#aka Dal and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

[dalamusrex]

Shor's Stone

(Content warnings for: abuse mention; descriptions of blood, gore, and corpses)

“‘Hop over to Shor’s Stone,' they said. ‘It will only take a couple hours,’ they said,” Dalamus grumbled to himself atop his horse. The palomino mare below him ambled along the cobblestone path, tired from a short skirmish with a small pack of wolves. The Rift’s woods were full of them, and Opal was not a warhorse. Thankfully, the wolves had been easily dissuaded with a well-aimed horse kick. The rest immediately fled in a panic. Hopefully they would tell the rest of their brethren not to bother with this adventurer.

“I am sorry, girl. I will be sure to get you a treat once we are back home, hm?” He reached forward and petted the side of her neck in an attempt to calm her. Just a bit longer and he would be able to get out of this blasted sun…

During a routine visit to buy alchemy ingredients, Elgrim had asked Dalamus a favor. The miners of Shor’s Stone had fallen ill, and they needed medicine. Elgrim is too old to be traveling, and hardly trusted a soul. But he has known Dalamus long enough to know that the mer could handle himself should trouble arise. Not that trouble will arise, of course, Elgrim assured. The mer was given a box full of elixirs to deliver, which he balanced before him while seated in the saddle.

Shor’s Stone--a mining village just North of Riften, between the Velothi Mountains and the mountains which contain Redbelly Mine. The mine from which the village makes its income. Unfortunately, mining is a dangerous job in many ways. If one did not get crushed by collapsing tunnels, they risked being choked by fumes of unearthed gas, or accidentally set aflame by torches lit in gas-heavy chambers. The constant chipping of stone and ore fills the lungs with dust, often causing breathing issues. Such is the issue this time, as well. Without the miners, their income has slowed to a crawl.

It will only take a few hours, Elgrim said. Just drop off the medicine and come back. Simple as that!

But when was anything as simple as that…

Another half hour passed and Dalamus finally saw the peaks of houses appear before him. Filnjar, the blacksmith and unofficial leader of the community, stood at his forge staring distantly into the embers. It was not until he apparently heard Opal’s hoofbeats that the Nord looked up. Filnjar did not smile, but some tension leaked from his shoulders in relief when he noticed the box of medicine.

“I presume you are the delivery man for Elgrim.” Filnjar spoke as Dalamus carefully dismounted his horse, attempting to keep the box level as he did so. Once on his feet and the box secure, he could face Filnjar.

As much as Dalamus hated being thought of as a ‘delivery man,’ he could hardly argue. He handed the wooden medicine box to the Nord. “For today, I am. Here are the elixirs. Give each miner one elixir to drink over the course of a week. Hafjorg sends her well wishes.”

Filnjar took the box from the Dunmer’s hands and placed it on his workbench. Grabbing a nearby tool, he pried the box open to inspect its contents. Sure enough, at least eight peach-colored potions sat inside, compartmentalized with thin wooden slats and wrapped in parchment to prevent breakage during transit. Filnjar smiled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you for coming all the way out here, lad, even though I suspect it’s not your day job. Before I set you off with your coin, may I ask.. Are you a mercenary? A blade for hire?”

Dalamus’ hands hesitated on Opal’s reins, anticipating a new request if he were to answer affirmatively, and inwardly groaned. He just wanted to get home. The heat of the sun was thinning his patience. And yet… “I can be, for the right price. Why?” He turned his piercing glance back to the blacksmith, and could have sworn the Nord shrunk a little.

“Well…” Filnjar began. “We haven’t seen the guards from the nearby watchtower in quite a while. They’re probably just in a drunken stupor and sleeping it off, but if something has gone wrong, no one here is equipped to deal with it. Since you’re already here, would you mind checking on them? I will give you what money I have left to spare, plus what I owe you for the delivery.”

Dalamus mulled it over for what seemed like an eternity. Even Opal nudged him impatiently, as if asking him to make a decision already. He did not want to do more. He had already done the job he promised. He wanted to go home. But.. if the guards were just being lazy, it would only take a moment. And he had not yet been paid. “...Fine. I will check on the guard tower.”

“Thank you, lad.”

Dalamus scoffed. This was supposed to be a quick delivery job. Deliver the medicine, Elgrim said. Now he was trudging off to a watchtower to investigate. Hopefully, the guards would be completely fine, and he could leave.

But as he approached the tower, he quickly realized that the worst had happened. The smell of old blood and active rot filled his senses and immediately placed him on alert. He approached with caution, hoping that perhaps the guards were not the source. Perhaps they had gone hunting and this was the smell of their kill. Judging from the pit near the entrance which had not seen fire in at least a week, this seemed unlikely. The mer scrubbed his face with frustration.

“Hello?” he called out towards the tower. This was stupid. Why did he have to do this? Anyone else at the town could have called up to the tower just as easily. But the lack of response was concerning…

...No, it was not! Dalamus did not care about these people. He was not invested in their safety. He was delivering the medicine for money. He could assume the guards were dead, and return. There were many ways he could lie.

...But what if townspeople come looking for bodies to bury?

Why did it matter?! It was not his problem! He did not owe anyone this investigation. Except, he had agreed to it. And his payment might get withheld if it was discovered that he lied one way or the other. And he was already here.

...Fine.

“Hilye,” he said, ordering Opal in Dunmeris to stay put while he approached the tower. The smell of rot hit him like a wave once he reached the abandoned fire pit. It had not been lit in many days–no smolders, no fresh ash, no trace of food or utensils nearby.

As he turned towards the tower, he spotted a guard. Or… what used to be one. Leaning against the side of the tower’s entrance was the corpse of a guard, pale and rotting. A sword wound split the man’s chest nearly from shoulder to hip, and various insects clung to the putrefying form.

One guard found… Two to go.

He made his way to the tower’s entrance and onto the stairs. With each step, the stench of decay grew greater, straining even Dalamus’ sensory tolerance. He could not hear any heartbeats, nor sounds of movement, and could only conclude that the worst had happened.

Two Riften guards lay slaughtered on the top floor, one with an arrow through the skull, the other stabbed in the back multiple times with a bladed weapon. Their armor appeared ill-fitting, their corpses filled with putrid gasses causing bloat. Judging by the lack of a struggle, the guards were likely attacked at night. Perhaps the guard meant to keep watch had fallen asleep, himself, allowing their quick demise.

A letter sat on the table next to their last meals, now molding.

Akar,

We’ve word of a band of Legion soldiers advancing on your position. Reinforcements are on their way. Talos guard you.

A black brow rose on the vampire’s face. So they had had a warning, yet still fell? Filnjar had implied that the guards partook in revelry if not frequently then consistently. Perhaps they really had imbibed too much on the night of the attack. Fools.

The sound of rustling in nearby trees froze him. He kept low to the floorboards and crept over to the ledge to peer down. Were the soldiers back? Had a brigand come to loot the bodies? No… It was much worse.

A large troll had followed the scent of the blood and rot--and possibly Dalamus’ yelling--straight to the tower. It grabbed the corpse at the side of the tower, picking it up with the ease of a child lifting a doll. In a gruesome display of strength, the troll ripped a limb off the body with a sickening crack and squelch. It put the arm in its mouth and peeled the metal armor off with its teeth before spitting the inedible material aside. The wet sounds of chewing were occasionally punctuated by the loud crack of a bone.

“You must be fetching kidding me.” He cursed under his breath in disbelief at his rotten luck. Dalamus dragged a hand down his face again. What now? He could wait and hope the troll leaves once it had its fill. What if the body out front was not enough to satisfy its hunger? It might ascend the stairs to consume the two corpses here. He could drop down the other side of the tower, but would still need to cross the troll’s line of sight to get to Opal and return to town.

The sound of Opal’s nervous whinnies pulled him from his thoughts and into action. The troll had noticed her and was advancing towards her, hoping for a large, fresh meal. Opal, Divines bless her, was dutifully waiting for Dalamus to return despite her terror.

“Miraga!” he yelled from the top of the tower, commanding Opal to flee and find somewhere to hide, giving her permission to escape by whatever means necessary and get to safety. “Miraga!”

The mare turned and ran, and the troll attempted to follow but was stopped by Dalamus landing upon its shoulders after leaping from the tower, and sending them both tumbling. Dalamus immediately rolled to his feet in time to dodge the swipe of a massive clawed hand. The troll roared, sending spittle and loose food flying, enraged that its meal had been interrupted.

Another swipe from the creature aimed to take Dalamus’ head clean off his shoulders, but he ducked and thrust a dagger upwards into the troll’s arm. Its skin was thick and leathery, extremely difficult to cut or pierce. Even his ebony-steel could not find purchase in the troll’s arm. Dalamus leaped backwards to avoid the second hand, but misjudged the length of the creature’s arm and was snagged by sharp claws and sent off-balance.

A backwards roll brought Dalamus to his feet again, adrenaline coursing through him and allowing him to temporarily ignore his wound in favor of strategizing a way to either win or escape. Trolls were generally slow but persistent. There was no guarantee it would not follow him back to town should he turn and run. The miners were in no condition to defend themselves, and he did not want the guilt of a town massacre on his hands. He was not heartless.

One slip up and Dalamus knew he would end up in two pieces on the ground. And, of course, this battle just had to take place in the middle of a beautiful sunny day–his wounds would heal slowly, if at all. Bumps and scrapes were the least of his worries though.

For once, Dalamus wished daggers were not his weapons of choice. Normally he enjoyed getting up close and personal with his enemies in combat, but not when it involved getting within grabbing distance of a troll with rancid corpse breath.

He kept the troll at a distance, circling the small space behind the tower. Dalamus could feel the troll’s eyes sizing him up, possibly mulling over which limb to separate from his body first. Vampire flesh tasted terrible, but trolls were not picky.

The troll lunged, and Dalamus ducked, bringing a dagger straight down into one of the beast’s feet. It roared, but before Dalamus could pull away, he was lifted from the ground by his middle and forced to leave his dagger embedded in the troll’s flesh. The giant hand surrounding him threatened to crush his rib cage. He felt a bone crack in his side, then the troll’s other hand grabbed his left arm and began to pull. A scream tore from his throat as another rib cracked and his left arm dislocated from the socket. Through tears and searing pain, Dalamus reached for his second dagger still in its sheath at his hip, and with as much force as he could muster, he thrust the ebony steel dagger straight into one of the troll’s eyes.

It dropped him immediately, clutching at its face and roaring, stumbling backwards in agony. Dalamus had only fallen a few feet, but he felt as though he had been tossed from the top of the watchtower to crumple to the ground. Everything hurt, but he could not afford to stay still. He was now entirely unarmed, and his left arm mostly useless, not to mention the sharp pain which bloomed in his side with every movement. Though he needed no breath, mild panic brought the habit back, and to his detriment. Every gasp invited stabs of pain.

The troll, now finished with its anguished bellows, pulled the dagger from its eye and tossed it aside far too distantly for Dalamus to ever dream of reaching. If he got caught one more time, he would be killed.

So, Dalamus kept his distance once again, he and the troll circling the small clearing. Even the brutish creature was hesitant to step within fighting distance, the dark blood spilling from its eye a grim reminder that this Dunmer was no simple prey. Drips of crimson began forming a circle as they strafed their small battlefield. Normally, a troll might leave this battle. Wounds severely diminished its ability to hunt. Certainly losing an eye did. But there were three corpses here, and it was not about to let so much food go to waste. It drooled with anticipation and frothed with anger.

After the dripping blood had created three quarters of a full circle on the ground, the troll lunged. Dalamus dove to the left, landing on his shoulder and the pain forcing a cry from him. Red eyes searched for his destination, one of the fallen guards’ corpses. Another hasty leap had the vampire practically landing in the stinking corpse’s lap. Putrid flesh and offal smashed under his weight and stained his clothing with rot.

He could hear the thuds of the troll’s feet stomping in a rush towards him while his back was turned.

In a decisive movement, Dalamus grabbed the fallen Nord’s sword, pivoted, and stood, bringing the blade straight up, right through the troll’s lower jaw and into the skull. Its rage ceased instantly, but momentum brought it forward to collapse on top of Dalamus, and the corpse. Pain exploded everywhere at once as he was pinned to the ground between two stinking masses. He did not know which was worse, the rank troll drool and dark blood now dripping to stain his front, or the faint sensation of slimy rot and wriggling creatures against his back coming from the corpse below him.

After what felt like an eternity, Dalamus managed to wiggle his right arm free to lift the shoulder of the beast off him. Then he continued to wiggle until he could get his knees up and kick the troll body away from him. He crawled to a clear area of ground and laid back down to process what had happened and assess the damage. Two, maybe three ribs broken, left shoulder dislocated, an open wound on one side of his abdomen. Blood stained every inch of his shirt, and he was pretty sure some degloved corpseflesh clung to his back and maggots were crawling into his hair. Somehow, it was the best case scenario after a fight with a troll in the middle of the day. He would not heal if he continued to lay in the sunlight though, and after all this, he deserved his damned payment. Oh, and the villagers would probably like to know what had happened to their guards. But first he had to at least take care of his shoulder.

“Opal?” Dalamus called, hoping she might be within earshot. After a painful moment of waiting, he heard the crunch of leaves under hooves, much to his relief. She had taken refuge in the nearby trees, waiting for the battle to subside.

With more than a few winces and grunts, Dalamus got to his feet and all but hobbled over to his horse, taking her reins and leading her to a tree with a fork at his chest level. He put the tree between himself and the horse, and the reins over the fork in the tree, wrapped around the wrist of his dislocated arm. The goal was to have Opal help him relocate it.

“Bivi. Re’aldis.” He told her to back up, and slowly. Opal obeyed, moving backwards step by step, slowly lifting Dalamus’ arm up and over the fork in the tree. He clenched his jaw to tolerate the pain and braced himself against the trunk. Opal continued until he was pressed up entirely against the tree, but once there was resistance in the reins, she stopped.

“Bivi,” the mer ordered again, too tired to remain patient. Opal was reluctant.

“Bivi!” he shouted, and the horse, startled, pulled backwards as commanded. All his frustration evaporated as pain rushed to fill its place. A shout was forced from his chest, and Opal rushed towards him in concern.

Reins no longer taut to hold him up against the tree, Dalamus fell backwards onto the ground, white hot pain ricocheting up his side and shoulder as he caught himself with his now relocated arm. The reins were relinquished and his horse snuffled at him from above, disheveling his hair in a supposed attempt to soothe or perhaps apologize. Dalamus was too exhausted and in too much pain to care about his hair, or his ripped clothes, or the corpse jelly that clung to him, or the maggots on his shirt, or how he reeked, or how much blood was oozing from his side.

Although he would not die of blood loss, at least not any time soon, the more blood he lost, the sooner he would need to feed in order to replenish it. And with the sun still high in the sky, his wounds would not close. The longer he sat here, the more of a danger he was to the people of Shor’s Stone and Riften when he returned. Perhaps it would be best to feed from an animal between here and there. With a groan that eased into a whine, the mer slowly pushed himself to his knees, and then his feet, placing a hand on Opal to steady himself.

“Juli, Opal,” he rasped out in praise, giving her neck a stroke. His hand left a smear of dark blood on her coat. Whoops.

Dalamus trudged slowly over to the troll’s corpse, a sneer lifting his lip to reveal a threatening fang at no one in particular. Despite thirst scratching at his throat, the dark, stinking blood pooling around the dead creature was anything but appetizing. He was here for something else…

The sword he had used to impale the troll was still seated firmly in its skull, blood seeping out of either end of the wound it had created. With a few shoves of his foot, Dalamus managed to roll the hulking creature onto its back, then braced the foot against its chest in preparation to remove the sword. His muscles protested and burned, broken bones sending electric jolts through him with every strain. Through gritted teeth and a whimper of pain, Dalamus pulled the sword out, the flesh squelching as it released the steel.

He grips the sword hilt in both hands, brings the blade up over his head, and swings the sharp edge down hard into the throat of the troll. Again. And again. And again. Blood and odd slivers of corpseflesh flung into the air and onto Dalamus himself. Swords made for terrible chopping tools, especially once it reached bone–but perhaps he would get an extra reward if the townspeople knew the trouble he had been through for their ‘simple’ errand. With every swing of the weapon, his body screamed at him. Even more so when his arms absorbed the shock each time the blade bit into the ground.

Once the majority of the flesh had been hacked away from the spine, Dalamus changed to a more delicate approach. He used the point of the blade to try and slip between the segments of neck bone, stabbing the rubbery disk until finally it gave. Then, with a final chop, the troll’s head rolled free of its body.

Dalamus grabbed the troll’s head by a fistful of fur—hair?—and lifted it to peer into the dead eyes of his enemy. The jaw fell slack, still oozing foul saliva and stinking blood. If he did not get compensated for this… He sighed in exasperation, triggering a jolt of pain in his side.

Dalamus glanced at his horse and his shoulder throbbed in response. The mere thought of pulling himself up into the saddle caused discomfort in his shoulder, and the slowest of gaits would still jostle his broken ribs as he kept balance and time with the horse's movements. Walking, it is.

The only consolation—if one could call it that—was the sun still hanging in the sky. It meant he still had time before the vampirism began knitting his body back together. If it were to heal back wrong, such as during physical activity with the body in motion, it would have to be re-broken. Such was a fate he wanted to avoid if at all possible.

After gathering his daggers from the area and placing them back in their sheathes, blood and all, they began the trek back to Shor's Stone. Opal walked diligently beside him, allowing him to lean against her flank when pain halted their progress. If paused for too long, she would reach back and snuffle him with her big soft nose and remind him they still had a ways to go. Walking the path uphill was surprisingly laborious, but he knew it meant they were close.

As they crested the small hill, Dalamus could see the miners of Shor's Stone lining up to get their medicine from Filnjar. They looked and sounded terrible, a step away from draugr. Constant coughing had left them completely exhausted, their entire bodies sore, evident in how they shuffled forward. Darkened eyes and unkempt hair spoke to their lack of sleep. One face in the line stood out to him, and he felt the hairs on his neck bristle and his posture stiffen.

A scarred older Dunmer with greasy black hair falling to his shoulders stood halfway down the line of miners. His eyes were tired, barely open, and trained on the ground in front of him. He did not see Dalamus approaching, and this gave the vampire confidence.

Leaving Opal's side, Dalamus strode past Filnjar towards the line of sick miners. The Dunmer in line glanced up at the commotion, locked eyes with Dalamus, and all exhaustion in his body was replaced with terror. Drevain was flung to the ground before he could get a single word out—not that Dalamus would have listened to anything he had to say.

The vampire's previously dislocated arm threatened to fall out of its socket once again, the joint screaming at him, but the pleasure of landing a perfect punch across Drevain's face was too good an opportunity to pass up. The world around him ceased to exist and all decorum dissolved once he saw Drevain on the ground, frightened of him. The sick older mer was weak, thinner, exhausted, and Dalamus drank it in like ambrosia.

The vampire grinned, a flood of victorious adrenaline surging through him and pushing his own pain to the back of his mind. It could be dealt with later. But right now? He had Drevain at his mercy, and his head swam with the possibilities.

He knelt over Drevain like a sabre cat over a felled elk. His fangs caught in the light, and at this angle only his father could see. Dalamus' arm came down again, this time gripping Drevain's throat tight, pinning him against the ground. With every movement, every attempt to escape, Dalamus squeezed tighter. His fingers bit into Drevain's flesh like a blacksmith's vise; he could feel a pulse under his fingertips, struggling against the pressure. The vampire's lip quivered with barely restrained rage, his father's gasps and whimpers music to his ears.

Then, betrayal! He was being pulled off of Drevain! He struggled against the weak hands and arms, but it reminded him of his own pain and exhaustion. It took at least four people, but he was thrust back into Shor's Stone, where his revenge could not take place. Where he was surrounded by witnesses who did not know of Drevain's atrocities. Who only knew him as a miner now being assaulted.

He resisted the urge to spit and hiss and bite, to fight back, to throttle the closest person for daring to come between him and the revenge he had dreamed of for years. Instead, while being restrained and questioned, he explained himself, his words dripping with venom. “That mer, that fetcher, is my father! He is filth. Rot. Liar. Abuser.”

Stunned speechless by the accusations, all the restraining hands left Dalamus, although they remained close just in case intervention was necessary again. Dalamus moved to stand over the fallen Drevain, the rest of the townspeople hovering around him like a cage ready to close.

Dalamus' face twisted into a contemptuous smirk, and his voice lowered to a growl. “Look at you. Feeble old mer. I could kill you right here, right now. It would be so easy.” The townspeople tensed, ready to leap into action, but such was not Dalamus' plan.

“But I will not. Because I am not you. I am better than what you made me. I even brought medicine.” His voice darkened and his red eyes seemed to glow with malice. “I hope you choke on it. I hope it burns. I hope it sits heavy in your stomach and nauseates you, knowing that I saved your life. I hope it eats at you for the rest of time knowing that. You. Owe. Me. That you live because I will it. Because I am better than you.”

Dalamus turned his red eyes to Filnjar, who visibly startled. Only after recovering was he able to hand the injured Dunmer the money he was owed--and he seemed more than eager to get rid of it, all but flinging it into Dalamus' hand. Dalamus weighed the heft of the coin pouch and, satisfied, nodded. “Unfortunately, your watchtower guards were killed by passing Imperials. I killed the troll that had begun feasting on their bodies. It should be safe to reach them for burial, if you wish, but I warn you the sight is.. not pretty. Oh. And, Father~” he called, locking eyes with the other mer for a final time, his sing-song tone not enough to disguise the venom on his tongue.

“If I see you anywhere near my family, I will tear you into so many pieces that every animal in the Rift will get a bite.” It was Drevain's turn to live in fear. He tossed the troll's head towards the downed mer as proof of his prowess in battle, proof of his strength.

Dalamus then pushed himself up into Opal's saddle and they began their trek towards home. Every broken bone in his body screamed in time with hoof beats, but it was important to Dalamus that Drevain see him leave strongly. He had to make an impression, even if it meant searing pain. He had to appear strong. Triumphant.

It was only after he was certain they were out of eyesight that Dalamus curled in on himself in the saddle, gripping at his side, sucking in air through his teeth in a vain attempt to somehow stabilize himself. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain came rushing back. He felt as though he had been run over by an entire herd of horses. Twice. And the sun was getting low. He needed to get back to Riften quickly. The sooner he could lay in a bed and get everything stabilized, the sooner he could heal correctly.

But it was not just the physical pain that engulfed him. The confrontation with his abuser left him trembling despite his own clear upper hand. He had felt so powerful in the moment, but now he was wracked with fear. Were there going to be consequences to this? What if Drevain did not believe his threats? Had he just endangered his family rather than protecting them? He slumped in the saddle and fought the urge to sob, clenching his teeth to prevent any sounds from escaping. Nothing could prevent the sting in his eyes. He had come so close to killing Drevain. So why did it feel like Drevain had still won?

When he got back to Riften, he would warn his loved ones of Drevain’s presence in Shor’s Stone.

“Ruhn,” he told Opal. The word for “home”. He just wanted to get home. Everything hurt.

Everything hurt.

#missy writing #dalamus story #shors stone #aka Dal and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day #copy/pasted directly from LibreOffice so please for the love og god Tumblr don't mess up the format lkjdhfg #drevainrex #abuse mention #not described just mentioned #descriptions of blood and gore #descriptions of corpses