Paint it Red (solo)

[Ulric]

17th of Spring, 511 AV The-thing-called-Ulric threw the Dek across the dank, murky tunnel that snaked through the bowels of the mountain, dark eyes glinting with their usual intensity. “How pathetic,” he snarled, watching her bony frame strike the rough stones. “How utterly pathetic.” He saw that her amber eyes wide with fear. How piteous she seemed as she cowered in the shadows, clutching a withered arm to her body. He’d been that way once, young and weak, and he despised her for this reminder. He wanted to wring her neck, if only to end her misery. “Why doesn’t it run?” he crooned. “Why doesn’t it seek to hide?” He reached out to brush the lank hair from her dirty face, rage surging when she cringed at his touch. “Why is it afraid of us?” He wrenched her chin up so she stared into his eyes. “Why doesn’t it understand what we are? Why does it shiver at our touch?” He ran his fingers over her face, then down her neck, curiosity widening his eyes. So this is woman? He was a child in the ways of the world, newly freed from the prison that had contained him for twenty years. He searched through his discordant scraps of memory, kept seeing a dark, dingy room, stifling with a strange musk, could hear, could almost feel the slap of flesh, the frantic rapture that engulfed his every thought, his every movement. He flushed, stared uncertainly at the cripple. We are confused. He stared into her eyes, his hands slowly, tentatively, tracing the contours of her body. How strange the world was now. Not so long ago, he’d swum in the placid, yet murky depths of the lake, then helped his father clean and gut their catch for delivery to the fishmonger. He’d had a boy’s frame then. Now he was a man grown. A huge, scarred warrior privy to troubling secrets, with the blood of a slain god coursing through his veins. And yet, he didn’t know what had brought him to this place, eighteen years into the future. He’d escaped the long night, yet the screams kept echoing through his head. No matter where he looked, he saw knives that caught the glow of torches, their serrated edges slicing through human flesh as the glistening carcasses of beasts hung from rusted hooks, bearing witness to a spreading pool of blood. And there, laughing like demons, were the torturers, watching him as faint music rose above frenzied screams. “Wond adon and aeien qoman.” Desank was uncertain. “Wndi odam qudn ol ajsnf inal wqfnso msdfn.” Drawn from his terror, the-thing-called-Ulric opened his eyes again. As he stared at the cripple, he couldn’t help but wonder if her people were the same. They had fiery hair, like the masked woman. They were bad. They hated him, and he did not know why. Tearing his mind away, he moved closer, breathing in her scent. “Such beauty,” he reflected, “Yet why is it clad in rags? Why is its cheek bruised?” He encircled her slender waist with his fingers, hoisting her up against the stones until their faces almost touched. He saw no spark of defiance in those eyes, the orbs strangely dead, as if mind was separate from abused body. He’d seen this before. Her eyes were disturbingly familiar. “Does they force it to do bad things?” He reached for another memory, then shook with and impotent fury. “So fair, so fine… it seeks to conceal its beauty beneath a layer of grime, but the eyes must hunger, oh yes, and the brutes trade pain for pleasure.” On a whim, he lifted her higher, setting his ear against a meager breast. Her eyes were empty, but her heart was racing. What is this cruel place? he wondered, lowering her back to the ground. Why can’t we go home? His heart ached with grief, not only for his father, but for the life he’d been taken from. He wasn’t going to cry, though. His tears were spent. Fate, and the other, had conspired to bring him to this place, where nobody liked him and everybody wished him harm. He kept scouring the other’s mind, but every memory was only a fragment in the puzzle. He did not understand this place, or its people. He was learning, oh, how quickly he was learning, but he knew that nothing could bring his father back. He wanted to lash out, with this warrior’s body, but deep in his heart he knew that he, too, would be slain if that ever came to pass. He was afraid, always afraid – and enraged by the cruelty of these strange people. To survive, he hid in the depths of the earth, where none dared bother him. He needed time to think, to understand. With every passing day, he found a new piece into the puzzle. He plundered that which had come before, venturing ever deeper into that shattered mind. He could not sleep, for every night he was assailed by shards of his once-future. His dreams were horrifying, and yet, the horror was not enough. Not once, in the years he’d been slept through, had the other sought vengeance. Now, he craved it with every waking moment, and this broken thing, this girl with the withered arm that bore such a striking resemblance to his once-mangled leg, would bear witness. Timidly, he ran splayed fingers through her hair, yet when he spoke his voice cut like a sword. “We have something it must see.”

[Ulric]

They descended further into the depths, the close, winding tunnels lit only by the orange glow of the torch Ulric carried in one hand, his other firmly clasping the scrawny arm of the Dek. The gasvik strode in their wake. Here, there were no prying eyes to spy on them, nor eagles to plunge from the skies. This was a place of safety. As they walked, every step an echo, the torch cast writhing shadows upon the rough-hewn stones, already dark with moisture. The ground was strewn with debris; mostly rubble, with scraps of red, pitted iron and the bones of rodents peeking from the irregular heaps of stones. The tunnel began to widen. There were prints in the dust, made by large, booted feet. Ulric kept moving, jerking the Dek after him, until they arrived at a squat chamber formed by a bulwark of caved boulders. He pushed her onto an oblong slab, where a torch had been thrust into a tiny crevice in the rock. “There it sits,” he growled, then turned to the gasvik. “Desank, make it watch.” “Wuen oadn.” The gasvik gave a nod, its blunt features concealed by the gloom. Taking his flaming torch, Ulric set it to the others he’d placed around the chamber, then thrust it into a crack. “Does it understand?” He swept his arms wide, mouth twisting into a nervous half-smile. Now, with the ring of torches piercing the murk, his haunting, lurid nightmare was revealed. The stones were almost completely covered by crude drawings and whorls, which melded into a dreadful, chaotic pattern that went on without end, drawn with what could only be dried blood. The other had begun this task, raving in a waking sleep, working feverishly as his mind tore apart. They were together now, the boy that was carried into the cellar and broken thing that was carried away. “The other knew that he would be consumed,” he spoke haltingly, but proudly. “There was never any doubt, after what she did to him on the ship. This was a gift, a shrine for the broken things in the world. There is much to see, yet much that is not seen. There is no certainty. They say we are broken, but what do they understand? They do not share our divinity. There is always a way to sunder the chains, to become more than a pretense. That is what it must understand.” Turning away, he jerked the tunic over his head. His chest was covered with thin scars, spreading like a raven’s wings. Now he took his knife and cut another deep furrow in the flesh, holding up a carved bowl to capture the trickle of crimson. He did not grimace; this body was inured to pain. He waited for the bowl to fill, cutting another gash in his chest when the first wound began to knit, and then dipped a finger into the pool of crimson. Reaching out, he drew a semicircle on a bare patch of stone, flanked by ranks of stylized figures. The shapes were flawed. He began to paint a series of curling waves, merging them with the spidery lines that covered the rest of the stone. His tracery was crude, but the intricacy of the pattern was disconcerting. The entire thing was a prophecy. He showed them the way. There was order in the chaos, paths snaking to a hundred separate fates, yet more, far more. He drew a sun, merging it with the tapestry, and then a series of straight, interposing marks to create the outline of a city. The bowl of blood was thickening, but he kept drawing, reluctant to halt before he had put the final touches to the pattern. He traced skeins and knots, forming trails that were like ridges of bark in their complexity, the blood drying dark and menacingly on the stone. His eyes were growing red and bleary from the smoke. He broke curves into segments, creating a circle of orbs. The contours were rough. He dipped his finger into the bowl again, found that it was nearly dry. With a fevered gasp, he reached for the knife.

[Ulric]

The torches began to gutter. The gloom spread, yet there was no halting now. Ulric was not done. With shaking hands, he smeared more of his blood on the rocks. He’d drawn too much. The design swam before his eyes. He kept marking broad swaths that, if perceived from a distance, bore a semblance to a great eye. He bound it with a sea of whorls, drawing crude, tiny ships in the gaps, which came together in a demonic visage, long snakes of hair descending from a narrow brow. They were also chains, binding hands that lurked on the periphery. The chaos was a baleful mask, inscrutable to jaded eyes. There was no beauty in the tapestry. This was a shrine to suffering, and yet it offered a way. The whorls were a great, sinuous maze, twisting to crude depictions of calm and discord, wisdom and obscurity. The paths did not lead. They followed, and yet did not follow. The sprawl was defiant. “There is no single way,” Ulric spoke, his voice a whisper. He made a last, curling mark, and moved away. His arms were leaden, legs unsteady. He had failed. Desank studied the design, making a strange, clacking noise. “Uans pwen badubdb ad kodk qwubf, okdnfns aine oqnenr abdu.” “We are not sufficient,” Ulric growled. “What did they want from us? Why do they deny us the understanding we so badly desire?” “Od ppad weofn audn lmcu baudo adnf ubbad. Asn ubfo adb yewyb kdnfn adoaid, anfian aewb iwkn qyido amdnf. Inafnen qpwb nafnu ond weon aman hiw ehte. Esnan adnon, Xhyvas adonewn odu naudn.” Desank spoke quickly. Ulric could only guess at what the gasvik was trying to say. “Inafnen qpwb nafnu,” he repeated, struggling to get his mouth around this strange tongue. Xhyvas, the god whose blood coursed through his veins, had been able to speak with the gasviks, but he did not understand. He was a poor excuse for an heir. He did not have the power, or knowledge of what he was facing. Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes, seeking that strange, mountain temple. Why did the other not want the power? he wondered. Why not embrace it, and scour the world of those who seek to hurt us? With power comes duty. Ulric shook his head, confused by the whisper that seemed to emanate from inside his head. “What was that?” “Ulric, adond weom?” “Never mind, we’re just hearing things.” Ulric turned to the Dek, lifting her chin with fingers sticky with concealed blood, and stared deeply into her pale, dead eyes. “Would it give us a kiss, if that is what we desired?” The cripple said nothing. “We could wring its neck, if we wanted. We could do such awful things, and nobody would ever hear its cries.” He gave her a grin, drunk on the power. “We have been taken out of the forge and thrust into the fire. Why should we not take what we desire? They took everything from us. Why should we not do the same?” He was petulant now, and even though he’d vowed never to harm a broken thing, he knew what he must do. Ulric shoved her back against the rough stones, his fingers constricting her throat as he reached for the bowl of blood. “Drink.” He held the bowl to her lips, not caring if she understood the command. Her gaze rose, but she did not drink. “Drink.” He paused, regarding her eyes. What is she thinking? His lips curling into a frown, he thrust the bowl at her again. “Drink.” Her voice shook as she spoke the unfamiliar word. “Drink?” “Drink,” he repeated, and this time she did, dutifully drinking up the dark blood as it smeared her lips and trickled down her face and neck. Ulric looked on, proudly, as she took a part of him into her abused, broken body. She is the first of our chosen, an acolyte of our order of broken things. Even if she does not know it, we have begun to sunder her chains. Yes, she alone of these fleshy, walking things that wants us dead. Ulric knelt, and began to lick the blood from her neck. His felt clammy flesh against his bearded cheek. He embraced her, clutching her tight as the torches began to die, one by one. The warmth of his fevered body drove the cold from her bones, and soon the beats of their hearts were as one. They were broken, but together they were something more. That was what the other had wanted him to understand. The broken things did not have to be this way. They suffered at the hands of gods and men, but with the power of a slain god on their side, the broken could be whole. Xhyvas was rising.

[Mercury]

Ulric Skill(s) Drawing/Painting + 4 XP Intimidation + 1 XP Lore(s) Inartan Cruelty Piecing the Puzzle Blood Paint Order in Chaos Self Mutilation (Basic) Prophesy Written in Blood With Power Comes Duty Drunk on Power Sadism (Basic) The First Convert Resurrecting Xhyvas (Basic) Method to my Madness: The detail in which you went into the patterns gave me shivers. You can choose between drawing or painting XP. I had a lot of trouble keeping up at first seeing as I know very little about Gasvic and Ulric's relationship with him and what Gasvic is in general. If you feel like there is something I missed in lores please PM me, or you can just PM me explaining Gasvic if you're in the mood. Congratulations on thoroughly creeping me out - I very much enjoyed reading this. Special Notes: I am unsure about the exact process of drawing in a Xhyvas convert. You'll have to refer me to something in a PM. You may not refer to the new convert until you do. ~ 1 new Xhyvas Convert Woman, Dek, Cripple You can address any questions or concerns to the little voice in your head. A.K.A. PM me.