Threshold

  • The smell of smoke still hung in the air, a memory of the house that used to be. The ruined timbers poked up through the blanket of snow like the ribs of some great beast picked clean by scavengers and now forgotten. The “others” urged her to linger in this town, compelled her to inquire about the burned down house, and now she stood in what was once the threshold as twilight came on. Ysabette felt the presence before the sound of sobbing reached her ears. The spirit was barely discernable in the falling snow. Huddled in the ruined corner of the house weeping softly was the ghost of a small girl.

     

    Ysabette approached cautiously, one thing she’d learned is that phantoms could be unpredictable especially when one of the living could see and hear them. She inquired as to why the girl was weeping. The girl looked up and Ysabette felt her fear and confusion, briefly she felt the heat of the fire and tasted the smoke in her mouth. Tears ran unbidden down her cheeks as she again asked why the girl was crying and what had happened there? “You need to find me before she does,” was the only answer before the girl faded away leaving Ysabette standing alone in the dark and the snow.

     

    Ysabette wiped the tears from her face as the girl’s final moments of fear and suffocation left her. Lighting a lamp to push back the encroaching darkness, she wondered at the girl’s words. Who was this “she” and why was the girl hiding from her? One thing was for sure, this was not some childhood whimsy but a desperate plea born of fear. Returning to the threshold of the house, a place of transition which would augment Ysabette’s unique abilities, she closed her eyes and extended her left hand. A moment passed and when she opened her eyes once again he was there. The spirit of a great wolf stood before her, his ghostly fur shimmering like mist in starlight, his eyes shining like the two moons, one red and one white. She called the spirit Skyrim.

     

    Ever since she entered this harsh land the wolf spirit had been a constant companion, she could always feel his guiding presence though he rarely showed himself. Recently she’d been able to call upon him, to pull him from the spirit realm. Before only times of extreme danger would garner his aid but lately he came willingly to her call. They had developed a friendship, two lost souls in a strange land. Kneeling she took his head in her hands and stared into those unsettling spectral eyes. “Find her” she thought and felt more than said. After a brief moment of consideration he bounded off through a hole in the crumbling wall following a trail that wound its way up the mountain which loomed above the village of Morthal.

     

    Running after him she soon came upon a fenced in cemetery. The gate was open and Skyrim ran right to it instantly disappearing as he crossed the threshold. She paused at the gate which hung ajar and half buried in the snow drift that pressed against the fence. There was a single trail of foot prints leading into the cemetery; strangely they were bare despite the cold and the snow. Something else about the foot prints struck her as odd, and after a few moments she realized what it was, they were too shallow. Ysabette’s booted feet sank deep in the falling snow leaving soft impressions in the mud beneath, while these barely left an impression. Could ghosts leave footprints she wondered briefly? Skyrim didn’t leave any, but that might be by choice. Her ponderings where interrupted by the sudden urgency of the voices in her head, who she called the “others”. They pushed her forward, incessant in their need for her to follow the footprints.

     

    The unnerving trail led her where she thought it would, where the others said it would, the graves of Helgi and her mother, the two poor souls who died in the house fire. Ysabette wasn’t prepared for what she found however, the girl’s grave had been exhumed, with the coffin pulled part way out of the hole. Something had been furiously scratching at the coffin lid, even leaving behind a long black claw. Ysabette moved to extract the gruesome nail but it disintegrated into a fine gray dust at the slightest touch. It was then that she realized her danger. The snow had been falling steadily for nearly an hour and everything was covered in a fresh downy layer, everything except the grave of Helgi. Whatever it was that had dug up poor Helgi, it had done so moments before Ysabette had arrived. Along with the realization came a renewed fervor to the pleas inside her head. One small voice rang clearer than the rest, “please…no…Laelette…fire…can’t breath…can’t see…help…mama”, feeling a sudden malignant presence not entirely unlike the “others”, but wrong in a way that numbed her mind rather than crowding it. Ysabette sought to extract herself from the grave. She had been foolish following the petitions of the others, coming out here alone and at night. Only now remembering why she was in Morthal in the first place.

     

    Her feet slid in the loose earth of the grave, she stumbled, fell, and without warning found herself facing a pair of feet. They were bare despite the cold and snow, both delicate and dirty with long black claw like nails. Ysabette, instinctively recoiled, scrambling away from the feet and their owner, which lead her back into Helgi’s grave. The coffin at her back, looking up from the hole, Ysabette saw the creature step into the lantern’s light.

     

    It appeared to be a Breton woman. She wore a gown that was once fine, befitting the courts of Highrock, but now it was tattered and covered in snow, mud, and grave dirt. It was sleeveless with exposed shoulders; the pleated skirts were tattered, exposing the creatures pale legs. It had long black hair to go with the long black claws that tipped each finger and toe. The creature smiled at Ysabette, revealing not the teeth of a Breton noble woman, but the fangs of a beast, the fangs of a vampire.

     

    Ysabette just sat there, paralyzed by her terror, unable to run, fight, or scream. Somewhere far away she could feel the desperation of Skyrim as he tried to come to her aid, to protect her, and throttle the abomination. Vaguely Ysabette realized that he was kept away by some ancient rite, something about the graveyard repelled him. The voices in her head, the others, droned deafeningly and again she could hear the small voice “Laelette…fire…no…”

     

    The vampire leaned in close, “Do you want to play?” it asked. “We will have so much fun together.” Ysabette could feel its breath on her neck colder than the night’s wind, colder than the snow, as cold as the grave in which she sat.

     

    The voices died away as the vampire’s lips neared Ysabette’s neck. The sweet serenity of silence enveloped her and she was ready to accept the gift of death. Then as loud as thunder the small voice shouted, not in fear but in anger, in hatred, “MAKE LAELETTE GO AWAY!” Ysabette’s arms clumsily shoved the vampire back as if someone else were controlling them. More than that there was power in her hands as they contacted the vampire’s skin. Some mystic compelling force that propelled the creature much further than Ysabette's thin arms could have managed. The vampire stumbled over a tomb stone but quickly recovered, crouching on all fours like a beast she let out a snarl more suited to a saber cat than a Breton woman. She leapt upon Ysabette, easily pinning her small frame to the coffin of Helgi. “No more playing …I hunger” the vampire whispered as her fanged maw darted for Ysabette’s throat.

     

    The bolt struck the vampire in the cheek, tearing off half her lower jaw as it exited the other side of her face, spraying Ysabette's face with cold blood and spittle. The vampire rolled off of Ysabette clutching her ruined face and filling the night with an ear splitting screech of agony. The beasts scream was met with a guttural roar as a huge orc came barreling into the cemetery, he was wielding a heavy steel war ax that he hurled at the vampire. The ax thudded into the creature’s chest changing the screech into a gurgle.

     

    “NOW GIRL” the orc’s shout broke Ysabette’s trance. Filled with a sudden uncharacteristic fury Ysabette seized the heavy ax in both hands and wrenched it from the beast’s chest. With all her strength she slammed the heavy weapon repeatedly into the creature. Splintering ribs and pulping organs. The orc rushed up and seized the ax by the haft. Ysabette looked up at him eyes wide with terror, tears and blood streamed down her face. She realized that the orc, Durak, had been shouting at her. “Stupid, fool, girl, I told Isran you weren’t made of the right stuff. Too soft, too fragile! But does anyone listen to old Durak, does anyone listen to reason? NO! Well sod you Isran, and sod you too stupid girl.” Durak continued his angry tirade and twisted the gory ax out of Ysabette’s grasp and absentmindedly separated the vampires head from its shoulders. Instantly all of the blood and gore that was now spattered about the gravesite turned to a fine gray dust. Durak busied himself with collecting some of the dust into a leather pouch. His loud tirade had turned to quiet mumbling.

     

    Lights could be seen on the mountain trail, coming from the village. They must have heard the piercing wail of the dying vampire. A few brave souls were coming to investigate with fire and steel in their hands. There were eight of them, mostly of the town guard but there were a few Morthal laymen among them. One man with a yellow beard approaches the corpse his face drawn with lines of worry. He drops his sword in the snow and stands motionless staring down at the body. “Laelette,” he whispers, “my poor Laelette. She’s dead.” The other villagers begin to murmur quietly, the word vampire escaping more than one set of lips.

     

    Durak stood quietly by Ysabette, ax in hand, wary of both the villagers and the shadows that danced at the edge of the torch light. However foolish he thought the task, Isran had charged him with protecting the girl and he would not fail in that regard. Durak bent and lifted her like a child and began carrying the trembling girl back down the mountain to the warmth and relative safety of Moorside Inn. They would need their rest, The Hall of the Vigilant was still a few days journey and the nights would no longer be restful after this.

     

    ***

     

    Later that night Durak awoke to find Ysabette once more missing. In a fury he stormed into the main hall of the Inn, something about Morthal had made her loose her sense; he was of a mind to restore it. The hall was dark, the innkeeper had retired and the candles were blown out. The fire in the center of the hall had burned low and now cast a ruddy glow upon the empty chairs and tables. The main door was open to the night; a cold winter wind was blowing snow into the Inn. In the threshold, dressed only in a light shift, stood Ysabette, staring wide eyed into the darkness. Tears once again streamed down her face. She was whispering softly to someone standing outside in the storm.

     

    Durak, due to his experience, assumed it was another vampire trying to sway the girl. Roaring a challenge despite being unarmed he pulled Ysabette behind him, putting is bulky green body between her and the beast. However, the darkness beyond the door was empty, only wind and snow threatened him. Durak whirled on Ysabette and found her slumped to the floor, sobbing softly. She looked up at him with her large pale blue eyes, red with tears, “She showed me what happened, how the house burned down. She showed me how she died.”

Comments

2 Comments   |   The Long-Chapper and 1 other like this.
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  January 6, 2017
    Ha, Durak is absolutely kicking ass in pure Orcish way, precisely how it should be. And Ysabette is an interesting girl. Seems like some kind of medium, hearing ghosts and stuff. This is definitely a good read. I hope you´ll continue writing because you c...  more
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 3, 2017
    Very curious to continue reading why Ysabette is traveling with Durak. But Durak is a badass as always. :D