PoTM: Chapter 39, And When The World Shall See

• Posted by Karver the Lorc March 15, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Mixed - #Straag Rod  #Lissette  #Karver  #Practice of Magic  #Grulmar  #Telvanni  - 1,290 views

  

  So you wish to summon the Dark Brotherhood? You wish to see someone dead? Pray, child. Pray, and let the Night Mother hear your plea.

   

  You must perform that most profane of rituals - the Black Sacrament.

   

  Create an effigy of the intended victim, assembled from actual body parts, including a heart, skull, bones and flesh. Encircle that effigy with candles.

   

  The ritual itself must then commence. Proceed to stab the effigy repeatedly with a dagger rubbed with the petals of a Nightshade plant, while whispering this plea:

   

  "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

   

  Then wait, child, for the Dread Father Sithis rewards the patient. You will be visited by a representative of the Dark Brotherhood. So begins a contract bound in blood.

   

   

  Grulmar opened his eyes in shock, a scream on the tip of his tongue but something muffled it. A hand. A big hand over his mouth. He blinked in the dim light of the Flagon’s cistern, seeing the ugly face of Lorbulg hovering above him. Most of the Orc’s face was hidden under a cowl, but Grulmar could see how Lorbulg touched his lips with his forefinger, urging Grulmar to be silent.

   

  The smaller Orc nodded and the hand moved away, allowing him to breathe freely again. Grulmar looked around the cistern, noticing that most of the Guild’s members were sleeping or gone, probably on jobs. Only few were up, chatting in the back room, huddled around a cooking pot.

   

  “What’s goin’ on, uncle?” Grulmar whispered as he began pulling on his moccasins.

   

  “Shut up, runt!” Lorbulg growled in low voice, his scowl growing more prominant. “Just grab your clothes and keep your mouth shut. We’re going to take a walk.”

   

  Grulmar frowned at that, but decided to remain silent. If Lorbulg said something it was better to listen to him. So Grulmar pulled a dark brown shirt over his head and grabbed his two knives from under his pillow. The bigger Orc snorted and then lead Grulmar out of the cistern, towards the secret entrance leading to Riften’s graveyard.

   

  Grulmar never understood why it had to be graveyard of all places. The place was more lively than he would expect - it was still something he quite didn’t understand. Why visit tombstones and bones buried in the ground, when whoever the person was in life,  they were already gone. Humans were so stupid sometimes.

   

  They walked up the stairs into the night and the tomb closed behind them. Lorbulg then suddenly turned around and grabbed Grulmar’s right hand, lifting it to the light of the torch. But it wasn’t Lorbulg anymore, the black eyes being a clear indication of that. Grulmar looked at his hand and he noticed the dark runes twining around his forearm.

   

  “You made a deal with the Scryer,” that thing wearing Lorbulg’s skin murmured. The Orc shook his head in disbelief. “That never-ending stupidity of yours.”

   

  Grulmar shook his hand, freeing himself from Lorbulg’s grasp. “I made no tuskin’ deal, so crawl back into yer pile of shit, would ya?”

   

  A wave of anger assaulted Grulmar’s mind, but the little Orc just brushed it off. This was his dream, they couldn’t just simply take over him anymore.

   

  “I made sure that you understood that if you don’t gain something by yourself, you don’t deserve it. And yet you failed to understand even that,” Lorbulg sneered.

   

  “Why are ya here again?”

   

  “To see this through,” Lorbulg snorted. “To imprint one last lesson into that thick skull of yours.”

   

  “Ya know where ya can shove yer lessons,” the smaller Orc snapped back, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “RIght next to yer tuskin’ reasons.” He then narrowed his eyes, recalling something Mora said. Ya have no idea what their plans for ya are, matey. “But there’s somethin’ ya can actually tell me. Like what in the bloody Oblivion do ya want from me? What does He want from me?”

   

  Lorbulg snorted. “You must be sitting on your ears, runt, because I have already told you what I want from you. What I’ve always wanted.”

   

  “Yeah, to be strong, to oppose Him, bla bla bla, bullshit,” Grulmar rolled his eyes, quite annoyed by the how the Princes just kept repeating the same shit all the time. And how unwilling to share the important stuff they were. “Seriously, how difficult is to say the complete truth without all the mysterious bullshit? I thought that at least ya would be more blunt, but noooo, tuskin’ Malacath plays the same Daedric shittin’ game just like the rest of them.”

   

  The ground suddenly trembled and Grulmar’s senses were assailed by the bitter wind of false promises and the Orc found himself kneeling among the tombstones of Riften’s graveyard, bleeding from his eyes and ears. Everything turned red as he blinked, trying to get the blood out of his eyes and he was barely recognizing the Orc standing next to him. No longer Lorbulg, but the true form of Malacath. He blinked, and Malacath became Lorbulg again.

   

  Did Malacath lose his patience? No, Grulmar knew that whatever just happened wasn’t Malacath. It was something in the distance, among the infinite stacks. The little Orc noticed Lorbulg was looking to the south-west and he turned in that direction too. Somewhere beyond was the White-Gold Tower, obscured by the snowy peaks of Jerrals, but Grulmar narrowed his eyes, not sure if they were deceiving him.

   

  He could see the top of...a tower above those mountains, even though the night was dark with no stars shining. The top of the tower was glowing, mighty leathery wings of pure light burning Grulmar’s eyes so much he couldn’t stare for more than few seconds. And the tower began crumbling, yet in one mighty beat the wings went up and up, becoming a mighty dragon of light. Shining like a beacon.

   

  “Is this the tuskin’ lesson?” Grulmar groaned, trying to get back on his feet.

   

  Lorbulg snorted at that. “You could see a lesson in this too, if you were willing to see.” He pointed at the crumbling tower, shaking his head.

   

  “All I see is Miraak’s tower fallin’,” Grulmar murmured.

   

  “Towers will always fall. Eventually, they will all fall. And yet the Liar-King keeps trying to build his own Tower too. Over and over again, relentless and stubborn as He has always been. A relic of ages long gone, He doesn't care how many times it's leveled, he just keeps trying. But he can’t take that Tower’s secret,” Lorbulg murmured and then looked directly into Grulmar’s eyes. “Every Tower needs a Stone.”

   

  The young Orc frowned. “Alright, another mysterious bullshit. I have no damn idea what y’are talkin’ ‘bout! Do ya tuskin’ understand that?!”

   

  “You will. Eventually,” Lorbulg shook his head. “But now we must continue. One last lesson from me.” He then snorted, noticing Grulmar’s confused look. “You don’t remember this day, do you? This night. You decided to forget it,  to push it out of your mind. The details in proper sequence. Only a memory clouded by the mist of skooma now.”

   

  The Orc’s eyes went wide when he realized what Lorbulg was talking about. He remembered this night, this walk among the tombstones of Riften’s graveyard. He extended his arm and backed away from Lorbulg. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if trying to deny the reality. “No. I beg ya. Not again. Please, don’t do this.”

   

  “I’m not. You are.”

   

  The dream’s gravity swept him with its relentless pull, pushing his mind out of its past self to make him watch and witness from behind the bars of his golden cage.

   

  “Is this some job, uncle?” he dared ask the older and more intimidating Orc, trying to sound calm. Grulmar’s past self was curious, because Lorbulg rarely did anything without a reason. The exile was an Orsimer of purpose, sometimes a very singular one from what Grulmar heard from the other members of the Guild. But he had never taken Grulmar on a job with him before, and everytime the younger Orc tried to pry the truth about what exactly was he doing, Lorbulg always answered with silence and an intense stare forcing Grulmar to avert his eyes. So the little Orc was curious indeed, while his future self was weeping in the back of his mind.

   

  “Do you know some Aretino kid?” Lorbulg asked all of a sudden and Grulmar frowned.

   

  He wasn’t really expecting such a question, especially not from Lorbulg. He sincerely doubted the exile was trying to pass the time with idle chat. “I do. We were in the orphanage together,” the small Orc murmured, staring at Lorbulg’s broad back while he followed him through the graveyard. “Why?”

   

  The older Orsimer shrugged, ignoring Grulmar’s question altogether. “You’ve seen fifteen winters now, runt,” he instead said, sounding almost as if it was meant to explain his previous question, sounding as if he had just given the most important answer to every question ever asked. “Back in the stronghold you’d be undergoing your Rite of Passage. Do you know what those are?”

   

  “Yes, uncle,” the fifteen year old Orc answered carefully.

   

  “Sure. Then tell me.” A simple command, and Grulmar only hoped he had the right answers.

   

  “Seven days in the wilderness without any supplies or even clothes, right? I remember that...hmm. Ya can’t go back to the stronghold unless ya kill somethin’ with yer bare hands? And at the seventh day, ya bring what ya have slain to Malacath’s shrine,” the runt said what he remembered.

   

  “So you do remember.”

   

  “Yes, Zob went through his Rite before me. It was during summer-”

   

  “Summer?” Lorbulg snorted mockingly. “Hmph. I passed my Rite during winter. Killed a bear with my bear hands. But Yamarz? Summer Orc. Weak. All he did was kill an elk.” Lorbulg then looked around, a smirk on his face because he expected Grulmar’s displeased frown. Grulmar thought that the older Orc sometimes knew him better than he did himself. “You don’t like the sound of that name, do you? Makes you angry. Makes your blood boil. Good. Treasure it. Feed on it. And when the right moment comes, unleash it.”

   

  He stared at Grulmar, waiting for his response, and the younger Orc only nodded. He didn’t know what else he should do or even say. Lorbulg was giving him lot of these kinds of lessons which the young Orsimer barely understood. Because what was the point of them all? It was all about revenge and anger, but Grulmar wasn’t interested in any of that. He never wanted to see Yamarz again, he only wanted to leave the life in Largashbur and all its traditions behind.

   

  Lorbulg snorted and urged Grulmar to follow, leaving the graveyard.

   

  The young Orc wasn’t thinking much about Largashbur anymore, because he was quite content with the life he carved out for himself in Riften. Yes, he was young, but he wasn’t just a rat anymore, he was formally accepted into the Guild and had a bed at the cistern. Sometimes he even served as a lookout for other guild members on their jobs at Riften. He was good with locks and even better at picking pockets, he knew every corner and dark nook of Riften and the Ratway and he knew things, being the eyes and ears of the Guild. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he and Sapphire would be taken on more serious jobs, maybe even in other Holds - which Grulmar certainly wanted. He wanted to see more of the world. He didn’t want to end up like one of those people that never leave Riften, too scared of the wide world out there. He wasn’t scared, he was curious.

   

  Lorbulg led him through the shadows of the poorly lit streets under Mistveil Keep towards the orphanage and Grulmar stopped dead in his tracks, clenching his jaws. That place was still giving him nightmares, namely the old hag that ran it. Grelod the Kind, he thought and felt the urge to spit, but also felt his hands shake in suppressed fear. Then realization struck him, making him clench his hands into fists. “Y’are goin’ to dump me back into the orphanage!” he growled.

   

  Lorbulg turned around with raised eyebrows. “Don’t be stupid. Makes you look even more like an idiot,” he shook his head and walked towards the door. “We’re just here to get something. You stay outside and keep an eye out for the guards,” he said, pulling the cowl lower over his face and wrapping a scarf to cover the lower half of his face. He drew his huge axe from behind his belt, narrowed his eyes and then leaned it against the building’s wall. Lorbulg walked inside.

   

  Grulmar just stared, but quickly reminded himself he should be on lookout. He jumped into the shadows under the tree close to the door and cursed himself for being so silly. Of course Lorbulg wasn’t to dump him back in the orphanage. No, he had some job in there. Grulmar hoped he was there to steal Grelod’s money or something very valuable. He then frowned when he realised that by doing that Grelod would most likely take it out on the kids in there, and the young Orc wasn’t sure if he was alright with that.

   

  How naive ya were, Grulmar’s future self thought as he watched through the eyes of the past. Even after what ya have witnessed in Ratway, after ya have seen the cruelty of humans, after ya have been ostracized by yer own people… Even after claimin’ the world is a shitty place, ya were so naive. Thinkin’ Lorbulg was there to rob Grelod or somethin’. Stupid. Claimin’ that y’are no longer a child doesn’t make ya an adult or even makes ya really understand their world. Ya can understand life only when ya understand how fragile it is.

   

  He heard muffled screams of shock and surprise from inside, even some cursing and his eyes widened in shock.

   

  Somethin’ went wrong, he thought and retreated deeper into the shadows, his eyes scanning the street. No guards came rushing in, which meant he was probably the only one hearing those screams.

   

  The door then opened with a loud bang and Lorbulg strode out with something over his shoulder. No. Someone. Grelod. The big Orsimer looked around, looking for Grulmar and his eyes rested on the small Orc’s hiding spot, noticing him even though he was just another shadow in the night. “Don’t just stand there, runt!” Lorbulg hissed. “Grab my axe and let’s go.”

   

  “Is she… Did you… I mean…” Grulmar stammered.

   

  Lorbulg growled in annoyance. “Stop babbling like an idiot. Grab the tusking axe!”

   

  Grulmar lifted that bloody thing, grunting at how heavy it was and quickly followed Lorbulg in a crouched stance, trying to make himself as small as possible while they ran under the torches’ light. The older Orc led them down to the canals and over the wharfs towards the entrance to Ratway and that made Grulmar frown in confusion. Why Ratway? Are we takin’ Grelod to Flaggon? Trade her for ransom?

   

  The old hag was hanging limp over Lorbulg’s shoulder, her hand repeatedly hitting the large Orc’s back, only adding to the appearance of being dead. Grulmar, however, didn’t see any wound, there was no blood - but that didn’t mean anything, because Lorbulg was quite capable of killing someone without shedding blood. Grelod’s neck wasn’t broken, her skull wasn’t crushed, so she had to be alive.

   

  This whole thing was strange, and the fact Grulmar didn’t understand what was going on was terrifying him even more.

   

  They walked through the dark tunnels, deeper into the Ratway where only the mad and the unwanted lived and that was no place to be for someone like Grulmar. But Lorbulg? He had to be born in there. He had to be born for such a life, because everytime something or someone crawled from that darkness, one look from the big Orc just sent whatever it was crawling right back. Grulmar sometimes wondered what did the Orc have to do for this kind of reputation. And that’s when Grulmar stopped wondering, thinking that it would be better to think about something else. Like flowers for example. Flowers were nice. Flowers don’t smell like shit, he thought, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the Ratway.

   

  Lorbulg then stopped and Grulmar looked around the dark room they were in, which was pretty much empty except for a pair of chains and cuffs. The big Orsimer tossed Grelod on the ground and chained her hands. “Light the torch,” he growled in Grulmar’s direction, who gulped and set out to do exactly what the exile ordered him to do.

   

  He pulled the torch from its steel holder and reached into his pocket, his fingers looking for the sharpening steel. He put the torch on the ground and began creating the sparks with the help of the sharpening steel and stone. The cloth wrapped around the torch seemed to be infused with pitch, so it caught fire in matter of seconds. Grulmar lifted the torch and placed it back into the holder on the wall and turned around.

   

  Lorbulg used the chains to pull Grelod towards the ceiling, her feet barely touching the floor. He even gagged her and Grulmar looked at the big Orc with fear and anxiety. He didn’t want to be here, something was wrong. This wasn’t a kidnapping, there would be no ransom.

   

  “Have you heard of the Dark Brotherhood, runt?” the big Orc suddenly asked.

   

  “Y-yes,” the little Orsimer stammered. He had heard about it. They were some kind of guild, just like theirs, only they didn’t steal gold, but lives. For some dark god, which made them more of a cult than a guild, but it was well known that if someone wanted someone dead the Dark Brotherhood would get it done.

   

  “She is the target,” Lorbulg pointed at Grelod, but he was staring at Grulmar, looking into his eyes even as they grew wide in shock. Now he understood what Lorbulg did for a living. Now he understood why he mentioned Aventus Aretino. All the puzzle pieces suddenly fit. He finally saw the bigger picture.

   

  Aventus always kept saying that he would find a way to kill Grelod, even mentioning the Dark Brotherhood as a possibility. And since Lorbulg was here, with Grelod, it was clear the big Orsimer was member of the Dark Brotherhood. That meant that the old hag was about to die.

   

  She wouldn’t hurt anyone else, make life miserable for chidlren anymore. No locking anyone in the basement, letting children drown in darkness and their own excrement.

   

  And yet, that didn’t make Grulmar feel any better. He knew he hated the hag for what she did to him and the other children, but it still didn’t make him feel...satisfied. Quite the opposite actually. It terrified him. Even more so because he still had no idea why was he present. Or maybe he just didn’t want to admit that he was slowly understanding.

   

  “All the talk how this hag made your life miserable,” Lorbulg muttered, walking around Grelod. “How she kept locking you in the basement. All the beatings. How different is she from Yamarz? Not at all.” He looked at Grulmar and bared his tusks. “Don’t you hate Yamarz? Don’t you hate this hag? You feel angry. Betrayed. For being abused by them.”

   

  Grelod’s eyelids flickered and she slowly opened her eyes, still hazy from whatever Lorbulg did to her. Her eyes scanned her surroundings and then went wide in horror. She twitched in the chains and released a muffled scream through the gag.

   

  “This is your Rite of Passage, runt,” Lorbulg said. “Grab that shiv of yours and end her.”

   

  Grelod tried to scream in denial, shaking her head vigorously. Grulmar noticed the tears rolling down her cheeks.

   

  “The road to freedom is paved in blood,” the big Orc continued. “Revenge is the only worthy goal in this life. It is what keeps you going, what keeps you standing. Anger. Feed it. Release it.”

   

  Grulmar shook his head, slowly retreating towards the door, but suddenly he stopped, his legs rooted in place. He couldn’t move them and he couldn’t move his body. Something creeped into his bones and he could only watch in horror as his hand reached for the knife at his belt. “No,” he sobbed as he took the first step in Grelod’s direction.

   

  The room was suddenly filled with the smell of piss, the liquid now covering the floor under Grelod.

   

  “There is only one way to end a conflict. You now stand on the treshold of becoming an adult. A true Orc. End the conflict of the runt and the warrior. Kill the child in you. Prove that you are strong. Kill the hag.” Lorbulg than snorted. “Just look how pathetic she is. She is dead already. She can’t walk away from this room alive. End it. Enact your revenge.”

   

  With a cry of denial, Grulmar buried his knife into her stomach, tears hot on his cheeks. Everything was so crystal clear in that moment. The blade sliding into her belly with minimum resistance which reminded him of a hot knife going through butter. The blade slipping out with ease, ruby-like drops of blood creating a trail following the knife. For a moment it seemed like time froze, no blood poured from the wound, only to then gush out like a river through the opened floodgates of a dam. Muffled scream of pain. Lorbulg’s now black eyes watching him with approval.

   

  “Lesson learned,” Malacath said through Lorbulg’s lips. “Remember it this time. Everything has a price, and your freedom can be bought only in blood. It just depends on you whose blood it will be. Yours or theirs?”

   

  Grulmar stabbed again. And again. Screaming in anger and defiance, unable to control his body. Sobbing in pain and terror. Grelod looked at him the whole time, her body shaking with agony, yet her eyes were crystal clear. Staring at him. Begging him. Judging him. Feeling sorry for him. It was only after a while he realized that she had already died, the eyes forever frozen in that look.

   

  He could now feel his body once again. He heard the knife drop on the ground, ringing on the stone as if from a distance.

   

  “The road to freedom is paved in blood,” Lorbulg growled, extending his hand towards Grulmar. “And I’ll show you how to be free.”

   

  Grulmar stared at the hand in confusion, barely understanding what had just happened. He felt as if his soul was ripped in half. His ears were ringing. The smell of blood and piss was irritating his nostrils. He looked at the hand…

   

  And ran. Ran away from Lorbulg, from blood and death. Ran with tears and sobs, trying to push the images from his mind.

   

  The road to freedom is paved in blood.