the cell

[Balmora]

you wake up cold and afraid. you do not wait for awareness to seep in. you know where you have woken.

you are in a symmetrically arrayed cell with glistening stone walls and a high ceiling. you are nested in a mess of straw in the corner, draped in sodden and stinking rags. you examine your surroundings, automatic and weary. there is a bucket in another corner, speckled with rust and dinted by some anguished denizen in another time. beside it is a sewage grate, too small and jagged to escape through. there is a massive iron door that shimmers occasionally with the magenta ripples of an ancient curse. that door is only to be touched by the shackled dead. you don't want to think about what would happen if you touched it. the floor is always wet, and littered with the droppings of vermin. you have searched for a rat hole, but the grey oppression of the walls is unbroken.

the wall opposite the door was built at a visible diagonal, leaning towards the opposite wall. you know that this is to prevent anybody from trying to climb it. set into the wall, high up, is a small square window fitted with barbed iron dowels. the window is deep, and you can see that the walls are a good metre thick.

you wipe your nose with a grimy hand and clutch your sides, drawing your wretched blanket around you. a thin sheet of dirty water drips from the window, and no matter how much you draw back against the wall your uncovered feet are splashed every time. looking up, you see the freezing moon spilling its sorrowful whiteness into the clouds.

you shudder. your mouth hangs open, and as you draw in breath your teeth sting in the cold. you sneeze harshly, wetly, three times, not bothering to clap a hand over your face. a curtain of mist hangs in the damp, stagnant air. you gently cradle your chapped nostrils in a drier part of your blanket and blow your nose. it is always like this. you are always cold, always wet, always dripping and sneezing and falling into fitful sleep. you do not know how long you have been here. the moon never sets. you cannot even trace the time by the visits of a guard, for there are no guards here, and there is no food. you are often thirsty, forced to lick the slimy cobbles for moisture, but you never grow hungry.

you blow your nose again, harder, and sigh. the water keeps dripping from the window. the moon hangs motionless in its veil of sullen clouds. there will be no change until you sleep, and no change when you wake. you are certain of this. you sniffle.

outside the door, you hear a heavy rattle of a ballbearing chainpiece, and you start, smacking your head against the wall. you have never heard that sound here, distant behind the door, echoing around the walls.

there is a burst of pressure and a flash of blinding light, and you hear the door swing open.

Edited April 12, 2014 by puretrash

[Balmora]

hi guys!! if you enjoy this, id appreciate your feedback! i may continue if you enjoy it!!

[zaiphon]

This sounds great! Do continue! I'd like to see where this is going

[Balmora]

PART 2: the Supplicant of Decay

your eyes slowly regain their footing in the world of vision. there is a tall and broad figure in the doorway, clad in pale grey robes with deep crimson trim. you recognise the sigil of the Supplicants of Decay on the figure's chest - a blank purple diamond with elongated teardrop shapes dribbling from the corners. the Supplicant has its flared sleeves linked at its chest.

you stand, your wasted legs almost buckling under your feeble wait, and gather your rags around you. your nose begins to run again, a thin trickle flowing from each nostril, but you do not bother to wipe it - the supplicants are sightless, and indifferent to all things. you croak out a greeting, and gasp at the congestion and strangeness of your voice - you cannot remember when last you used it.

"the sun is dying." you say, shivering into a bow. your hair, lank and long, swishes in a cascade past your face.

"the sun is dying, as do all things." the reply comes not from the opening of the hood, but from some nameless void deep inside the folds of the Supplicant's robe. the voice is emotionless. the Supplicants speak only in pre-determined ciphers, and you are adept in their language.

"rejoice. leviathad has cobe." you sniffle back congestion, wondering if the Supplicant may respond to this.

"leviathan has come, as it has to many things, as it will to all things." the Supplicant bows low, and you hear the almost liquid clink of a million ballbearings under the robe. Supplicants may only move slowly, weighed down as they are by their chains.

"the moon is freezihhhhhh-"

you sneeze messily, angling your head downwards, and splatter the filthy tile. you collect yourself and try again. the Supplicant displays no impatience.

“the moon is freezing and the tower melts into the sea.”

the Supplicant unjoins its arms and responds.

“the tower melts into the sea, but the pigeons take flight.”

you let out an ecstatic sob and fall to the floor, uttering a broken prayer of gratitude. you are free. the Supplicant will help you. the robed figure pivots on its unseen heels and slowly moves away from you, down the corridor. you follow close behind, easily able to match its pace even with your sapped strength. you gasp out a “thagk you”, but the Supplicant cannot respond. you wipe your nose, which is running now with tears as well as sickness.

[Balmora]

im aware that this story is fairly niche because of its messiness and 2nd-person-perspective, but any feedback would be greatly appreciated!!

[The Kneezle]

Oh, this is very interesting. I appreciate the ambiguity. I hope there's more!!!