[Flashback] Infernal Rapture

[Ulric]

78th of Winter, 510 AV Ulric guided his canoe through the choppy waters of Lake Ravok as he sought a likely fishing ground. It was late winter and the dark waters remained free of ice – a gift from Rhysol. No man, woman, or slave in the city could dispute the god’s benevolence, though Ulric was reluctant to accept Rhysol as his one and only master. Oh, Rhysol seemed no worse than the rest of the pantheon, his favor came at the price. Ulric was willing to placate the Black Sun with muttered prayers and half-hearted devotions, but he drew the line at servitude. Shipping his paddle, Ulric withdrew a spool of line from trousers and tied it to a metal ring set in the stern of the canoe. He unraveled close to twenty yards, fastening barbed hooks at ten foot intervals and a sinker at the end. Baiting the hooks, Ulric cast the line into the water and watched the ripples burst forth as it disappeared beneath the waves. In theory, the hooks quintupled his chance of success. However, most fish remained deep under the surface this time of year, waiting for spring’s dawn. Ulric peered at the distant ramparts of the Southern Trading Post. This time of year the fish were languid and the shallows barren, but soon the eel spawns would come, packing the lake’s tributaries with dark, squirming bodies. Joined by the few dozen fishermen that provisioned the city with fish, Ulric would haul the creatures from his nets and to the fishmongers. Some would go straight into the cooking pots, while others would be saved for smoking and salting. It wasn’t the most profitable occupation, but it kept Ulric fed and clothed as he saved for his upcoming nuptials. Mhera would be his in less than a year’s time – or so her father promised. Her father, Herod, was a decent man, but his patience was waning. Abruptly, the line snapped taut and Ulric extended a gloved hand to measure the ferocity of his catch’s struggles. It was large – a bass, perhaps, or even a drum. Surely, Ovek favored him today. He would bide his time before hauling the fish into the boat, waiting for its struggles to lessen to reduce the chance of losing the hook. One chime passed, and then another before – just as abruptly – the line went slack. Ovek, you fickle bastard, Ulric scowled at the dark waters. He hauled in the line and saw the bottom hook was missing, then affixed a new hook with deft, practiced motions. Fishing was a tedious business. At times like these, Ulric liked to gaze at the floating city and picture himself as a well-heeled merchant, nibbling on sweetmeats as lackeys poled him through the canals in a ravosala. It was a pleasant image, but his mind soon wandered to Mhera and a dozen other subjects, until he finally received another bite. This time, it was a much smaller fish – enough to risk dragging it in straightaway. Ulric hauled in the line, making sure not to stick himself with the hooks, and in less than half a minute the whitefish flopped into the canoe. It was perhaps two pounds, boasting a silvery-white underside and a dark, greenish spine and forked tail. All told, it was a decent catch. Rapping the fish’s head against the struts of the canoe, Ulric re-baited the hooks and cast his line back into the lake. More time passed as the sun dipped from its zenith. Hunched in his sable cloak, Ulric bolted a simple meal of day-old bread and dried fish as chilling late-winter breezes swept across the lake, hoping he’d catch at least one more fish before nightfall. After a while, the tedium became so unbearable that he withdrew his flute from the folds of his tunic. He blew tentatively into the instrument and it emitted a shrill, ill-tempered tweee! Ulric was terrible at all things musical, but he suspected the flute was partly to blame. Awkwardly moving his stiffened fingers over the holes, he mangled a downward scale and then launched into a reel that sounded, despite his best efforts, like a dying goose. Fweeee! Again, the instrument ripped his artistry to shreds. “That’s enough from you,” Ulric snapped, experiencing (for what seemed the hundredth time) an urge to hurl the damned thing overboard. Its treachery was quite intolerable. Raising the flute to his lips, Ulric played a series of notes that wasn’t half-bad – excluding the fact they weren’t organized in an intelligible manner. Fortunately, he was rescued from additional failure by another bite on his line – this time a mottled-brown bass. At close to five pounds, it was much larger than the whitefish, with dark stripes and red eyes. By now the sun had slipped to the horizon, painting the lake’s surface with red and orange hues. Ulric paddled to the docks, encountering several other fishermen on his way. One, a ruddy, weather-beaten fellow named Dak, hailed Ulric with a wave of his vermilion-tipped paddle. “How’re them fishes, boyo?” “Well enough,” Ulric replied, and that was that. Most fishermen were absolute shyke at conversation. The docks were half-deserted this time of the day. Most cargo had already been unloaded from the transports and stowed in warehouses, and the workers gone for the night. Bastards are probably deep in their cups by now, Ulric sniffed. Hard work and alcoholism seemed to complement one another. Still, it wasn’t his place to judge. He tied up at the Nitrozian Plaza and headed to the Sliver, concealing his meager catch on the canoe’s tarred hull. The Sliver was noisy, warm, and crowded – as always – with plenty of familiar faces. Slipping through the throng, Ulric managed to claim a place at the bar and ordered a mug of ale. “Cold night,” said Lem, the bleary-eyed dockworker on his left. “Aye,” Ulric took a swallow of the tart, silvery liquid. “I’ll be glad when the last traces of winter have faded for good.” “Nights like these, a men needs to have a warm body to hold onto. How about it?” “Sorry, but you’re not my type.” “No, you fool,” Lem scowled. “I meant the stews. Lots of women there, all wet and-” “I’ll pass,” Ulric raised his mug again. He wasn’t in the mood, nor could he spare the coin. Besides, it seemed wrong to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh unless he was with his betrothed – although Mhera wasn’t budging on that front. Ulric had frequented brothels at first, but he'd eventually come to desire a deeper connection. “Your loss,” Lem finished his ale. He clapped Ulric on the back and vanished into the crowd, only to be replaced by an unfamiliar woman who ordered a bottle of wine. Interesting choice, that. “Gimme another,” Ulric pushed his empty mug across the bar. He was in a drinking mood.

[Ulric]

Ulric staggered from the Sliver shortly after eleventh bell, his mind reeling from so much ale, and wove his way across the Nitrozian Plaza. He hadn’t intended to drink so much – or at all, really – but what was done was done. Reaching the canals, Ulric hesitated a moment, peering at his moonlit reflection in the water. His canoe bobbed to the side, still secured to its mooring. “Hello there, Ulric,” he sniggered with an elaborate bow. Unsurprisingly, his reflection returned the courtesy - which was more than could be said for some people. Shyke, but I’m drunk. Somewhat disappointed with himself, Ulric attempted to climb into the canoe. He was half-successful in the endeavor, managing to throw his arms and torso onto the craft while his legs were submerged in the redolent waters of the canal. Grunting in shock, he rolled over the gunwale and sprawled, shivering, on the bottom of the canoe. It was peaceful there, looking up at the stars and the moon. Ulric had always enjoyed the darkness. He shut his eyes, letting the gently lapping water lull him to sleep. Several bells later, Ulric was roused by the butt of a spear. “Wuzzat?” Bleary-eyed, he peered at a scowling watchman. “Shove off,” growled the woman, and Ulric took her advice. His head felt clearer as he nosed the canoe into the maze of canals, but he was still disoriented. Most structures rose sheer above the canals, their half-crumbling bricks and plaster stained at the waterline, while submerged piles of wood kept the entire city from being swallowed into the lake’s watery depths. At night the canals were all but deserted, the boatmen having returned to their families. A few Ravokians roamed the narrow docks that flanked the canals, their faces cloaked with shadow. Some canals were broad and others claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in. In his semi-inebriated state, Ulric mistook the canal leading to Herod’s compound for his own. Perhaps it was more than a simple error – borne of desperate longing or a god’s machinations – but he didn’t recognize the mistake until he was staring up at the familiar house. It was a three-story affair of plastered brick with bars of blackened iron on the windows, not quite as decrepit as the rest of the compound but still worse for the wear. “Petching ale,” Ulric muttered as he backed water, making to turn the canoe around. However, he became aware of a faint light in the half-timber storehouse attached to the side of the house. Thieves? Ulric’s pulse quickened. He couldn’t let this affront stand. After all, what if they tried to force entry into the house? Silently, he guided the canoe to the edge of canal and secured it to a rusted cleat. Hopefully there weren’t two of them. If there were, his would be the body the city watch fished out of the canals the next morning. Sucking in a deep breath, Ulric drew his knife and crept to the storehouse. What awaited him was far worse than thieves. As Ulric neared the storehouse, he heard familiar noises from inside the dim interior; a man’s grunts, the slap of flesh upon flesh, soft moans. He didn’t need to venture a glance. Unfaithful bitch, Ulric eyes widened and he paused outside the door, stunned by the realization. His betrothed was rutting with other men behind his back. Instead of feeling angry, he was numb inside – devoid of sadness or indignation. His heart was empty. It was as if he’d been gutted like a fish, his hopes and dreams sliced away to leave naught but a shell of cartilage and bone. Mhera had never loved him. How had he been so foolish? Slowly, as his mind reeled from the emotional trauma, an ancient one reawakened. For a moment the image of a room flashed in the back of his mind - a scene of blood, horror, and death - and then, abruptly, it was gone. Sinking to his haunches, Ulric shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd pissed himself, but couldn't feel the warmth against his legs. He couldn’t move, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. His world had descended into chaos. It seethed around the strip of dock, a dark cloud from which emanated the seductive strains of a violin – so familiar, yet he couldn’t place the tune. It stole into his head with the tenderness of a lover, whispering an insistent refrain which Ulric was powerless to resist. They must pay for their sins, he realized. He was consumed with an infernal rapture, and it demanded blood. Ulric peered at his unsheathed knife. His face was flushed and his palms sweaty – not from nervousness, but excitement. He was at once aroused and at peace, his heart trembling with the beauty of the rapture, warms tears flowing down his cheeks. It was all that mattered to him in that moment, all he cared for – and he would do anything it asked of him. It was all so simple – seize a fistful of dark hair, yank back the man’s head, and draw the blade across his neck. Mhera looked on in mute horror as blood spattered her lovely face and pale, freckled skin. Her lover sank to the floor, spasming as the lifeblood pulsed from his neck. It would not be a quick death. And yet, the rapture demanded more – much more. Ulric’s eyes were feverish as he knelt beside his betrothed, caressing her cheek with his bloody fingers. His lips curled into a sad smile. “It’s so beautiful, you see,” he whispered and drove the blade into the hollow of her throat. More blood, more death; the rapture approached its crescendo. So beautiful…

Secret :

]For more on the Infernal Rapture, please refer to the section of my CS.

[Ulric]

What have I done? Ulric shuddered. His rapture was gone, leaving him alone but for the torn, mutilated bodies that sprawled on the blood-soaked stones. Murder hadn’t been enough. Instead, the music had exhorted him to new depths of depravity, leaving him shaken and sullied, kneeling in a puddle of his own vomit. It was the music, Ulric thought. It… oh, shyke. He succumbed to another fit of retching. Mhera, the woman he loved, was dead – sliced into a grotesque parody of human flesh. One of her lover’s disembodied eyes stared at Ulric from the corner. Monster, it seemed to accuse. Ulric couldn’t disagree. However ensorcelled by the music, he’d still felt the ichor spatter upon his face and allowed the carnage to continue. It was heinous, vile, despicable. Maybe he was a monster. Had Mhera perceived the darkness within him? Ulric stared at his bloodied hands. He was still in shock, unable to process the hundreds of emotions that ravaged his mind. They’d left him empty, a hollow shell of a man who knew only horror and dread. I must flee this place, Ulric realized. By all measures, he deserved a slow and painful death for his atrocities – but he didn’t want to die. He was determined to survive until the bitter end, no matter how bleak or wretched his existence. Ulric rose and returned the knife to his belt. If he remained here he would be executed or worse, hacked down in the street like a rabid dog. No, he had to flee Ravok. Tonight. Spurred into frantic motion, Ulric gathered the remains of his victims and piled them on a tarp. He bound the edges into a bundle (slipping in a few stones for ballast) and dragged it to the edge of the dock. And yet, conscience stilled his hand as he made to push the still-warm corpses into the water. Mhera and her love deserved better than this. Head bowed, Ulric regarded the fruit of his infernal rapture. “Farewell,” he whispered. It was the best he could manage. For him, the trauma of betrayal was too recent for regrets. “See you in the afterlife.” After it was done, Ulric took to the canals. He needed to return to his squalid hovel before he braved the wildlands. Alone, such a journey was fraught with perils. Maybe he’d survive, maybe he wouldn’t. However, Ulric knew it was suicide without the proper equipment. He’d need his bearded axe and shield, his armor, crossbow, pack, and waterskin – not to mention rations. Wait, where the petch am I running to? * * * * * Half a bell later he’d yet to answer the question. Novallas, Nyka, Syliras… the possibilities were finite, but each had their perils. For now, Ulric focused on each stroke of his paddle as he guided the canoe through the floating maze he called home. No more than a few, tenement-lined canals separated him from open water and freedom. Well, not quite. He still had to steer clear of patrols while he navigated his way to one of the lake’s tributaries – but how difficult could it be? Ravok was a city of thousands. It had no walls, no fortifications but for the lake and its string of outposts. Once he was in open water, Ulric would be like a ghost in the night. Ovek had other ideas, however. “You there,” a voice emanated from the shadows, “What the petch are you doing?” Ulric shipped his paddle as a watchman stepped to the dock’s edge and uncovered a lantern. Orange light burst forth, forcing him to squint. Oh, petch me bloody. “Erm… I’m a fisherman,” Ulric fumbled for a length of line as proof of his occupation. “Night’s the best time for it,” he managed a weak smile. “And I suppose that’s bait?” the watchman motioned to the half-covered bass in the prow. “Must be for a damned whale. Still doesn’t explain the armor… or the petching crossbow.” “It’s-” “Spare me the lies,” sneered the watchman. “I could have you clapped in irons, you whoreson – but as I’m in a generous mood, I’ll just take that fish and let you go on your merry way. Deal?” “Sure,” Ulric nodded in relief. He handed the bass up, but the watchman didn’t reach for it. Instead, the man spat into the canoe. “Petch that. I don’t bend over for the scum of the canals. Either you come up and hand it to me all servile-like, or we’re going to have a problem on our hands.” Scowling, Ulric moored his canoe and climbed onto the dock. “A gift,” he presented the bass formally, his head bowed. Still, the man didn’t reach for the fish. Ulric scowled and looked up, his pulse quickening as he met the man’s narrowed eyes. “Is that blood?” the watchman reached for his sword. It seems the game is up, Ulric realized. He was backed into a corner, and now there were but two options – fight, or die. Baring his teeth, he hammered a fist into the watchman’s face and drove a shoulder into his belly, pinioning him against the wall. Startled, the man dropped his blade and pawed at his bloodied nose. The lantern smashed upon the cobbles, plunging the narrow causeway into darkness. However, the watchman was an able soldier who’d spent half his life on the training grounds or breaking up brawls. While Ulric missed with a knee and threw an ineffectual punch to the ribs, the man removed his helmet and used it as a bludgeon. Stars exploded in Ulric’s head. “Guurgh,” he groaned and clutched at the watchman’s tabard to remain upright. Once more the helmet descended, followed by a vicious knee that sent Ulric flat upon his back. Half-dazed, he managed to tangle the man’s legs – only to be crushed by his falling bulk. An elbow pressed upon Ulric’s windpipe as the man straddled him and fumbled at his own belt. He’s going for a dagger! Ulric wrenched his head to the side and sank his teeth into exposed flesh. “Aaargh!” screamed the watchman. He struck at Ulric, trying to dislodge the teeth from around his thumb – but Ulric wasn’t having any of it. Blood spurted in his mouth, but he kept biting until the watchman reeled back. Ulric rose unsteadily to his feet, spitting the thumb into the canal. “You petching bastard,” he snarled and reached for his knife. However, the watchman had retrieved the sword, forcing Ulric to beat a hasty retreat. Nearly losing an ear to the blade, he staggered into the wall. Shyke! “Got you!” the watchman sneered. The sword punched through Ulric’s hidemail armor and skittered off his ribs, branding them with a white-hot pain. Ulric’s face was ashen as he lurched forward, ripping the sword from the watchman’s grasp, and slashed with his knife. His wild attacks were easily evaded. Reaching in, the watchman seized Ulric’s wrist and wrenched the blade from his grasp. He drove his forehead into Ulric’s brow, cutting the fisherman above the eye. Half-blinded, Ulric bulled forward and they went down again in a tangle of limbs. As before, the watchman gained the upper hand. “Guurgh,” Ulric moaned as an elbow connected with his chin. Still game, he clawed at the man’s neck and eyes – only to have his hands swatted away. At this rate he’d soon be feeding the worms. With a strength borne of desperation, Ulric groped for the watchman’s dagger. It was gone – lost in the struggle. His own blade was… no, it’s lying on the cobbles. Mind reeling from the punishment he’d taken, Ulric closed his fingers around his wooden flute and plunged it into his opponent’s eye. “Yaagh!” the watchman recoiled, allowing Ulric to struggle to his knees. It was a brief respite. A boot thundered into Ulric’s side, pitching him to the edge of the canal. “Die, you petcher,” snarled the watchman. He seized the back of Ulric’s head and pounded his face upon the cobbles. “Urrgh,” Ulric moaned as a mailed arm encircled his neck and began to throttle him. More pain, more stars; the darkness crept nearer. So this is it, Ulric sputtered for breath. The end of the line, waiting for Dira to dispense with his soul. Somehow, he’d envisioned a noble death. Not this. And yet, wasn't his canoe moored not an arm’s span below the dock? Even with blurred vision, Ulric recognized the bearded axe propped against the prow. Sorry, Dira – I’ll be a little longer. Grasping the weapon, Ulric lashed out at his opponent. He hadn’t any leverage, but a blade was a blade. It laid open the watchman’s cheek to the bone. Abruptly, the pressure ceased as the man recoiled. “Guards!” the watchman raised the hue-and-cry. He managed to retrieve his sword again, but Ulric was faster. With a clangor of iron, the weapon skittered over the edge of the dock. “Die!” Ulric hacked at the watchman and missed. Oh shyke, he thought as gloved hands ripped the axe from his grasp and slammed into his chin, sending pain lancing through his skull. Off balance and disoriented, Ulric tackled the watchman again, taking a painful elbow to the chin. Driving a boot into the man’s bollocks, he crawled for his axe. For once, the watchman was slow to rise – a fact that proved his undoing. Axe skittering off chainmail, Ulric kicked his opponent in the face. And then, mercifully, it was over. That’ll teach you, he spat a tooth on the unconscious watchman. By now, others had taken up the cry. It was only a matter of minutes until the rest of the city watch arrived. Bruised, bloodied, and traumatized – yet determined to survive despite his sins - Ulric staggered to the canoe. * * * * * Back in the storehouse, the lone candle guttered and went out – its only witness a squashed, blood-sheathed eyeball.

[Gillar]

An amazing piece of writing! You were able to bring a little piece of Ravok to life in a way that almost felt real. Your detail as well as realistic descriptions of actions and reactions was more than impressive. Skill XP: Unarmed Combat 4 Fishing 5 Dagger 2 Lore: Fish of Lake Ravok The Act of Murder: Thoughts, Emotions, Potential Consequences and Avoiding Capture. Gnosis Related You have gained the attention of two deities and an Alvina. You committed murder in the earthly domain of the God of Chaos and Betrayal and did so because of a tinge of madness invoked by experiencing an act of betrayal. While not gaining any specific marks, the attention you have acquired has resulted in the faintest of crimson streaks on your right hand. Think of it as a tracking device of sorts in which Krysus can keep an eye on you. The Voice, Alvina of Mental Disorders, is aware of your existence however her influence is limited to Ravok. Rhysol, unpredictable at best, watches you from a distance in case you do something truly interesting.