Dormonde 1: Essence

[Germandeathkittiez]

Dormonde

 

Book 1: Essence

 

The soggy, wooden chair cracked as he continued to sit in it, but he didn't care. Dormonde... the young old Breton was... tired. He never liked to admit it. Child life, maturity, sex, love, often circled so recently through his memories in his daft void of aloofness, though all that remained was pain and interminable anger.

 

He saw that woman. A pretty one she was. But dead an instant from that sight. A vampire; but there were others: ugly and tormenting fangs which he was appalled could reach him like swords in that certain pit of hell which had enraptured him. In his mind was horror cold as the Jerralls but if he had spoken his words would only have been in his hardy voice in the most exhausted and irritated tone of denial, "Aww, boar-poo." Well from that point on he was living half of his life in dreams of the most sordid mixes of tormented seduction. Nothing related to him, except that he was ripped in half by an Akiviri Chancellor's 2 - inch claw, had once found himself drowned in a poison-infested pond somewhere in the death of Blackwood, with a magical Elven rope ever-strangling his neck; and was once swimming forever through blood-tainted oceans of lava contained in Mehrunes Dagon's crystal wine glass. He saw great beauty crushed ever so swiftly... Now he was trying to discern if the very bite was real, or a dream.

 

In the newly founded world of his sub-realities, he saw that woman. He couldn't stop seeing her. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman as beautiful as she. He wondered why it couldn't have been her who had bitten him... but he killed them: all the rest of them, all ugly, miserable beast-like men. He wondered in reminiscence if his cult would give him good pay for all the vampire dust he had collected.

 

He laughed out loud at the irony of his situation. A vampire who doesn't just kill, but hunts vampires! To wonder what my very brothers back in the cult would think if they got wind of this! He smiled reflectively at the thought that they would ever even find him so far out here, at the location of the very bottom of the rampant, barbaric chain of Eastern Cyrodiil.

 

He saw the woman's face, pale, yet her eyes so alive with brilliance, dripping from between her lips in lewdness such thick, bright red blood.

He shouted and it echoed through the deep caverns of dreadful anonymity that surrounded him. A deep silence ensued, as Dormonde's figure had changed to crouching forward with his head in his hands. The day's battle-scars fumed with an assailment of all the random beasts' outcries of defiance and egotistical rage he had met, while the older wounds ached deep like a recurring, yet indefinable presentimental feeling...

 

He knew in a few hours the pain would turn from feeling interminable to lusty, so he sat in wisdom's silence.

 

Dormonde was so old, yet so young. His skin was once dark red, unusual for a Breton. His face had now turned to a chipped white plaque of uneven wrinkles bearing no language but a possible course and asymmetrical misery. But a youthful glare as determined as hell flame struck through it. Unfortunately, with ages of misery comes complexity; pretty soon he knew he would have to find something to strike through the ashes of that, too.

 

Maybe his ears, who presently listened for anything: ninjas, ghosts, specters, skeletons, and the pathetic assortment of lowly "necromantic" branches who assumed themselves to be great masters of a martial art by: running away. His ears had an ego. His ears listened for the less mundane: Daedra, massive sea monsters, even Dragons; anything they had ever encountered.

 

Pleased, they could hardly hear Dormonde's agile panguar approaching; her feet with the soft brush of a feather, putting paw prints in the hard rock floor of ancient dust and scattered piles of bonemeal. The giant but skinny, healthy-bodied, pitch black cat-like creature gave off a silvery glow as she brushed against one of Dormonde's leather gauntlets, purring vibrantly. Two large, bright yellow circles opened up from slits on her head as she became surprised to hear her echo purr back. Two white fangs mechanically jutted out of her fierce upper jaw as she stood defensively, in preparation for an attack. Dormonde noticed the panguar's long and pointy ears sticking straight up, and he ruffled them, a vague smile appearing on his dried lips. The panguar caught her fangs around his hand, and clutched to his arms with her paws, growling with a glowing obstinacy.

 

With this Dormonde stood up swiftly, an almost delirious expression of liveliness on his face. He stood in the darkest depths of morbid wrongness, felt the overwhelming pain of hundreds of cuts and slashes and mistakes every day, felt the deterioration of being ancient. He felt… great. Even the scariest thoughts could never scare him, as he had seen them all so many times before.

“Come on, Demiah,” he growled in his raspy voice to his panguar, “why don’t we burn some souls.”

In his mind he chuckled at the memory of the recent bloodbath of Argonian nudists led by that crazed prophet M’dalla. Yet a joyful thing it was… lizards can look sort of pretty sometimes. How funny it was to see that naked lizard-girl spinning in circles holding her sword, yet with no head! How it ended in a sea of blood three feet high! HEHEHE! Oh just the look on M’dalla’s face when she stood waist deep in the blood of her allies, completely abhorred! Priceless! Hilarious! If only M’dalla could tell it was a joke; her own people shouldn’t have attacked him in the first place!

 

The ancient Aylied structures were crumbled, half-buried and destroyed beneath the weight of the partially excavated, lifeless cave in which Dormonde had spent his solemn day sleeping. Hundreds of feet above him were the tunnels in which he had mercilessly slain foolish necromancers the night before. Hopefully if the blood wasn’t all dried, he could have a drink or two on his way back to ground level Nirn.

Dormonde never hungered, slept on odd occasions, waking up in the strangest places. Now all he ever thirsted for and existed on was the blood of others.

 

Hours later Dormonde rose up through moonlit bushes, blood dripping from his mouth and his long fangs. A surprisingly animate, demonic smile lit up on his death-like face. He didn’t care if anyone saw him for who he was tonight… this time he was out to settle some quite weary disputes.

[dezdimona]

nice...but for me lacks that grab and hold your attention a story needs.perhaps later parts will pick it up.

[Germandeathkittiez]

Thank you for commenting.

[Maharg67]

Good in many ways but needs description, the basics of environment and the characters. I found myself wanting to know who the person was, where they were and also how they got there and found the answers difficult to get. Your use of emotions, of subjective view point, is very good.

[Germandeathkittiez]

Thank you, Maharg. This piece was primarily a brainstorm of my Oblivion character's personality and attitude on life. The plot itself is still very much undeveloped, and I do not know if I will continue it. Everything that happens is meant to be twisting in and out of his mind, however I guess the description is a little vague.