» Wed Dec 07, 2011 8:39 pm So I guess any possible ideas, comments, or criticism you have are welcome
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The boy wearily stood unwatched and uncared for beside the collapsed ruin of the village shrine. He had vague memories of its presence beyond the walls of his parents' modest homestead. Being so young then, it had always been little more than a blur on the periphery of his wandering vision, but the advlts had always seemed so interested in it. He realized now that the little church had been the support that had kept them standing. By it they stood in the face of a peasants' life of degradation and beyond through the horrors of war.
The boy wasn't certain when the war had started. He remembered idle pvssyr of some struggle or another in some far off land about which no one seemed to know anything beyond there being a fight there. They may as well have been describing their dreams. But one day their talk changed, it became alive and filled with dread. It was the day his first life had ended. An army was on the march out of Valenwood to the south. Their little town was on the southern reach of Cyrodiil in the West Weald, and would be in the direct path of the oncoming conquerors. At first they seemed only agitated and anxious at what might come over the horizon. His parents took him to the shrine far more often than they would, which made him feel as upset as they appeared. As time went on a few of the more wealthy families left their homes and went east in haste, but there was no such avenue for his own and most of their neighbors. Instead they only gathered around the temple and begged Akatosh to deliver them from harm, to grant whatever opportunity might come, to allow them to continue in whatever meager ways that they might. He had looked upon the stained glass image of the behalo'd dragon in a wizard's robe and felt no particular awe or hope. Far less were any of the townsfolk inclined to put faith in their Emperor or any of the nobles, that they might with far more corporeal force turn back the invaders. The exchange between they and their rulers had always been one composed almost exclusively of blame, tax, and bloodletting. The legion would hide in their forts and castles and leave the peasants in far flung hamlets to whatever fate that befell them, just as they always had. The simple stone tower was their only solace in the world now, and one night it was nearly shaken off its foundation.
He later learned that the invader was called the Camoran Usurper, and was typically spoken of as a nightmare come alive. His army shambled ponderously across the landscape, being roughly a quarter summoned Daedric monsters, a quarter living mercenaries, and half undead. The indescribable stench would linger for days at whatever place it passed, and it would leave its horrific mark on anything within reach. At times when he couldn't find enough willing mercenaries or dead foes to replenish his numbers, the Usurper would order whole towns massacred so he could raise them as undead. Many had proven unwilling to cooperate on all sides, but he had made use of his circumstances with insight. Fear was the Usurper's one true and potent weapon, and fear came to their little town ten days after the rumors arrived.
Riders from the Imperial army came suddenly and briefly into the dusty square in front of the chapel. Without dismounting they gave notice that armies had met on the plains nearby and that all residents should evacuate to Kvatch for their own safety. But Kvatch, which was further south from their town, was already filled past its walls with refugees from the other surrounding villages, as well as the remnants of the Valenwood loyalists who had been trickling across the border for months. The riders and townspeople both knew as much, but the life and purpose of the soldier is the tireless adherence to duty. Solemnly away they rode and into the maw of fate while the townsfolk mechanically returned to their daily toils. The significance of what had taken place was lost on the boy, still too young to understand what was happening, and to know why his parents and their friends seemed to withdraw into themselves, shunning him and all else but work. He simply sat on his own and waited. It came after sunset. Camoran had avoided confrontation while the sun was out, but had withdrawn and lured the hastily arrayed Imperials into a tiring march which would make his strike all the more effective when it came. The boy's father had quickly nailed the door shut when the first horns of battle could be faintly heard from the south. The family huddled together on the hard floor below the one tiny window of their home where a passerby wouldn't be able to see them, but might hear muffled sobbing and heavy breathing. On the floor in front of them the boy could see the scene play out as light and sound projected through the opening. At first there was nothing but the faint clash of metal on metal or a roar from some bloodied throat. But soon great booms and crashes came, sounding as close as the yard outside. The sky would for seconds become as bright as day in reds, yellows, and whites before fading back into uneasy shadow. The air buzzed with released Magicka as scores of Magi spent their power without a moment of thought or restraint. Soon afterward the roars began. He could tell not if it was the sound of a hundred men and Daedra dying all at once, or of some horrendous conjuration of which no man would speak, but it was enough to send tremors through the house and no less through its occupants. The sounds might begin as piercing shrieks from the sky or low grumbling from the earth or simply arrive as if already half-begun. They burst into the hut and filled the entire space within, bearing down mercilessly upon the occupants until he felt he might vomit or faint. The sounds persisted through the night as the great spells put the sky alight even more frequently. The boy's parents shook violently and constantly as if they might go mad with fright, and the prospect frightened him even more. But he simply sat still and endured their biting grasp. At some time in the night he miraculously fell asleep, his body's forced end to the impossible torment. Much later he would cherish the memory. He would wish he had stood atop the roof in fearless abandon, and borne full witness such a divine and glorious display.
The next days, perhaps two or three or four passed in a daze. The battle had ended by sunrise. The Imperials and their allies had been shattered. Camoran's army marched north into Hammerfell without resistance. Kvatch was ruined, and there was a whisper that not a single living thing was left in the city. In the mornings the villagers gathered into the chapel hastily to give thanks that they had been spared from the nightmare. Some still shook with terror while some looked like they had lost their way, and had to be guided home by their neighbors. Throughout the day he could see them looking at the weathered tower as they went about town with momentary glances of terror. The dragon had spared them for the moment, it appeared, but for how much longer would his blessing endure. They were not without hardship, for much of the surrounding flora had been burnt to some degree and afflicted with some strange hex that made it sickly and pale. It was the middle of the harvest time though there was no more grain or fruit to gather now. Despite this, none dared to leave the boundaries of the place that had been their delivery from death. Those left most destitute sat near the chapel and begged for alms which they often received, however meager. A thick lingering fog settled slowly over the town and the surrounding fields. The sky was the color of ash for the remainder of the time that the boy could remember. The sky would always look gray to him even when the sun shone down bright and burning. A few of the more restless and perhaps resigned of the men left on an expedition to the capital for supplies and news. They did not return. They were likely the most fortunate.
One morning as the people gathered around the shrine the sound of warhorses emerged slowly from the fog. The people just stood and watched as they came down the main avenue and through the gaps between the houses. There weren't many, perhaps fifty, now standing at the main square, before nearly a hundred villagers. They had been soldiers once. They were either mercenaries or deserters or both. None could tell which side they had fought beside, perhaps both. For a moment there was silence. The parties simply stood and stared at one another across a space that no man and perhaps no god could ever hope to fathom. They were filthy and wretched, mostly Nords it appeared though accompanied by various other men from across Tamriel, an occasional beastman, and three hooded elves standing away in the back rank. There were times afterward when the boy tried with all his resolve to remember what had happened on that day. There were a few fleeting, disjointed images left half-buried in the darkness of his mind which he could grasp and hold onto, but the rest his mind staunchly refused to recover. He had run into the woods by some unknown encouragement as the pillage commenced. He had come back out after it had ceased. The soldiers had left. His father and nearly all of the men were dead. The buildings were burning, most conspicuously the shrine. No one would see to the fires. The women screamed and cried from their wounds until nightfall and past. By only the merest thread would he find any continuity between his self of before and the one that came after that night. A gulf yawned open wide in the world which swallowed up his memories and his soul, a low and meager soul though it was. He would feel little regret.
The next thing he could remember was standing before the ruin. It was now the place of a silent gathering of the town's remnants that happened every morning beginning at sunrise and lasting until after midnight for some. The chapel of Akatosh was reduced entirely to rubble. Nothing remained of its former stature. The villagers held for it a wordless, endless eulogy. The boy became quite weary of this. As a child he could do little but be carried along by the group, but nevertheless his legs ached and his mind wandered away from the rubble towards the oncoming horizon, obscured as it was to him. The others had only the empty visions of the past. It was as if time had stopped for them within the featureless white haze, their wills silenced while their bodies slowly decayed. He spent the remainder of his days scrounging through the rubble for food. There was little to be found. He usually went to sleep aching from hunger though it seemed to bother him little. His mother was still in the remains of their home, which she had never left. She did nothing but sit and stare blankly from her seat on the floor below the window. The boy earnestly brought what little food he could find, but she would neither eat nor drink. She said nothing and would not acknowledge his presence, nor that of any other. At night the boy would lie down on the cold floor near her and sleep. Days passed uncounted in the rubble. The others who remained drifted listlessly around him like ghosts. Some took what little they had and left, others resigned themselves as his mother had. Some were simply lost. Though by all means his life was as ended as the shrine, as the lives of all around him, the boy was restlessly animated by some coarse and uncanny instinct. He drank from filthy puddles in the mud, ate grass and leaves and what insects he could catch. He began even to feel some vague beginning of an affinity for the lowest of crawling things, creatures which never seemed to lose their aim and purpose. They simply did. He could watch them coming in greater numbers to the few bodies left still unburied.
One day he walked away. It seemed no rending loss to his mother nor him as he gave one last wordless goodby at the door. So still she was that she might have already died. The few others left scrounging in the debris just looked for a moment then resumed. He had paid little mind to them, and they had long detested his peculiar single-mindedness. He walked a path of least natural resistance, shifting aimlessly through the slowly regenerating woodlands. The fog gave way to the brightness of the morning sun which seemed to weaken his feeble body, burning his eyes and making him wish to turn away. He rested in the shade of trees briefly and then forced himself on. When the sun was high overhead he arrived at a clearing. The glare made him wince, but something glinted in the light near a tiny stream. His bare feet plodded heavily across the damp grass, a great humidity seeming to emerge all at once to stifle his remaining senses. As he reached the stream he saw the glinting was a dagger clutched in the grasp of a dead elf. He had arrived near the site of the battle. The mer was lying face down in failed retreat, still clutching the weapon along with a large book. The boy could not remember his own name now, let alone what an Imperial soldier looked like. To him there would ultimately be no difference. As he stared, he lowered down to his knees, his vision seeming to tunnel in. A spark awoke inside of him. The book hummed faintly with energy. Though the corpse was advanced in decay, its bones and ligaments seemed oddly animated, holding tight to the source of power. For the first time in long months he began to feel truly aware of himself. The sensation of power made the sleeping quarters of his brain begin to reawaken. From the very basest impulse of life did the desire to emerge, expand, and dominate. From past the veil of death a new dawn shined faintly from the moldy pages of the tome which he in his illiterate state could not hope to understand. But nevertheless he knew that this was the source of fate.
As if on cue, the lord approached. The dog's great plodding footsteps resounded loud in the boy's ears, yet he paid no mind at first. It seemed that some hidden urgency demanded that he turn his head to see what came fourth from the hazy mist which descended quietly over the scene. The whole of his vision was filled with its bulk. The shaggy fur was like the dying grass upon a steep burial mound from the old days. Red eyes looked into and beyond him with vague disdain from its base. The great dog was easily five times his size or more, but he was not afraid. It was as if fate was running its inevitable course. Next to the beast was a boy who had silently emerged without notice. He was shorter than he, dressed in the merest of clothes, a vest and a pair of breeches to cover his oddly curved legs. Atop his head were little horns which curved sharply up from his forehead. The little prince was obscured by the mist, so too was his companion except for the faint glow of his fiery eyes. They stood silently in anticipation for long minutes. The boy just stood still and waited. The prince stood silently and watched. Finally, one took initiative.
“Greetings. Do you know who I am?”
It was the small one which spoke, but the shapes in the fog both seemed intuitively to belong to a single presence, despite their radical contrast. The boy had no answer.
“I am called Clavicus Vile. And you are the single most pitiful creature in all of Nirn at this moment. Did you know that? I bet you didn't!”
The voice was youthful, playful, and yet it echoed loud and pressing throughout all of his senses. Even his skin seemed to tingle with it, as if the voice might be something other than sound.
“There is something you want, isn't there? Something about that spellbook interests you? Even crawlers like you have a secret dream hidden away inside. It's what maintains your existence, the simplest of desires. You are like poetry, really. So laid bare and revealing, like life at last disgorging its mysteries fully in the face of the universe, without the pretension of ego. Of course, I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. All you need to know is that I'm here to make your wish come true! Come along now.”
The figures turned and began to walk away slowly from where they stood across a little stream. It seemed wide and terrible somehow, like a marked boundary across which men should never tread. But the boy had no place among men now. Though fear cried out within him, it was without a point of reference. There was nothing else surrounding him but the existent forward. The Daedra became quickly indistinct in the all-pervasive fog, leaving him behind to sink into some anonymous negation. But as the lukewarm water slid over his throbbing feet it was as if what had been ended was begun again. There were questions echoing through his head for the first time in some immeasurable interval of silence. The book remained with the corpse, and he worried that it would be lost to him. He could not tell where he was being led, but the fog itself seemed to grasp him and push him forward to a speed his skeletal legs could not reach on their own. Faster and faster he went, the ground became a blur and the fog parted before him in a blaze of impossible heat and light, and then he was at a desk.
