@Ercassie
Private - Flashback solo post
Ademar Androllius, aka
Nâluthor
Approaching Nardol, third beacon from MT
A dark and stormy night in July
about 6 years before 'present day'
(Sometime between
this post, and
this post)
Rain lashed against the structure, beating relentlessly against the stone walls and slate roof as if determined to find a way in. Lightning streaked across the sky, briefly, followed by a threatening rumble. It was a perfect night for what he had planned. And although he couldn't see the moon tonight, due to the storm, he knew that it was full. So that made things even more perfect.
He almost couldn't wait to prove that he could handle this job. Mar, or Nâluthor as he was calling himself now, was eager to see his plan through. He'd laid some groundwork, a few months ago. Set things up so that, if his plan went like he intended, no one would even bother to look into this, if and when it ever came to their attention. Given the remote location of this place, it seemed very unlikely that anyone would hear anything for a very long time. And that was fine with him, too. Even better, actually.
It seemed like a long ride, but fortunately, Mar had a horse, so he didn't have to go on foot. He'd never really ventured this far into the mountains, but there was a road that was easy enough to follow, and he knew where he was going. The first beacon would have been the closest for him, of course, but it would also have been too easy for anyone to discover that anything was amiss. And the second one, well, it was known that its peak was too high and sharp to sustain a large fire for long, so he figured it'd be more beneficial to their purpose to go to either the third or fourth beacon; right in the middle. So that was where he went; the third one.
He dismounted before he got near enough to be seen, tying his horse to a tree before moving forward on foot. The animal was not happy to be left in the rain, but he ignored it. He'd been thinking long and hard about how he was going to go about this. He was eager, but also just a little nervous. Nervous, only, that something might go wrong. But he'd planned plenty, so he felt mostly confident that he could handle it.
Pounding on the door only took a moment to bring the man to see who was there. He must not get many visitors, since he was stationed way out here in the middle of nowhere. When the door opened, the beacon warden found a drenched young man, looking quite lost, shivering on his doorstep.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," The young man apologized. "My horse spooked with the storm, and I'm lost. I didn't know anyone lived around here, but when I saw your light, I thought..."
"Come in, of course." The man invited him, urging the dripping young man inside so that he might dry by the fire.
"Thank you." Mar smiled gratefully and came inside to dry off. It wasn't really a cold night, but it was unpleasant being drenched. The guy hurried to find him a towel, and brought up a wooden stool that he could sit on.
"I'm Garaven," He introduced himself with a friendly smile. "I don't get many people out this way," The man mentioned, poking the fire into a brighter blaze. "Are you going anywhere in particular?"
"I'm Ric," Mar lied with a little smile, as if grateful for the man's friendly attitude. "Just on my way toward Anfalas," He explained. "But then the storm hit... I hope I can find my horse, after the storm's done." He cast a worried glance toward the window.
"Ah, I'll bet your horse'll be waiting by the barn, soon as it smells the hay and the other horses nearby." Garaven assured him. "I'm sure it'll turn up. If not, I'll help you search. There shouldn't be too much to worry about, I haven't noticed any wolves around here or anything, and they wouldn't come out during a storm anyway."
"Well, I won't be going anywhere until this storm passes." Mar declared.
"I don't blame you there. Want some coffee, Ric?" The guard offered. "I've got a pot on," He gestured toward the next room, from which the faint smell of coffee could be detected.
"That'd be great." Mar smiled, waiting while the man went to the kitchen, returning with two cups of coffee. "Do you have any sugar?" He asked.
"Of course. Be right back." The guard hurried off to the next room to get the sugar bowl.
While he was gone, Mar took a small vial from his pocket, adding a couple of drops of the liquid into his hosts' drink before pocketing the vial once more. He hoped he had the right dose. He'd used more of it on Reilly, to make sure he stayed passed out long enough to transport him. But Mar didn't need this guy to be totally unconscious; just drowsy enough to allow Mar to do what he had planned without having to risk the guy fighting back or escaping.
Less than five minutes passed, after they'd been sipping their coffee, when Garaven's eyes began to look heavy, and he started nodding off a little before trying to shake himself awake. "Sorry," He apologized. "I.. don't know why.. I'm so sleepy all of the sudden," He rubbed his eyes. "It's not all that late," He mumbled, frowning a bit in confusion.
Mar set his cup down after emptying the contents. "Don't worry about it." he assured him. "Here, let me wash up. You just rest your eyes. It's the least I can do." Mar declared softly, gathering the cups which he took into the kitchen. He certainly did wash them, because he didn't want any evidence of
two people having been here. When he came back, Garaven's head had dropped onto his chest. Mar smiled to himself, drawing out the knife given to him by his mentor. It was time, he decided happily.
The chair Garaven was sitting in was abruptly kicked over, depositing the drowsy man onto the floor in a heap of confusion. Before he could figure out what just happened, Mar pushed him onto his belly and began pulling his arms behind him, a length of cord in hand. Garaven turned his head to look over his shoulder at Mar as he tried to understand what was happening. "What.. what're you doing?"
Mar didn't bother answering his questions, focusing on making sure the cord was tied well enough that he couldn't slip out of it. Then he sat back, satisfied. "Congratulations, Garaven," He told him in a cheerful tone. "You've been chosen for a great honor, as a sacrifice to Lord Zigur." He stood up, walking in a circle around the man bound on the floor. "This is going to be fun." He promised, with a grin that suggested that it would definitely not be fun for Garaven.
"Ric.. no! Please!" Garaven's eyes widened in horror at this realization, pleading with him. "I was kind to you!"
"Your mistake." Mar shrugged. "Oh, and... my real name is Nâluthor." He informed the man. "Too bad I don't have a proper saw," He muttered with a disappointed sigh. From that point, he focused on his work and ignored any sounds from the victim. He had learned from the mistakes he'd made during his first attempt at a sacrifice. Killing Ryn had been too sloppy, too hasty, and then of course, he'd been interrupted. The ranger had fought back, and it had been a close fight. Mar had even gotten slightly injured, trying to subdue his first victim. His more recent attack on Reilly had been far more successful, since he'd drugged him first. He hadn't yet decided how or when he would finish Reilly off. He wasn't ready to kill him just yet, though. And he knew that he wouldn't be suitable as a sacrifice, after Mar had gotten a bit too brutal in ensuring the other young man could not fight anymore. Legs were easier to break than he'd realized. Oh well...
With this one, however, Mar wanted to make Pharak proud. He wanted to do it all just right. So, he circled around the man lying bound on the floor, thinking about the best way to begin. Ignoring Garaven's pleas and protests, he bound his ankles together, too. Then, looking around, he smiled to observe a hook mounted into the ceiling, from which hung a simple, wrought-iron chandelier. Not anything fancy, just a simple circle with four candles; enough to provide some light to the room. But the hook would be well-secured to support it. Pulling out some sturdy rope from his pack, which he had brought inside with him, Mar tied one end of this around Garaven's ankles. Then, standing on the stool, he reached up, removed the light fixture, replaced it with the rope, and pulled until he had heaved his victim up into the air, hanging upside down over open floor.
"Stop, please! Why are you doing this?" Garaven demanded, helpless despite his glaring. As if that would do anything to prevent what Mar was doing.
Instead of an answer, Mar began to speak low tones, in a language which few in Gondor would know.
"Feed the Earth. Feed the sky." It was some of the few words he had learned, so far, of the language that Pharak used in the temple. But he had learned what it meant, and that it was used in the sacrificial process. He pulled out the Athame which his mentor had given him, ignoring the increasingly more panicked squirming of his victim as he held the knife up to the man's legs, which were slightly above the height of Nâluthor's head, given his upside-down position. Still chanting the mantra which was used in the Temple, Nâluthor stabbed his blade into the man's thigh, about where that one artery should be, and dragged it down through his flesh to create a deep gash. He was swiftly granted the satisfaction of seeing blood beginning to flow down Garaven's torso. The other leg soon matched the first, and twin streams of crimson made their way to form a puddle on the floor. The man cried out, begging him to stop, but he was swiftly growing weaker. Amid the sounds of Garaven expressing his pain, as well as his outrage at this horrific murder, Naluthor merely gave him a dark smile in return. "Perhaps you should pray to the Valar to save you." He suggested mockingly. To his great amusement, Garaven actually took his suggestion and began to pray.
Laughing lightly at that, Nâluthor took his time before adding anymore cuts, to allow the blood to flow down his victim's body. Draining from his legs, which were the highest point, until the flow of blood began to slow a little. Then, he sliced his blade down Garaven's arm, from armpit to elbow. Garaven groaned weakly as a fresh stream of blood flowed out. Already, the puddle on the floor below Garaven's head was growing. Nâluthor made sure that his left arm matched the left, unconcerned about how much blood would end up on himself. He had brought a spare set of clothes. Still chanting as he went about his task, Nâluthor continued adding more cuts to his sides and torso, arms, and shoulders, watching the blood flow. Lastly, he sliced across the throat, although Garaven had long since passed out. Or, maybe he was already dead. It didn't really matter.
Once he noticed a decrease in blood flowing from the wounds, Nâluthor dug his blade deep into Garaven's belly, pleased by how sharp this tool was. He opened the wound wider, then reached in through the hole he'd cut into Garaven's torso, and down into his upside-down chest cavity to locate his heart. After pulling that out, he let it drain into the floor until it was no longer dripping. Now, tossing that down to the floor, he took a moment to think. He'd need plenty of fuel to make the fire burn hot. And, as an afterthought, he remembered that his horse was still out there tied to a tree. He left his victim to finish draining into the floor, and located Garaven's raincoat hanging on a hook beside the door. Taking this, Nâluthor went outside into the storm to return to his horse and brought him into the barn. There were indeed some other horses in there since the beacon wardens were meant to keep a few swift horses on hand in case a need arose to send messages along the beacon-paths or to anywhere else.
There was also plenty of supplies on hand for tending to the horses, so his drenched mount was soon settled into a stall with some food and water, the saddle and bridle put away in the tack room to dry. A while later, Nâluthor returned to the house with a bale of hay covered with a tarp. He made a second trip back outside to gather some wood from the woodpile, which, fortunately, was covered to keep it dry.
The fireplace was, of course, nowhere near as hot as the temple's pyre which Pharak used, and of course it was smaller. Which meant he would not be able to fit the entire body in the fireplace. So, rather than spending a lot of time cutting up the body to fit into it, Nâluthor took the wood he'd brought in and arranged the pieces of wood into a conical shape, the tops all leaned against one another for support, with handfuls of hay stuffed into the hollow center. Then, taking an oil lamp from the next room, he began pouring the oil from it all over Garaven's remains.
With a little help from the existing fire in the hearth, it took no time at all before he had a hot blaze reaching greedily up toward the body hanging from the ceiling. Nâluthor stepped back and covered his nose with his damp shirt as smoke began to fill the room. The oil caught fire and swiftly engulfed the corpse into flames. The pool of blood on the floor changed to a darker red, which would leave a dark stain upon the floor. Even the smoke had a deep, red hue. And it was thick. Mar couldn't help coughing, so he moved across the room to open a window, hoping to let the smoke escape. Wind blew sharply inside in exchange for the smoke, and the flames leaped higher. Moving away from the window, Nâluthor resumed his chanting for as long as he could bear to be in there, but after a while the smoke got to be too much for him, and he stepped out onto the porch. As lightning lit up the sky, a gust of wind fanned the flames higher when the door opened. He hastily closed the door again, lest it blow the fire out entirely.
The porch was covered, but the wind blew rain in at an angle, so he still ended up getting wet. Fortunately, he still had on that raincoat. Mar stood at another window, which he had not opened, and watched. It took much longer than it would've at the temple. The smell of burning hair and flesh, mingled with smell of the lamp oil, was overpowering. The smoke was chokingly strong, and he continued to cough for a while as the rain lashed against him from one side. He decided that he didn't really care for this part of it as much. But Pharak said it was necessary, so he kept watching to make sure the fire consumed every part of the dead man's body, and eventually the fire ran out of fuel and began to die down.
Once he was sure that the fire had burned out, he pulled his shirt up over his nose again before going back into the house. The last stage, now, was cleanup. The rope which had been suspending the charred remains had burned as well, so everything was in a heap on the floor. Using a hammer he'd brought from the tool shed, Nâluthor smashed as much of the remaining bones as he could into the smallest pieces he could, and shoveled it all into the hearth. He even swept the last bits of ashes in there. What hadn't already burned, would now.
The residence smelled too awful to linger in there any longer than he had to, and the smoke made it difficult to breathe anyway. He returned to the barn, deciding to spend the night in the hay loft. When morning came and the storm had passed, Nâluthor returned to the house and was relieved that the smoke and the smell had cleared. He spent some time then, cleaning up whatever he needed to clean, so that when someone eventually came looking for this guy, they would only find an empty house, and no trace of the guard.
After he was finished with everything he could think of to do, Nâluthor returned to the barn and saddled up his horse. Then, as an afterthought, he opened the stall doors on all of the other horses, then he rode away. They would wander out of their stalls in search of food and water, and therefore cover his own tracks. A bonus, was that if anyone came here with a message, seeking a fresh horse, they wouldn't find any available. Meanwhile, Mar would be miles away. Hopefully, it would be months or more before anyone even considered looking for this guy, and no one would have any idea what happened to him.
