Executioners did not always possess the ability to break a person's neck when they were hanged, thus bringing about an instantaneous death.
In some cases, friends of the victim would pull on their legs to end their suffering faster.
Silly little ficlet born of discussing the fruit quarantine bins on state lines and what TES manticores would be like with @quickchangeartist.
Random OCs, rated PG for manticore-related violence.
'Isn't this all rather undignified?' The Imperial nobleman stood with his hands on his hips, staring down his nose at the dunmer kneeling before him.
'I assure you sera, it is necessary.' Balvayn's pale dark hands meticulously sorted through the Imperial's belongings, folding them back up with a far greater neatness than they'd originally been packed.
'There have been...incidents. In the past. Simple miscommunications. But the desert forgives no follies.'
'Well considering what I'm paying you, there better be no follies' He huffed, shooting a glare at the khajiit leaning against his inn room doorway with practiced nonchalance. He refused to let the cat get her paws all over his unmentionables. That would simply be too much.
She pretended to ignore him, but Balvayn could see the tip of her tail flicking derisively. The Imperial noble did not understand the significance of the tic, but Balvayn did. It said 'why pay us so much if he's going to cause such a fuss?'.
The noble was travelling light, as stipulated in the conditions of their contract, and Balvayn was soon done searching.
The dried sausage, hard cheese and oiled bread were perfectly acceptable and appropriate foods for the desert, but Balvayn set them aside, clicking his tongue.
'These won't do. We will provide your repast.' He said, remaining perfectly deadpan.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tsivari’s face tighten around the whiskers, an expression she made when trying not to laugh.
'Wonderful, not only must I watch my coin purse at all times,’ he shot a glare at Tsivari ‘but I must endure food burnt beyond recognition too!’
‘One must take utmost care when traveling through territory claimed by manticore.’ Tsivari said airily.
The Imperial threw up his hands in exasperation.
‘I don't care about all that, so long as I make it to the wedding on time.’
Balvayn thought the man a fool for not simply having left for such an important trip weeks earlier, but fools and their money were easily parted and he had been forthcoming enough with payment.
‘What do you know about the manticore?’ he asked, standing.
‘I know my uncle wasted half his fortune on them once, before I was born. He sent wranglers out to bring him a pair of kittens.’
‘They do not breed with each other, sera, they are plants.’ Balvayn interrupted.
The imperial stared at him in disgust.
How could something that looked like a horrific teleportation accident combining a scorpion and a sabre cat be a plant? But it was true, they had never garnered more offspring.
‘Well it was all a waste of coin regardless, as they never developed a scent.’ he said haughtily.
‘My sister has a cloak hood lined with manticore fur. Its natural perfume is like that of fresh peaches, it's quite extraordinary.’
Balvayn busied himself with shouldering his own bags while the noble talked.
‘Each is different, I'm told. Eight men died in acquiring that pelt and it had a price to match.’
‘They must have been very inexperienced wranglers, or you were deceived into a higher price.’ Tsivari said, unable to keep a lid on her disdain any longer.
‘Ah! Look the sun will be nearing the horizon soon, it's already well light enough to leave. Let us be off and waste time no longer’ Balvayn bustled him out of the room before the stunned Imperial could muster an outraged response. Tsivari loitered behind, quickly shoving the foodstuffs into her own panniers.
Four months earlier
Tsivari hunted about on the ground until she found some oddly shaped rocks with flat tops. She dug them up carefully, exposing them to be peculiar desert plants. She sliced them open, exposing a pale, fleshy interior.
‘Here, rub this on your face and hands.’
The young Nordic bard was already terribly reddened by the harsh sun, even through the cowl Balvayn had provided.
‘How did you learn to do that?’ He asked in disbelief, talking the offered balm. To his inexperienced eye, the plants had appeared as if out of nowhere.
‘Khajiit has cousins, some with no fur.’ She shrugged.
As the bard tended to his blistering skin, she helped Balvayn to erect a sun shelter under which to wait out the midday heat.
Having shrugged off their packs and sled, they settled down to relax. Tsivari pulled out some flatbread stuffed with cheese and nuts to share. Traditionally served with dried grapes, for this journey it had been sweetened with honey instead.
‘Pulling this sled makes Khajiit wish she was born senche.’ She said, rubbing her shoulders. Beasts of burden were too enticing to desert predators, leaving them to carry everything themselves.
They reclined on their packs, and Tsivari almost immediately fell asleep. Balvayn was envious of the cat’s ability to utilize even the shortest span of time for refreshing naps. Her dozing didn't last long, however, as she was quickly startled awake by shouts.
'What have you done!' Balvayn cried 'The contract was very clear, no fruit!'
'Yes, but this is just a single orange. I was going to eat it along the way, no need for any fuss about quarantine or what have you.'
She opened her eyes just in time to see Balvayn slap the half-peeled fruit out of the bard’s hand. She immediately leapt to her feet and sniffed the air. A wispy desert breeze carried with it the distinct scent of an apple orchard heavy with fruit. But she knew there were no such trees within several days travel.
'Oh no,' She whispered.
‘It’s here.’
Balvayn turned pale, looking at his hand as if it were the source of their fear.
If not for her fur, Tsivari would have turned similarly bloodless. Instead her eyes widened like saucers, ears standing high on her head.
'What is that charming music? Is there a bardic college nearby? Who would think to build anything like that in a place such as this.'
'Silence!' she hissed.
Tsivari and Balvayn both strained to hear the direction of the noise. There, towards the north. A lyrically beautiful, robust trumpeting sound in the distance, faintly discordant, and getting closer.
Simultaneously Tsivari and Balvayn patted down the waterskins at their waists, looked at each other and nodded.
Run.
They had enough water to last them to the closest caravansarai if no sandstorms delayed them, and no time to dig more from their packs even if they didn't.
They had no heavy armour, acid-proofed and greased with crab oil. No wax stoppers for their ears, nor long pole arms to stab with. What they had was good boots and light linen robes. No three people had ever taken down a manticore, anyway. It took a small army to secure such a prized pelt, with a price to reflect that most hunting parties had several fatalities. Nevermind the strict skinning procedures needed to stop the hair from falling out all at once like a dandelion head after the beast was slain.
Oblivious to the lengthening distance between himself and his guides, the traveller had turned toward the sound.
‘What a heavenly song, such ferocity.’
He held a hand up to his face, shielding his eyes as he squinted into the distance. At first the heat-shimmering horizon obscured the angry figure barreling towards him at top speed; and then it was too late.
Tsivari and Balvayn did not hesitate nor look back when the gleefully triumphant honking was muffled by the sickening wet crunch of joints rended from their sockets, accompanied by desperate, gurgling screams. Expecting to find a rival and discovering instead a hapless tourist and easy meal, the manticore had set about tearing him apart with relish.
Tsivari and Balvayn didn't stop running until the satisfied trumpeting had faded away on the wind, and even then didn't slow down beyond a jog.
They didn't speak until they'd limped back to the inn, exhausted and sore, feet blistered and thirsty.
Tsivari had of course had kept her coin purse on her belt, and was thus able to pay for refreshment for the both of them.
She shakily poured so much moonsugar into her fermented horse milk it turned into a sludge.
'This one thinks he should have read the contract.' She broke the silence finally.
'It was stipulated very clearly! He must have only looked at the price.' Balvayn rubbed his hands over his face. They sat in silence for a while longer until finally Balvayn slammed his empty mead mug on the counter.
'From now on we strip search everyone!'
Epilogue
Alone without a return fare Tsivari and Balvayn walked in peaceful silence across the warm desert sands. Their nobleman customer had refused to return with them, citing they were too uncouth, preferring the company of the much cheaper and safer but far slower regular caravans which gave manticore territory a wide berth.
Tsivari paused to kick something with her boot. A human thigh bone, half obscured by sand. As they crested a rocky hill, a greater view the wreckage was laid out before them.
The bone’s companions had been bleached white and splintered like driftwood, cleaned of all meat and marrow. Strewn about them were the remains of the camp they had so hastily abandoned. Every stroke of orange paint had been meticulously clawed off the ill-fated traveller’s luggage. Every scrap of orange fabric had been obliterated. The pack that had contained the fruit so offensive to the manticore had been reduced to particularly fine shreds.
‘Well, it certainly was thorough.’
A small gold string poked out of the sand. Balvayn tugged on it, revealing his miraculously intact coin purse.
In 2015 I attended a post-apocalyptic weekend LARP in Australia called ‘After the Fall’ (That’s me dressed as my first character the late Spider, fourth from the right, back row).
This is the last diary entry of my second character, Coyote, killed by Irish, an STA spy, in the Battle of New Hill City.
I haven't written in a while. It's hard to see the point. Not like anyone else round here can read anyways. But I need to get my thoughts in order. Talking to Spider always helped. He gave me this blank book though so I guess it's poetic, symbolic-like.
It's not like this is the first time he's run off. That'd be that one time during that bad drought, we shot that couple in that big white farmhouse. We was halfway through their daddy when the little ones crept outta the basement. Spider always had the strength to do what needed to be done, but he didn't have the constitution not to feel bad about it after. Man's gotta eat. No point being sentimental about it.
I know he'll always feel poorly about what happened to his parents. Though they might as well have been mine too, us being cousins and all.
It wasn't hard to figure were he'd went.
He once told me all the streams in the world went into the ocean, that it was beautiful. I wanted to take you oneday.
I'm sorry cuz.
I followed the river from camp down until I found a little town on a ridge, New Hill City. Took a while.
Spider was always good at covering his tracks, but I've got my intuition. I knew this'd be where he'd be. Weather is gettin real bad. Spider must have come in to ride out the winter.
It's a dull place. The Mayor's an arrogant fool. They bury their enemy dead. What a waste.
The only form of entertainment is the sheriff and his wife having their domestic disputes in the town square. It's like one of them television shows from before the fall, the ones where they always yelling in Spanish. This afternoon she slapped him so hard he fell on his ass. She's a real firebrand that one. I like her.
Luxxi's travelling bar rolled in quick after I arrived, a bit of luck. They like cockroaches, them. Ain't no plague or monster ever gonna take down them folk. I bet Luxxi'd take a swing at the Grim Reaper himself if he ever tried anything. Or give her brother-husband a nod and he'd have a fight on his bones.
It was good to have Billy-Ray's fire whiskey again, and some of Sissy-Mae's affection.
.
I found him in the infirmary yesterday afternoon.
His nails were all blackened and he had a great big gash right across his throat and face. He was rattling when he breathed.
The black sickness is here too.
The town doctor is an atom-damned vetinarian. He thinks you can solve everything with a big shot of ketamine. Fool.
The Mayor struck a deal with the Soldiers of True America to have their medic come over try and cure it. If they ain't Corporate stooges, they Cooperate stooge wannabees.
She some kind of foreign robot or something. Trying to find a cure. She's a good doc but there are some things you can't fix.
She told me you weren’t gonna wake up. You’d lost too much blood.
.
Was he taken ill too when he ran? Is that why he left? I'll never know.
Bobby got the black sickness and Juno got herself bit by a rattler. Now it's just me.
This is probably gonna be my last entry. I don't think I'm gonna make it. But I just can't seem to make myself care.
But I know what I gotta do.
One of them legion had done this to Spider, defending the town from a raid. Legion died himself when that peculiar Irish fella cut him down. Something strange about that one.
I don't blame them, the legion. I blame the town. It's not our nature, pretending to live all civilised, like. Spider hated rules and the Mayor has plenty. Fuck New Hill City.
I went down to Luxxi's to fortify my nerves. Got to talking with those Legion of Steel fellas. One of em, Three Ball, invited me to join em.
He could tell it's where I belong. I ain't no townie, that's plain for all to see. Stupid naive bastards.
After everyone had gotten thorough black out drunk I went back to town. I grabbed a wheelbarrow and took Spider down to the river. You'll get to the sea, Spider. Eventually.
I'm writing this while waiting for them drug-addled fucks to wake up. Can't handle their hooch. We were supposed to attack at dawn and I reckon it's been light for a full hour now.
There they go, yelling something about shoes and the will of their god-fella, 'spirit of the legion'. They swear they can all see him, but there ain't nothing there. Crazier than rat in a hot tin bucket, that lot. I reckon they got the prion disease from eatin brain.
Time to go. We're gonna burn this place to the ground.
Misc facts:
Dislikes the cold
Usually looks somewhat unkempt-unshaven, tie loose
His eyes don’t actually glow, but are an unnaturally bright shade of green
Likes jazz music
Has a slight Southern US accent
Carries an old wedding band and ace of spades card in his wallet
Has an organ in his abdomen that acts like a secondary heart, which pumps black fluid (his blood is still mostly red-if injured it appears as though his lymphatic fluid is black)
Is fond of stray cats
He sometimes wears a hood with a mask/face covering instead of a gas mask.
Clothes are optional/changeable, except for the collar and some kind of face covering.
The lenses on his mask are actually clear and his eyes are yellow, but I've taken a bit of artistic license.
jbbartram-illu
stormborns
titsay
kianamaiart
2087
izzy806
blakekathryn