Vermilion Stoic

Vermilion Stoic skin description

A set of armor used by a reddish gilled creature from the depths of the sea, similar to how a hermit crab will happen upon a shell used by many other forms of fauna and ultimately live in it. Story ~11/11/11 Annald Caunter The seemingly blasphemic claims made out by the wanderer nearly two weeks ago now seem far less insane now. My pursuit of a "horrible, horrible set of shambling metal, clanking steel and bloody, pulsating flesh" has turned out more than successful. I will now recount, as my last words huddled tightly in this cranny betwixt two pews, the proven legend of the Knight's Maw. My day had begun simply, no different from any other as the head of unholy research at the Chamberlain Chapel, the estate at which I both lived, studied, and practiced my craft of blasphemy purgery. While it is not entirely unknown to the public, the presence of beings with which I have said to have purged is significantly lower than the purgings that I execute; essentially, I am a fraud, a realization I say now in hopes of repairing good faith with God, please, Oh Lord, hear me so. As such, the people that do inquire me are, in my eyes, raving lunatics, and only slightly more believable to the townsfolk with whom I have become something of an idolistic "hunter" of conniptions in the dusk and din. The tavern women, merchants, masons, and dockworkers alike revered me as a savior from evil constructs that, for only me to know, never existed in the first place. Perhaps the fear of God gave birth to the fear of an opposite, but now I wonder whether that was a sacrifice worth taking; for now, when a man cries wolf when all others have been sheep, what am I left to believe is out there as well? What others horrors will infest the world, even with the presence of people such as I? In any case, the madman declared himself upon entry to my study as witness to a creature that had taken up home in a set of armor from a castle's guardroom a few dozen miles to the west. An older castle, Allemaine was, and is, far from being an intimidating structure, beyond it's single, central keep tower and an old cave-like inlet 'neath it's walls, running out to the blue sea. After stating his merit he proclaimed that the creature was wild and blood-thirsty, savoring for his hide when it chased him from the depths of the castle's pantry and catacombs, spiraling tunnels and burrows that went deep into the ground (for the castle itself was quite old, older than my Chapel and most certainly my person). I sent him away after hearing him out for nearly an hour about the details of the beast, namely it's large, protruding gills (which now I know were for breath underwater, akin to a fish) and the seemingly coincidental red cape that he said it wore on it's back, if it can be called that. My first move after sending him away was to consult the mappings of the castle itself, so as not to get lost while searching for it in the catacombs. At the time, I merely took it for granted that it was yet another passing fraudulent act, a compounding to my already well-stamped and sent letter of pseudo paladin's import. I do not blame myself for thinking so, as there had never once previously been an occurrence quite like this, or rather, remotely like this. After familiarizing myself with the twists and turns of the particularly complex labyrinth beneath the fortress I departed; the travel there on horse wound up to be longer than I'd presumed. I camped for the night 'neath an oak tree on the road. Here is where the story began to take heed; various passerby's in the night and early morn' also told of stories and legends that a creature with red fins like a shark and stunk of carcass and salt lurked in the midst of the castle walls. These tales and treacheries began to force me to doubt; rare was it for an accusation of unholiness to come from more than one soul, let alone the baker's dozen that had encountered me and told of such a thing. In preparation, I composed my gear; a stake and garlic for vampiric concerns, a holy cross that serves now as my last beacon of hope, some various false potions and well-colored fluids, meant mostly to leave a stained trail were anyone to follow up on my expeditions, and a knife that I kept for the odd homeless beggar who pretended to be a monster from the deep. Only this time, it was I who was fooled by the monster, acting as a rumor. Upon my first step onto the castle's cobble floor, not one second late, a rumbling grumble came from down the spiraling stairs across the hall's floor. There was little light, beyond a nearly snuffed fireplace where I presumed the madman must've been staying, and the torch I held in my hand, lit with whale fat. From this place I could hear the lapping of the waves outside and below the sloping hills and smaller cliffs. Pings and pangs of what I had hoped and assumed were rocks and pebbles from the crumbling stones came from every which way as I descended deeper and deeper into the catacombs that I'd memorized. Bones cracked 'neath my steps, though whether they were hundreds of years aged or just a week old is still unknown to me. The entire breadth of the grave-walk at it's lowest point was just larger than my shoulders. Still, it went on, heading left and right at intersections that were too ancient to be recorded on the maps that I'd pondered before arriving. I dared not head further in, for fear of losing myself, but the food and surplus that I'd brought warranted me a few days to stay in the ruins; this was originally to deceive the peasants, as was most of my act. I set a small light in the middle of an intersection going four ways, and rested my pack in the doorway that I'd come from, so as not to lose track of where I was. Satisfied with the lack of any "horrific fish-gills", I foolishly slept peacefully. When I awoke, my pack was displaced. The contents, spilled out. For an hour I lamented on which direction I might have come from, staying within viewing distance of my camp but not finding clues as to where I'd set out. I pored over the ground for signs of foot prints, but after checking each corridor I realized that now I'd made the tracks that I was looking for. I realized my chances for escaping (yes, escape was now my option) were one in four, mind-shattering. And my mind is very, very shattered. The only sense of sanity I found was in the quest to find the beast. Perhaps his presence could yield some information, or a blood trail could lead me to fresher air. However, I was hesitant to try and find something that even I did not believe existed. Something, however, had to have moved my wares. I didn't seem to be worried by it at the time, though it's suspicious nature was something I now heavily regret not picking up on. My resevoir of whale oil was, luckily, rather well-stocked; I had two jars with me at all times, as well as another two in case of their disturbance. Each would burn on it's own for well over two days, so, relying on the consistency of the flame, and the otherwise feebility of my situation, I set it alight and chose one of the four paths to walk down. All I had besides the dust getting in my eyes, dislodged by my torch-hand, was the sanity that departed ever so slowly. I will admit, I admire my composure in the beginning; losing place in a crypt studied once would absolutely destroy a simpleton's mind; my nobility and intelligence were certainly primed there. I figure that, had there not truly been a creature such as this, I would've embarked safely from Allemain Castle in due time. The first day's yield provided nothing. I slowly, but surely, made my way back to the jar of oil and rested for the night, this time holding my pack close to me, hoping it would not be touched again. Eager to preserve my oil for as long as possible, and hopefully to seem to fade into the black to anything that truly was down here, I put out the oil fire and sat against a wall to close my eyes. However, that last waking moment afore I fell asleep that night was the moment I now prize the most out of any in my sad, putrid, incomprehensibly short life of forty four years. Upon my eyes opening again, in what I assume was in the late hours of the night, I saw a talon, gripping the fold of my pack, trying to pry it open without awaking me from my slumber. My head, rested down, had not the angle to look up at wherever that talon came from, and had I seen the full width and stature of the beast, I think I may have snapped right then and there. The talon was white originally, I thought, but stained with reddish and orange hues, vermilion-like in a way, almost as though a combination of humanoid liquid and the pus from various sea creatures, ochre and goo-like. Terrified beyond the realm of belief I sat and let it rake with the singular claw against the fabric, and could hardly courage a whimper as it silently cut open the side, allowing my remaining three jars of whale oil to fall to the ground, where it rolled them to the darkness, beyond my vision. I did not close my eyes again until I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, presumably the following evening. Waking again, I spasmed violently, expecting another exposure to wretched appendages immediately. Alas, there was nothing in the dark. The beast had seemingly left the fourth jar that I'd lit originally sitting in it's upright position; perhaps it mostly cared for what was in the pack rather than the contents themselves. Now my sanity began to seep in droves; crying for hours I finally sullied the courage to take the remaining jar with me and set out into one of the remaining three passages, betting on my chances now being slightly better. The pack had sustained the cut it tore near the bottom, so I was forced to misshapenly hold everything, clutched to my chest like a young whelp holding onto his greatest belongings for dear life. My other hand held the torch, dimmed by usage and covered in webs and dust. I walked for as far as I could. I collapsed after nearly sixteen hours of trudging forward in a way that crunched my shoulders sideways, forced my neck to crane to the side, and my legs to bend at the knees. When I fell to the floor, it did not hurt, for I was low enough to the ground that the fall was hardly noticeable. When my torch had finally given up, rubbed in the dirt by my crazed hands, shivering and trembling with the realization I was alone in the depths, I looked up. There, light at the end of the tunnel! I summoned the strength to crawl my way to the end, leaving behind anything but the clothes on my own spiny back. I emerged out to a barely-lit cave, entirely sealed off on all sides, made of thick rock on all ends. The light came through water that pooled in a small corner, and lapped incessantly. Reaching my hand through, I found that it went on, and when I had the gumption to stick my head into the brine and look around, it was revealed that I was now just as deep at the bottom of the ocean as were the catacombs 'neath the castle. This place is where I lay now, waiting. It is the deadest of ends. Hah, I remember the tale of some of the visitors on the road to the castle somewhere far above me. How it had a cape made of flesh and skin. How it had ears like a bat, fins like a shark, gills like a fish, wings like a bird. What is it? What is it? What is it? Hahaahaha.