Act I, Part VI: The Desecrated Temple

By Antuul Dralosi, Scavenger

Gabrin has started to trust over me over the past few weeks, but he thinks I am blind to the political stirrings in his tribe. Some call me a false incarnate, while others believe I am the chosen one who is somehow supposed to bring them into an era of prosperity unlike any other and as the days go on, the discussions more heated. More virulent. I can already see the tribe is beginning to fall apart because I came here and maybe that’s my key to getting out of here, but I don’t know yet. There’s still too many moving parts for me to plan my escape just yet, but Gabrin has moved me from my cell and into the Temple. I wish he hadn’t. I really wish he had moved me anywhere else.

This temple—it is sick. It is profane. It is—evil. This place was once a place of worship and of love for the Ancestor Daedra and now what is it? It is monolithic shrine to some dead god? To some failed being? To me? It can’t be. Whatever it is these monsters worship, it’s not me—it can’t be. I refuse to accept it. There’s no way I can be an incarnation of something that would allow—this—to exist.

The stench of rot emanates from this place, but it is not the stench of any rot—no—it’s not that simple. It’s more complex than just simple rotting meat. It’s so much more. It’s like a bouquet of flesh rotting in a tropical jungle mixed with the stench of a wound that refuses to heal as it festers with pus and illness. And more than the stench is the pained moans that echo up from below. So deep and guttural, so miserable. There is no pause to them, no stop, only an endless sea of crying out from the dark below and I wish I could put a stop to it—to their pain, but I can’t. I can’t stop anything here. I wish I could though. I wish I could stop their pain for even just a moment, but I can’t. I can’t save them—I don’t even know if I can save myself, but maybe—just maybe—I’ll be able to get help for them if I can get out of here. It’s a long shot, but if I get out of here—I’ll make sure to get help for them. I’ll make no sure nobody else ever suffers under these abominations again. I can only imagine what these monsters are doing to those poor people on the levels below, but I’ll get them help. I promise.

Damn. I hear Gabrin’s breathing and the thud of his walking stick—I better hide my journal until he’s gone.

* * *

I’m finally back and I just want to close my eyes, but every time I do, I see them. I see their twisted bodies, their deformed faces, the mounds of tumorous flesh growing all over them. He said they’re the unworthy. They are the ones who rejected me and that’s why they’re down there shambling about with bones that broke under the weight of all those tumor—and he says it’s because I found them unworthy? I wouldn’t unleash this upon anyone. I can’t even imagine what kind of monster would do this, but Gabrin just smiled as he looked over them all—a sadistic smile—the rotten little bastard he is. He loved looking at them, like this was all just some kind of joke to him. It was almost funny to him. But it wasn’t funny to me. Those people—their lives are a living hell, I could see it as they crawled about weeping tears of thick mucus as they trailed the floors of the lower levels. I can only ask myself what kind of hell is this place? What kind of sick, twisted monster is that little runt? I don’t know, but I have to get out of here—that much—that much I know for sure. I know that more than I know anything else right now. I have to escape. I can’t let Gabrin turn me into one of those things and I’d almost rather take my chances making a run for it than stay here for another minute longer, but I’ve gotta think this through. Now more than ever, I need to think clearly.

Or you know, maybe now more than ever, I need to just go for it. I’ve always just done my best with what I had and it got me this far—maybe I just need to trust myself and just go. If I get caught, they won’t kill me—they won’t kill their god. Maybe the ones who don’t believe I’m their god will, but dying can’t be worse than what happened to those people down there. It can’t be. Nothing can be worse than that.

I’ve got one lockpick and I better make it count, but before I make my run for it, there’s something I need to write in here in case I don’t make it.

If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it. That’s okay. It doesn’t matter if I did or not because you found this and that’s the most important thing of all, so do a dead man one last favor—it’s all I ask. Get help. Don’t just shrug off this journal and think it’s nothing but a story, this is important—this might be the most important thing anyone ever asks of you—get help. If these things—these goblins—ever get out of here and start moving east, I don’t know how many will get ripped apart in the streets, but it will be far too many and those will be the lucky ones. The ones who aren’t? They’ll end up like the things Gabrin showed me, so get help. Please. Just get help if you find this journal. I beg of you. Please. Get help.

-Antuul Dralosi, Scavenger