“Why don’t you take that thing off so I can see your pretty smile.”
Gutierrez put his hands up to his cheeks, lightly gripping the sides of the bandana. Hancock could see him hesitating.
“What’re you waiting for? Your teeth can’t be as bad as mine.” The ghoul chuckled, but knew that the man was still uncomfortable. His smirking turned to a look of genuine concern.
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Yeah. It can.”
Gutierrez tightened his grip and closed his eyes. He pulled the bandana down and let it hang around his neck. He kept his eyes closed.
“Man, that’s it? That’s what you were hiding?”
He opened his eyes slightly, assessing Hancock’s reaction. He’d never uncovered his face in front of anyone other than Nora before. Before the war, he’d covered the scars with foundation. When he was thawed, the bandana did the trick.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been walking around blind, but I’m no Daisy Duke either, my friend. Though I think you’ve got one up on me.”
Instead of backing away as expected, Hancock moved towards him. He put his hand up to Gutierrez’s face and lightly touched one of the scars. He ran his finger along the puckered skin, causing Gutierrez to instinctively wince.
They didn’t hurt physically anymore, of course. But the reminder of how people always reacted to seeing them made his chest tighten.
He started to turn away, but Hancock’s other hand came up to hold his head in place.
“Hey, you’re with a ghoul now, remember? We don’t give a shit and a half about looks. And even if I did, you’d still rank pretty high, brother.”
The kiss came unexpected. Gutierrez hadn’t even remembered how it happened, just that it did.
And all those thoughts of Sanctuary Hills came flooding back. The smell of the posies that Codsworth had taken such pride in caring for. The color of the sky when he, Nora, and Shaun would go to a picnic in the nearby park. The shine of the fresh paint on their ’75 Corvega.
Long ago, like ancient times we’re talkin’, some of those…whatcha call ‘em? Neanderthals? Ya know, the cavemen. They worshipped the moon. Saw it as some kind of god or goddess or somethin’. Mama told me it spoke to them all the time, like a constant yammerin’ in yer ear. But it was nice and sweet like Mama’s hugs. It told them stuff to do like how to get food and stuff. Mama said the moon loved these cavemen as if they were its own kids.
Well these guys, they ended up fightin’ with others like ‘em. I guess cuz they could or somethin’. Anyways, the moon was cryin’ for the guys who worshipped it cuz they were like its kids, ya know? Lots of ‘em were dyin’ and it was watchin’ from up in that night sky cryin’ its tears of stars.
Well one day, the moon decided enough was enough. It wasn’t gonna lose no more kids. Mama said the moon used its powers to make ‘em all hairy and tough so that they could fight and kill better. Nothin’ could touch ‘em: they were like a pack of rabid wolves. I mean, I guess that’s what they were.
They fought and killed lots of other cavemen, and they were good at it cuz of them claws and teeth they got from the moon. But Mama told me, she said that the change was painful. Like givin’ birth to 5 babies all at once. The moon didn’t like havin’ its kids hurt ya know, but it knew that they needed the fur and teeth and claws it gave ‘em to live. So I guess the moon made a deal with those cavemen that if they killed their enemies and gave the hearts to the moon, then it’d take away their teeth and claws and stuff so they wouldn’t hafta hurt anymore.
I’m guessin’ that’s what they did, on accounta that change sounded mighty painful. But Mama said that some of ‘em didn’t wanna give up what the moon gave ‘em. She said they ran off to live like wild animals. Dunno why anyone would wanna do that, though. Sounds kinda dumb to me.
But I know it’s true. Mama never lies.
Anyways, I dunno if the moon really is God or ya know cuz I mean that’d be really weird, huh? But those werewolves, they do exist. I hear ‘em sometimes at night. Howlin’ up a storm like they got the fits. But I ain’t never seen one. Don’t wanna.
Derkeethus asked me to lay with him last night. I'll admit, I was quite surprised. Trepidatious even. It came with no warning and he asked me during dinner. Luckily, Valdimar was out of earshot. That kindly oaf thinks the world of me, and it wouldn't do to have him hear of his Thane partaking in such activities freely and without caution. Knowing him, he'd want to be in the room to make sure it wasn't a trick!
I said yes of course, even against my better judgement. Derkeethus was very shy asking me, and it was rather refreshing seeing someone treat me with such apprehension.
Hm, that's unfair of me, I suppose. I've come to trust Derkeethus. I certainly see him as a friend, and quite the capable fighter. He, by no means, shares my enthusiasm for the Kill, but he doesn't shy away from a fight if the situation calls for it. Indeed, he's saved my life quite a few times. I shouldn't act as if he's some whelp that would do well to fear me. He's not on par with the lowly thugs that He has sent after me, after all. Or the innumerable bandits the two of us have slain together.
Regardless of my feelings about him, we did lay together, and it may have been due to how much wine I had imbibed. I felt fuzzy headed this morning waking up, and half expected him to be gone and not mention what we had done. But there he was, right next to me in the bed, arms outstreched as if trying to reach me. It was all too familiar a sight, and I immediately began to remember the nights Him and I had shared.
There were so many nights. Many wonderful nights that mean nothing but dust now.
But that is neither here, nor there. The point of this entry was not to dwell on such musings. It was to write about the present.
Decided to post some info on my original universe vampire story I’m working on! It’s a definite WIP currently, as I come up with more concrete ideas for it. Long text under the cut.
The origin of vampires stems from a Puritan village in which the men were horribly cruel and malicious to the women of the village. They were treated as property (nothing new w/ the Puritans tbh) and often beaten and raped. The women eventually come together and meet in secret to find a way to get their revenge, as they can’t take the abuse anymore. They forsake their God, whom they too blame for letting these things happen to them. They swear their souls and loyalty to Satan, who in turn sends one of his demons to Earth. It forces itself on each of the women (a final abuse), and in so doing, corrupts their souls and bodies to give them an undying rage and bloodlust, as well as incredible power and supernatural abilities. They take the form of monstrous creatures with massive teeth, claws, and wings (a near mirror image of the demon that violated them).
The women fall upon the village like a terror, killing, mutilating the men of the village in a carnage that lasted for days. At the end of it, their hunger was sated, and they took their old mortal appearances once more.
They expected this to be the end of it, but after foregoing a blood feast for weeks, they found their forms twisting back into the demonic beasts they had become during the massacre. Their hunger was back, and they found themselves unable to control their brutality once more. They didn’t realize this existence came with such a heavy price.
Fast forward hundreds of years to modern day. The women who were cursed (or blessed as most of their own refer to their kind these days) have spread across the world. They have killed hundreds in their wake to sate their lust for blood, but have since discovered a new gift. If they bite the nape of the neck of the one they lay in bed with, that person is turned into a vampire as well. Biting a person without having sex, with either A) kill the person if they drain them or B) make the person incredibly sick for the next few days, after which they will return to normal.
Vampires are, for all intents and purposes, pansexual. As a species or race or whatever they call themselves or are referred to by others, they cannot afford to (and DON’T) be picky with their lovers. Feeding is an incredibly erotic act for them, and as such, it takes a great deal of willpower not to have sex with each of their targets. They can’t sleep around while feeding willy nilly, for their numbers would be completely out of control. Many of the more refined vampires and clans look down upon promiscuous vamps with no self control, and if discovered to be infecting too many people, will be dealt with accordingly.
Many of the original vampires, commonly referred to as the Maidens of Blood or Satan’s Whores (a derogatory term reserved for use by vampire hunters or those who despise the beasts) have since passed on. Many were slain by hunters over the years, and few, those who could no longer live with this “curse”, offed themselves in creative ways.
The current whereabouts of the remaining Maidens of Blood are unknown, even by their own kind. They are revered by vampires and for a vampire to show any disrespect to them, is often met with a grim death by others.
The Maidens of Blood are held in the highest regard by vampire kind of course, but their children are seen as the next tier of authority. Vampires born to other vampires (as in via pregnancy) are valued much more highly than humans turned into vampires. These vamps are often held with disdain by their higher ups, and seen as fledglings. They are often given grueling and dirty tasks to perform for the clan. They suffer constant ridicule.
A vampire’s fed appearance is similar to what a mortal human appearance is. They are noticeably paler, and must hide their teeth, either with masks, hands, or fitted tooth caps (unsuccessful most of the time). As such, they find it hard to talk around mortals while facing them, so as not to give away their identities. Their eyes also are very telling. Their irises are red with black flecks, and so they usually wear concealing eyewear or contacts when they’re out in public.
Contrary to most legends, vampires are NOT done in by garlic or sunlight. They ARE vulnerable to sunlight and suffer sunburn much more frequently if outside in the sun for even short periods of time. They risk temporary or permanent blindness if going out without protective eyewear. Many vampires choose to sleep during the day for these reasons, though not all.
Also contrary to most legends, vampires and werewolves do not constant fight and feud against each other. The werewolves kill all their targets, whereas vampires usually leave their victims alive, and so werewolves and vampires are rarely seen in the same areas due to territory and resource concerns. Some vampires and clans have been known to have werewolf consorts and bodyguards.
Regarding lack of feeding; the earlier the generation of vampire, the quicker they turn to their true bestial forms without feeding. The Maidens can only go a few weeks before starting their change, whereas their children can go a bit longer, and so on. Humans turned vampires can go months, or in rare cases, YEARS before succumbing to their need for blood. They have no bestial forms to take however, and simply go mad or comatose.
Note: There is NO KNOWN CURE FOR VAMPIRISM. Once you’re infected, you’re infected for life (or eternity, depending on who you ask). Those that can’t handle this existence often kill themselves. People who do not wish to be vampires are looked down upon by others. They’re seen as not appreciative of the “gift” they’ve been given. Some radical vampire groups will hunt these vampires down and kill them.
Killing vampires is a tricky business. Mortal weapons such as bullets, bats, knives, etc. can stun vampires, but not truly kill them. Religious symbols such as crucifixes, stars of David, holy water, etc. will cause intense pain to a vampire if touched, though the belief in that person is what truly hurts them. If an atheist were to touch a vampire with a crucifix for example, or “holy water” unblessed by a priest would do next to nothing to a vampire. Therefore, clerics, priests, nuns, monks, etc. hold the true power to harming them. As such, they are the first people vampire hunters go to for help. The more aggressive hunters will sometimes force them to help, though these religious figures will more often than likely offer their services without need for force or payment. To truly kill a vampire, they must be burned.
Killing a werewolf is a different story. Unlike vampires, they are not immortal, and live normal mortal lifespans for the most part (they are more vulnerable to heart attacks and blood clots due to their high stress frenzies). Pure silver is the only thing that can truly kill werewolves, and even then, it has to pierce the skin and get into their blood. Simply hitting a werewolf over the head with a silver candlestick would do nothing other than make them angrier.
The origin of werewolves is as follows: they descend from a mix of Native American and Pagan roots. Some tribes worshipped the moon as a deity, and warriors would frequently pray to the moon for strength before battles between other tribes. It was said that the moon spirit’s favored children were the wolves of the land. As such, those warriors touched by the moon would take the forms of its favored children, though much more bestial. Initially, the change was a one time thing, meant strictly to aid them in a battle. After the battle was over and the moon was covered up by the sun and clouds, they would return to their normal human state, assuming of course they survived the battle. Those that do are fatigued immensely afterwards, as well as sore all over. It takes days for them to recover from their change.
Somewhere along the line, the moon’s change became permanent. Those who have been touched by the moon find themselves permanently stuck as they are. They return to human form during the day, but are forced into their bestial forms at night. Some werewolves in modern day have discovered a "cure” to prevent the change: wolf’s bane flowers crushed into water and mixed with foxglove nectar. While poisonous to most creatures, werewolves are able to consume the mixture in small doses. While it does not actually cure them, it prevents werewolves from undergoing the change on a normal night. Nights where the moon is full, they still change; there is nothing that can prevent and manage their change on the night of a full moon.
Note: there IS a cure for lycanthropy, but a ritual must be performed under a full moon. The participant needs to spill massive amounts of their own blood upon an altar (to the moon) to “rid themselves of their beast blood”. Many do not survive as they bleed to death. As such, many werewolves simply manage their transformations with the mixture rather than seek the true cure.
Werewolves gain a massive muscle boost, as well as increased agility and can withstand much harsher (and frequent) attacks before being weakened or downed. However, there are downsides. The change is excruciating, and many don’t survive if they’re not physically strong enough to withstand it. Sometimes with others, their bodies can’t accommodate the rapid increase in muscle mass and bone growth and are torn apart from the inside out. As mentioned before, the hearts of those who survive are weakened, both in their wolf and human forms. The change they undergo puts massive strain on their heart, and their feeding frenzies only increase the risk of heart attack.
Unlike vampires, who lose control of themselves while they’ve taken on their bestial form, werewolves remain in (almost) complete control. They do find themselves to be far more aggressive, both in wolf form and human. They also grow more body hair than normal, even the women. It’s not unusual to see a female werewolf with the makings of a moustache if she decides not to shave it.
Some werewolves have found that they possess the ability to retain their wolf form indefinitely. They can change at will, even during the day. However, they are still vulnerable to change against their will at the full moon. No one knows why or how they’ve managed to control their change, even those it affects.
The swamp air was filled with the constant buzzing of insects, and nearby a crocodile hissed. It was getting harder and harder for Whispers to concentrate on his thoughts. It seemed every year he added to his age, it grew more and more difficult. When he was younger, although jumbled, he could still make out a significant number of words the voices were saying. But now, it was like a loud and consistent white noise. He didn't know whether to contribute it to his age or the events surrounding him these days.
War was everywhere. Every other step he took, he had to be careful not to step on the corpse of a soldier, or remains of someone far longer dead. He thought escaping to the swamps would help, but it didn't. The voices almost even sounded louder here.
Indeed, the voices were louder wherever there was death. The more piled bodies, the more frantic the voices.
He just wanted peace. He wanted to be able to think clearly for once. Something he'd never been able to do, even as a hatchling.
He wanted to die.
I should've died. I should've just died. It's not fair.
As a hatchling, he had expressed his frustration and fear to the then shaman of the tribe. The voices were so loud. Always screaming; sad, angry, helpless, hopeless screams of despair from everywhere and nowhere.
The shaman was a wise woman, and she told him that he had been given a gift. One that the Hist had bestowed upon him for a reason. One that would help him, and perhaps others.
He had listened to her then. He looked up to her. Everyone did. It was expected that she knew the truth. That the Hist spoke through her to her people. To dispute her teachings would be disrespectful and shameful. He drank up her words as she had wiped the tears from his cheek with her withered hands.
What a crock of shit.
He had survived this long with a head full of tangled briars and vines tied into knots. But he was reaching his wit's end. If this was a "gift", the Hist could take it back.
He was so angry when he met Lyris. She told him how he had died, how he was sacrificed, but was now doomed to be a slave to Molag Bal unless he escaped.
He didn't want to escape.
He hadn't realized at first, but when he woke up in Coldharbour, the voices were gone. It was as if they had never been there at all. Despite how terrible Coldharbour was, it seemed preferable to his living existence on Nirn.
But he found himself following her and dooming himself back to the land of the living.
It really wasn't fair. He was 84 years old. He didn't have a whole lot of years to go anyway. And it saved him the trouble of ending his own life.
So why did I go back?
He knew the answer, though it hurt to admit it or even acknowledge it. Argonians are supposed to go back to the Hist when they died. They return to that from which they came from.
But more than that.
When he awoke in Coldharbour, she wasn't by his side.
My love.
He would go living a hundred more lives on Nirn if it meant being with her again in the end. In Coldharbour, he would never see her again. Never hear her voice. Never be able to touch and kiss her again.
Red sat on a small hay bale by the bed. The change in his posture caused his burns to flare up again, but he tried his best to ignore it. His best just happened to be a little less than optimal.
It may not have been a great idea to keep him down here.
Even if Red had cared to, it's not as if he had many options either way. There were three beds upstairs; one that he and Derkeethus shared, one for Valdimar, and one that they kept empty for guests. He could've used that bed for RIP, but he knew Valdimar wouldn't have gone for it. Being attacked tends to sour one's feelings toward sharing a space with one's attacker.
Red stared at the sleeping argonian, examining his features. If he hadn't known RIP from before, he'd have thought he was a corpse a summoner had raised.
Once glossy, dark brown scales were now cracked and flakey. Several had started to peel backwards, revealing his soft skin beneath (though now it was as dry and cracked as his scales were). They made Red itchy just looking at them.
Scars of varying shapes and sizes adorned this man's hide. The most notable was the one around his neck. Red vaguely recalled the story RIP had told him. A crazed beggar coming at him in the dark, rusty knife swung violently. Somehow managed to slice his neck open cleanly in his psychosis.
Red knew this was a lie. RIP's talent lay in his ability to find out information through eavesdropping, not lying.
Still, he had never pressed RIP on it. Whatever had actually happened was probably something he didn't wish to discuss. Red understood. He was mostly just impressed RIP had managed to survive having his neck split open in the first place. RIP's story was that one of the chapel priests happened to wander by and heal him, but this too could have been a lie.
Red's eyes left the scar on his neck to the second most prominent; the one above and around his left eye. It looked like a crescent moon.
He had never seen this one before, and after a few seconds realized why. The scar was hardly a scar at all. The flesh around it was more brightly colored, more puckered. This was new.
RIP groaned in his sleep and rolled over, now revealing the right side of his face. The bandage he wore was considerably more weathered than the last time Red had seen it. It had small tears in the cloth, and a few small blood splotches from their recent battle together.
Red stood up slowly. The burning pain had subsided, finally. The potion he had taken had done wonders.
He hobbled around the other side of the bed to examine RIP's back. RIP was not a small guy, and the blanket could barely cover up his front, let alone his back. It was almost completely visible.
Scars adorned his back like twisted designs. They reminded Red of the roots of the Hist trees he had seen in books when he was a child. The danced along his spine and led to what had once been RIP's tail.
Now, it was hardly more than a fleshy stump. The end was a mass of jagged meat that had been cauterized to prevent RIP from bleeding out. Another story Red didn't know the truth about.
The injured party once again changed his position while he slept, releasing a soft snort as well as what was probably a fart.
Red wondered why the strain of moving didn't cause RIP's wounds to wake him up screaming in pain, but then he thought about it more.
This tough son of a bitch has been through a lot. It'd probably be more surprising if he did wake up.
The creaky sounds of the wooden steps caused Red to turn his head. His burns flared up again at the sudden movement.
Derkeethus reached the bottom of the step ladder slowly, but without bumping his foot. A proud moment for him.
"You should be in bed, resting." Red rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to soothe his skin.
"Valdimar told me what happened. And now you're keeping this guy in our basement? Who is he?"
Red picked up the dirty clothes they had had to cut off of RIP when they brought him down. Even if they hadn't been soaked in blood, they would've still smelled obscene. It was fairly obvious RIP hadn't bathed in awhile.
"He's an old acquaintance. No one you need to be bothered about. Go back upstairs, I'll come to bed shortly."
Derkeethus lowered himself on the hay bale Red had previously been resting on. The bandages on his foot were sopping.
"You fool, do you want your foot to get worse? I told you several times: DO NOT saunter around the house with such a serious infection. And I wish you'd use your cane if you MUST get up. Now look, I have to soak your foot in--"
Derkeethus burst out laughing. His right hand came up to his chest and he held it there, as if trying to keep his heart from coming loose. RIP snored.
"Mind telling me what's so damn funny?" Red couldn't feel his burns anymore. All he felt was anger at being left out of this "joke".
"Red, you should see yourself. You're frantic! I've never seen you so frenzied before! Has this 'acquaintance' knocked some of your sense loose?"
Red stood straight and still, his hands subconsciously clenching into tight fists. He could feel his face getting hot.
"I don't see how this is a laughing matter, Derkeethus." His voice was full of venom. "Unless you relish the thought of having to have your foot cut off due to gangrene."
A shorter, quieter laugh. "Red, listen to yourself. You NEVER fuss over anyone like this. Even when I got the bite, you were completely level-headed. Now, you tend to dying strangers and look like you're about to jump out of your scales. What's going on with you?"
Red bit his lip and wrung his hands. He couldn't help but shiver as the thoughts pervaded his mind.
"You want to know who this guy really is, Derkeethus? He was one of my crew. From Cyrodiil."
The smile faded from Derkeethus' face.
"He was sent by Him. To kill me. Probably as an insult to RIP as much as an insult to me. He's too cowardly to come after me Himself, so He sends one of my most trusted to assassinate me."
Derkeethus shifted uncomfortably on the hay bale. He suddenly regretted coming down here.
"He didn't even want RIP to kill me. He knew he would be no match for me."
"You think He sent him after you so you'd kill him?"
Red turned to look at the sleeping argonian. His eyes were drawn to the scar around his eye again.
"I think that's not a bad guess. He knew that RIP was one of my most loyal. Probably felt threatened keeping him around. How hard would it be to come up with an excuse to send him on a suicide mission?"
Derkeethus shifted his own focus on RIP. When Red and Valdimar had brought him in the house, he had wondered why they even bothered. Just another brigand Red was going to kill. Now, he felt intense pity.
"You're not actually going to kill him, are you?"
Red turned his head quickly in Derkeethus' direction. His eyes visibly narrowed and his nostrils flared.
"Was that a question or a request?"
Derkeethus' expression turned to one of surprise. "I...I didn't mean anything by it, Red. I just mean...well look at him! He looks so..."
"You expect me to spare him just because he looks like a dragon shit him out?"
Red turned his back on him and rubbed his temples. This was accomplishing nothing other than manifesting a headache.
He turned back. Derkeethus was staring at the floor.
"I'm...sorry. I just don't know what to make of all of this. Too much has happened. He wasn't this ruthless before. He's getting bolder. Closer."
Derkeethus got up with some difficulty and tottered over to Red. He gently squeezed his shoulder.
"I understand. Just do what you think is right."
He kissed Red's cheek gently and approached the stairs leading back to the main floor.
An angry sigh. "Don't even think about it."
Red offered himself as balance and Derkeethus leaned back, letting his legs go limp. Red scooped them up slowly, cautiously, and carried him up the steps.
Red took a deep inhale. The chilled, humid air felt soothing in his lungs. He picked a good spot when he chose Hjaalmarch.
Indeed, it was cold everywhere. Skyrim was not his first choice, but he knew it'd be the last place He'd come looking for him. He had asked around at the different taverns trying to get information on comfortable locations to make his home. When one of the barkeeps mentioned Morthal's marshy climate, Red's interest was piqued. Only when he traveled there himself and saw how desolate and isolated it was did he know he'd found the right place.
The humid air kept his scales from drying out and there was plenty of water for him to use for his potions. He was far enough away from Morthal that even if visitors did pass through, they wouldn't know where he was. Being in such close proximity to the Nordic tombs made most people uncomfortable, and it was assumed by many that no one would live out here.
It suited Red just fine.
Red looked in Solitude's direction. The view of the city was spectacular. The marsh itself gave off a kind of beauty that few appreciated, but kept Red relaxed all the same. Quiet and still.
"I suppose I should go to get some groceries," he thought to himself. He hadn't been in Solitude for about a week. His experiments at home had kept him busy. Derkeethus had foolishly thought to swim in the fish hatchery he had newly constructed, but didn't realize he was farming some slaughterfish for their meat and eggs. He had recieved a nasty bite that had gotten infected, so was being kept at home until it cleared up. On top of everything else, the weather had been particularly cold these last few days. Adventuring was not high on Red's list of priorities.
Red reached into his satchel and examined his budget. 500 Septims. More than enough to pick up some decent food.
A loud whistle accompanied by a sharp, piercing pain in his left shoulder caused Red to cry out and drop his gold. He fell to the ground in surprise, and quickly looked in the direction he had heard the signal from. An ambush.
Five armored argonians seemingly appeared out of nowhere, all but one wearing face masks that disguised their identities. The one whose face was uncovered spoke orders in a shaky voice, though the others didn't seem to pay attention. He told them to kill, but they didn't need permission.
I know you.
Blades came at him from his right and left sides, and Red only managed to put up his ironflesh spell in time to deflect the worst of the blows.
"I'M BEING ATTACKED!"
Valdimar came running from down the hill, axe in one hand and ice spikes emitting from his other.
One of the assassins took an ice spike straight to the face. It pierced him deep, and he fell. He laid twitching in the mud while the assassin closest to him charged at Valdimar, daggers out.
While Valdimar struggled with the dual wielding rogue, Red had ensured the attention of two others. One, a mage, shot fireballs at him from a fair distance. The flames scorched Red's back, and he yelled. The other came running at him with a poisoned blade that sizzled as its master approached.
Red rose the body of the assassin who had fallen as quick as he could manage. The corpse took the blade square in the chest and, unyielding, sank its own blade into the attacker's back.
As the attacker howled in pain, he took a heavy dose of flames to his person from the mage behind him. Luckily for Red, she hadn't had a clear shot when he had gotten in the way. The corpse and its victim, now engulfed in flame, collapsed to the ground.
The mage stood seemingly dumbfounded. It took her too long enough to react that Red had managed to shoot off one of his own arrows. It hit her in the stomach and she crumpled to the ground.
Red hobbled slowly up to her, still wincing from the burns he had sustained. He stared into her face as she looked up at him, tears beginning to well in the corner of her eyes. The arrow had pierced something vital, and blood began to pool where she clutched her abdomen. He could hear her breathing heavily behind the mask.
He turned his back to her and walked down the slope toward Valdimar, who had just finished off the rogue he had been fighting.
"Am I to assume you just didn't hear the fighting, or are you really just a fucking idiot?" Red grimaced, as even speaking took a toll on him.
"I apologize, my Thane. The...the mage. She had paralyzed me. I saw them approaching but before I could warn you...I...shouldn't you finish her off?"
Red turned his attention back to the mage. Her position hadn't changed, and more blood was visible. Her hand feebly gripped the shaft of the arrow as her breathing intensified. She gasped as she attempted to yank the arrow out of her flesh. Blood spurt out violently from behind the mask, and he could hear her choking on it. She hadn't the strength to remove the mask from her face, and she fell to her side.
"Let her bleed out. It won't be much longer, and she isn't a threat anymore."
"There's another, Thane. The leader, I think. He...I knifed him good, while the other was distracted. He's by the side of the house."
Red lowered his head, and approached where Valdimar had indicated. He saw him. Their so-called leader. The one who had called the attack.
The one who hadn't even tried to fight.
He was on his knees, both arms crossed over his stomach. A large gash was visible, and had it been any deeper, his intestines would've been sprawled on the ground around him.
Valdimar lifted his axe, intending to carry out his execution. Red grabbed his arm.
"No. I know this one."
The pathetic creature looked up at him, as the mage had. No tears, and his breathing wasn't nearly as heavy. He wasn't afraid like she had been. He just looked tired and resigned.
"Red. I...it's good to see you again, huh." He chuckled the best he could manage, though it abruptly turned into a coughing fit. Blood droplets sprayed from his mouth and nose.
"This...is RIP. One of my old gang. One of my most loyal." Red bent down on his knees, struggling to keep his balance. "He was a coward then too."
RIP swallowed, followed by another cough. "Red I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't want to do it. I swear, I didn't. He made me do it. H-he said He'd kill my wife. My daughter. By the Hist, He'd...murder them Red. He's gone fucking crazy--"
"Shut up. You really expect me to hear your sob story after you sent these dime store thugs to kill me? At my own house?"
Another loud cough. "I...I didn't Red. I told you it was Him. He sent them. He sent us. He told me I didn't have a choice I...look. I know I don't deserve any pity or...anything. But please. Please Red. Don't let Him find my family. Don't let Him kill them. Please."
His coughing turned into loud sobbing. Hitched whimpers struggled to be heard between bouts of ugly gurgles filled with blood.
Red sighed and turned his head away, disgusted by the display. He stood up slowly and reached into one of his pockets. He pulled out a health potion, made the very same morning. He uncorked it and took a sizable swig, letting some of it seep through the corners of his mouth to meet the mud.
He wiped his face and turned toward RIP again. This guy was a mess. Always had been. But he never saw him quite like this. Never saw him bawling like a snot covered baby, desperate to suckle from its mother's teats. Never saw him plead for his life, despite the several times he had faced death before.
Red groaned, shrugging. He lowered his body again, bringing the health potion to the argonian's lips.
"Drink."
RIP's eyes lit up, tears still streaming down his face. There was obvious surprise in his expression, but he didn't object to this display of kindness from the one he had just tried to kill. A kindness he'd likely never get again. He accepted the liquid into his mouth as he closed his eyes, enjoying the instantaneous relief it brought.
Red let him have the rest of what was in the bottle. Valdimar stood by his side, standing uncomfortably and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He kept glancing around, unsure whether it was safe or not to let their guard down yet.
When the bottle was empty, Red took it away and stored it back in his pocket. His burns still hurt, but they appeared to be small time compared to what his former companion had suffered to his gut.
"T-thank you Red. I--"
"Oh, shut up will you? It's embarassing to watch. Valdimar, help me bring him inside."
Valdimar nodded, and positioned himself behind RIP. He knelt down and grabbed him under his arms, slowly lifting him to a standing position.
RIP moaned loudly as more blood seeped from his wound. The potion had alleviated some of the pain, but without proper care, he wouldn't survive.
"He can stay down in the basement. There's a bed down there that should be fine for him to rest on until he can walk around again."
Valdimar nodded again, but couldn't contain his confusion. "My Thane, you want to keep him alive? I mean he just tried to kill you. Wouldn't it be wise to maybe--"
"I never said I intended to keep him alive." Red's reply was quick and unhindered. "If he should survive the night, then I suppose we'll see what comes next, won't we? I would prefer to find out what he knows about all of this before he dies. He sent him after me, and the more RIP can tell me about Him, the better."
"You believe his story?"
Red opened the door, greeted by Derkeethus. Before he could ask, Red just shook his head, signifying him not to. Derkeethus nodded, and moved out of the way as best he could with his injured foot. Valdimar carried RIP through the living room and kitchen, Red leading the way to the trap door that opened up into the basement.
Red went down the stairs first, grunting as his burns raged. When he reached the bottom, he signaled for Valdimar to send him down. RIP was lowered down at an awkward angle, but held well enough that he was at no risk of being dropped. He was completely unconscious by this point, which made him a bit more difficult to handle.
Reaching the bottom, Red walked over to one of the dusty corners where a small bed was laid out. He had never intended this bed for use, but Valdimar has suggested keeping it in case of something like this ever happening. Though Red believed Valdimar had never expected it to be put to use either.
"Lay him down slowly, then. And when he's settled, I want you to take the bodies away from the house and burn them. We don't need them attracting skeevers and wolves."
"You never answered my question, Thane. Do you believe his story?"
Red leaned into the wall, taking a break from the pain moving around was causing him.
He felt the warmth from the body in his bed, and it comforted him. All too often, his bed felt cold and hard. But not tonight.
He’s beautiful. He’s mine.
Red-Head moved slowly so as not to wake his sleeping companion. He rose from the bed and stretched, taking a deep breath. The sun was beginning to creep through the blinds on the window, and rest peacefully on the sleeping argonian’s face. He grimaced slightly in His half-asleep state, and readjusted His body. Red admired every movement He made.
The two had met roughly 3 months ago, about a week after Red had established his little group. Since then, they had gone on many missions together, and got to really understand each other.
Red knew He favored dual wielding swords and heavy armor. He knew Red enjoyed magic and his bow. Red knew He liked to charge straight in and kill His victims without giving them a chance to unsheath their own weapons. He knew Red liked to stalk from afar, playing games with his victims before making the kill. He liked salmon and mudcrab. Red liked smoked slaughterfish and clams. He liked brandy. Red liked wine.
They were as different as two people could be, but they had one thing in common.
They both liked to kill people.
Or do we?
Red had been thinking about this frequently for the past couple weeks. He had noticed small changes in his lover’s behavior; things He probably wasn’t even aware He was doing. The way His expression changed when He ended someone’s life. How His appetite had changed lately. The smell of His sweat as He chopped wood for the fire.
Red knew something was different, and he didn’t like it. They had boasted about their kills many times in the past, but He hadn’t boasted for weeks. Red became even more aware of the changes after they had laid together tonight. As if everything leading up to this was just a hidden game, but was now revealed to him in full clarity.
He’s going to betray me.
The sun was fully up now, and Red shook the thought from his head. They were in love. Betrayal wasn’t something that either of them was capable of - at least to each other.
But He’s going to do it. He’s going to sell me out.
The thought made him feel nauseous. He shook his head again to try and clear it, but the thought was printed there now. He couldn’t think of anything else. He began to imagine blood dripping from his love’s blade, but it wasn’t from their usual prey. It was his own.
“STOP.”
Red hadn’t intended to yell, he had only wanted to shout it in his head. But he knew it had come out of his mouth. Rather loudly.
He was awake now. He could hear Him getting up and out of bed. Heard Him putting on His pants and the groaning that accompanied a stretch.
Red rubbed his temples, trying to reason with himself that all of this was ludicrous paranoia. They had BOTH killed people, after all. If He ratted Red out, He’d be ratting Himself out, too.
He came out to meet Red in the kitchen. He smiled warmly, and came over to offer a hug.
How did I even get in the kitchen?
His lover’s arms embraced him, and a kiss graced his brow. “How are you doing, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
First I yell. Now I can’t even hide that I’m scared shitless.
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