Tales of Midnight
Chapter 1: Day Terror
Vera stands in a bright meadow, the sun shining on her golden skin. Birds chirp as they dart through the air. The sweet aroma of flowers and the scent of damp earth fill her nostrils. A wide smile plays over her lips, showing off bright white teeth. Spring had finally come to Cyrodiil. The world shone and glittered like a gem held up to a candle, reborn from the frigid ashes of winter.
The sun glints off of a small pond, its surface dotted with lilly pads and surrounded by white birch trees. Vera strides over to the pond, the trails of her dress flapping about her bare feet. A bird lands on her shoulder, filling the air with sweet music. She strokes the bird's head while it chirps, before it flutters away into the branches.
With a slight sigh, the tall altmer kneels down at the water's edge and dips her hands into the cool water, moving them back and forth. Tiny fish flock about her fingers, nibbling curiously on her skin. This isn't right. What's going on?
With a crack of thunder, the sky darkens. Vera glances upwards and gasps in astonishment; in place of the sun is a gargantuan red disk casting a bleak, ruddy gloom over the meadow. It hangs so low in the sky that she can almost reach out and touch it. Framed against it are the white birch trees, now gnarled and blackened, leaves shriveled and burnt, their branches clawing at the sky like enormous skeletal talons. The air becomes frigid, her breath condensing in clouds in front of her face. A sickly warmth washes over her hands, in sharp contrast to the bitter cold around her. She hisses, and withdraws her long slender fingers from the pond, while turning her face downward.
The pool of water had turned into a puddle of thick, hot blood, steam rising from the bubbling surface. Vera gasps and stumbles back, wiping the blood off on her dress. It leaves dark crimson stains on the pure white of the fabric, like deep wounds on fair skin.
She can hear her heart, fast and strong like the beating of a great drum. The sound is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the cawing of dozens of crows, which are perched in the trees, like some kind of macabre foliage. Each one of their beady black eyes are fixed on her, unblinking, as if waiting to swoop down and devour her.
It hurts to breath now; a sharp pain stabs her in the chest each time she tries to inhale, like there is a band of white hot iron wrapped around her torso. Weakened by the pain, she drops to her knees in front of the pool, gasping for breath. Several wracking coughs shudder through her body, and she covers her mouth with trembling hands. When she brings them away, small spots of blood speckle her palms.
As she looks at her hands, her reflection in the blood catches her eye. A wave of cold terror washes over her; the figure in the pool isn't her. Instead, she sees what can only be a putrified corpse. In the places where skin is not cracked and oozing viscous brown fluid, it is thin and brittle as an old piece of parchment, adhering to the bone and lending the face a skeletal appearance. The hair is thin, wispy and gray; huge chunks of scalp have rotted away, exposing the white bone underneath. Its eyes are sunken, bloodshot, and completely white, as if the figure was blind.
Vera opens her mouth to scream, and the figure mirrors her; its gaping mouth filled with black and rotten teeth. Before she can let loose her shriek, pale arms burst from the pool, and vice-like fingers clamp around her wrists, arms and throat. She thrashes and writhes, but the unrelenting arms drag her down and into the warm depths of the pool. Blood rushes into her lungs as she tries to breath.
Vera jerks awake, body covered in a sheen of cold sweat, a terrified scream tearing itself from her throat. A ball of emerald flame erupts from her hand and splashes over the wall of the cellar; the stone hisses and shrieks in protest as it twists and melts under the immense heat. Vera scrambles from her bedroll and presses herself into the corner of the room, a dagger in one hand, and another ball of fire in the other. Her red eyes are wide in fear, storm black hair disheveled and matted to her head with sweat.
Ja'kaziir rolls from his own bedroll, reacting to the sound of her shout and the heat of the spell. He comes to rest on all fours, coiled like a spring, ready for a fight; he scans the room for threats, but only sees Vera shaking like a leaf in her corner. He relaxes, easing himself upright, regarding his companion with wary concern. He begins to approach her, paws silent despite his enormous size, careful not to agitate her. She turns towards him, eyes still wide as dinner plates, and raises her hand to loose the ball of spellfire. The large khajiit stops in his tracks and takes a step back, fear of his own bubbling in his chest. His eyes flick over to the glowing hole in the wall, the stone still dripping molten slag. He licks his lips and looks back at her, and takes a furtive step toward her. She doesn't turn him into a greasy smudge on the floor, so he takes another. Then another.
Inch by inch, he advances until he is beside her. He reaches for her wrist, careful not to move too fast, and redirects the flickering ball of green flame. He studies her face as he does so; when not gripped with cold terror, she is beautiful, at least for an elf. She has high, sharp cheekbones, elegantly arched brows and eyes that hold a predatory cunning while still managing to hold kindness and a sort of warmth. A short scar arcs from one corner of her mouth, giving her a perpetual lopsided grin. But she looks tired; dark circles hang under those red eyes, and her face is pinched and thin, bordering on gaunt.
As the khajiit studies Vera, her eyes focus and recognition begins to seep into her face, the fear draining away from it. The dagger falls to the dirt floor, and the spell dissipates with a puff of oily blue smoke.
Ja'kaziir lets out a huff of relief, releases her wrist and sits down next to his oldest friend, leaning his warm furry body against her lean frame. He feels her shudder, and he throws an arm over her shoulders. Two sets of crimson eyes meet, one filled with concern, the other with residual terror and more than a little embarrassment.
"I'm sorry I woke you," she states simply. Despite everything, her voice is strong; it is light and feminine, but with the silken tones of an old and confident predator. It was almost what you'd expect a fox to sound like if it were to speak to you. Her companion gives a dismissive snort, indicating his opinion on the matter.
"I know you don't care. But I do. Just because I can't sleep through the day doesn't mean you shouldn't," she mumbles with a small, almost wry grin.
Ja'kaziir snaps his jaws in annoyance and gets up before striding over to his bedroll. Vera's eyes narrow and she sets her jaw, but replaces the expression with pout and a scrunched brow; a practiced guise that she used often."But you were warm."
He turns his head back toward her, an expression on his face that could only mean, "You'll get over it." He used to fall for the act, but after a few hundred years of her tricking him with it, its effect had begun to wear off.
Vera's eyes narrow again, lips curling into a snarl. "Fine. You're a prick you know that?" Without waiting for a response, she begins packing up her things, trying to take her mind off the day-terror. It wasn't the first, and it wouldn't be the last. Perhaps when she got to his age, she would be able to shrug them off like he did.
She shudders on last time, and pushes the image of her rotting face aside. No use dwelling on it.
"Is it nightfall yet?" She inquires, before starting to pack up Ja'kaziir's gear as well. He pauses for a moment, ears twitching, and then bobs his head once in confirmation.
"Want to go for a hunt? The stuff we have is getting stale." A feline grin spreads over Ja'kaziir's furry face, showing off an array of long sharp teeth.
"Right then," she says with a wide, wolfish grin of her own. "Turn around, I have to change." There is a stern look on her face while she wags a long slender finger at him. "And no peeking."
He huffs in mock disappointment, but turns around nonetheless, while Vera starts to pull on her traveling clothes. First go on a pair of leather britches with laces up the side, followed by a tight wrap around her chest, and then a thin linen shirt. A padded arming coat goes over the shirt, and she pulls a pair of knee high booth made of soft calf skin over her feet.
The armor comes next; a pair of ornately embossed steel greaves encase her thighs, and a hauberk of dark ebony chainmail is pulled over her shoulders. Finally, she slips her hands into fur lined steel gauntlets that sport the same intricate embossing as the greaves. Over everything goes an enchanted set of midnight blue robes that sport a deep hood. Lastly, she buckles a heavy hand-and-a-half sword to her waist, its familiar weight settling comfortably about her hips.
"Ok, you can look now," she approaches Ja'kaziir and places a hand on his elbow. "Your turn," she says with a smirk. The enormous khajiit grumbles, but acquiesces and allows her to strap the rest of their gear to his back and shoulders.
"Don't complain," Vera laughs. "We've been doing this for a hundred years. Get used to it." When he closes the last buckle, Ja'kaziir turns to her and flaps his jaw several times in an obvious "blah blah" gesture.
Vera frowns and reaches up, flicking him hard on one of his ears. The large khajiit jumps in surprise, jerking his head back and darting a paw up to knock her hand away, yelping like a common house cat. Trying to recover his dignity, he snaps his jaws at her with as much menace as he could muster.
"Don't even try," she teases, head turned back to him while she walks toward the double doors to the ruined house above. With a light push, the door creaks open on rusted hinges, and she pokes her head out into the cold night air. She looks around, red eyes glowing in the darkness. Even in the pitch black of a Skyrim night, she can still see every minute detail around her. Clear.
"Alright, lets go," she whispers, while climbing the last few steps out of the cellar. She opens the second door, and allows her friend to exit after her.
Vera pulls a map and a compass from a pouch on her belt. With a flick of her wrist and a flourish, she unfurls it and studies it with a pensive look on her face. "Falkreath is to the west. Apparently its nice and quiet, plenty of thick forest to hunt in, and the Jarl is a poncy prick, so we wouldn't have to worry about getting nabbed. Or," She flicks the map twice. "We could go east towards Helgen, and from there its a hop, skip and a jump to Whiterun. We can catch a carriage to anywhere in Skyrim from there. Plus, big cities mean more food." Vera frowns, staring at Witerun's coat of arms. "One problem though; that innkeep said the Jarl doesn't mess about. So we can't stay for very long." She turns her eyes to Ja'kaziir. "What do you think?" He considers options for a moment, scratching under his chin, then looks down the road in either direction, and starts walking east.
"Well... that's settled then, isn't it?" she mutters under her breath, and falls in step beside him.
They are both silent as they walk, enjoying the cool night air and the sound of nature around them. Crickets chirp, nocturnal animals rustle around in the undergrowth, and a wolf howls somewhere off in the distance. It is peaceful; no need to rush around and fear for their lives. It was a nice change from the panic of their flight from Cyrodiil. The Bruma city guard had no jurisdiction on the far side of the Jeralls. And even if they did, it was easy for someone to disappear into the wild province of Skyrim and start a knew life, especially for people like them.
Her revery is interrupted by a hungry grumble from her stomach, followed by a sharp burning pain deep in her chest. She winces and scrunches her nose in a quick snarl. It passes just as fast as it came, but the message is clear; they would need to find a meal soon, and preferably before they reached Whiterun. Ja'kaziir looks at her, quirking his head to one side, the question obvious.
"Hungry," she states simply. Ja'kaziir needed no further explanation; he bobs his head in confirmation, and continues to pad along the road.
It is another hour or so before a small shack materializes from the mist. Vera regards it with wary eyes, noting the flickering orange light shining from the windows. They stop in their tracks and glance at each other. They nod in unison; Ja'kaziir stalks over to a large tree beside the path and falls to one knee, staring at the structure.
She drops to a crouch and approaches the shack, moving from tree to tree, footsteps making almost no noise on the twig strewn ground. The smell of raw meat, wood smoke, leather and steel fill her nostrils. Hunters, bedded down for the night.Vera circles the building several times, looking for sentries, traps or snares. Seeing none, she runs the last few feet to the lodge with the grace and speed of many years of practice and presses herself against the wall. A new scent creeps its way among the others: warm bodies. A savage smile seeps onto her face, bearing her sharp brown stained fangs. She makes a soft clicking sound with her mouth and after a few moments, Ja'kaziir materializes from the mist, moving just as silently as her. He sees her smile, and knows they will be eating well tonight.
After meeting up at the wall, they inch into the lodge, and observe three sleeping forms grouped together around a small fire. The hunters had hung strips of venison above the flames to smoke overnight, but the two red eyed figures aren't hungry for the meat; their attention is focused on the three supine figures. More importantly, the hot blood flowing through them.
The two vampires fall upon the hunters, mouths gaping unnaturally wide, long sharp fangs bared and dripping.