To Kill a Nightingale

Rack and Ruin

Torture.

Rarely did one concept manage to cover as much ground in one man's life. But Bashnag could've searched for years and still not found a better word to sum up his existence. Both psychologically and professionally.

As the basic experience of what it was like being him, it hardly needed elaboration. It was torture to wake up every morning and it was no less torture going to bed, knowing that next day wouldn't be any different. And what happened in between, well, that Bashnag tried his best to ignore at the best of times. Tried and failed.

Appropriately enough, torture was a large part of his work as well. Always some sucker who knew something he did not want to share, and somehow imagined he was going to succeed in keeping it to himself. And it was up to Bashnag to convince the poor sucker of the erroneous nature of such notions. Although, as a means of interrogation, torture was of course notoriously ineffective, as even a child knew that under torture anyone could be made to confess to anything. As a method, then, it was favored among societies which put far less weight on truth than they did on order.

That would be societies in general, I reckon.

Bashnag gave a grunt of bitter amusement.

"Yes, my friend," said the Nightingale beside him. "I too, find myself in such awe that I cannot find sufficient words to describe it!"

Bashnag suppressed a sigh. His mind had started to wonder again. And who could blame him? What he was experiencing at this moment was a special sort of torture.

"The immediate presence of history certainly has an effect on a man's mind, don't you find, Bashnag?"

You hit the nail on the head, sir.

In fact, to Bashnag there were few things more terrifying than history. Was it not enough to know how much living beings had to suffer today? How disheartening, then, to realize that it had been going on for such a long time, from one wretched age to another. And how long would it still have to continue! Generations of misery and toil!

Bashnag grunted.

"Indeed, my friend," the Nightingale said. "Indeed."

Ruin surrounded them, as was the usual state of affairs. Although this time it was the literal sort of ruin. An excavation site which the Nightingale had been running for a couple years now, bored into the rock beside the previously known ruin of Avanchnzel. Right now, they stood in the excavation cave not far from the entrance, staring at a large ornate metal door, which had recently been revealed hidden within the stone wall. What they had originally been looking for, it seemed, after they had first spent months unearthing the apparently not-so-interesting part of something that might or might not have been on ancient temple. Honestly, Bashnag preferred not to know, so he only pretended to listen when someone had described the matter to him. That someone generally being the Nightingale. The man seemed to take an eerie interest in things best left in the past.

The metal door itself appeared no different from one of those puzzle doors you found in old Nordic ruins. Yet the Nightingale studied it as it were the long-lost secret to existence.

"A thing of exceptional beauty, is it not?"

It is not. "Yes, sir."

"I'm sure you can tell what makes it stand out, can't you Bashnag?"

No fucking clue, sir. "Yes, sir."

The Nightingale chuckled. He gestured. "See those carvings running across the outer rim. That's Ayleid script. Can you imagine, Ayleid script in Skyrim! Easy to mix up with Dwemer, but if you know how to look, the difference is quite apparent. Then, on the middle rings, Nordic runes, what you'd expect to see on a door like this, right? Finally, there, that inscription above? That's Dwemer writing. See the sharper, more angular lines compared with the Ayleid script?" He paused to give Bashnag a significant look. "Do you see, now, the shattering significance?"