Chapter VI or Pranks in the Dark. A Vampire Came to Play. The country life. The Trap. Rasha.
I
I spent my days—and especially the nights that followed—concocting mischief and haunting the lair of those uninvited guests who had intruded upon what I considered my rightful domain.
In those days, I committed many wicked yet amusing deeds—at least, they would be called so by those who think any child's crime is somehow charming.
What had begun as an effort to drive them away from a place I wanted for myself turned, quite naturally, into a marvelous training ground for me. In truth, I'm not even sure I wanted them gone anymore. First, because I no longer needed to wander the frozen city scavenging for food—those urchins had remarkable sources, bringing in rare and even luxurious provisions during a time when the rest of the Imperial City was starving. And second, because something in me was awakening: new instincts, swift and ravenous, stirred within me. They fascinated me and demanded to be sharpened. For that, I needed... living specimens.
So I began watching their group, especially in the evenings. I loved lurking in the shadows, crouched beneath the dark arches of the main drainage canals, spying on them for hours with patient and greedy eyes. First, they never saw me. They never heard me. So I drank in their movements as they divided their loot, ate, and settled down for sleep.
Often, some of them stayed late by that fire they managed to light each night—something that stirred both envy and irritation in me. I would edge closer then, just near enough to catch their voices. And I tried to eavesdrop, but just as I mentioned, I understood little to nothing; they spoke in a thick, rambling slang—a dialect I would later hear often in Bravil, though I never managed to learn it. My beloved friend Courtney speaks it like a native and has tried to teach me, but alas, I seem to have no gift for foreign tongues. Except, of course, for the wonderful and ever-subtle Ta'agra!
But I understood enough to grasp the truth of them: those children were astonishingly well-organized—more than just a gang, they were a structured unit, a true urban strike force. Each had a role, clear and purposeful, adapted to the situations that might arise during their daily raids—whether on the streets, in markets, temples, or anywhere crowds gathered, too distracted to notice small hands working fast.
Oh, they were superb thieves and exquisite beggars—true masters of those noble professions! And when luck betrayed them or a wrong move exposed their mischief, the diversion team would leap into action. They didn't hesitate to use the wicked little blades they kept hidden in their filthy and ragged garments. They weren't killers, not quite, but they had no qualms when their lives—or more often their freedom—were on the line: they were the epitome of the urban survivor, perfectly adapted to the crowded alleys of the Imperial City.
Just like me... But only in a way. Because they were daylight predators and darkness... oh, the darkness frightened them! So I took full advantage of the gloom, the echoes, and the hidden paths of my underground realm and played with them. For a long, long time.
Sometimes, especially in the beginning, I would often lure the night watchman—the one they eventually assigned to guard them while the others tried to sleep—toward the entrances of the main drainage canals. A faint sound, a clink, or a whisper would draw him in. While he nervously prowled about, lantern trembling in his hand, I would slip behind him, dart into their camp, and scream—loud and sudden—right amid the sleepers. Then I would run and hide in the darkness of the galleries! There, after a short while, I would start to sing or shout, depending on my mood, moving closer to or farther from their lair.
I had gotten into the habit of dressing in dark clothes and covering my face, leaving only my eyes, nose, and ears free, so even when they managed to glimpse my silhouette in the dim light of the torches they carried, they weren't sure if it was a human being, a child like themselves. But I think I'm wrong, terribly wrong! None of us behaved like children do anymore; no, not there, beneath the high dome built by the cruel and brilliant Ayleids!
I would also periodically raid their food supplies, and I must admit with some shame that I took much more than I needed and destroyed it. Yes, in those times of hardship and famine, the seemingly sweet girl with golden hair and innocent, wide eyes was feeding the rats of the depths with food delicacies!
Ah, the rats...
The terrible cold that held the city in its grip had driven them—all of them—into the sewers. At first, the mice came in swarms, twitchy and bothersome. But soon they vanished, overrun and devoured by their bigger, stronger, and infinitely more clever cousins.
Yes, clever! Because the rats are intelligent creatures, of that I'm sure!
I began by leaving food near my little, cozy den. And quickly enough, a rat community settled there, taking ownership of the zone. Oh, they defended that little kingdom fiercely! In those early days, there were bloody skirmishes between my rats and those that dared to sneak in from other parts of the sewer system and try to feast on the rich daily offerings I provided. The newcomers never survived.
I even tried the same trick near the central chamber—the domain of the invaders—but no matter how plentiful the bait, the rats refused to enter that great, echoing marble rotunda. They scurried often about its outskirts, yes, but never crossed into its heart. No matter how I tried to coax them.
Still, their mere presence in the area unnerved the urchins. The intruders grew afraid of wandering too far from their base, especially at night. Even in the mornings, when they left through the main collector channel in the Talos Plaza District, they armed themselves with sticks and torches.
I, on the other hand, began trying to befriend some of my rats and hunt the others. I'm not sure if I managed to gain the trust of these intelligent creatures, but I did become exceptionally good at catching them.
Rats are dangerous creatures when cornered, but what makes them truly terrifying is their natural instinct to act as a unit—a living swarm. At first, I was often badly bitten by many while trying to capture a single one, but soon enough, my movements became so quick and my tactics so refined that I could seize multiple specimens alive without so much as a scratch.
It didn't take long before I mastered the process. I'd stuff the captured rats into a sack and hurry to the invaders' dirty sleeping den. There, I would release them—and then retreat into the caressing shadows to watch with delight.
They never disappointed me!
The rats, so clever elsewhere, became utterly disoriented and panicked under the high, echoing marble dome. That place unsettled them—it always had—and now, trapped among the tangled limbs of sleeping bodies, they thrashed and shrieked in frenzy.
The chaos that followed was sublime!
The screams, the scurrying feet, the sight of rats clawing and biting in blind terror, fascinated me beyond reason. The intruders flailed, their movements clumsy and panicked as they tried to fight back or flee; they trampled each other in their desperate attempt to escape, their terror feeding my exultation in a vicious, exhilarating cycle. It was intoxicating. I relished every moment, feeling a thrill I couldn't quite explain, an elation as raw and wild as the sin itself. Even now, as I write this, I still feel that tremor of pleasure...
Oh,that group of urchins was my enemy, my competitor—a rival, a reflection of myself in the food chain of that microsystem. Down there, beneath the marble dome, it was war. And in war, everything is permitted!
But I had gone too far. My endless, cruel pranks,the nights filled with screams, confusion, and the squeals of terror-stricken rats—all drew the attention of a different kind of predator. Eventually, it stirred his anxiety and wrath.
This entity was already aware of our presence, including, or perhaps especially, mine, perchance sensing that it would be much safer without any human presence there, in that underground world. I suspect now that it would have tolerated our presence as long as we remained quiet and unobtrusive—only a background, faint noise in its ancient domain. But we had disturbed the balance... I had. And when balance is broken, the darkness always takes notice and sometimes rises to fill the gap. I know that now.
Whether it acted out of territorial instinct or for reasons far more complex, I can't say. All I know is that something unbelievable happened at the climax of this grim episode.
A creature of the Void—this time no metaphor, no exaggeration—began hunting us. It was a real nightmare. Ancient and terrifying, one that made even the shadows shiver.
One of the urchins, a tall brunette girl, vanished during a scouting trip through a secondary gallery near the Elven Gardens District. She hadn't gone alone—two others had accompanied her, searching for me, of course. But only the two boys returned.
I wasn't even near the place where the tragedy unfolded, but I could hear the desperate and quickly cut-off scream of the girl. Then, the panicked shouts of the other two boys and the echo of their footsteps as they ran terrified toward the illusory safety of their haven in the central hall.
I was puzzled, but I didn't feel fear. Not then. I assumed, foolishly, that they'd run into one of the more aggressive rat colonies. Perhaps I'd driven them too deep, too far. I even allowed myself a brief, cruel satisfaction at their discomfort.
However, that night, my sense of smell kept warning me—an unfamiliar scent, faint and wrong. Pungent, like mold and copper or something older than either, it reminded me of that narrow corridor leading toward the mausoleum from the cemetery.
Truth be told, I had been sensing something strange around me for some time—something akin to an immaterial presence. But since I was still an entirely earthly being back then, I laid the blame on the amulet I wore. It sometimes behaved oddly... or so I believed. Perhaps my perception was already distorted by loneliness and a quiet hunger for a friend, a mother, a kitten, anyone who might care for me. Ah, that sanctified jewelry! I had grown used to looking at it and speaking to it, recounting my day and asking it for advice... And the amulet seemed to respond—not with words, but through the subtle shifts in its expression.
Yet, that presence was real. Physical. It wasn't some mere specter or flicker of madness—it was a creature—a material one, with purposes, instincts, and especially thirst. A vampire. A true one. And our paths had crossed from the first day I spent in the sewers.
There are countless legends about vampires, and even a few earnest studies by scholars who've tried to understand these unnatural anomalies. Yet the conclusions, testimonies, and observations differ so wildly that anyone delving into the subject could reasonably assume that "vampire" is not one thing but many entities of disparate origin, behavior, powers, and weakness, sometimes so radically different that they may have nothing in common at all.
This very skilled and dangerous predator, who began toying with us that night, was, let's say, a "classic" vampire. It emerged only at night, lay dormant during the day in a coffin somewhere in the depths, and was devoid of reason. Perhaps not entirely, but it certainly didn't possess the characteristics and habits described by some authors who prefer their monsters alluring rather than disgusting. Because make no mistake: vampires are no misunderstood aristocrats! They are, without exception, enemies of the human race and entities that exist contrary to the basic laws of life!
I strongly suspect this creature had been feeding on the gang members from the beginning. And I think it did that discreetly, initially without intending to reveal its presence. I'm sure it was aware of my presence in the city's sewer system from the beginning and ignored me; I do not know why it avoided me, but I have certain suspicions about that.
In any case, from that night on, the urchins began to disappear—one by one, always at night, and never quietly. The abductions were sudden, brutal, and disturbingly theatrical, as if the creature no longer cared to hide, or perhaps wanted to be seen, to be feared, to be known.
The last to vanish before the gang fled in terror was their leader—the tall, golden-haired, and well-dressed boy. He had grown reckless, likely because he felt his authority threatened by the chaos unfolding: first by my irritating provocations, and then by the actions of that monstrous entity, which killed.
I say killed, but I don't know what truly became of the urchins who were taken. I never found a corpse, nor any sign of their deaths in the city's depths. There was only blood—sometimes, but not always at the scene of the previous attack; and, more often than not, very little.
I perceived the boy's abduction with all my senses. It happened—like the others—at night, not long after the first girl's disappearance. By then, unsettled and disoriented by the recent events, I had begun to behave more cautiously. I abandoned the silly pranks I once delighted in and focused solely on understanding what was happening—and especially on grasping the nature of the new predator that had entered my kingdom.
I can't say I was frightened, as perhaps I should have been. But I did feel a growing unease, a creeping disquiet that deepened each night. My sense of smell—my greatest ally in the dark—picked up only vague, uncertain traces of the creature. And my hearing caught nothing at all, except in those moments when it wanted to be heard, when it made noise on purpose... while attacking.
On the night that shattered the gang and drove them from the sewers for good, I was crouched beneath the great vault of the main collector channel in the Arena District, quietly watching. I had been following the urchins' movements with greedy attention, sensing the tension rising among them. They were loud, aggressive, shoving each other and hurling insults in increasingly colorful ways—so agitated, in fact, that they even forgot to speak in their wretched little slang!
Eventually, what began as shouting quickly escalated into a full-blown brawl.
On one side stood the leader and his loyal shadow—the blond boy who, as I would later learn, was his younger brother. Opposing them were the remaining seven, furious and afraid, demanding they abandon the sewers once and for all. The brothers refused, defiant and loud. Voices rose. Fists flew.
And then—it happened.
The vampire struck.
It had been waiting unseen in the Talos Plaza collector gallery, hidden in the shadows like venom coiled in silence. But the sound of conflict enraged it, perhaps... And then, it slithered, better said, flowed, across the marble floor of the central room with impossible speed, moving like a serpent.
Near the brawling group, it halted abruptly, then contracted, instantly becoming much—much!— shorter than before, and sprang, striking with incredible force right in the middle of the scuffle, scattering the urchins around like mere wooden chips.
Dazed, each lay where the extraordinary impact had thrown them, and the vampire rose, becoming a bipedal entity once again, immensely tall and thin. It simply plucked the gang leader from the ground, tossed him over its shoulder, and then, moving swiftly and almost floating, vanished into the darkness of the Arena District's sewers.
It passed right by me as I watched in awe at the eerie display of strength and grace that had just occurred; I had never seen anything so brutal, so precise—I was fascinated, even envious! And as it slid past me—gliding, smooth, without a sound or breeze—it turned its face toward me.
I will never forget those simulacra of eyes, gazing at me from beyond the grave, from a world that barely exists! Or shouldn't exist at all...
They were like two blind, shuttered windows and didn't seem to see. They didn't even resemble eyes; no pupil, no spark, no life. And yet, in the dim, sepulchral light that clung to the tunnel walls, they conveyed something far more disturbing than mere emptiness. Or absence.
What I felt was an abyss—endless sorrow, a hollow without bottom. And something else: a thirst, perhaps... or hunger... or some terrible, primal need, the kind of compulsion that drives earthly beings to feed, to mate, to hunt and kill.
It vanished into the darkness along with his victim, who had begun to scream piercingly. But those screams were abruptly cut off, and for a few moments, all I could hear was silence. The kind that wraps around the bones and squeezes. The kind that hurts.
And then came the desperate yells of the other urchins, who scrambled to their feet, sprinting in blind terror through the great arch of the Talos Plaza District main collector channel gallery. None of them ever returned, at least not during the time I continued to live in the sewers.
Unbelievable as it may seem, I continued to live in the bowels of the Imperial City. No one disturbed me anymore, and I was only mildly concerned about what that terrifying entity might do next. I did not truly fear this embodiment of Hell—for whenever I thought of the vampire, all I had to do was clutch the amulet of the goddess Mara in my small fist, and strength, along with a strange confidence, would return to me.
I never moved into the central hall of the sewer system as I had once planned; it lay too close to the entrance through which the vampire had descended into the depths. So I remained in my little den, tucked at the dead end beneath the trading hall of the Merchant District.
The supplies and clothing left behind by the vanished urchins were enough to sustain me through that brutal cold spell that gripped the Imperial City. I even found money and a heap of cheap jewelry among the belongings left behind by those who had fled, with the horror of the world nestled deep in their hearts.
I would see that vampire only once more in my life, but that encounter was so strange that it deserves its own place in this story.
II
I was asleep, and dreaming—a deep sleep. Dreams moved like shadows behind a veil, vague and wordless, flashing one after another through the murk of my mind:
I dreamed of an ancient cemetery, overrun by vines and ivy, forgotten by men and even the gods. Sad, restless shadows drifted between crumbling tombstones, beneath the glare of a sun that burned wild and cruel in a deep, ominous sky. From among them, a tall and slender shade crept toward me. Its blind eyes turned to me—empty, searching, pleading.
Then I dreamed of a fortress-castle, perched atop a barren, jagged hill. Its pale walls gleamed strangely under a bloated red sun that stared down from the gray-black heavens. And though light poured from that sky, it was not the light of this world, but a primal radiance, like that it had once borne witness to the sundering of Lorkhan. Upon the highest tower stood a tall, slender knight clad in brilliant armor, his fist raised in defiance against the heavens.
Then came a third dream—or was it a vision?—of a storm raging through that same dark, primordial sky. Blinding bolts of lightning split the firmament, which pulsed rhythmically beneath a voice chanting an unspeakable incantation. The knight reached from his tower and caught one of the bolts in his grasp. Triumphantly, he lifted it above his head and cried out with joy and victory.
At last, I dreamed of a verdant land, overflowing with life and rushing, crystalline waters. Dense forests swayed with restless movement, teeming with wild animals and beautiful birds. People lived there—strong, healthy, and wild—alongside their children. I saw their rich flocks and fertile fields, planted with all manner of grains and vegetables. The sun, yellow and bright, shone from a high, open sky, and in that young light, those people fought fiercely among themselves, wielding weapons of red bronze that glinted mercilessly. And yes... that steep and once-barren hill stood there too, though now its slopes were covered in a dark, very dark forest of pines. At the summit, a crooked gray tower leaned within its ruined walls.
Oh! Right there, upon that ancient and mournful ruin, a purple star ignited—throbbing, wild—as though it might fall upon me at any moment!
I awoke, shaken and overcome with a sorrow I could not explain. Light surrounded me—and that frightened me more than anything. I turned, and terror gripped my soul. The vampire was there, just a few steps from my shelter, sniffing the air. In its left hand, it held a smoldering torch that cast a blinding glow through the subteranean gloom.
That moment, my heart didn't race—it slowed, as if my body knew: this was how prey felt. I learnt that just then.
We studied each other for a moment that felt like an eternity. The creature was tall, emaciated, shrouded in black, tattered clothes, stiff with dirt. It was barefoot, its feet covered with hair, more like thick fur. Long, claw-like fingers jutted from its gnarled hands. And its face... its face was horror itself. No eyes—just a coarse, ridged layer of skin. Its mouth was a jagged slit, lined with gleaming fangs that caught the torchlight. No nose, only gaping holes. Wild, abyss-black hair spilled over its hunched shoulders, and its breathsmelled like a cathedral's forgotten, sealed-for-centuries crypt—not decay, but sacred rot.
I tensed like a cornered beast. Then, driven by instinct, I leapt forward, squeezing past the thin—oh, so thin!—body and the wall, scattering all the blankets and clothes that had wrapped around me. I didn't look back. I didn't care how it reacted. I just ran—ran as though Death itself were on my heels.
In mere seconds, I had run through the entire length of the dead-end gallery. I crossed the deadly trap without hesitation, guided by nothing but instinct. Only when I stopped, gasping and heart pounding, did I turn.
The vampire was right beside me.
The torchwas gone. It was now on all fours, sniffing. Then it opened that cruel slit it called a mouth—and from within came a high-pitched, thin, pleading sound.
Terror flooded me. I crawled back, inch by inch, but the creature did not follow. It only knelt, sniffing the air, keening that unbearable, hollow lament.
Every fiber of me, every instinct, screamed: 'Run!! Run until the very End of the World, if that's what it takes!' But I was frozen—paralyzed not by fear alone, but by something more.And so, I stayed.
I watched the terror for a while. Then something broke inside me. The dread began to unravel—into calm, then into something odd: Acceptance. And a strong need to understand.
I crouched low, watching it; watching this nightmarish creature until my fear melted into fascination. Then, slowly, hesitantly, I reached out.
My hand met only the void.
The vampire was gone.
Yet I knew it had been real. I did not even flinch when I felt it behind me. This time, however, it was silent. It stood, tall and spectral, watching me for a moment longer. Then, without a sound, it turned and drifted away, vanishing into the depths of the sewer; behind it left something like a faint spiritual vibration: not memory or thought, but... sorrow. Endless, soundless sorrow.
In the deep silence reigning after its departure, my amulet hummed—three notes, like a lullaby forgotten by time.
III
The encounter with the abyssal entity drained me like a feverish dream—I was left hollow, stretched thin inside my own skin. I spent days practically lying low after that strange, dark event. I ate and slept; I slept deeply, without dreams—or at least without dreams I could remember. Each time I awoke from that leaden sleep, I felt rested and stronger. Fear no longer haunted me, and I did not hesitate when faint flute tunes and murmurs of distant laughter echoed through the underground. I went straight to investigate the source of the noise.
New guests had settled in the sewers of the great city, this time beneath the Arena District. They were adults—ragged and frightening, with hoarse voices and cruel eyes—spending their nights in the galleries, but always returning to their activities in the capital by day. Men and women alike—beggars and thieves, people who wouldn't hesitate to kill for a handful of coins. They weren't organized, but the terrible winter that had fallen upon the Imperial City had forced them together, much like wolves.
I avoided provoking them, yet I found a peculiar pleasure in spying on their lively gatherings, their rambling conversations, and the restless, troubled sleep of the drunk. I would creep close to them, listening in on their talks; each night, I slinked among the snoring, groaning bodies as they sank into the murky waters of sleep, haunted by alcohol and skooma. I stepped with the utmost care, sniffing past their grimy clothes, trying to deduce from the smell whether they were men or women. Then I would return to my little den and sleep.
I ate and I slept.
Well-fed and rested, soothed by the peculiar amusement these new guests provided, I felt my body—and more importantly, my soul—fully recover from the terrible shock that had exhausted them. I was beginning to understand that the world was far more complex than it had first seemed; the encounter with that terrifying entity had toughened my spirit and planted a seed within me:the desire to understand at least some of the strange things that happened daily around us. Moreover, a question had emerged in my young mind—small at first, but alive and sharp: 'What else lives in the dark?'
The newcomers to my domain kept to themselves, neither disturbing me nor crossing into the deeper tunnels beneath the Arena District. But it hardly mattered, for one night, shortly before winter's end, a platoon of warrior monks descended into the tunnels and slaughtered them all. I was there, witnessing the entire massacre. The monks came with torches, clubs, spears, and swords, showing no mercy as they butchered everyone who slept there, exhausted from the day's crimes. The Order members then carried all the mangled bodies out of the sewers, and silence returned once more to the underground.
During the cleansing, my amulet grew warm as blood seeped into the cracks between stones—not in horror, but in recognition. It also reacted with a faint vibration, and in my mind resonated a sultry voice: 'You are not like them! You are not prey but the darkness' daughter, and the twilight adores you, kitten!'
I was sad when it happened—it stole the only game I had left in those dark galleries. But I soon found solace, slipping into my imagination and dreams whenever I felt bored.
Not that I had much time left in the subterranean realm, for winter ended as abruptly as it had begun. One night, a warm, fragrant breeze swept through the great city, and by morning, the sun blazed wildly in a high, clear sky. The snow vanished with startling speed, and the sewers flooded with gushing waters, rushing toward their destination, Lake Rumare.
I emerged from the depths like a little rat—soaked, reeking, caught off guard by the rising tide in my cozy lair... yet very much alive, and eager to taste the world once more!
The great city suddenly awoke under the warm spring sunlight. Yet this awakening unfolded under the worst possible circumstances, as the melting snow exacerbated the famine that had long reigned in the capital. Travel along the Empire's roads, now turned into veritable swamps, came to a halt, and all human activities across the realm ceased. Even the dreadful war that had savaged the Empire's eastern territories came to a standstill, and, as I learned later, much later, diplomats from the two warring states held a first meeting during this period. An armistice was signed, dignitaries exchanged polite, artful words while embracing each other—meanwhile, both armies, sunk in the mud, stood watching each other with weary suspicion, waiting.
The slow thawing of the ice that had gripped Lake Rumare in an unyielding embrace was a spectacle worth watching—oh, it held the water captive for so long and was so thick that when it finally began to crack and shift, it did so in a terrible, treacherous way! All the ships trapped by the frost in the Imperial City's harbor suffered terribly during this period—two even succumbed to the pressure, sinking and further disrupting the port activity long after the last shards of ice had drifted away and the lake cleared.
As a young and healthy being, I was swept up by the joy that accompanies the sunlit days of this season. The warm wind that constantly blew from the south, carrying at first only the dense smells of the city awakening from its long winter sleep, and later the intoxicating scents of a reviving nature, filled me with restlessness and a yearning for life. At times, I ached to run wild across green meadows and under beautiful trees of the city's parks!
Yet the blinding light of spring, the wide-open spaces filled with enchanting scents, and the crowded, noisy streets did not suit me well after the time I spent in darkness and silence. Moreover, my small winter shelter was now unusable, and having lost all my meager possessions to the waters that flooded the city's underground, I was forced to struggle anew for survival. And though I was much more experienced than a year prior, the general situation in the capital had changed drastically. Over the cold season, Stendarr's Order had managed to eliminate most of the city's vagrants, both adults and children, and I had now to compete with the elite of this social class, with true urban survivors, all ruthless and highly skilled.
At the same time, the growing poverty that wrapped the city's people in a tattered shroud—heralding a famine of unprecedented proportions—only worsened and complicated my life. So, instead of enjoying the warm, generous sun, the fragrant spring breeze, and nature's rebirth like any child might in normal times, I was once again plunged into the relentless fight for survival!
Finding a quiet and hidden place to rest and dream became a daily ordeal. My habit of sleeping during the day and prowling at night served me well, though. I snuck into various cellars—especially those of craftsmen in the Merchant District—and usually managed to rest undisturbed in those dark, damp places. Undisturbed by people, at least, for the dampness that plagued the city until summer seeped into my small, frail body, filling my young bones with cold and pain. But exhaustion always won in the end, and I slept, regaining the strength I needed for the endless struggle fate had chosen for me.
During that time, obtaining the daily food had become a daunting task for most inhabitants of the Imperial City. Even wealthy traders or skilled craftsmen from the Merchant District sometimes had nothing more than oat porridge with a few scraps of meat floating in it for lunch... Ah, the meat of those times! I shudder at the memory; throughout my tumultuous life, I've often eaten things that might seem inedible or plain repulsive to most people, but the meat sold at exorbitant prices during that troubled spring in the capital's markets was particularly suspect! Fish was in high demand, and when Lake Rumare finally thawed enough for the fishermen to venture out, they made small fortunes. The homes of the rich were now tightly guarded, and even in their vast kitchens, cooks sometimes shrugged helplessly, unable to prepare the lavish meals their masters were accustomed to. Yet it was precisely their pantries and storehouses that became my most reliable food source until the first merchant ships managed to sail up the Niben and reach the Imperial City's port.
The black market for food experienced an unstoppable boom—one that even Stendarr's well-organized and ruthless Order struggled to suppress. Most southern merchants preferred selling their goods to speculators prowling the port like predators. These men bought up every shipment brought up the Niben, offering prices far higher than any local trader could afford.
As a result, the city's markets were suddenly flooded with outrageously expensive food. "Flooded" may be too strong a word for what happened, but, despite the famine ravaging the capital, those goods did linger in market stalls for days—unbought, unaffordable. It wasn't long before starving and furious crowds began attacking the stalls of the speculators, killing vendors and taking the food by force.
The Order intervened in force, and for a time, the Imperial City teetered on the edge of civil war. When the first starving citizens were hanged in the Arena—which had quickly become the Order's preferred place of execution—angry mobs armed with whatever they could find, sharp or not, began launching open attacks on the warrior monks' patrols. Suddenly, the citizens came to see the Order not as a protector, but as an enemy. The monks, lacking true military training and being, in truth, little more than sanctified thugs, were overwhelmed in the first large-scale clash, and the people won. Then the crowds seized the fallen monks' weapons, and within days, Emperor Titus Mede II found himself besieged in his own palace.
The commander of the City Guard refused to order his crossbowmen to fire on the famished crowd, which clamored to speak with the emperor; his replacement also declined any hostile action against the ragged and hostile masses; several platoons of monks from the Order melted away like the winter snows when they were sent against the desperate front lines of the people gathered in the imperial palace's plaza.And one light cavalry squadron, the capital's only mounted military unit, was surrounded by the mob and forced to retreat step by step—their horses too—in the Imperial Palace's great hall.
The armed citizens did not follow. Instead, they remained outside, massed beneath the palace walls, loudly demanding that the emperor show himself and hear their grievances. And so, Emperor Titus Mede II stepped onto the balcony and promised the starving people bread and new laws.
And he really did try to keep the promises he made on that restless spring day! For Titus Mede II, that weak yet kind emperor, truly loved his people. But everything, absolutely everything, was against him! The greedy southern Dominion, the inept ministers on his small council, the greed and corruption that poisoned the hearts of so-called entrepreneurs, the betrayals of some provincial nobles, and even the strange weather patterns of those terrible years in Cyrodiil—all these eroded the already fragile foundations of the Empire.
The Grand Council passed law after law in the days that followed, and for a time, food prices stabilized. Government officials began buying goods directly from the ships that docked in the harbor and then redistributed them to the local traders who were to sell the food at prices fixed by law. But soon, the greedy merchants arriving from distant lands decided that the emperor's offer was too low; tempted by the local speculators' cartel, many began unloading their cargo in secret, along the shores of Lake Rumare. From there, the goods were smuggled into the city and stored in private, secret warehouses—some near the docks, others deep in the Merchant District.
What followed was a brutal campaign: the Order of Stendarr fought a relentless war against these smugglers and speculators, whose cruel goal was to strangle the city's markets. It was a fierce, evenly matched struggle, and it only ended when the imperial land routes were finally reopened, rescuing the government and population from what had seemed a hopeless situation.
For me, it was a harsh and dangerous time. The Order's patrols roamed the streets day and night, raiding warehouses and searching every corner where food might be hidden. I had to rely on every trick and instinct I had learned to survive in the chaos, but true respite only came when the sewers became livable again.
Without a space to call my own—no matter how filthy—I was constantly on edge. The endless raids and street skirmishes shattered my sleep. I couldn't stash food or even a spare set of clothes, and I became once more a skeletal, ragged creature with feverish eyes and an empty mind—a small predator, hunting through an urban jungle that honed my instincts and etched the fight for survival by any means into my soul forever!
But summer arrived! Much earlier than expected... The food shortage in the capital gradually eased, and in the end, the crisis resolved itself. Drawn by rumors of the great famine and hoping for high profits, many a merchant flooded the city's markets with goods; with the recent truce in effect, even the wealthy county of Anvil was supplying the metropolis, and all these soothed the citizens and allowed them to settle back into their familiar routines, finally.
I returned to my old hideout beneath the Great Market of the Imperial City. In no time, I recovered physically; ah, youth has its own silent and irreplaceable magic! Given food and rest—the bare necessities of all mortal creatures—it revives even the most depleted yet healthy bodies.
And so it came to pass that summer held the land in fevered clasp, hot and withered, whispering of woes yet to come upon the Empire, though cloaked in fair deceit. The breath of day grew thick as stewed vapours, the air as still as sleep. At midday, you could sometimes catch glimpses of the cheerful, unsettling ghosts of arid Elsweyr, shimmering and swaying through the empty streets. The poor souls and toiling folk did trudge nearly naked beneath the sun's cruel eye, which hung aloof in heaven's pale and faded dome—so pale it often seemed to fade into grey.
Rain never came. One by one, the city's wells ran dry as their lifeblood slipped further into the earth's unseen veins. Even Lake Rumare withdrew, inch by inch, until one day I found myself stepping out from the sewers onto land once claimed by its depths. The main spillway—part of the Talos District's drainage system—was long, very long, and once protected by thick bronze grates. But centuries of restless waters had eaten through the metal, and now the tunnel gaped open like a forgotten gate, not into the lake's depths, but onto a beach of fine white sand, nestled at the base of high, hollowed cliffs.
It is astonishing what can be found in such a place: rusted swords half-buried in the sand and jagged like broken fangs, shattered urns spilling their last dust into the dirt, bones cracked and gnawed by time itself, and many other countless shards of forgotten lives. The centuries that had passed over the Imperial City had composed here a silent elegy and painted a fantastic fresco — a testament to the cruelty, tenderness, and folly of all those who had once walked these shores.
It wasa true museum of Man and Mer!
And yet, there was nothing to admire, at least for someone like me. Everything—absolutely everything—was nothing more than a hollow tribute to the vanity of fleeting mortal lives upon these beautiful and cruel lands. And the little predator I had become did not linger to ponder such futility. There was nothing to eat among these remnants, and not even a scrap of usable clothing!
So I contented myself with a long swim in the lake's warm waters, beneath the serene glow of Masser. O, sweetest of solace—bathing in star-kissed water! That night, I vowed to seek such bliss wheresoe'er warmth and depth waters conspired to meet. Just as a wood-born siren might—free, wild, and unbound.
I did not return to the capital's sewers; in my subteranean kingdom, the stench had grown unbearable, and the heat had turned all its galleries into suffocating, airless crypts. Instead, I spent most of that summer wandering the lands around the Imperial City and its outskirts. So I visited many of the nearby villages, little hamlets nestled beneath sleepy hills, and roadside inns, prowling and hunting — always watching, always listening. Day after day, with bare feet and bright eyes, I roamed the dusty roads around the Empire's capital—I came and went like a breeze with no name yet with a clear purpose in mind. And I was free and healthy and happy; those were ones of my happiest days in my life!
Most of the villagers, unlike the wary folk of the city, were simpler and far more generous, and I soon discovered, to my great delight, that a smile wrapped in sorrow, some crocodile tears and a few carefully chosen words, preferably whispered with downcast eyes and a trembling voice, could buy me bread, and on occasion, even cheese or fruit. Yet their kindness and gullibility never kept me from spying on them from the shadows, eavesdropping, and stealing—stealing only as a game because I was not truly hungry, not for food, and certainly not for friendship.
I was delighted—yes, truly!—by slipping intotheir homes during the day, while they toiled in the fields, or at night, when the entire family slept the deep, sweet sleep of those who earn their living by the sweat of their brows—just to play a little with them. Sometimes I would shift their belongings ever so slightly: a comb out of place, a knife turned the wrong way, a single sock gone missing—nothing more! And I also left occasional faint footprints in the dust, or the soft scent of jasmine or nightshade on their pillows, whispering to them in their sleep, nonsense mostly: words without meaning. Or syllables carried on the hush of breath... They would not recall them come morning, no — but they would feel them, and that was enough.
I did not wish them harm, my friends! Truly, I did not! I just liked... being close. There was such joy, such wicked, trembling delight, in listening to their dreams shift beneath my voice, in seeing their limbs twitch ever so slightly, in feeling — though they never knew it — the heat of their pulse against my palms as I stood close enough to touch, but never did.
And soon enough, they began weaving stories of ghosts visiting their homes, muttering in low voices over mugs of ale at the tavern.
I would sit nearby, head lowered, listening to their frightened babble with quiet delight.
They spoke with such seriousness, such worry—and I could barely stop myself from laughing!
Charming whispers inside my little mind kept telling me that I was doing clever, funny, interesting deeds — and that what I took with my own hands was always far more precious than anything freely given. Sometimes the Voice would speak even sweeter things. It told me that everything in the world was mine by birth, divine right, that I could take and play and wander where I pleased, for those people—those simple creatures—were, in truth, my subjects.
And the Voice, that warm and silken thing coiled deep within my mind — neither mine nor wholly foreign — would often murmur at dusk, when the world held its breath and I walked barefoot beneath the young stars. "They sleep," it would purr, "because they are merely mortal. But you, my little kitten, you prowl and watch and hunt. You slip between breaths and locks, between the slivers of time where no one else dares dwell. They belong to the sun — and they die. But you, my darling, you are twilight's beloved daughter."
As I said, I never meant harm. Yet I didn't ponder the consequences of my actions — not when the whispers praised and justified my every deed, wrapping my mischief in layers of meaning and mystery. "But what is the harm," the Voice would murmur, just as Secunda rose high over the sleeping land, casting silver shadows across the fields and forests, "when the world lies at your feet, and you— yes, you—are its rightful monarch?"
Now I know better.
Lies. All lies — shameless, poisonous, sweet lies... and so many temptations, each laid like priceless pearls along the path my beloved Mistress Nocturnal wove for me — knowing all too well how easily my poor, wild, and young—oh, so young!—soul would follow their shimmer into shadow.
There was one exception, though. Among the many inns scattered across the Red Ring Road, there was one where the innkeeper—a woman past her youth but rich in laughter and care—truly seemed to like me. Whenever I crossed her threshold, thin and dusty from the road, she greeted me not with suspicion, but with small, sweet cakes dusted in sugar, or a warm cup of milk, or—on occasion—a piece of soft, nice clothing. Oh, her eyes were always full of warmth and kindness, and I was always welcome there, free to curl up and sleep wherever I pleased!
She even asked me—more than once—to stay. To live with her family, to have a place, a bed, a name that someone might call gently in the morning. But I didn't tell her my true name; I was too wild—even feral—and unused to kindness or love. The very thought of someone drawing close to me filled me with dread. And so, despite the free food and the undisturbed rest I found in her care, I eventually stopped visiting because I couldn't bear the feeling of being treated gently.
And yet, something inside me—something faint and deeply hidden—resonated with those quiet gestures of goodwill. Perchance that's why, out of all the places I wandered around the Imperial City, hers was the only one I never stole from.
I also paid a visit — or rather, a series of visits — to the vast refugee camp that had sprung up southwest of the Imperial City, nestled along the shores of Lake Rumare, near the point where the road to Skingrad first winds into the forested hills. The people there had made something of a life for themselves. A proper village had risen just like a stubborn weed from stone — the land cleared, the soil tilled, and the settlers bent all day long over the land the Emperor generously had granted them. They were well-organized, I'll give them that. And despite the great cemetery that loomed not far beyond the camp, filled with the victims of the cruel winter just passed, the residents seemed cheerful and content. But oh, there was no innocence there! Unlike the villagers of the true countryside, who greeted me with bread and trust, these folk had the eyes of those who had seen the edge of ruin and vowed never to look back. They were harsh, tight-fisted, endlessly industrious — and obsessed, yes, obsessed! — with the idea of gaining wealth. You could feel it in the air they breathed: the ambition, the stinginess, the hunger. And I was delighted; here were not gentle hands and warm hearths, but prey. Perfect, amusing little prey for the predator I had become.
When I stole from kind hearts, I admit there sometimes came a faint twinge — a soft, gnawing little thing that flitted through me like a shadow on the wall. Never enough to stop me from taking whatever caught my eye, but just enough to unsettle me—a bit.
But in this new village, there was no such discomfort. No remorse. Here, I unleashed myself!
I stole with impunity. I stirred mischief just for the thrill of it.
Many of my bad, very bad, deeds had no real purpose beyond my own amusement.
I went so far that the villagers set up nightly watchmen to catch me—only making the game more exciting, sharpening the wild instincts that often overtook me.
For a while, I had tremendous fun!
Until the Order's patrols arrived.
And with them came the dogs.
Not the village curs with missing fur and eyes like puddles — no. These were creatures bred for war, trained to hunt in the dark, never abandon their prey, and tear it limb from limb.
Oh, how I loathed them!
From the very depths of my soul!
So I ran away.I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, barefoot and breathless, until the last bark faded behind me and the fields gave way to stone. I did not look back — not once. There are times, you see, when wisdom takes the shape of flight, and even the proudest spirit must yield to the terror of fangs trained upon flesh.
Thus, I returned to the capital. I found that I had missed it — the crowded streets, the ceaseless murmur, the peculiar rhythm of a city that never truly slept. The Imperial City, my City, that grand and lumbering beast of marble and filth, gold and grime, greeted me with open arms and unrelenting motion. Things were... better. The great drought had begun to loosen its grip, and the people — always resilient, ever adaptable — had made peace with the Order of Stendarr. I, too, was forced to admit — though not without a certain grimace — that the monks had done more good than ill, at least within the ring of the capital. Their rule was strict, but not cruel. Order had returned to the chaos, and with it came bread — and, wonder of wonders, even a little butter to melt into the crust. There was beer, too. So much beer, in fact, that it flowed more freely than water in those days of parched fountains and cracked stone cisterns.
And yet, amid the bustle, there crept uneasy whispers. The war — that old, limping beast — had risen once more, dragging its iron and fire limbs across the land, and Anvil, our great western port, had fallen to the elves. But it seemed the Dominion had stretched itself too thin this time, for their triumph was swiftly followed by exhaustion, and as the leaves yellowed and autumn's first blessed rain kissed the scorched earth, a peace treaty was signed.
The people breathed easier, and the Empire licked its wounds and straightened its back. Despite the defeat, the imperial army paraded proudly through Talos Plaza District, and for the first time in my life, I beheld an Iron Legion. Gods, what a sight it was!
Towering men with golden hair and blue, northern eyes; their beards thick, their steps thunderous, their armor gleaming in the weak light of the autumnal sun. Sons of Skyrim, every one of them — proud, grim, magnificent! They marched like heroes from some forgotten age, and as I stood among the cheering crowd, my little heart pounded with something I did not yet understand.
I was not one to be stirred by crowds or flags or glory. I stole from these people. I feared them. I mocked them. But as I gazed upon those iron-clad titans, some part of me — something strange and tender—reached out. I didn't understand back then, but now I know: it was the call of my Nordic blood.
I even dreamed, for one fleeting moment, that the handsome captain near the front — broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, wild-eyed—might glance down, see me, and lift me up into his arms.
Of course, he didn't.
None of them saw the small, unkempt figure at the edge of the crowd, with golden curls tangled like weeds and eyes the very color of their own.
But I cheered with the rest — perhaps louder than most—swept up in that illusion of safety, of grandeur, of steel-clad guardians standing firm between us and the darkness rising from the south.
A brief, dazzling interlude followed in the life of the great city — so short, so strangely golden, that even now, when I look back, I wonder whether it was real or simply a season I dreamed.
Talos Plaza bloomed like a garden in celebration. Day after day, the people feasted in the streets, laughing and dancing beneath garlands of lanterns that swayed gently in the autumn breeze. The Arboretum, too, took on the air of a sanctified festival — there, the priests of all gods, each draped in the colors of their cult, lifted their voices in songs of thanksgiving. Their chants rose to meet a sky painted in softest gold and pale lavender, a sky that seemed — for once — to listen.
Peace had come.
And with it, abundance: there was bread, oil, and beer enough for all — even the poorest could eat without shame or fear. The Order's patrols walked without arms, garlanded with flowers by laughing children and old women alike. For a fleeting span, it felt as though the city had remembered how to breathe.
As for me... I, too, basked in this strange, gentle light.
My wild wanderings slowed. The sharpness of my instincts — honed through hunger, flight, and secrecy—began to dull, like the edge of a blade long unused. I had grown careless. Too comfortable.
I no longer barred the manholes near my little hidden den beneath the city's skin. I spent fewer hours crouched in shadows and more in idle dawdling. But with the same old discipline — half-instinct, half ritual — I began preparing my subterranean home for the cold that would surely return.
Clothes, thick blankets... and pillows. Ah, pillows! As I speak these words — an old rogue grown slow and solemn — I can confess this without shame: I love pillows. There is something sacred in them, I think. Even now, when I sleep—alone, yes, always alone—I find myself clutching a large, soft pillow to my chest, like a child clasping her first and final treasure.
Hm, that's strange, is it not?
That, after all I've seen and heard, after all the blood, the murders, the tricks, the thefts, the lies and the whispers in the dark—it is that softness, and not steel, that still brings me peace.
Yet all this carefreeness, all this foolish softness, eventually drew predators.Not the big ones—the kind that wear armor and drink wine.
No.
But the small, hungry kind. The kind that remembers.
And when they spotted a slim, restless figure moving in and out of the sewers, it didn't take long for their grief to become certainty.
That small golden-haired boy, still young enough to cry at night, old enough to sharpen his vengeance into steel—the one who had once adored his sibling and listened with awe to his tales spun in the marble palace where they had temporarily resided in the previous winter—had come to a grim conclusion after hearing the reports from his gang fellows.
'I was the ghost that haunted their nights.
The thief of their food.
The one who had lured his brother to his death.'
So he hunted me and set a trap—a trap I fell into, with no hope of escape.
They lay in wait for me on a rainy, cold autumn night, by all three manholes through which I usually made my way out of my little nest. When I left my den to prowl the city, the urchins threw a fishing net over me—a piece of a trawl. Then they beat me mercilessly, slashed me with their small, wicked serrated blades, and would have certainly killed me in the end if my savior hadn't appeared.
Rasha, the young and handsome Khajiit who saved me that night from the jaws of death, was on his way home to his parents' house. As I found out later—much later—when he glimpsed, through the light fog veiling the city in its cold, damp shroud, the struggle I was caught in—helpless, with no way out—he was sorely tempted to keep walking and mind his own business, to avoid the trouble that wasn't his. After all, my beloved Rasha had never been a hero or a knight in shining armor, like the ones from the stories my dear mother Kiersten used to tell me. But, as he later confessed, my screams echoing into the night—like the last strains of a life about to fade—caught his attention. Something inside him, beyond reason or habit, twisted his path and pulled him—compelled him, as my dear brother Rasha would say—to come to my aid.
Now, as I write these words, I see him clearly once more: a tall, muscular young Khajiit, his long cloak billowing in the wind, a short, black sword raised above his head. The urchins tormenting me were not quick to abandon their prey, but he leapt into their midst like a wolf among rats, and the little predators stood no chance. I glimpsed the flash of blades and heard brief cries, muffled by the rain. Then, cutting the net that bound me, he lifted me in his strong arms as if I were no more than a wounded bird.
And I—bloody, dazed, in pain and terror—bit him. Scratched him.
Over and over.
But he only tightened his grip gently and carried me, still squirming and crying, to safety.
To warmth.
To his parents' house.
To a new life.