right temple of the guard, right below where his helmet covered. The guard reacted as planned, coughing blood and spinning to the ground, dazed and hardly able to breathe. Without a cease in his movement, Dalroth drew his dagger and slammed it into the guard's chest near his heart, and twisted with gut-wrenching force. The dagger bit deep into the guard, slicing past his chain mail as if it was not there. Skin shredded by the twist, large pools of blood began churning from the wound and rivulets of blood cae down the guards chin, along with mucus. Satisfied, Dalroth stood and watched the guard, enjoying the sharp, quick spasms of death end the hapless enki where he lay. Dalroth stooped when the spasms ended, disdainfully wiping his dagger across the cheek of the guard, leaving a smeer of blood. He finished y wiping his blade on the guard's tunic, leaving it shiny and clean once again. Dalroth eyed the pike, and with a swift kick sent it shimmying across coble to lodge itself in a tuft of grass.
Dalroth resumed walking to the house, this time with more purpose. Uthran had indeed told his servants of the fearsome Clamod, so he could not get inside without a struggle. Strangely, though, no more guards or servants met him as he approached the doors. Instead of knocking, calling, or even tugging at the door, Dalroth's claws came out, and he jumped to the wide foor frame, latching deep into the wood. After he spent a few seconds to gain his balance, the menki bunched his taut muscles underneath him, and leapt at one of the support beams for the terrace. Dalroth's claws scrabbled at the treated wood, and his arms wrapped around the wide beam, almost not long enough to provide support for him. His lengs dangled in open space; if one of the Tursids were to venture out of the door they could easily look up and swing a sword at the near-hapless menki. After a few moments of wild scrabbling, Dalroth finally found some leverage, and clenched his chest muscles, swinging his legs up to grasp the beam as well. This put him in a angled position, dangling precariously from the beam. He knew that he did not have much time in this position or he would be a dead Enki. So he fought hard, claws digging deep furrows into the wood as he shimmied up the beam. Soon, he was able to swing, slowly and carefully, a paw from the beam onto the edge of the terrace, some 20 feet above the ground. The door opened beneath him, but Dalroth did not have time to examine or care who or what came out of it. He heard the soft gasp of a female from beneath as he wrenched himself onto the terrace and swung gracefully over the iron railing.
Dalroth only took but a few seconds to regain his composure, swiftly moving towards one of the doors and relying instead on his memory to inform him of his surroundings. He heard muffled shouts, but upon reaching the door wrenched it open without resistance, a look of surprise and perverse pleasure reaching his face. He barged into the room that it opened onto, which was spacious and wide, occupied by two middle-sized beds, covered with fancy cloth and laced coverlets. No one was in the room, but he could hear paws pounding at the stairs nearby, and he scanned the room quickly, looking for something to use either as cover or weaponry. He gauged the strength of the bedposts, and stooped to grasp at the closest one. With a powerful twist and heave, Dalroth splintered the post from its berth on the cured-wood floor of the room, and tested its weight by slapping it against his other palm roughly. A satisfied look crossed his face, and as the pounding drew closer he scanned the room once again.
The walls of the room were a light hue of pink, almost white. The ceiling had the same style as the floor, slats of wood intertwining to create a solid base. Adorning the middle of the ceiling was a small candelabra on a hanger, which held 5 candles; four on the outside and a larger one in the middle. All of the candles appeared well used, wax having melted and re-formed in drips around the sides. On the walls of the room were artist's renditions of famous people, some caricatured, and others almost taking on a lifelike semblance. Dalroth could pick out the Octarch, his face stony and regal clothed in fine attire on one, and an elven musician famed in Hydlaa for his soppy ballads, a signature dashed quickly and haphazardly across the bottom of another. The two beds were scooted close together but not touching, and both had soft imprints, the one closer to the menki having an adult-sized print, and the further one looking to be more the size of a kit. Dalroth quickly put his hand to the closer one, feeling a very slight emanation of warmth; someone had recently been in the room. This meant they had evacuated it around the time he had finished killing the guard. They knew he would be there.
Dalroth had no more time to think, the pounding stopping as Uthran and anothe guard rushed into the room, the wooden door that opened into the hallway they came from slamming with a crash against the faint-hued walls. Dalroth took time to hoist the wooden leg he held in his hand properly, and ran towards the two. He was caught in midair and suspended before he could reach them, strong wafts of air emanating from Uthran as a glyph held in the man's hand became visible to the menki. Dalroth cursed to himself silently, he had not picked out the magic rune before instigating his attack. His muscles worked with huge amounts of strength to fight the coursing, churning wind that helpd him tight, but to no avail. Uthran's magics were too strong, and while held, the guard that had entered walked slowly to the large clamod's side. He, too, held a pike, and the last thing Dalroth saw before a sheet of blackness crosses his vision was the butt of the heftily-shafted spear descending on his head.
In his dream, as the shaft descended on his head, the 'real' Dalroth shivered and shook in his chair, a frown crossing his face in parting. Soon enough though, he relaxed, and his dream recommenced, feeling surreal and yet vividly alive.
When he awoke, head throbbing with the dull 'thud. . .thud . . . thud . . . " of his blood pounding at his skull, Dalroth found himself chained to a chair, in the statesroom of the Tursid house. His tail switched back and forth, the only appendage allowed movement by the restricting iron links that bound him. The room he was in was both long and wide, and Dalroth estimated took up much of the lower floor. In the middle directly in front of the chained menki was a grand table, an immense rectangular slab of stone supported by roughly hewn slabs of stone lined up underneath. At least a hundred chairs surrounded it, 49 to a side and one at each end, and each chair was well-made from a similiar timber to that of the house itself. Each one had a plush cushion on it, and an emblem of Tursid draped across upraised back. Dalroth's chair was not so adorned, instead, it was a stone slab placed on an old stump and bolted to it tightly, the back four iron bars crossed on top by another roughly hewn plank of wood. The effect of the chair was discomforting, and whenever Dalroth saught respite to lean his head back, the hard grain of the wood would splinter onto his neck, little slivers of wood worming their way into his flesh.
Dalroth looked up after a few minutes of awareness, and saw large, crystalline candelabras dangling from two midpoints in the ceiling. hundreds of candles adorned them, every one of them lit and flickering against their crystal backdrop. The effect created a multitude of dancing lights on the otherwise barren and foreboding stateroom walls, as they were unlit by any other device. Occasionally one of the candle's lights would hit a crystal facet just right, and make a small dancing rainbow for a few moments. The rainbows, although rare, caused Dalroth a rare opportunity to smile, and he did so, despite the chains holding him tight.
Soon, however, footsteps echoed in the grand hallway and a door opened to Dalroth's right, revealing Uthran, this time with no guards. The dermorian was a pallid, sickly looking man, but there was obvious power about him, some sort of aura that sent shivers through most men when they met him. The Tursid family had hired him for this effect, and he was their most infamous 'collector'. He walked as if sliding towards Dalroth, his stately black robe billowing around him. He stopped short of the menki, his eyes icily appraising the defenseless Dalroth.
"So, you have come for me." Uthran stated, simply.
As the imaginary words echo in the imaginary halls of Dalroth's head, the menki twists and turns in his chair, old joints creaking with the effort. Sweat breaks out on his brow.
Dalroth snarls at the magician's words, and does not reply. As swift as the snarl escapes his lips, his head is whipped back into the cruel wood, smashing with a resounding, unforgiving thud into the rough plank. The wind that whipped him there holds him steady, and the magician approaches again, this time drawing a small quill from his pouch. As he nears Dalroth, there is pure malice in his glare.
"You -cut- me, menki!" the magician says, a smirk coming up on his face, but never reaching his eyes. "For that, you will die a thousand deaths, /but/! Dakkru will not accept you." As the magician finished, a milky film came over his eyes. There was no reason or rhythm to the movements, but Uthran's arm lashed out, the quill burying itself deep into the muzzle flesh of Dalroth. The first time, the pain was excruciating to the Menki, a deep raw red gash on his nose that drip-drip-drips blood onto the floor, splashing around Uthran's feet in a dizzying dance. The second, and third time were equally painful, and the quill struck deeper and deeper as it went faster and faster, small gobs of flesh spinning to the floor to splash into the blood, which is soon joined by a river of tears and more of the precious red liquid. As time went and the magician's hand flashed back and forth, Dalroth's face became unrecognizable from blood and wounds, not only his nose, but portions of his ears, face, and jaw missing ripped flesh from the seemingly innocent quill's biting teeth. The quill itself was covered in the menki's blood, a dark red staining the feathery portion and splatters of the liquid covering Uthran's face. Still, the panting magician did not seem finished. He threw the quill to the side in mild disgust, watching the blood stream in in drops and rivulets from the torn face of the menki. He tried to stifle a smile at the sight, but could not.
"Oh, how I have waited for someone for this. You may survive; you are a rare specimen after all." the magician said, as his eyes wafted over Dalroth's almost unrecognizable face to his body.
Not only was Uthran renowned for uncompromising cruelty, but for inventiveness in it. The magician had come to the Tursids jobless, because in a fit of rage he had killed his last employer - an unlucky Kran who had skimped on a payment. Uthran had cast a strange spell, and had watched as parts were chipped away from the stone man's body, the Kra unable to defend itself in any way. The Tursids had payed a quiet sum of money to Hydlaa's Vigesimi, and the Kran's family had watched the magician step away from a chopping block to become a free man again. Something had snapped in this man, whether he had been born somehow wrong or the pitiless wiles of the world had etched away his soul could not be known, but what Uthran did to the Tursid prisoners was stuff of legend. One man had owed a debt to the Patriarch of the Tursid family, around 20,000 tria or so. When he could not pay, Uthran himself had gone to 'collect'. The man left his house the next morning a gibbering idiot, with fear left as his only emotion.
So when Uthran had spoken to Dalroth, the menki did not doubt it. Perhaps, he thought, seconds before a cold grip enveloped his insides, I have gone too far this time. Perhaps, I should not have come for money. And this is where the menki's thoughts faded, the whirling caucophony of pain and noise inside his head overwhelming what meager and paltry feelings he had left.
The sleeping menki's eyes are ripped open for a moment, but not in waking - instead in sheer terror. Soon enough though, they close again.
Dalroth awoke for a second time in the house of Tursid, but it was not to pain nor chains. Instead, a shuffling sound was heard and the chains that had bound his arms dropped to the floor. He blinked his eyes, and with no sign of memory of the event that had happened, begin to rise. It was a few moments before he noticed the pretty fenki beside him who was in the process of sawing the locks that bound his ankles with a small file. Pain, sheer, unadulterated pain rushed to his head and every joint in his body, causing him to crumble. The fenki let out a sharp breath as Dalroth's massive body slumped to the floor, but with determination in her eyes she snapped one link and in quick succession the one on the other leg followed. She stowed her knife quickly in the bodice of her sky-blue dress, which matched her gorgeous blue eyes.
"I wish you'd have killed him." the fenki spoke softly to the prone body of Dalroth, and moved to his side to examine it. Inky black, unnatural scars marred the male Enkidukai's face, and shreds of skin hung from open, throbbing wounds. One particular cut was so deep that the fenki could see the thin yellow layer of fat flapping under the skin before it led to the deep red of muscle tissue, then finally a small glimpse of pale white cheekbone. All over the rest of the menki's have clothed body were the same, pulsating black scars - as if dark magic somehow resided deeply into the tissues of the then-unconscious clamod. The fenki pursed her lips, then slapped Dalroth across the less-injured side of his face, hard. The menki awoke with a start, struggling to get up. Quickly, the fenki clamped one of her paws over his mouth;
"Shh! If you make a noise you will never make it alive." the fenki told Dalroth, and offered him a hand up. Dalroth grasped the hand with hesitation, the motion sending waves of unnatural pain through his body, which stiffens. Upon the stiffening, a spurt of blood leaps from one of the black scars, spraying the wood of the grand hall with more droplets of red, but not enough to be of worry. The fenki stiffened as well at this, but hoisted Dalroth with all her strength. Dalroth obliged and his legs almost buckled beneath his own weight, but with enough help he was soon assisted to his feet. Mutely, he allowed the fenki to maneuver him to a side door, through the hallway, and to the back of the Tursid house.
The fenki released Dalroth at the door, shaking her head, fear entering her pretty eyes. She motioned in quick, hard waves of her hand for Dalroth to go, and he limped a few feet before turning to her. Mutely, he staired at for a few moments. . . .
Dalroth finally awakes, a convulsing, serpentine shudder wracking his body until his eyes flutter open. Above him, stands his son.
"Da. You were dreaming, again. Mother told me to bring you some liqueur for when you wake." Wulfar states softly, strong fear wafting from his pores and into the nose of Dalroth.
Dalroth grunts, accepting the clay mug of liqueur from his son. Too shaken to do anything, he let the small clamod boy start and run to the other side of the house, cowering at the expected rage of his father. Dalroth downs the liqueur in one go, and with a snarl of rage throws the clay mug at Wulfar. Wulfar dodges it easily, and then runs out the door on the side of the house.
It does not matter to Dalroth. This dream was too vivid, too real. Every night this dream haunted him, Uthran's face mocking him. The pain left him for a few minutes when he delivered what he felt to be justice, but far too soon again it welled up in his body, causing the nerve-wracking nightmares in him once again. He needed the boys, needed to keep his wife in check and make sure no one knew, or perhaps the pain would be the end of him. Whenever he saw them, he felt like they were the offspring of his own sins, visited on him out of his own revenge on his wife for being a Tursid; Protecting Uthran even as she protected Dalroth! Uthran even now mocked him - somehow through Dalroth's horrible deeds he had found a way to bring himself back into the menki's life, in the form of children born of sin.
