Sanguine: Chapter I
It's probably no secret to anyone who knows me that I've fallen a little out of love with writing recently, what with life and all its wow. Hopefully a crappy fic can get me back into the game. FANfic. That's right! Say hello to my first *official* Skyrim story. Not that In the Name of Justice was Skyrim-worship or anything...
Chapter I
The Man From the East
A sharp breeze swept its way across the plains. Torvi tilted his head back and breathed in deeply.
Come and get it.
It was nighttime and had been for a while. All across the plains a thick mist had settled, making it impossible to see anything beyond several feet. Torvi lowered his head and looked around for the hundredth time. Nothing had changed. He was still alone.
He squeezed the rope in his palms. His hands were tied to a post behind his head, his legs and waist submerged in one of the plains’ many natural pools. Even though he couldn’t touch the bottom, he knew the water wasn’t too deep. A few more inches before his tows brushed the mud deposits on the bed.
Time passed. Then something moved in the mist. Torvi looked up to see a figure walking towards him. His whole body tensed as he tried to make out who or what it was.
The figure was male, barefoot and dressed in dark colours. His eyes shone in the darkness. Eyes that were fixed on the cut on Torvi's chest. The knife wound was shallow, but it had bled a lot and turned sticky in the humid air.
“Who left you like this?” asked the man.
“Bandits.” Torvi winced as the man rubbed his finger against his wound and licked it.
Just a few seconds more, he thought. That's all you need.
The man wasn’t interested in waiting. Without warning, he grabbed Torvi’s hair, wrenched his head back and brought his lips close to his neck. Torvi took his chance. He pulled the rope in his hands, loosing the specially-tied knot. Then he whipped the rope around into the side of the man’s face.
The man reeled back for a second. It was all the time Torvi needed to find the dagger at his hip and swipe it at the man. He was aiming for the neck, but the dagger never found its place. The man caught Torvi’s hand in mid-air.
“You… How dare you.” The man looked up. His face was twisted with rage. His hand became a claw and whipped towards Torvi’s neck. Torvi elbowed it out of the way, pulled himself out of the water and scrambled to his feet.
The man grabbed hold of his ankle. Torvi swung his wet boot into his face, snapping his head back. Then he thrust his dagger into his stomach.
The silence that followed lasted an eternity. The dagger protruded from beneath the man’s ribs at a slanted angle. Excruciatingly slowly, the man pulled it out. His hand was shaking.
“How… dare you…”
The sound that came from the man more closely resembled a bee trapped in a metal box than human breathing. It could have been from the pain, or the anger, but Torvi sensed it was something deeper, something primal embedded deep within the man that was only just rising to the surface.
Two red eyes stared at him from the mist.
Torvi knew he had to move. Had to either fight back or get as far away from here as possible. But he was frozen. It was as if his feet had grown roots that burrowed into the ground, anchoring him to the spot.
Because there was something malignant about those eyes. More than animal. They… hated. Torvi had never felt so despised as he had looking into those scarlet balls. And it made him sick with fear.
The vampire (he was now sure of that) lunged for him. Torvi threw up his arms to shield his face, and then he was on the ground. The vampire fell on top of him, snarling, clawing, snapping his teeth like some rabid dog.
Pain shot up Torvi’s neck. He thrashed and threw his arms out in defence. One hand wound in the vampire’s hair and wrenched him back. The other elbow met his chin with a force that sent shivers up Torvi’s arm bone.
For a second the vampire paused to register the blow. With all of his strength, Torvi thrust the vampire off his shoulders, freeing his right arm. His left was still holding back the vampire’s head. Hot breath that smelt like rotten meat swamped his nasal passages.
Something glinted by Torvi’s side. His dagger. But it was just out of reach. He kicked the ground, wrenched a few more inches of his body free and swiped the dagger up. He caught a glimpse of red eyes before plunging the blade into flesh.
The vampire roared as the steel entered his back. Torvi used the distraction to wriggle out into the open. His shoulders felt like they’d been torn at by a wake of vultures. He looked down at the writhing vampire. Carefully he placed a boot between his shoulder blades, took hold of the dagger and whipped it out. Then he plunged it in again. And again.
It took eighteen stabs before the vampire fell still. Still, but not dead, Torvi knew. There was only one way to make sure of that.
He knelt down beside the vampire. The stab wounds ran all the way from the shoulders to the bottom of the spine and had transformed his back into a bloody mess. Bits of flesh that resembled chunks of butchered pig meat more than human skin peeked through the holes in his tunic. The sight turned Torvi’s stomach.
He positioned himself so that his knees sat either side of the vampire’s chest. With his left hand he grabbed a tuft of hair and pulled up the head, revealing a pale, taut neck. Then he took the dagger in his right hand and began to slice.
He started with a small incision to sever the jugular. Hot blood spurted out like water from an overworked pump. Some landed on Torvi’s hands. The rest collected in a sticky pool on the ground.
Once Torvi was sure the worst was over, he attacked with a sawing action. His dagger cut easily through flesh and sinew. The best way to do it, he thought, was to imagine that he was a butcher preparing a piece of meat, instead of a creature that had been breathing and talking just minutes before. It had worked in the past and it worked now. He didn’t throw up.
When only the bone was left, Torvi stood up and stamped down on it as hard as he could with his heel. Eventually it snapped enough that he could twist and pull it free. He held it in his hands for a moment. It was heavier than he’d thought, like a large bag of sugar. A lump of skin, bone, teeth and brain matter. The eyes had returned to their original dark brown, but Torvi could still sense that unspeakable malice leaking from them. He closed the eyelids with his fingers.
His bag was where he’d left it, inside a patch of grass about a hundred yards away. He took out a piece of thick cloth and wrapped it around the stub of a neck. The blood leaked through a little, but there was nothing else he could use. He placed the head inside the bag and tightened the string.
Midnight had long passed, but Torvi knew it would be a solid few hours until sunrise. And now that the adrenaline had left his body, he felt drained. His shoulders seared and he was shivering from the dampness all over him - something he was only just starting to note properly now that he was standing still. He imagined fires, blankets and warm, rich food. The thought made his stomach growl.
He knew where he needed to go. He’d passed it on the way here.
Chapter I
The Man From the East
A sharp breeze swept its way across the plains. Torvi tilted his head back and breathed in deeply.
Come and get it.
It was nighttime and had been for a while. All across the plains a thick mist had settled, making it impossible to see anything beyond several feet. Torvi lowered his head and looked around for the hundredth time. Nothing had changed. He was still alone.
He squeezed the rope in his palms. His hands were tied to a post behind his head, his legs and waist submerged in one of the plains’ many natural pools. Even though he couldn’t touch the bottom, he knew the water wasn’t too deep. A few more inches before his tows brushed the mud deposits on the bed.
Time passed. Then something moved in the mist. Torvi looked up to see a figure walking towards him. His whole body tensed as he tried to make out who or what it was.
The figure was male, barefoot and dressed in dark colours. His eyes shone in the darkness. Eyes that were fixed on the cut on Torvi's chest. The knife wound was shallow, but it had bled a lot and turned sticky in the humid air.
“Who left you like this?” asked the man.
“Bandits.” Torvi winced as the man rubbed his finger against his wound and licked it.
Just a few seconds more, he thought. That's all you need.
The man wasn’t interested in waiting. Without warning, he grabbed Torvi’s hair, wrenched his head back and brought his lips close to his neck. Torvi took his chance. He pulled the rope in his hands, loosing the specially-tied knot. Then he whipped the rope around into the side of the man’s face.
The man reeled back for a second. It was all the time Torvi needed to find the dagger at his hip and swipe it at the man. He was aiming for the neck, but the dagger never found its place. The man caught Torvi’s hand in mid-air.
“You… How dare you.” The man looked up. His face was twisted with rage. His hand became a claw and whipped towards Torvi’s neck. Torvi elbowed it out of the way, pulled himself out of the water and scrambled to his feet.
The man grabbed hold of his ankle. Torvi swung his wet boot into his face, snapping his head back. Then he thrust his dagger into his stomach.
The silence that followed lasted an eternity. The dagger protruded from beneath the man’s ribs at a slanted angle. Excruciatingly slowly, the man pulled it out. His hand was shaking.
“How… dare you…”
The sound that came from the man more closely resembled a bee trapped in a metal box than human breathing. It could have been from the pain, or the anger, but Torvi sensed it was something deeper, something primal embedded deep within the man that was only just rising to the surface.
Two red eyes stared at him from the mist.
Torvi knew he had to move. Had to either fight back or get as far away from here as possible. But he was frozen. It was as if his feet had grown roots that burrowed into the ground, anchoring him to the spot.
Because there was something malignant about those eyes. More than animal. They… hated. Torvi had never felt so despised as he had looking into those scarlet balls. And it made him sick with fear.
The vampire (he was now sure of that) lunged for him. Torvi threw up his arms to shield his face, and then he was on the ground. The vampire fell on top of him, snarling, clawing, snapping his teeth like some rabid dog.
Pain shot up Torvi’s neck. He thrashed and threw his arms out in defence. One hand wound in the vampire’s hair and wrenched him back. The other elbow met his chin with a force that sent shivers up Torvi’s arm bone.
For a second the vampire paused to register the blow. With all of his strength, Torvi thrust the vampire off his shoulders, freeing his right arm. His left was still holding back the vampire’s head. Hot breath that smelt like rotten meat swamped his nasal passages.
Something glinted by Torvi’s side. His dagger. But it was just out of reach. He kicked the ground, wrenched a few more inches of his body free and swiped the dagger up. He caught a glimpse of red eyes before plunging the blade into flesh.
The vampire roared as the steel entered his back. Torvi used the distraction to wriggle out into the open. His shoulders felt like they’d been torn at by a wake of vultures. He looked down at the writhing vampire. Carefully he placed a boot between his shoulder blades, took hold of the dagger and whipped it out. Then he plunged it in again. And again.
It took eighteen stabs before the vampire fell still. Still, but not dead, Torvi knew. There was only one way to make sure of that.
He knelt down beside the vampire. The stab wounds ran all the way from the shoulders to the bottom of the spine and had transformed his back into a bloody mess. Bits of flesh that resembled chunks of butchered pig meat more than human skin peeked through the holes in his tunic. The sight turned Torvi’s stomach.
He positioned himself so that his knees sat either side of the vampire’s chest. With his left hand he grabbed a tuft of hair and pulled up the head, revealing a pale, taut neck. Then he took the dagger in his right hand and began to slice.
He started with a small incision to sever the jugular. Hot blood spurted out like water from an overworked pump. Some landed on Torvi’s hands. The rest collected in a sticky pool on the ground.
Once Torvi was sure the worst was over, he attacked with a sawing action. His dagger cut easily through flesh and sinew. The best way to do it, he thought, was to imagine that he was a butcher preparing a piece of meat, instead of a creature that had been breathing and talking just minutes before. It had worked in the past and it worked now. He didn’t throw up.
When only the bone was left, Torvi stood up and stamped down on it as hard as he could with his heel. Eventually it snapped enough that he could twist and pull it free. He held it in his hands for a moment. It was heavier than he’d thought, like a large bag of sugar. A lump of skin, bone, teeth and brain matter. The eyes had returned to their original dark brown, but Torvi could still sense that unspeakable malice leaking from them. He closed the eyelids with his fingers.
His bag was where he’d left it, inside a patch of grass about a hundred yards away. He took out a piece of thick cloth and wrapped it around the stub of a neck. The blood leaked through a little, but there was nothing else he could use. He placed the head inside the bag and tightened the string.
Midnight had long passed, but Torvi knew it would be a solid few hours until sunrise. And now that the adrenaline had left his body, he felt drained. His shoulders seared and he was shivering from the dampness all over him - something he was only just starting to note properly now that he was standing still. He imagined fires, blankets and warm, rich food. The thought made his stomach growl.
He knew where he needed to go. He’d passed it on the way here.