#ashpit

[watermonkeystuff]

Ashpit live.

[uesp]

"Is this just a dark fowl, mere poultry of sinister visage—or does it hail from realms beyond Nirn, mayhap from the Deadlands of Mehrunes Dagon or the Ashpit of Malacath? Dare you ask yourself the dread question: Which came first?"

--Description of a Daemon Chicken

[madcat-world]

Ashpit - Sergey Demidov

[vosh-rakh]

the man who sold the world

The rumor had long persisted that there was a ghost in the Ashen Forge. Of course, this seemed a bit foolish to whomever heard it, seeing as everyone there was dead. The older denizens always chided the newer arrivals for saying such silly things, telling them they’d probably just been drunk, either on ale, battle, or fumes. Nevertheless, talk of the tall, pale specter hovering about the deeper parts of the fortress never quite went away.

Malacath had naturally heard these rumors himself, but only heeded them when the rumors pinned locations of sightings to places uncomfortably close to his private chambers. There were few rules in Ashpit, but chief among them was respecting the Prince’s privacy.

When one day his resting in the garden was broken by the sound of shears pruning, he assumed perhaps someone had not gotten the memo. “Leave now and don’t return,” he said, “and I won’t throw you into Coldharbour.”

“Pardon,” returned the intruder, “Simply tending to the forget-me-nots.”

Malacath jerked his head around at the sound of a familiar voice, and jumped to his feet when he saw him.

“You! You’re my ghost!”

Indeed he was, just as the stories claimed. He kneeled before the flowers, but Malacath saw his height despite it. Tall, pale, his ragged robes not hiding well his bulk. He turned his head towards the Prince, but did not move to rise.

“I am?” He stroked his long, silver beard, thinking. “Oh! Is that why everyone runs from me in fear?”

“Okay,” Malacath said, marching towards the ghost, “I changed my mind. Don’t go anywhere. I’m throwing you into Coldharbour.”

The ghost rose to his feet, his slowness and grunting betraying his age. “Oh, has it finally happened? I’ve been doing my job so well for so long that you didn’t know I did it, and now I’m being fired?”

Malacath grabbed him roughly behind his neck and appraised him. The “ghost” was old, and looked to be - “An elf?”

The ghost put on a shy smile. “Oh, not so uncommon you know. Well, maybe nowadays. The new ones look so different! So sturdy, like you. But they didn’t exist yet when I died.”

“When you died?” Malacath tightened his grip.

“Oh, that was before you, wasn’t it?” The ghost put on a show of counting on his fingers. “Ah, well, yes. I came here and began taking care of the garden before you arrived. Before you were born, even, perhaps!” He delicately wrapped his fingers around Malacath’s wrist, but there was a strength there Malacath hadn’t expected. “If you would please release my neck? I’ve already got a crick, and you’re a poor masseuse.”

Malacath burned his eyes into the ghost’s, but nothing came of it. He let go.

“Thank you, thank you,” the ghost said, patting Malacath’s hand as they disengaged.

“Who are you?”

The ghost waved his shears about. “Why, I’m the gardener, of course. Well, the last tenant’s.”

“...Trinimac?”

“Of course. He was the last tenant, correct? I’ve been caring for this garden ever since.”

“...How come you never came forward? Haven’t seen you until now.”

“Ah, well. You see, the old man told me to be as discreet as possible for whoever would come later - that would be yourself. ‘Hold back until it’s time, until he’s ready,’ I think he said.” The gardener widened his eyes and quickly covered his mouth. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so loose. It seems you may not be ready yet.”

“Ready for what?”

“Why, the truth, of course. About the old man.”

“I already know. Mephala told me.”

“A version of the truth. Hers, of course. But he wanted to tell you his. But, well, he’s not here anymore. So I would have to tell you mine.”

“Tell me, then.”

The gardener started stroking his beard again. “Well, I’m not sure you’re ready yet.”

Malacath’s eyes began to burn again. “I said, tell me.”

“...Very well, my Prince. But don’t blame me for anything I tell you.” The gardener looked up at the ash-choked sky, lost in thought. “You know, I trust, about Lorkhan. And about what your predecessor did to him.”

“Of course. Killed him. Ripped out his heart and threw it east. Didn’t have a choice, though. Was forced to.”

“Ah, but isn’t there always a choice?” The gardener met Malacath’s stare with a formidable one of his own. “Trinimac was offered one. He didn’t have to kill Lorkhan. He made the choice to, because he wanted to.”

“He did it because he was forced to. Auri-el made him. Would have punished him.”

“So you argue it was the lesser of two evils? Tell me, Malacath: would you have done the same? Sold the world to the Dragon and killed the only man who really loved him? The man who made him?”

“Of course not. I’m better than him. Maybe he was weak, but I wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

“But aren’t you him, and he, you? Didn’t you make that mistake?”

“No, we’re not the -”

“And how do you know it was a mistake? Is it because you feel like you would never have done it? But how can you compare his morals to yours, if you’re not the same?”

“Because I just know, I remember, I -”

“How can you? You weren’t there. You hadn’t been born yet. All you are is a suit of armor for a broken man. A broken man who doesn’t deserve to be protected. Who should have stayed broken and left this place forever vacant and empty.”

“Stop. Shut up. Let me speak.”

“You may not speak while I am speaking.”

Malacath found that he could not speak.

“He killed him because he wanted to. Because he believed in what Auri-el was doing. But it was the greatest heist to ever happen, and it was the first. Lorkhan made a world for everyone, and then we put it in chains. We ripped out its beating heart and let the Dragon feast on what was left. We didn’t let it happen. We were accomplice. I killed Lorkhan because I wanted a part of the world, a slice of the pie, just like everybody else. And no matter how much you repent, try to give us a new image, it will never change the reality that -”

“Shut up.”

Trinimac found that he could not speak.

“You did what you did because you were afraid. You were just as much a slave to that bastard as everyone else. Shor forgave us long ago, but you weren’t paying attention. It wasn’t convenient to your story so you didn’t care. Get over yourself. Stop haunting my garden.”

Malacath embraced Trinimac until he was alone again.

[akifhandemir]

Too much

[alandrosul]

does necromancy in tes necessitate the imprisonment of a soul?

im thinking about this in terms of how orcs might use sanctioned necromancy. it seems that the souls of (commonly recently deceased) raised corpses are tortured and kept from their afterlife by the process. of course, some necromancers such as vastarie tried to find less malicious means of trapping souls, but mannimarco's approach largely superseded hers.

vastarie sought ways to only temporarily trap souls, so that one could gather knowledge from them before they finally pass to aetherius or oblivion.

so i wonder: could it be that orcs devised a similar means of temporarily trapping (black, orc) souls for the purpose of raising dead to do menial tasks, or even fight? could a white soul be bound to an orc's body? would orcs find trapping non-orc black souls for these applications acceptable? can you bind a daedroth's soul to a mortal body? do black souls whose afterlife is in oblivion become daedra? would, therefore, orcish souls in ashpit be akin to daedra? would it be common to occasionally bind them to corpses or skeletons to work or fight? might that even be an expected duty of dead orcs in the ashpit?

this is of course assuming orcs tolerate necromancy in the slightest. i haven't been able to find any source saying anything on the topic. although, based on their pragmatic philosophy, it seems like it would be considered a useful, if dark, practice. and aren't necromancers themselves outcasts?

[vosh-rakh]

if you come back to haunt me

He is here, again, this time eschewing the pretense of gardener. He is here in all his resplendent Dawn glory, bright and shining with all the colors of the Aurbis, reflected in his silver plates from the myriad vibrancies of the garden, swimming in pastel. He is perfect and brilliant, each square inch of metal polished to mirror’s sheen, almost blinding to behold. The only indication that he is anything less than the spectacular son of glorious Auri-el is held in his pitch-black ebony-stained hands.

Malacath has been dueling with a mannequin wrapped in darkness. He notices the sudden light filling and overfilling the courtyard, but says nothing until spoken to.

“That’s pretty transparent,” the knight says, his voice crisp and clear like swords clashing.

Malacath sighs and digs his blade into the soft verdant earth. “Not usually anybody to see. Guess there still isn’t.” As if not turning to face him means he’s not there.

“Do you wrestle with her often?” Trinimac approaches to place an ebon hand on empty ebon armor. 

Malacath vanishes the mannequin, leaving Trinimac’s hand touching empty air. “No. Haven’t seen her in ages. Both have more important things to do. Better that way.”

“Oh, but it seems you do wrestle with her, if nowhere else than your heart. Here.”

Malacath says nothing and turns to face Trinimac head-on, his arms crossed.

“Of course,” Trinimac says, nodding, “you’re right. This is my heart. Seems it has been torn from me as well.”

Trinimac grabs Vosh Rakh by the grip and pulls it from the earth. In his hands it transforms from a brutal weapon into a fine instrument, silver and gold and jeweled with the blood of righteous conquest. He tests the balance in his hand for a moment and smiles. He takes Malacath’s place and summons the mannequin back. 

He glances back to his echo, his face suddenly grave. Then he launches Penitent into his target with a deep thrust, penetrating the ebony plating with a sickening sharp crunch of metal. He anchors his feet and hoists blade and dummy up to the ashen sky, piercing its vacant chest to the hilt.

“...Pretty transparent,” says Malacath.

“You should have killed him while you had a chance!” cries Trinimac, throwing Penitent and faux-Boethiah to the side, slapping a lustrous Alinor tree with enough force to rattle several gilded leaves from their boughs, deeply paining both gods. “You were stronger then than you are now. It would have been this easy. But you have become weak, and now you can only wrestle with a poor imitation!”

Malacath places a tight grip on Trinimac’s bright pauldron, not easily forgiving his attack on his tree. “Different kinds of strength. Yours was incomplete. Come.” Malacath leads the old knight to a Atmora-oak bench and seats himself. “Sit.”

Trinimac hesitates but accedes, sitting with learned grace, his black hands on his knees. Neither he nor Malacath speak for many moments, taking in the beauty of their surroundings.

Finally, he turns his head to Malacath, who lounges with his arms on the back of the bench. “How can there be strength in you? You are considered least even among the Daedra.”

“My turn for questions, ghost,” Malacath says, not removing himself from his pose. “Why should you have killed Boethiah?”

Trinimac taps his bloodstained gauntlets on his knees, rattling the metal. “If we hadn’t listened to her, hadn’t trusted her, we wouldn’t have become so miserable.”

“You know better. You were miserable long before you met her.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “You twist your regret so far? So now you could be content having killed Lorkhan, so long as you were ignorant?”

“...No. What we...I...did to him, it is my chiefest regret.”

“And you let it consume you, so that all you know is regret.” Malacath places his hand lightly on the back of Trinimac’s head, ruffling his long alabaster hair ever so slightly. “Boethiah ate it, a long time ago. That’s her problem now.”

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t still carry it,” Trinimac says. “If she consumed all of your guilt, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Malacath squints, his mind tossing the words back and forth, checking their weight, then nods slowly. “Just like the hands.”

“...What?” Trinimac holds up his black hands to look at them. 

“Long ago. When you were born. You tried to rip out hunger. Desire. So you could serve.” Malacath grabs one of Trinimac’s wrists, meeting his confused eyes. “Shor’s hands. Black, like yours.” He pauses, his eyes wandering. “Maybe that was blood, too.” He straightens his gaze. “All those places he touched you, his imprint. You excised them. Made you who you are. Made you Time’s Knight. But those traces didn’t perish. They ran away. Gave themselves a name.”

Trinimac’s lips parted. “You don’t mean…”

“You knew this. That’s why I know it. Don’t play dumb.” 

Trinimac nods. Malacath continues. “You gave that to her, just like you tried to give regret. But just like I’m proof you couldn’t give away hunger, you’re proof I couldn’t give away guilt.”

“...We run from these things we fear.” Trinimac softly takes his hand back, and then places it on Malacath’s chest. It falls into an old Lorkhan-shaped scar like a glove. “We run from what makes us.”

Malacath nods. “We both regret. We both desire.” They stand from the bench together, Trinimac’s hand still in place. “We cannot give it away.”

They embrace. Trinimac weeps silently, his silver tears on Malacath’s shoulders. The garden grows gently more alive.

“Come back sometime,” Malacath says as Trinimac makes to leave. “Could use the company.”

“Alright. Of course.” Trinimac stops to admire an emperor parasol for a moment. He turns to Malacath as if to speak, but concludes no more words are necessary, and departs.

[vosh-rakh]

right where it belongs

“How do you know you’re right?”

He is here again, regal as ever, his long white hair spilling out from under his silver helmet. But here, in this private arena in the Ashpit, there is little brilliance to give his armor luster. 

Both combatants stop mid-combat to witness him. “What? - Lord Trinimac!” says one. He glances back at Malacath, but can’t entirely steal his astonishment from the interloper. “I thought you said…”

“Never mind what I said.” Malacath sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Leave us be, Gortwog. We’ll finish this another time.”

The recently-deceased king slowly obliges, but he constantly looks back to stare at the god who was and the god who wasn’t before the walls of the fortress separate them.

Malacath turns to face Trinimac, Vosh Rakh still gripped firmly in his hand. “Should really start letting me know when you intend to visit.”

“Myapologies,” comes the rushed response, but he returns to his question. “How do you know when you’re right?”

“What kind of question is that?” Malacath narrows his eyes. “This about him? All that mess you’ve been up to down there, with my city?”

“Of course it is!” He throws up his hands in mock frustration. “Partially, at least.” He wags a finger in Malacath’s face, and almost loses it. “And it was my city, first.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter right now. I asked you a question.”

“And you haven’t explained what the hell it means.” Malacath slowly circles Trinimac, sizing him up in the center of the arena.

“What I mean is…” Trinimac’s hands grasp at the air, at words. “You. You made vengeance your sphere, correct?”

“It made me. Besides the point, probably. What about it?” Malacath drags Vosh Rakh through the ash in the pit, kicking up little puffs of it as he traps Trinimac in a small circle.

“Okay. Well, vengeance implies you know you were wronged. Which implies you were right, and you know you were right, and they were wrong.”

Malacath stops in front of Trinimac, letting the ash settle. “‘Suppose.”

“So...how do you know you were right? How are you ever so sure?”

The orc shakes his head. “Stupid question. Just know.” He punches Trinimac in the breastplate, pushing him out of the circle in the ash. “How do you get so old and not be sure? Ain’t the Dawn anymore.”

“...You know, I asked someone the same thing once, a long time ago.”

Malacath thinks and sighs. “Yeah. You did.”

“Back then, I thought I knew everything. Exactly who I was, and I thought I was unshakeable. A mountain before mountains existed.”

“But you didn’t, obviously.”

“But now you think the same. And now I’m here again.”

“I’m not like you. I know who I am. You knock me down, I don’t forget.”

“No matter how you try to hide it, to ignore it, to pretend I’m just an old ghost - even to my champion. You know you’re exactly like me.”

Malacath scowls. He throws down his sword between them, displacing more ash around their ankles. “Then prove it.”

“Pardon?”

“Tired of all the words. Pick it up and fight me.”

“...There’s only the one blade, between the two of us.”

“We’ll make it work. Just pick it up.”

Trinimac bends to arm himself. Malacath’s blade becomes Trinimac’s again, the rough edges of Vosh Rakh smoothing out into Penitent. He hesitates. “You’re still unarmed. It’s just the one blade.”

“Shut up and swing at me.”

Trinimac shakes his head but obliges. “On your guard!” He reels back his swing. Malacath readies in his grip an imaginary blade, twisting his stance to guard. As soon as Penitent neared Malacath in its arc, there was a short hiss of metal-on-metal, and Trinimac’s weight was shifted to the side. Malacath held Vosh Rakh, and Trinimac’s hands were empty.

They both paused to raise brows at this result. Then a corner of Malacath’s lip pulled back, baring his sharp teeth. “Again!” he shouts, raising Vosh Rakh high over his head.

Instinctively Trinimac raised a missing blade to deflect, pushing off from the collision to dodge to the side. Again, the sword changed hands with the same sound of metal scraping itself in swift oscillating rhythm.

Trinimac’s feet traced through the ash like ballet as he stole away from Malacath to a more casual stance. He ran his eyes up and down his ancient gleaming blade like it was an old lover. “It is the same blade, even still,” he says, inspecting his beaming face in its reflection. “It answers to the same master.”

Malacath roars and charges again, his unarmed hands held up in another attack. Trinimac steps forward and catches the blow in Penitent’s guard. The blades meet and vanish and meet again, flashing back and forth fast enough to shriek from a contact that doesn’t happen - once Penitent, then Vosh Rakh, then Penitent again - over and over, until the arena is filled with a blinding light and the combatants find themselves flat on their backs in the ash.

Malacath rises to sit, clutching his head in his hand. He feels the warmth of blood there, above his eyes. He tries to open them to see his hands.

There’s his blood, alright. But it’s god’s blood, aedric, golden ichor, and it’s speckling metal fused pitch black to flesh. He jumps back in a start, and the blood sinks into his vision. He tries to wipe it away, but when he opens his eyes, the gold is everywhere, staining the entire world. The dark iron is gold, the steel is silver, the ash is carpet, the crude architecture now ornate. 

Across the room is Trinimac, but he looks like him, and he seems just as perplexed. Malacath calls out to him, “What did you do?” But Trinimac called it out, too, at the same time, their voices mingling into one. 

“What? What’s happening? Where are...this place, it’s...it’s not supposed to be this way. It’s not supposed to look like this. Is it? Stop doing that. Make this stop! I’m not doing anything. Then who...who am I? Why do I look like...why do you look like...why? I’m not like...Stop this. This is too much. This isn’t real. It can’t be. I’m not like...Am I?”

Malacath ae Trinimac ae Malacath approach each other on their knees, knees that feel the same on ash or tile. They grab each other by the shoulders, their every movement perfectly imitated. Malacath ae Trinimac says, “I’m not strong enough for this. I’m not strong enough. Just stop this. Just stop. Stop. Stop. Please, just stop.” Trinimac begins to flicker, like Penitent on Vosh Rakh. “I’m not doing anything. Who is? I’m not. Who are you? You’re not.” Malacath begins to flicker, like Vosh Rakh on Penitent. “Who am I? I’m not. Who...Stop!”

- - - - -

What happened that day in the Ashpit is a mystery, because no one seems to rightly remember. Some orcs became elves. Some elves became orcs. The rooms and fields shifted in a sea of light and darkness, and everyone saw different things. By the end of it all, everything was back to normal, but the thing most people there remember best was the screaming.