Septim

A cancerous wind whisked through the twisted vein like cobblestone streets of Jinpeck. The breeze howled softly like a dying wolf as it's soft currents carried along a stench of decay. The sky that stretched over the town bore a sickly yellow hue, which set as a frame for the glowing sun that yearned to escape the horizon. Soft bodied maggots ate away at the carrion of humans who have had the misfortune of dying on the streets. And nothing stopped the dark feathered ravens from swooping down and plucking out the puss filled eyeballs of the dead.

The town's gothic constructs struggled pitifully to keep erect. Father time had eaten away at the supports of Jinpeck's infrastructure and had left it to rot. With their resources exhausted and their lands raped, the people of the decaying village were left with nothing but scraps to survive off . Those who hadn't died to their pernicious lord's sociopathic delights had died from the cold strangle of disease. Those left alive either packed away their goods and headed off for Reikfell or remained in the village counting off their days before death.

Beyond the dying village and beyond the barren hills stood the twelve foot black iron spears, which encased their lord's estate and secluded it from the rest of the town. The blackened branches of dead oak trees stretched about the lord's courtyard and obstructed a frontal view of the mansion. Inside the hollowed out misshapen trees of decay resided the corpses of nobility. The bloodline of the blue, the once proud partrician family that had once ruled over a land that was in earlier days prosperous. Their tortured spirits now reside in the City of Strife.

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Henthick was a seasoned man, his body gaunt from malenourishment and his hair greyed with age. Loosely worn around his torso were the ragged remains of his dirt crusted cotton tunic. His legs were shielded from the wind's soft breeze by a thin layer of burlap that stopped at his bare feet. His grandfather's longsword swung back and forth in it's wooden scabbard like a ticking clock as he walked anxiously along the dirt path lined with the rotted corpses of impaled children. His dark brown eyes were moist with the tears brought on by wretched thoughts of his daughter suspended in air with 7 feet of wooden splinter impaled through her delicate and small framed body. If he were to find the fresh body of his eleven year old girl here along the rest he would go mad and his mission would be in vain. He would rescue her from the child drinker if not die trying.

"You tread on dangerous land" warned the haggard scarecrow imprisoned by a wooden cross. Henthick gazed up upon the crucified effigy, his bottom lip quivering with fear as he stood in the shadow of the talking dummy. "The path you walk leads to destruction. It leads to the home of lord Septim himself."

Swallowing his fear with a gulp muscous and saliva, the peasant responded boldly. "Good Scarecrow, I thank you for the warning, but I know well where I tread. For I am off to undo this lord of evil and reclaim my daughter. She is all I have and if I were to lose her I would indeed go mad. Please allow me to pass unscathed so I may dispatch this baron of death."

"No.." Came the shrill reply from the scarecrows gaping mouth. "I shall not grant you safe passage peasant, for it is my charge to keep guests away while the master of decay slumbers during day light hours. So I'll make you a generous offer peasant of Jinpeck! Turn away now and leave your daughter along with this cursed town and I will not have to paint the hillside with your gore."

Henthick remained quiet for a moment as if to ponder his options. A dry sigh flew from out the seperation of his cracked lips as his calloused hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. His dark brown eyes narrowed causing the dry irritated patches of his skin to wrinkle. With a swift tug he produced a common crafted blade composed of iron with a wooden hilt. "If I am to die here then so be it."

"Very well, I see you have made your choice. Know that you may meet your daughter in the fugue plane" And with that said the wooden shaft that bound and elevated the scarecrow begain to crack. It exploded into a mass of splintered projectile, which shot out in every direction. Henthick cried out in pain as a wooden shaft embedded it's self three inches into his shoulder. The grimace plastered upon his face did not leave, for when he attempted to yank it out, the piece of wood only bore deeper.

Henthick looked past his own wound and charged the scarecrow in a fury. His blade's edge cut through strands of straw with ease, but he found that after every attack the scarecrow merely regenerated what he had lossed. Iron sheared through the thatchets of straw, severing it from the whole with wicked and wild untrained hacks and slashes. The light wool clothing that helped bind the scarecrow's insides suffered by the seperation of it's threading. But it didn't matter. No matter how powerful the attack, the Scarecrow seemed unphased.


"Why do you seek death, peasant of Jinpeck?" The Scarecrow asked as his straw hand spat from out his tunic's sleeve."

"Still your tongue, Scarecrow." Henthick snarled as he flicked his blade out into a slash, dispersing the hand.

A wicked laugh escaped the Scarecrow's gaping black mouth as his straw hand quickly reformed from his open sleeve. Nonchalantly floating to a rock composed of stone, the Scarecrow settled himself into a leisured sit. Then came the noise, a mind numbing screech of horrid laughing blew from out the nightmarish creature's mouth and stabbed it's self into the drums of Henthick's ears. Henthick's eyes nearly bulged from out their sockets as dark and violent visions were projected out before him. He couldn't close his eyes, he couldn't look away from the shattered image of his daughter's decapitated head being impaled onto a pike. No, nothing could tear him away from this vision that tore a grievous wound into his soul.
Ache resided within his swollen heart, a monster's illusion polluting his mind. Had he failed, was his daughter truly dead? There was nothing left for him. His daughter's headless body laid before him, and he could do nothing for her. He had nothing else to live for. Thoughts of vengeance were replaced by a malicious comtempt which he had held for himself, for his reluctance. The only thing left for him to do now was take his own life. Yes, that would square things for the daughter that he had failed to protect. His hands quivered anxiously as he turned his iron blade on himself. All that would be needed now is a push, one little exert of power and he'd feel the blade slide into his belly. He'd then watch as the wound would slowly drained his life away.
"Do it." The scarecrow whispered harshly.
Deep and quick breaths worked out his already tired lungs. Henthick gulped down the lump in his throat while his nostrils flared as they took in large gasps of oxygen. Then a calmness. Henthick tore away the gaze he had held on his dead daughter and fixed his eyes on the black souless orbs of the haunting scarecrow. "No..." He whispered harshly.
"Raaaargh!!!" Henthick roared vehemently, his calloused hands guiding his thirsty blade towards the perched Scarecrow. He stabbed downward, piercing through the monster's upper torso as his blade's edge collided and scrapped against the stone creating a series of dancing sparks. Sparks which poured onto the thatchets of exposed straw. Straw that was soon engulfed in a miraculous dark flame that spread rapidy about the Scarecrow's back. Both Henthick and the Scarecrow looked in awe as the monster slowly perished.
"No!" The scarecrow screeched in anguished pain as the fire continues to spread and dance about his flammable body. "Not like this! No! Not by a damn peasant!"
Henthick yanked his heated blade free from the scarecrow's torso, his wide eyes watching as his enemy slowly perished. He slid back on his heel, maintaining his distance from the unbearable flame. The fire had now engulfed the Scarecrow's entire body, leaving the unconsumed atop blazing shoulders. The creature shambled forward in a pleaded fashion. It's dark black orbs stitching shut as the fire ran up his face. "Your daughter is dead." The scarecrow cried venomously before being silenced forever.
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Night had patted the sky black and brushed with a swirl of dark violet. No stars accompanied the full moon as it hung over Henthick's sun worn back. The peasant halted his valiant stride as he came upon the manor's rusted black gate. A gentle push was all that was needed to provoke the swinging gate into letting out a piercing screetch. There is no need to fear, Henthick told himself as ventured through the aisles of dead trees. Black wood branches waved at the peasant as he passed, stepping over the slithering roots of the living trees. He came upon the dusted steps of the Septim manor, the laquered double doors before him were beautifully crafted from a skilled carpenter.
From the outside the manor looked as if it were going to collapse, but once those wooden double doors swung open it revealed a marvelously furnished lobby with tended foliage and masterful pieces of art mantled on the walls. Dark crimson scarlet was set upon the floor, giving comfort to the feet of all those who treaded upon it. The outside's stench of decay mixed with the sweet smelling candles that lined the wall. Henthick let out a deep throated snarl as he enviously compared his one room make shift to the baron's luxurious estate. Clenching his hand into a paling fist, the peasant snapped out against one of the baron's finer water colored paintings. Tearing it from the wall with a rip and impaling the work with his fist, the aged peon cursed. He cursed at his predicament, he cursed at the horrors his home had faced, and he cursed Septim.
There were two stair cases decorated with velvet carpet that pathed midsection of the steps. Each flight lead up to the same balcony, which from there lead into the den. Henthick snorted before proceeding up the stairs. He wanted blood, he wanted it so bad that it left a tingle in throat. Fear was replaced by rage and the stretched out creases, which plagued his face displayed this. He thought back of the day Septim came to rule and used that to fuel his anger. Henthick proceeding through the lavish corridor, passing by doors and archways that lead to rooms that seemed to get a lot more and more luxurious. The halls were dimmly lit by a row of golden candlebras, symmetrical with the row across.. "It's a lie." Came a soft and manic whisper that caused his ear to tingle.
Henthick whipped around to greet the whisperer only to find the once ornamental hallway he had been travelling down change into something much more horrific. Dozens of flies danced between the walls layered with stretched, hollowed, and sewn together faces. The painting which once held the very essence of beauty had transformed into brutal images of violence and death. Henthick's eyes dropped down to the floor after feeling the ground underneath his feet move. The contents of his stomach were ejected from out his mouth, spilling onto the wiggling flesh floor. He couldn't think, it was all too grotesque for him to even handle. He wanted to end his life, he wanted to die.

"Sir Henthick, how rude of you. Coming into another man's home unannounced, then making a dreadful mess on his new carpeting..." A shadow called out from across the hall. Henthick's body quivered as he used his tunic's sleeve to wipe away the mucous which layered his lips. The candlebras, once golden were now bone, and emitted a purplish light from dark flames. The slender silhoutte stepped into the light, revealing himself to be a rather attractive young man with golden white skin and long raven black hair. The peasant couldn't move, he felt as if his skin was about tear away. The prodding sensation in his stomach made him feel as if something was clawing its way out. An unhealthy cry escaped the tortured peasants lips as the gentle thud of Septim's steps sounded out as he proceeded towards Henthick. His eyes were hollow, lost in a sea of blackness, he stretched out a white gloved hand and delicately caressed Hanthick's calloused cheek. "You're here to pick up your child?"
Three years passed, the residents of Jinpeck are no more, either fleed or died out. The Baron too, has left the dead city. His slender figure, garbed extravagantly in black velvet and cotton, stands at the railing of a sailing vessel. His desires, unfulfilled.