This is not Sethyas Velas. That being said it's a short work I'm doing to get back into the zone of FanFic. Sorry for my constant delays

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An Assassin’s Letter to Vehk

Truly, who can begin to fathom the mind that has fathomed the Aurbis? I say with no ego that I cannot. Murder as moaning, indeed. God's holy rape-erasure of wet death. The sermon numbered at twenty two, so often read by the priests and the teachers. To place a holiness to an action that is so shunned by creatures of the west.

Often I wondered at my own nature, pouring over old tomes that had been scribed by your scribes, read aloud in the temples, and felt as a three-fold ecstasy in my younger days, before reason clouded my vision, and the laws of the ehlnofey, the earth-bones, became my only absolute.

Then, I came upon them, commoner and noble alike, the one vast moving event of thrusting-kill-laughter as described in my favorite Sermon. The hidden hands of Mephala, darkness within the light, and woven by the threads of your anticipation. Less your words, and more mine.

My First Experience filled me with no lust, unlike my first experience. Rather, it filled me with the tenuous hesitation that precedes the action that will lead to regret, as was present in my first, along with the regret that ensues with the act, that was not present after my first experience. (First Kill, first time. Two differing events, that her webs weave as one.)

Then, my hands became black as yours, dried blood, innocence lost, dirt from shame, hidden in shadow. The interpretations are innumerable, as the methods of moaning, yet with only one clear result.

Perhaps my metamorphosis was self-inflicted, or perhaps it was merely a web of the spider I was caught in, blessed be her name, that anticipates yours. But the result was undeniable as my true desire came to the light as the ashen expression I now wear.

In her name, the true psychopomp, do I execute. In your name, the Lord, do I serve, for I know that our order is true and eternal, in faith I write, in ink I praise, for these words shall not see me draw breath in the morning fog.

Thunder and Lightning: A Love Letter

Come.

Out here your uncle, long those his arm may be, cannot reach us. His men would ride out after you to be lost in the sands, in the canyons, in the folds of the world—and we will watch from the mountaintop as they grow confused and fearful with the desert’s disregard.

I have been listening to the words on the breeze, and I know this to be true. But you must come.

It is now the season of thunder and the breaking rain. Do you remember? The earth shakes, love, and I swear that the ponderosas must be better-rooted than Direnni Tower else they would be blasted over by the sound. The ansus call the summer thunder chub’skah do tava and say that Tava—think of the Kynareth of your city people—begrudges the mountains their beauty.

You do remember, don’t you? I remember laying with you at the base of the eka’rah-do-pah, the little cascade, making love in the sand. We were wet, both of us, and I remember the sand clinging to my skin and your skin and how I felt that it was to make love to the mother rock and that it was good. The clouds rolled in white then gray then black and it rained like they say it rained when the old land fell into the sea. It rained, and we did not stop for the day was warm and the rain felt like a cool wind.

I am lying by the cascade now, but I am alone.

The first rains have come and the columbines are in bloom. I am lying on moss campion, and a buttercup is tickling the back of my neck. I have been to the top of Tuk-uhn-ah-k’vah, where Magnus the sun lingers, and I have seen the sky pilot and mariposa in bloom. I could see the castle from the top and I felt lonely, and I know that you feel the same. Soon we must be together, and we will walk in the shade of the pines high above the desert, and the world will see us and be lonely at the sight of our love.

Yesterday, in the afternoon, I slept and dreamed that we were together. I felt our bodies as one, as they were when we swam in the deep clear tarn that sits between Tuk-uhn-ah-k’vah and the mountain that the Bretons call the Seat of Fire, the one that glows orange in the sunset. I awoke to find myself sopping wet, though there had been no rain and the sky was clear. Ansu-haka, who you know, was beside me and said, “Dream like lightning.”

The dream, my love, the dream. Lying on the warm shore rocks we gazed at the sky for an age. The meteor shower—do you remember? Fools who call themselves wise say that they are an illusion, a deception from weak mortal minds, but did we not see streaks of fire race across the sky? Was your touch not warm? Was the night not cool? I would have all the reality I need, if only you were by my side.

The storm clouds build and I sit enthralled by memory. Would you have us an echo of things past? Or would you let us be lightning?

This post has been edited by canis216: Apr 1 2008, 09:35 PM

Alright, this fragment belongs here. Arise, Temple of Lore!.



The wind blows. A Second Seed wind, bearing sand and scratched retinas. A pair of Redguards force their way through it, aiming for the top of a low escarpment, a perch perhaps seventy feet above the surrounding badlands, the mal-i-pah. Both are tall, and clad in robes the color of rust and the Alik’r sands. The leader, the man in front, has short graying hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He walks slowly but steadily. The man behind is younger and lets his long, unkempt black hair billow in the wind behind him. He appears to chafe at the older man’s walking pace but he maintains a respectful position to his elder’s rear. At the top of the rise the two raga gaze off to the northwest where thin white clouds dot the sky above Sentinel. Finally, they take shelter in the scant lee of a scrub juniper.

The younger man spoke. “You see the rain, Ansu-Haka?”

The old Redguard nodded. “In the afternoon.”

“This is good,” said the younger man. “It will keep the dust down.”

The wind continues to howl, insistently. “We used to call this month Tava’s Fury,” said Ansu-Haka. The younger man nodded. For five minutes more the two men sit out of the wind, the old man with eyes closed and a thin smile on his face, the younger man looking east to the mountains, still dusted with snow.

“It is still too early in the season, Cyrus.”

Self-conscious, the younger man smiled. “Two weeks, Ansu-Haka. No more. Then it will be time.”

“Indeed,” the old man answered, his lips still locked in his thin smile. “But we must not act and speak as if asleep. Your namesake—”

“We will go down to the others,” the young man countered. “We will ride.”

The two Redguards descended, traveling easily but gingerly atop the ridge, struggling to shield their eyes from airborne sand. At the bottom they turned onto a faint footpath down into a narrow gully—it was crowded with ephedra and willows and old man sage and smelled of water where the ridge top had been nearly bare. At the head of the gully could be seen cottonwoods, golden-green leaves in the morning light, and the nickering sound that horses make intermingled with the play of water upon the rock—familiar, pleasant sounds. Thirty men and their horses idled around the cold spring, waiting.

The older raga, the one called Ansu-Haka, entered the encampment ahead of his compatriot but said nothing, instead choosing to wander over to his paint horse, which was tied to a quinine bush. This was signal enough. When the one called Cyrus appeared all the men—Redguards dressed in robes of all the colors of the Alik’r, sabers to the side and bows on their backs—sat astride their mounts. Cyrus vaulted onto his own horse, a white stallion almost seventeen hands high. He hefted his sword, the cold curved steel, and gazed about at his cadre of bandits.

“Van-i-khamos,” he called, raising the sword skyward. “We ride south.”

Here's a piece of non-fiction I put out last fall that echoes some of my inspiration for the Alik'r desert stuff that I've got in the works.
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Clouds have been building all morning, first wispy white and then steel gray. Now they are nearly black and the rain begins to fall. These are not the small, delicate drops of a brief shower—the first drops are large, deathly cold, and strike with stinging force. The skeletal remains of the forest, coal-black, recede into the building mist and we can hear a helicopter-based fire crew calling over the radio, waiting to see if the storm will squelch the fire season. They are mad to be up there; the rain falls like one of the Great Lakes being emptied into the sky. Erich and I keep working the crosscut saw because the sooner we finish the sooner we take refuge under the tarp. Our rain gear is at our sides—we are too consumed in the work to put them on and the aerial bombardment somehow seems attractive, as if to take the assault were to prove something to the Mogollon spirits, or our Apache boss.

The dull thud of rain on my hardhat is sharper now—rain had turned to hail. My shirt is plastered to my back and now I am repeatedly stung. But still it is bearable, so we continue, Erich and I, to work the saw. We don’t like to leave any log unfinished, and pulling the crosscut out only to reinsert it later strikes us as inefficient. We are anything but inefficient. I pull and rest, Erich pulls and rests while I pull again. Do not push a crosscut saw.

Five more pulls and we are through. Erich takes the saw—to avoid binding and warping the steel—while I get to work on the log, rolling our section off the trail. Finally I slip on and zip up my rain jacket, pull on my rain pants, and make for the tarp. I am soaked but not cold, in spite of the icy rain and hail—instead I’ve been working up a sweat.

The tarp is already occupied by three colleagues. Karl is having a smoke and Amber is laughing while Echo spins a tale from a campaign to legalize cannabis in Montana, a hilarious story about getting high and driving backwards through Yellowstone National Park while her car lost all gears but reverse. With lightning in the air there is not much to do but to tell stories and keep warm; it is unsafe to work and storytelling out in the woods is our highest ambition anyway.

The mist grows, and the forest is quiet but for our happiness, the creaks of dead ponderosa, the drumming of hail on a blue plastic tarp, and the deafening boom of thunder at 9,000 feet.

This post has been edited by canis216: Sep 26 2008, 09:05 PM

More non-fiction. I guess I'm just throwing my influences in here and seeing what sticks. And I do like to share.
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It rained all morning and into the afternoon, the one day it rains during my week in the Escalante canyons. I spent the morning in camp, eating breakfast and reading Abbey in the tent where I have been storing food instead of sleeping, because the rodents are more of a problem than the rain. I sleep outside looking up at the stars.

But now it is the afternoon and it is finally dry. It is also very windy, the first real wind of the week. Spring is a windy season in southern Utah but it is still very early spring—still deep winter in the Dixie National Forest to the north and the Henry Mountains to the east. Down in the canyons the nights are still cool, dipping below freezing each night, but the days are warm and remind me that summer will be coming soon even if the cottonwoods are still bare.

A short ways up Sand Creek and still in sight of camp a series of orange sandstone bulges give a strange order to the apparently haphazard arrangement of cliffs that rise around me. I know that the disorder I see is in fact highly ordered—if my imagination were not so weak, my concentration so poor, I could retrace the history of each grain of silica upon which I slept, following it back up the rain carved spouts and shady freeze-fractured clefts from which they originated. I would see the tall dunes stretch for miles along the shores of ancient inland seas.

I make for the bulging rock, marching up a series of broad ledges cloaked in Mormon tea, purple sage, hedgehodge cacti, juniper, and most of all, stone. The way is not difficult, even when I dive into a hanging draw and find myself walking across a 40 degree side slope. My soft rubber soles grip hard to bare rock. Out of the chute I emerge back into the wind, which blows even harder than before; that or I simply notice it more with my increased exposure. Shortly I am on top of the plateau and can actually see Boulder Mountain, the narrow gash of Sand Creek Canyon leading almost directly north to the snow-capped monolith.

The wind does not try to tug me off, like a child tired and wanting to go home. This wind rips at me, threatening to wrench me away from my precarious perch and send me rolling down the great sandstone bulges I stand atop. Conceding the heights, I ease my way down toward another little draw and find a pocket in the rock in which I take less of a beating.

I still have a fair view to the north; I can admire Boulder Mountain and wonder at what the wind must be up there. I drove through the Dixie Forest on the way in and the snow was still five feet deep or more—this was early April in what is mostly a desert country. It is a high desert—the wind reminds me with a fierce, bitter cold gust. I descend further into my gully until I can find a deeper cleft in which to hide.

I am now almost completely out of the wind, trading the airy heights for the mother rock. I am lying against it—I can feel the grit of it through my shirt. My right hand cradles my camera while the left explores the grit of my half-cave involuntarily. With the wind out of my face I can see more than the great mass of rock and ice to the north; I can see the spring grasses and rabbitbrush and a few flowers take sustenance from the damp gully sand. It is just enough substrate for growth.

A Letter From Prison
(Teaser for that long Alik'r thing I keep talking about)


My friends,

Prison pains me.

It is dark in the tower, save for the tripartite shaft of light that penetrates my cell, through that single window that is my sole salvation. It is seldom that I feel a stir of wind on my cheek, and when I do it is heavy with moisture from the sea. The other cells here are unoccupied, and the only sounds are of my own stirring. Truly, I am alone.

In spite of my suffering, I will not claim to be maltreated. The food is plain but filling, and the water is good. I am afraid that I have gained some mass in my confinement here. The guards are quite but not rude, though I catch them staring from time to time. I believe that my appearance is curious to them. I see questions in their eyes, which I wish I could answer. I wish that they would speak to me, but I think that they will not. Do they fear my answers? I wish I knew. I wish so much.

Some time ago (two days? two weeks? two months?) a falcon perched on my window sill and I was sure he had been sent by Tava to bring news of home. Alas, I could not speak the language, and after a few scant moments my visitor saw fit to fly off to the north and east, to the deserts and mountains without end. Alone again.

I think much of the legends of lost Yokuda. I think of our old cousins, the Zia, and their confinement.

My home over there,
Now I remember it;
And when I see that mountain far away,
Why then I weep,
Why then I weep,
Remembering my home.

Even from here I can sometimes see Tuk-uhn-ah-k’vah, our mountain. Then I weep.

The window is my salvation and my torment. I can see our beloved Alik’r, and I can imagine you, my brothers, sitting by the fire under these skies of wintertide, sitting and drinking and trading stories. Then I weep.

I see the mountains crested in snow, and I imagine the soaptree’s spines wreathed in white. My horse kicking up snow like the summer dust. Then I weep.

Here on the coast the wind is still warm—I feel it sometimes through my window, and it is then that I cannot see but can feel Sun’s Height and sex in the sand. Then, my friends, why then I weep.

This post has been edited by canis216: Dec 26 2008, 08:14 PM

What wonderful timing! The very instant I decide to join this illustrious order, I've just finished something which would fit nowhere else but in this thread.

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And to All a Good Night!

There is sort of a blank and empty room through the doorway directly before you. Sort of. Relative to the absolute black of the void stretching infinitely to all sides, looping back on itself eternally, and all the while managing to have zero space for you, that blank and empty room of slate gray concrete is a pulsating metropolis.

How absolutely fascinating, right? Stepping across the threshold, you transfer from immaterial reality to solid fantasy. You’re dreaming after all, and it’s not a particularly exciting one telling by the completely lackluster setting. The room is just a big cube; even the doorway you came through is gone, eliminating the very last detail besides your own body which could possibly be described as anything other than monotonous. But…

Well, there’s always a but, isn’t there? There’s always a big butt, someone might say in an exceedingly drear way, and then chortle afterwards. In any event, this but – or butt, if you enjoy the puerile – is not even so mildly interesting as I failed to make it sound. It’s just that your body, normally so, well, you-like, is now just as terribly drab as this intensely dull room is. You’re wearing gray clothing, amorphously cut; it would fit a man or woman equally well. Your chest is flat – no rippling muscles, no burgeoning melons (as some fatuous sex education teacher might say) and not even any undulating fat folds. Your gender is indeterminate. That would be interesting, if it weren’t for the fact that your genitalia is intact and normal – rather, your figure is just generally…blah. If it weren’t for your nether regions, an objective individual seeing you naked would be hard-pressed to pick a sex.

So, is this some kind of latent body-image issue you’re confronting here, in the most boring part of your brain? Because if so, please move it on over to a spot which could at least have the human decency to incorporate some vaguely snide jocks or lukewarmly picky cheerleaders. Please. Frankly, my patience is reaching the triple point. I will either evaporate into ether or freeze to a block from sheer inactivity soon. Oh, well, you didn’t think it was a detached nonentity narrating this charade of a dreamscape, did you? Or some figment of your perilously atrophied imagination? No, I am the liquid observer, seeping into every crevice to observe your deepest fantasies.

And if this is the extent of your fantasizing, you are a pathetic example of a human being.

We might as well get some use I guess, else this night be completely wasted. Ahem. This is undoubtedly a subconscious commentary on your world. You feel trapped within the life you’ve built, the schedule you keep and the people you know, but are afraid that outside of it all there’s nothing. You’re tidy and meticulous besides – prone to obsessive-compulsive idiosyncrasies – and these two traits are conflicting, I’m afraid, producing this strange kind of sterilized limbo. Beyond mere insecurity, this touches on social paranoia.

Right, I’m done with that. Depressing stuff, I have to say.

Oops, sorry. I suppose that slipped outside the bounds of professionalism, eh? Sometimes you get that with these revolutionary psychiatric procedures. Isn’t it fascinating though? We can now delve into the human mind – in 3-D no less! – and observe what an individual is thinking and feeling in their subconscious. It’s a huge milestone for humanity, and medicine, and even you I should think. Because the most exciting part, I didn’t even bother to tell you about: Not only is observation possible, but direct neuro-imprinting!

Neuro-imprinting? Don’t worry about that, it’s technical stuff, and we’d hate to bore ourselves with technical stuff, wouldn’t we? I mean, it’s already bad enough in here. No offense.

Oh screw it, who cares? You won’t remember any of this anyway. Hehe, that’s right. No, it wasn’t in the fine print; I’m sure a tidy little tit like you read through that quite thoroughly.

Well, let’s break up the tedium, yes? Rhetorical question, sorry, you get no choice in the matter. Now, just to crack open this place – kind of like an egg, except instead of yolk, it’s you oozing out. You might notice that the concrete is melting away – crack open was poetic license on my part – and where there is no more, the previously extant void is no longer present. Ha, extant void! Get the joke?

Whatever; your being upset is part of the natural process of internal rejuvenation. Just like the boiling lava and napalm-exhaling dragons are. Speaking of which, you ought to try and use that shield, and maybe the sword if you’ve got the balls…although I must say I can’t tell if you have, what with that massive codpiece. Maybe there are some latent body-image issues after all, eheh.

Whooee, nearly broiled you there! I wouldn’t worry, this is all for your improvement. It’s for science. And medicine! And many other things, I’m sure.

Now, here’s a fun situation; the tallest tip of the titanic tower, where the princess lay. You did well killing those dragons. I never would have thought you had it in you. By the way, have you noticed the implications of stowing a princess in a tall tower? After all, they’re great huge phalluses of buildings, and princesses are ostensibly virginal, and the ostensibly virginal prince goes in and rescues her from the large penile object and divests her of innocence. It’s ironic. They teach you to look for those things in Psychology College, you know. You would have realized that if you had gone there, like I did. Yes.

Where were…

I see. That girl was pretty attractive, wasn’t she? What’s strange is, even in these most intimate moments, I would have a hard time discerning whether you’re a male or a female without foreknowledge. Hm. Ah, there we go. Well, that solves a bit of a dilemma I was having. Apparently gender identity is not, in fact, a problem anymore.

But this is fantastic! You’ve shed your shell, and are taking risks. You’re giving into animal instincts, base instincts which you have unhealthily suppressed. This is a grand moment for me; I’ve done my job well. Are you paying attention? This is rather important, after all. Since I’ve done this on a subconscious level, the changes are going to be magnified to an extraordinary degree in your waking state. Lifestyle changes, huge ones. You’re practically cured.

Except for this one last bit, of course. Go ahead and finish up if you’re close, don’t mind me. Yes, total loss of inhibition I see. That’s good. You’ll need that, for what we’re going to have you doing. Hey, everything’s got a price, right? And if the price is right, well, it’s just like the phrase's namesake show; you get the prize, at cost. The price is not too high, I can assure you. A new life, new opportunities, new everything; we’ve given all that to you. And a tad more. You are grateful.

Not a question. You are. It’s an overwhelming feeling; I know, I put it there. You won’t feel it now, you might never feel it, but if it ever becomes necessary to summon it then begging to serve me is the least of what you’ll do.

The bare minimum.

So do please enjoy this freedom we’ve granted you. It should be lasting. Well, if I calibrated everything right; new equipment can be awfully tetchy, you know. Yes, smile nervously. I’ll see you again someday, maybe. In your dreams.

Oops, sorry about double posting! But this little story is currently intended to stand alone, so the Temple of Lore seems like the perfect home for it. Anyway, here it is, and I hope this isn't a bannable offense

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A Knight's Error

The sun was a splendorous faerie’s orb overhead, illuminating a lush forest whose trees burst with greenery and whose bushes were rife with animals great and small. It was a glorious day indeed for newly-anointed Knight Errant Velorna; not only did the God of Beauty consecrate the morning with wondrous nature, but on the road ahead he spotted a group of brigands assailing a defenseless peasant. This was a golden opportunity for Velorna to try his righteous arm in a test of combat against the chaos gripping the countryside, and he wasted no time in drawing forth his brilliantly sparkling blade, Celandine.

Spurring his every-loyal destrier, Morrigan, onward, he delivered a knightly challenge to the scruffy band. “Ho, doers of evil deeds! Though you prey on those who cannot raise a hand ‘gainst you, there is one who shall protect them. And it is I, Velorna of Arienne, who will defeat you in this hour!”

Every brigand looked up from kicking the dusty figure laying out on the dirt road, and after a brief interchange, scattered into the surrounding vegetation. Velorna was not surprised; his fair countenance, symbol of deliverance for the meek and innocent, was as that of death to dark men such as they. Although sitting astride an armored warhorse wearing shimmering plate might have had some small effect, he supposed, but his Knight Superior had always told him to quell those thoughts. In any even his attention was all on the peasant he had saved; the man was back on his feet, brushing off a green tunic which may have actually been cleaned somewhat by rolling in the earth.

Velorna reined Morrigan up next to the man, flashing his beamiest smile to reassure the man he was safe, like the Knight Superior had also told him. “Hail, good yeoman! You have been saved from the rude accosting. No, there is no need for thanks; it is my duty as Knight Errant to help all those I meet whilst my quest for justice continues.” Almost word for word from the Knight’s Manual of Honor! And Taerion had said he would never make a good knight...

The peasant stared at him, one eye barely visible for puffing up, but the man looked suspiciously close to a rat, Velorna realized. He did not say anything for several seconds. And then for several seconds more. Finally Velorna cleared his throat ostentatiously, but still no words came. He began to think the fellow was a mute. Deciding that a hint was not too much, Velorna leaned down from Morrigan and whispered. “However, thanks are appreciated, you know.”

“Thanks!?” shouted the peasant right into his ear. “What bloody thanks do I owe ye, shiny great fool that ye are!” His words cut off as abruptly as they had begun.

Velorna straightened up, flipping back his shoulder-length blonde hair to stick a finger in his ear; there was an incessant ringing now. Still, he could not understand this man. “I saved you. You understand that, right? Those men were assaulting you.”

“Assaulting me alright,” said the rat-faced man disconsolately, “I haven’t paid me taxes in several months, and those men came to collect it out of me hide. And now ye’ve driven them off, they’re going to come back in force next time, and really take it out of me!”

“Ah,” said Velorna slyly, “so the corrupt lord sent his thugs to beat a poor farmer for failing to pay his exorbitant taxes. Well, have no fear goodman, for there is a savior about, and his name is Velorna of Arienne!”

“Well, actually, I keeps me money in me cowhide sack,” said the 'goodman,' “but I hid it from them and tried to bite the nose off the lead fellow when they all followed me out here, so they all jumped on me. I’ve got such a temper you know, ever since they confiscated all me merchandise.”

Velorna’s nostrils flared with rage at the man’s plaintive tale. “Fiends! They stole your livelihood, and must pay for such iniquity!”

The former merchant looked up at him wonderingly, with not a hint of gratitude on his face at last. “Well, I thanks you sincerely now, me lord. I did not realize that Knights sympathized so with me plight.”

“The Knights of Arienne sympathize with all men,” Velorna announced grandly, flourishing Celandine in a broad overhead sweep, “Freedom from oppression is a right no matter your coloring or societal status! And so I promise to aid you in your quest to regain your employment and eliminate this evil lord who so afflicts the land! I do so swear, on my honor as a Knight of Arienne.” He crossed himself then, to seal his pact before both Gods and man.

The goodman’s jaw hung slightly open after that display. He recovered admirably however, clapping loudly; a single tear rolled down one crusty cheek. “I truly, truly thanks ye, and a thousand times over I thanks ye me lord. No one ever understands how much a slaver must go through. Everyone always hates ye, calls ye the scum of the earth, the spawn of Hell, and worse besides! It is nice to finally have an ally.”

Velorna’s sapphire eyes twitched. “Did you say…you were a slaver?”

“Not ‘were’ me lord,” responded the man, dry washing his hands and watching the Knight Errant intently, “I will be again, once ye do with Lord Del Corazon. Me lord, are ye alright?”

But Velorna could not hear him over the crashing sound between his ears. Swaying in his saddle, he doubled over and retched all over Morrigan, who promptly reared onto hind legs and bucked the sickly Knight Errant right off. Between his head and the jagged rock, consciousness winked out.




When he awoke, Velorna discovered he was no longer in the verdant forest. Now he was in what could best be described as a smoky hovel, and a poorly constructed hovel at that. Some man he vaguely recognized was lying on a pile of straw in one corner, snoring raucously; the furnishings of this place seemed to consist of one upturned barrel for a table, and two upturned buckets for chairs. Otherwise, everything was straw, besides the thin cot he lay upon. Which was stuffed with straw as well, Velorna quickly found when he tried to get up and hay spilled everywhere. A sudden snort came from the sleeping man. He opened up beady little eyes – which rather reminded Velorna of a rat’s – and slowly got to his feet making horrendous noises with his mouth. Yawning, Velorna remembered the Knight Superior calling that. It was discourteous to the ninth degree – there were only ten degrees in Knightly insults – and at any other time he would have backhanded the churl with his gauntlet.

But he could not recall how he had gotten here, so Velorna did not think it a brilliant idea to start hitting all sorts of people when there might be mitigating circumstances. The Knight Superior would have slapped him with the flat of a sword for that kind of thinking of course, but Velorna also remembered him saying that being a Knight Errant meant finding your own way. Finding your own way…

The beady-eyed man looked at Velorna just then, and smiled an ingratiating smile, although the young Knight could not recognize such a subtle thing. “Have you recovered from your li’l spill, me lord?”

“Spill?” asked Velorna, clambering to his feet – and finally catching a whiff of himself. He blanched; the odor smelled disturbingly like vomit had spent half a day steaming beneath his breastplate, reaching a ripeness so vile that cesspits would be considered better company.

“Yes, yer spill me lord,” responded the man, oblivious to his guest’s discomfiture, “ye fell off’n your warhorse, but no worries; I stabled him up with Hook-fer-Hand Tom, and brought ye back to me mansion for rest! Wait, why are ye grabbing me, me lord!? Is there a problem?”

Velorna had surged at the man, clutching violently at the front of his shirt and pulling his ratty, somewhat crusty face only inches away from his own. “Tell me true, goodman, for I cannot believe my memory…are you a slaver?”

“Ah, the fall must have knocked ye for a walk through the forest,” said the man understandingly. “And I ne’er told you my name besides.” He pushed Velorna away gently, and the Knight relented uncertainly.

“Me name is Davish Henry, and I am indeed a slaver; yer memory serves ye right in that respect me lord.”

“And did I…I swore to…to…” Velorna could not complete the thought. It was just too horrible.

“That ye did, me lord, ye swore to get back me confiscated merchandise and help overthrow Lord Del Corazon so’s hard-working men like I can live in peace!” Davish beamed at his new savior, wringing his hands out of sheer excitement. “What’s more, I managed to procure ye some aid in the doings whilst ye slept!”

“Aid?” said Velorna bleakly. “What aid?”

“‘Tis a surprise, lordship,” Davish said, grinning futilely; the young Knight plopped back down onto the cot, armor clanking loudly, dropping his head into his hands.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” moaned Velorna.

Davish continued to grin for a while, thinking it probably unwise to interrupt the man with a great big sword in an apparent moment of weakness. That was in fact the most intelligent thing Davish ever intentionally did in his entire life, bar none, for Velorna was at that very moment having a raging internal debate on the topic of his oath.

On the one hand, slavers and anyone who sold other people into servitude were exceedingly wicked, and by his Knightly creed Velorna should have struck the man down on the spot. Had Davish touched him right then, he would have. But, on the other hand, a Knight’s word was his honor. To break that meant to abandon the creed he lived by. It was an impressive quandary, Velorna had to admit. He remembered, though, the Knight Superior’s final speech to the him and the other Knights Errant before they set out on their individual quests. Each one of you shall travel separate path. Some shall go through fire, other through ice, and yet more through temptation. Yet know always that it is a part of your quest, the only quest for any Knight of Arienne; the quest for justice.

Right then Velorna decided – he had to help this man. Not to do so was to turn his back on the ideals he had built his life upon; honesty, honor and strength of purpose. It had been a difficult decision, and it remained one fraught with complication, but Velorna solemnly believed he had chose the most righteous path given the circumstances. He would accomplish his task, and then kill the slaver right after. Leaping to his feet, he put his hand over heart and declared his intent. “Davish Henry, take me to my steed, so that I might ride and confront Del Corazon and defeat him, thus fulfilling my obligation to you.”

Davish grinned genuinely this time, and quickly led Velorna out of his hovel and out into the bright sunlight outside. The sight that greeted him was a truly revolting one. Dozens of clumsily thatched and horribly askew hutches dotted a small clearing, surrounded by a drooping wooden palisade. There was no grass, only mud trampled and churned to a fine brown sludge by many uncaring feet. Men and women walked here and there, unkempt, filthy and generally of an ill look. Worst of all, at the center of this collection stood a cluster of iron cages, black and jagged with rust, standing no more than five feet high. They had to pack people into them like swine; people with eyes sunken like pits into hell. The bottoms of the cages looked as if swine really inhabited them; filth was strewn about, and the smell wafting from there was intolerable.

Righteous anger swelled within Velorna, but he contained it; these people were his charges, for now. He remembered something Davish had said in the hovel. “You mentioned aid for me, Master Henry. What did you mean by that?”

“Ye have a sharp mem’ry, lordship,” Davish said slyly, tapping his nose. “But I’d hate to spoil the surprise now it’s been held so long. Ye’ll meet the man shortly.”

Velorna shook his head at the man’s evasion. That was another offence against Knightly conduct, but he supposed men such as Davish could not be expected to know those things. Again a thought which the Knight Superior would have purpled to hear, but the Knight Superior was – thankfully – not around.

He followed Davish through the village, if it could be called that; according to Davish, this place was a gathering grounds of sorts for slavers and other men of disreputable professions. Lord Del Corazon had never come in force here, and Davish had only been attacked by his poltroons when traveling to meet a buyer and been forced to surrender his wares. People, Velorna remembered. People, not wares. The Knight frowned at Davish, who paled. “I thought you said you owed Del Corazon taxes.”

“Yes, well, I meant more like taxes in the meaning of fines levied against me, me lord,” said Davish in his most servile way. “I did not mean to mislead ye.”

Velorna was disappointed at that; it might have been a way out of his oath. Davish was lying, but Knights Errant were not trained to hear much beyond words.

The slaver brightened though, looking beyond Velorna, who turned to see a group of horsemen approaching. The five following were rangy, thuggish types in leather brigandines and sporting short bows on their backs with short swords at their belts. Their leader, however, was tall and sat straight in the saddle. His tabard was sable, and a silver eagle was proudly embroidered on the chest. Velorna immediately recognized the sigil. “You are Maevhorn the Sable!”

The rider bowed with a flourish. His black hair was long and cascaded down upon his shoulder in fancy curls; he had black mustachios that twirled into ridiculous spirals; he had even painted his armor black. “I am indeed the illustrious Maevhorn, and have come to kill Lord Del Corazon alongside you.”

Velorna winced at his bluntness, but inclined his head respectfully all the same. The Knight Superior had always said dangerous enemies were deserving of respect, so he would have at least been happy at that, for Maevhorn the Sable was indeed a dangerous enemy. The greatest swordsman who ever lived some claimed, and the primary antagonist of the Knights of Arienne. “Your assistance shall be crucial, I am sure.”

Maevhorn laughed airily, afterwards wiping his mouth with a silk kerchief – dyed black. His men joined in, but fell silent at a peremptory motion from the villain. “Del Corazon is often out in the Forest of Equanimity at this time, hunting with his personal guards. Perhaps we can catch him there?” he said

“Yes,” Velorna replied, heart sinking. It was best to finish the job quickly, so he did not have to associate with these people much longer, but he wished there might have been more time all the same. “When can we ride?”

“Right now!” exclaimed Maevhorn bouncily, “I love ambushes, and this shall be one recorded in the history books for all time”

“How…” But the Knight had no words in response. Instead he followed Davish to Hand-fer-Hook Tom – who did not have a hook for a hand at all, strangely – and retrieved Morrigan, his steed.

Shortly after Velorna rode out with Maevhorn the Sable and his five minions to assassinate a Lord. They traveled through the Forest of Equanimity for some time, finally reaching a spot where one of the minions said Lord Del Corazon always came through on his way back to Galoraunt, the castle where he ruled the Forest from. Tying their horses off some distance away, they all concealed themselves cleverly, with Maevhorn and Velorna directly across from each other so that they fell on the Lord’s party like a pincer.

Not much time passed before they heard much rustling close by, and then ten mounted men emerged from the growth, sweaty and carousing with each other over the animal carcasses slung over their mounts. Most of them wore simply red coats with a single white stag galloping on their breast, but one man at the center wore an intricate hunting jacket embroidered with dozens of the stags, all in different action poses. Velorna waited until they had passed just beyond his position, when the five archers positioned in front of the horsemen released their arrows. Three fellows crumpled immediately, and while the company was in disarray and attempting to close around the man in the nicest jacket, Velorna jumped up, drawing Celandine and delivering his battle cry.

“For righteousness and all that is good!”

Maevhorn leapt up simultaneously, adding his own cry to the cacophony before delving into the battle. “For lechery and absolute freedom!”

Despite the uncomfortable admonishment from his ally, Velorna piled on, laying Celandine about on all sides with the practice of a man trained from boyhood to wield a sword. The men, crowded close together on their horses, never really had a chance. One red coat after another had blood added to its pigments as the Knight grimly applied his blade to their bodies. Finally, it was only the man who must be Lord Del Corazon atop his proud gelding, sword dancing with Maevhorn the Sable’s.

Like steel lightning they fought, so fast you could only follow their action if you had spent a lifetime learning the art as Velorna had. Both were very good, true masters, but Del Corazon was slightly better. He rained down blows on Maevhorn’s head, cutting him innumerous small times, until the black-clad man was forced to retreat.

Lord Del Corazon did not attempt to flee, however, for he saw Velorna intended to engage him. The two squared, and saluted each other with their blades, when Del Corazon suddenly stiffened and toppled from his horse with an arrow in his back.

Velorna froze as one of the concealed archers leapt up, shouting gleefully. “I shot him, I killed the Lord! I’m a right old hero, I am!”

But the Knight Errant could have found no words of congratulation had he even desired to give them; he was too stunned for speech. He had sworn to kill Del Corazon, not the archer; and if he had not done it, then his oath stood unfulfilled.

This was a new and more terrible quandary than even the previous; honor and duty were supposed to distill the world into black and white, not turn everything into accursed sepia tone! What would the Knight Superior say in this situation…

Well, I'm sorry to tell you that....

Of course it bloody well isn't!

You just keep these coming mate, it's always a pleasure to see your writing. I haven't had a proper chance to read these carefully yet, so I'll rectify that at the weekend

An Assassin's Discourse on Deception
by Acolyte Redoran Serayth Dralor,
a Scribe in the Service of the New Temple
Blessed be the Name of Almsivi

I was intrigued to say the least when the Temple Steward of Ald-Ruhn at the time, a particularly taciturn man, told me I was to record a conversation with the new Morag Tong Master of Ald-Ruhn, Goren Andarys. As all Dunmer know, the Morag Tong is an impartial guild sanctioned by the temple, for its Mephalain cult status, and by extension reverence to Vivec.

Uncertain as to what was expected of me, the steward's lined face seemed to show even more displeasure then usual when I inquired. You're a damn scribe, he told me. It's an exercise in memory, diction and recording, he explained in a sour tone.

On the morning that I was to meet with Master Andarys, I prepared myself by washing myself particularly thoroughly, despite the fact that water is rare in the deep ashlands. I feared more the thought of offending a master assassin, then the verbal lashing I was certain to receive from the steward. Much to my chagrin, there was an ashstorm brewing already, and seemed to pick up as soon as my foot left its imprint in the dark soil.

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into Ald-Skar, my robes and face soiled from the tempest outside. I did my best to brush myself off, leaving a pile of the Red Mountains gift on the ground. I proceeded to the carved doorway in the Emperor Crabs shell, in its place a thick door produced of oak imported from Skyrim.

Knocking upon it lightly, I entered into the main hall of the Morag Tong guildhouse. It was sparsely decorated with Temple tapestries, some furniture, and candles that seemed to emit a faint red glow, my eye caught some trama root, chokeweed and other indigenous Ashland fauna in planters around the immense room.

Dressed in black clothing, with a shock of white hair pulled back into three tails, so that one ran to the back of the neck, and two hung from the sides of his face a lean Dunmer perhaps one hundred and fifty or so, old but not elderly, stood calmly over one of the planters feeding it water from a cup. He looked up at me with serene red eyes, and smiled slightly. His hand rose towards one of the tables, and gestured for me to take a seat. His other hand picked some trama root thorns.

Sitting down, I took note of a bowl of steaming hot water, into which the man dropped the trama root thorns, and replaced the cover.

"You must be Serayth. Three Blessings. I am Goren, Andarys Clan."

I returned his pleasantries, feeling a bit un-centered at being not just calm, but polite with a man who exchanged blood for gold. For a few minutes we exchanged pleasantries and small talk of our backgrounds. I originally from the Kragenmoor district, and he from Dres, living on the Elsweyr border, where the slave trade is common, despite imperial opposition.

After the small talk, he removed the lid, and poured two cups of trama root tea, wisps of steam rising as he did so. I noticed how he also had total concentration upon the task, as though it were a specialized technique that required all his attention.

I inhaled the scent, and felt the warm and rejuvenating aspects of the tea as i swallowed. "Its good?" he asked in passing, as I confirmed with a nod.

"I learned this simple thing from a Khajiit monk." he remarked, to which I nearly spit out my sip.

"A slave knows of trama root tea?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, a Khajiit knows of techniques in skooma, moon sugar, and other manners of unpleasantness. A Khajiit monk knows of mastering basic techniques. A strong foundation will hold any weight applied to it."

I inquired as to his trade besides being Morag Tong.

"I am a monk." he replied simply, and to my surprise.

"A monk? Does not a monk take an oath to not take lives? To shed no blood?" I asked.

"There are monks who do take such oaths to orders to which they belong, yes. My order happens to be the Morag Tong, which requires no such oath, indeed such an oath would be rather counterproductive."

"Then....what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"My oaths are Fidelity, Secrecy, Obedience, Reserve, and Restraint."

"I understand fidelity, and secrecy...even obedience, um...reserve and restraint?"

"I reserve all my reactions. I do not let my emotions overcome my actions. I restrain myself from taking the lives of the innocent or those who have no writ against them."

"But you have no problem with those who do?"

"Of course not."

"What about the oath of truth?"

"You mean the Seven Graces, priest. The Grace of Courtesy goes: 'Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate words may turn aside anger.' There is no stipulation against lies, or deception rather. And there is a long and proud tradition of the Dunmer being crafty, from the Telvanni, to the Hlaalu, for it was Boethiah whom taught us to dispose of our enemies with patience and cunning. And Mephala was the one who saw to it that our societies laws were based around this, through her agency, the Morag Tong."

Feeling rebuked by the monk giving a lesson on theology to a priest, albeit a scribe, I attempted to sway the argument. "Forgive my misunderstanding, I simply meant that the traditional view of a monk seeking the higher path doesnt seem to fit in with an agency such as the Morag Tong. Which thrives on deception."

"Yes, deception is commonly viewed as sinister. As are we. It is a reputation we have earned, and an impression we like to cultivate. At times it proves to make our tasks easier. But deception like many things is neither good nor evil. It is simply what you do with it."

"Deception as a thing which is neutral? Now you speak in riddles, Master Andarys."

He thought to himself for a moment, giving himself a slight smile as he remembered things from long past.

"I will recite a story I heard once. Then perhaps you will see..." he began.

"A long while ago, a Clan head was having a dinner with very important guests from all over his region. Plantation owners, slave traders, Hlaalu businessmen, temple stewards, et cetera. The food was plentiful, and the goblets bottomless. During this event, the clan head noticed that there was an ash worm skulking beneath the table. Ash worms were uncommon, but not unheard of in this part of Morrowind, so few knew of them."

"The Clan Head however, knew well of them, and knew that they were highly poisonous, seeing one above ground likely meant one that was dieing, and confused, and more likely to attack, as they sensed vibrations above the ground from their burrows."

"Realizing that it would cause a panic, and the likely death of at least one of his guests, the clan head thought quickly, and signaled a servant to his side, whispering specific instructions to him. Immediately after, the clan head removed a precious ring from his finger, and gently placed it on the table."

"This ring can buy ten slaves, feed a small fishing village for a year, and make any man or woman at this table here richer then they are by one half. If you accept my challenge, then for the next five minutes, no matter what happens, no matter what oddities take place, none shall move or speak, nary a cough or a sideways glance. The last one remaining shall receive the ring."

"The guests took this as some form of entertainment, and immediately began the game. No one so much as moved, even when the servant crawled beneath the table with a dagger and sack. He crawled out some two minutes later, as the guests started to fidget, and giggle. Finally a Plantation owner won the game and the ring."

I nodded, understanding the point.

"Whereas the clan head may have lost reputation and allies should someone have died." I replied.

"Indeed." The Monk replied, taking a final sip of the tea.

The Beast

Light. Blinding and white and pure. It fills my shying eyes like a disease, first a trickle, then a painful torrent, invasive and exposing. I shut them.

I liked the darkness.

I missed the darkness. It was my home, my sustenance. I feed off the shadows, like some kind of beast. You see that is what I am, or was made. A beast. A creature. An unthinking, brainless savage, living like an animal amongst the blackness and the bleakness that I consume and that consumes me.

The shadows protect me. Hides my true identity from those hateful, accusing eyes. Conceals my hideous form and spares humanity the horror of witnessing me. They hate me, cast me out into the wilderness to fend for myself, judged me a monster on appearances alone. And that's why I hate them so. A deep burning ire that burns bright, that no amount of shadow and gloom can hide in the depths of my cave.

My dark, long-dead heart clenches at the thought of it, their leering faces, their jeering comments. They don't understand me. Nobody does. Only the shadows.

They know of my contempt. And they use it for themselves. They turn my hate of humans into a weapon. And I let them. They threaten me with perils of Sithis and the Mother of Night’s wrath, but they do not realise I am not afraid. In an instant I could but turn around and end their lives in a swift second of blood and murder and vicious gore. But I choose not to. I kill for them on my own volition.

I kill for my own pleasure.

Deep in the subterranean caverns of Cyrodiil they train me, goad me in cages, fuel my hate, and when a target is set, they release me, and like a dog I obey. I hunt the target down until his blood is on my lips and his soul is whispering in the underworld. I can imagine them all now. Wandering the afterlife as ghosts, every single victim of my savagery, watching, waiting for me to come out of the shadows.

I never will.

Sometimes they die silently. Sometimes they thrash and brawl until I decide I've had enough. And then the fun stops. The 'Brotherhood', as they call themselves, will never know what it means to be totally unhinged, to be absolutely free, to be able to enjoy the thrill of the kill.

They only use the shadows, yet I am the shadow.

They don't know what it feels like to be abandoned, to be left to die, to be so unloved even the gods despise you so. They worship false idols like this 'Sithis' and the 'Night Hag', they think they're free.

They're not at all. They're just the same as the rest. They think they can tame the untamed, control the uncontrollable. They can't control the shadows. The darkness is unstoppable. It was they who created me, made me so hideous and repulsive, and brought me into this world full of such dark hate and predujice. I used to consider it a curse, what they did to me, but now I see. It is a gift.

Screams. Blood spattering. It's almost like music to my distended ears. And as I listen to its sadistic ensemble I wonder how long it has been since I've seen the sun, felt its warm embrace and looked upon its beckoning glow.

It makes me gag. I said I liked the darkness.

The transcript has an unknown author.

These scribbled notes were found in an abandoned underground dungeon, when members of an Imperial Legion cohort uncovered a major Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary deep within the depths of Cyrodiil's hidden caverns. The Imperial Legionnaires were shocked to find every member of the secret covenant grotesquely murdered, seemingly mauled and in some cases devoured alive by some kind of beast. They sealed off the area and destroyed the entrance to the cave accordingly, though some reports from the soldiers tell of strange things moving in the darkness.

Signed Temple Archives Apprentice, Curator Illydoor

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Mar 29 2009, 08:28 PM

What was your name again?

Penehipumon.

Where are you?

Here. Not here...inside you. It's strange, just don't fight it, Mortal.

Where was I again?

Myn Druhr, looking for some concoction the Deep Ones left.

Thats right..Pene..

Penehipumon.

I'll call you Pene.

As you wish. Can we go now? I possessed you because I thought this might be interesting, after all you made quite the entrance with that explosion.

I'm still weak, I can barely move.

Fine, you take a nap. I'll keep an eye out.

You're a Woman....

"I'm whatever I want to be, and when I'm out here don't rely on me reading your mind, I'm not in it."

"w-what are you?"

"You mortals call me a 'Seducer'. Not to be confused with Mazken if you please. That's the Madgod's folk."

I pass out....

Trying to work my way back into the writing game. This may or may not turn into something larger.




A figure in green crept through the twilight, ducking smoothly from tree to tree, eyes fixed to the earth. It was a man; an elegantly curved wood-and-metal bow dangled from his left hand, the handiwork of the elves. His right hand gripped a pair of broad-headed silver arrows—the quiver slung across his back held perhaps thirty more. On his left hip sat a light silver short sword. The man was smiling.

The track was perhaps eight hours old, the gait a slow walk. Probably a big black bear, the man thought. Not as good as a brown bear, but good enough to make the offering. He would find it. The bear would have spent most of the afternoon bedded down, would have just gotten up. The man found the trail and resumed his effortless, crouching walk.

Forty minutes passed. The man flushed a white-tailed deer and instinctively prepared a shot, but his fingers could not release the arrow. The blessing ritual he’d held behind his cabin had prepared him to hunt bears and only bears. Though he hungered for meat, he could not take deer. Not now. He nibbled on a block of goat cheese; just enough to quiet the rumbling of his empty stomach. Another ten minutes passed and he found the bed.

The bear had scraped away a few inches of duff and dirt at the edge of a large stand of aspens. The aspens made the man nervous. With every breath of wind the delicately suspended leaves on the trees rattled about—drowning out every other sound and overwhelming the senses. It added risk. Fresh tracks, no more than half an hour old, led away from the bed and deeper into the forest. The man followed after pausing to refresh his spell of night-eye. The creeping darkness had become complete.

He smelled the bear before he saw it; a rich, musky aroma. The bear’s trail led over small rise and into a small meadow. The bear was digging up the bulbs of wild allium—onions. It was black and it was large, a male weighing at least 300 pounds. It would likely take more than one shot.

Moving into the wind and covered by the sound of aspen leaves, the man crawled behind a screen of gooseberry shrubs to within forty yards of the bear. If the bear detected him before he could shoot, he was sure to get mauled. But the bear was looking off to the side, engrossed in its digging. The man pulled arrows from his quiver, sticking four into the soft earth and nocking a fifth.

The first shot came out just as the bear turned toward him, exposing the heart. The bear bellowed and lunged forward, covering ten yards in what seemed like a fraction of a second, only to be shot once more. After one last great leap and two staggering steps the bear fell and moved no longer.

Hircine would be pleased.

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 5 2010, 02:06 PM

*




This post has been edited by mALX: May 3 2015, 09:18 AM

Allow this humble apprentice to submit this offering to the Temple. It is a long short story that will be told in several installments:










Servatius Quintilius stood in his new quarters in the South Watch Tower and adjusted his gleaming silver cuirass. As he admired his reflection in the looking glass, his attention was commandeered by the latest edition of the Black Horse Courier which sat on a desk in the corner where the easel had been. The headline New Watch Captain Named pointed toward the ceiling, and was large enough to allow Quintilius a smile of satisfaction.

After completing the delicate matter of fine tuning his appearance, Quintilius carefully made his way back down the series of ladders to begin his first rounds as Captain of the Imperial Watch.

“Captain Quintilius, sir,” said a young, red-faced guard before the Captain’s feet had adequately touched down on Nirn, “I’ve been sent to find you.”

“And so you have,” said Quintilius. “What is the problem?”

“There’s been a murder, sir!”

A murder, Quintilius thought to himself, excellent! “Lead on,” he said. He followed the young guard through the door and out into the pre-dawn moonlight.

They traveled down the alley and stopped at the gate leading to Green Emperor Way. Four guards had gathered with the shift change. They each straightened when they saw the insignia on Quintilius’ chest.

Quintilius led with his chin, “I don’t suppose there’s a reason that four guards are needed to hold up this gate?”

“No sir,” two guards muttered in unison. The other two were busy searching for the answer on the cobblestones at their feet.

“Then disperse,” said Quintilius, “I’ll not have guards loitering on my watch.”

Two guards said “yes sir” while the other two continued to monitor the pavement. Quintilius moved past them through the gate. Behind him eight eyeballs rolled toward the Firmament.

Dawn crept upon the Palace District; shadows that had shrouded the trees and headstones retreated to the ground and pointed west. The young guard weaved through the graves. Quintilius stayed close behind. He warned himself not to let his pace quicken too much, to investigate a murder on his first day was one thing, but stepping over the interred bodies of generations of the dead to do it made his blood curdle.

Another guard stood watch outside the heavy stone door to the Trentius Family Mausoleum. He fixed his posture when he saw Quintilius approach.

“Here?” Quintilius asked. Ridiculous, he thought, a murder in a mausoleum! He felt the sweat on his palm drip into the fingers of his gauntlet.

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we found them like this a couple of hours ago. There is no sign of forced entry, whoev . . .”

“You said them,” said Quintilius, gathering himself, “multiple victims?”

“Yes sir. We’ve identified the first as a Nord named Agarmir. We have not yet ident . . .”

“Why wasn’t I sent for when you found them ‘a couple of hours’ ago?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, Captain Hayn was on duty but he has taken ill. We were not aware that Captain Lex’s position had been filled.”

“It was in the paper,” said Quintilius.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir. I have not yet seen the new edition, sir.”

“See to it,” said Quintilius. He inhaled sharply which puffed out his chest, and then he descended the stairs into the mausoleum.

Lamps burned in sconces along the wall, providing ample light to see. Why is there light inside the mausoleum? Quintilius thought to himself, somehow it seems to defeat the purpose.

Two bodies lay in uncomfortable repose on the stone floor. Blood pooled in copious amounts around each, originating from ghastly wounds that caused Quintilius to struggle keeping the gag reflex in check. His eyes fell upon the short blond hair of the Nord closest to him. He wore a dark shirt, brown linens, and doe-skinned shoes. One should be given the dignity of dying in more becoming clothing, Quintilius thought.

The first guard spoke up again. “That one is Agarmir, sir, late of the Talos Plaza District. He is, was, a known thief, but it is unclear what he was doing in this place.”

“Looking for new clothing no doubt,” said Quintilius. “He must not be much of a thief; one can find better raiment in the crates lying around the city.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius allowed his eyes to venture to the other body that lay propped against a pillar in the center of the room. “Another Nord?”

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we haven’t been able to identify him yet. My guess is that he is a mercenary of some sort.”

“I am sure that the Empire will not thrive if it must rely upon your guesses.” Quintilius stepped over the body of the one called Agarmir and moved closer to the other. Already the smell emanating from the bodies was straining his olfactory sense. “Steel armor and claymore, a pack filled with a shank of mutton and a restore fatigue potion, I would say that this man was a mercenary of some sort. . . ”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius froze him with a look. “It is also clear that he was in alliance with this Agarmir.”

“Sir?”

Quintilius sighed through the nose. “This Agarmir has no weapon, and the wounds on the two bodies are not those that would have been caused by a claymore.”

The second guard took two steps back toward the stairs leading out of the crypt. His hand sought the hilt of his silver longsword. “Could it have been an ancestor ghost? They have been known to guard the resting places of the dead.”

“Unlikely,” said Quintilius. “I see no ice burns on either body. Ghosts are partial to cold magic. Whatever caused these wounds was savage, precise and, for now at least, let us assume mortal.”

He raised his eyes from the body and did a sweep of the rest of the tomb. The two guards continued to edge toward the stairs.

“What’s that there?” asked Quintilius.

Both guards followed the Captain’s gaze to the object propped against another pillar in the tomb.

“It looks like a book, sir,” said the first guard.

“I would be very surprised if you did not one day wear the armor of a Watch Captain,” said Quintilius, “given your powers of observation. Being one myself, I can already see that it is a book! Does it not strike you as passing strange that someone would choose to leave a book in this of all places?”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

Quintilius shook his head. “Who, do you imagine, was the book left for?”

“I imagine that it belongs to one of the two Nords, sir,” the second guard interjected.

“Do you now? Two Nords barged into the Trentius Family Mausoleum on some Arkay-forsaken errand and decided to stop and produce a book because there happened to be ample reading light? However, that is beside the point. My question wasn’t ‘who is the owner of this book,’ it was ‘who was this book left for?’”

Quintilius could almost hear their eyelids scratching against their eyeballs as they blinked at him over and over.

“Hand me the book!” he said.

The first guard bent and secured the tome. He walked across the stone floor to where Quintilius stood. The Watch Captain did just that, and thought for all of the Mundas that the guard looked as nervous as a rat sneaking around in Goblin Jim’s Cave.

“Sir,” said the guard.

Quintilius took the book and opened it. His eyes scanned the words committed to the page.

“It appears that this book belongs to one of the recently expired Nords,” said Quintilius. “It seems to be an inventory of some sort, a list of the recently deceased and their belongings.”

“These men were robbing the mausoleum?” asked the second guard.

“So it would appear,” said Quintilius. “It also appears that they met with someone who objected to their activities.” He closed the book and held it toward the first guard. “Take this ‘Macabre Manifest’ and find the locations of any family members or associates of the recently deceased. Then return the book to my quarters in the South Watchtower.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius looked at the second guard. “Inform Commander Phillida of the situation here, I imagine that he will want to quarantine this mausoleum.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius mounted the stairs into the morning sunlight. He stretched away the shadows from the crypt and shook the tension from his shoulders. While they are engaged with those errands, perhaps I will break my fast at the Bloated Float, or perhaps the King and Queen . . .

“Captain Quintilius, sir!”

Quintilius turned. The voice belonged to yet another guard who weaved with great alacrity through the headstones and stopped panting on Quintilius’ boots. The Watch Captain waited.

“There’s . . . been . . . a murder . . . sir!”

“So I am aware. You do realize that you find me standing outside the murder scene? And I would not exactly classify it as a murder. I imagine any number of men could endeavor to ascertain the killer. Captain Hayn strikes me as the competent sort, perhaps he could be put to the task. My talents are wasted here.”

“Huh? Oh. Yes sir. I mean . . . no sir. I mean to say, there’s been another murder, sir.”

Another murder? Even better! Perhaps this one will prove a better exercise of my intellect. “Where?”

“In the Temple District, sir, I was told to direct you to the home of an Altmer named Seridur.”

This story takes place in a world that I have created. The country that I'll be writing about the most is named Rigor Mortis, the place where this one takes place. I'll be writing about it in my blog later. The land is usually a really good place to live in, you've just got to watch out where you put your feet.

Bad Luck by Saqin, Scribe of the Order of the Schola

1 E 243 Winter
The wind sighed in the snow covered pines. It sung a desperate song about a war long since forgotten, and the man who slept beneath the trees curled himself up, only to moan of the pain as his wounded arm touched a stone. His eyelids fluttered open, and he sat up. The forest was quiet except from the disturbing noises of the wind, and suddenly the man was alert. He grabbed the sword that lay next to him, and arose despite the vile ache that sometimes felt as if though it intended to crush him.

Far away, he heard the soft trampling of feet and the merry voices of men coming back from a successful hunt. But he had slept many miles away from the roads, and no one with good intentions travelled the cursed forest at night. His heart sunk where he stood, and the man covered his failing fire with snow as fast as he could, the silence was eerie. He rolled up his bedroll, and put it in his pack. Having slept with his clothes on, there was nothing more for him to do except to cover the last of his tracks before leaving.

Standing ready in the snow, he listened to the distant song that came from the east, before beginning his hike southward. Then he heard the words, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“...We come for them who flee our house,
we walk the path that no one knows
Our silent steps shall not be heard,
hear them you and you shall die
Worse is the curse that lies on us

The wind sighs and the birds flee our sights
Long ago we left these lands
We are those who you lost
In a war so very long ago

We come for them who fled our house,
with deceit and lies they brought us down...”

The man shook his head and left the trance. It was at a run that he continued, no longer caring whether they heard him or not. Panic filled him, and it felt as if though the trees reached down to hit him, to stop his passing. Snow crunched beneath his feet, and he did not slow down more than enough to leap over that which came in his way.

He no longer heard the singing when the fire appeared through the trees, and he slowed down. Panting he walked the few last steps through the forest, out onto the plains where the fire was. But the fire was blue, and there was no wood. The fire was floating, and just as his mind registered that, he saw the woman.

She looked at him with a smile. She was using a cane of white wood to support herself, and black hair fell down her shoulders. The cold did not seem to bother her, though she wore nothing but a thin robe. There was a carriage behind her, and from it he heard a scream. Then a man came out.

“That one's dead, mistress. Shall I try and revive him?” The new man's voice had a melancholy voice, as if though neither the cold nor any other feelings touched him.

“Wait boy, a guest just came to us from Darkrange forest.” She looked upon the man that had just come from the forest, and her smile took on an evil hint. The man stood as paralysed, and could do nothing when she walked against him.

“Nec-necromancer.” The man gasped, and the woman gave out a short laugh.

“Indeed boy, I am one of those that worship the gods of death and pain. It's not for nothing that the name of our land is Rigor Mortis.” She said, and put a hand on his chest. Her evil smile was the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled up, and everything became black.

The woman stood above him for a while before she turned to her servant. “Dispose of the old one will you? Reviving them is such a nuisance, and besides, we just found us a new toy.”

Sorry about the double post, but I've got another short story taking place in Rigor Mortis, and the main character ain't very forgiving(She isn't a great fan of waiting either).

Hunting party by Saqin, Scribe in the Order of the Schola

2E 145
Her steps carried her swiftly across the leaf covered ground, and she ducked beneath the branch of a tree. Hearing the sound of hoofs against the dark earth, she cast a glance over her shoulder. The riders were closing in, swords in their hands. As she ran, she reached to her quiver, but nothing more than air greeted her hand.

Suddenly, as if though to help her, a rabbit darted through the trees, scaring the horses. She spun around, drew her sword from it's scabbard, and stepped in behind a tree when the horses shied from the rabbit and the riders had to rein in their mounts.

A silent curse crossed her mind when the long black hair that was draped over her shoulders got stuck in a branch. When it was free, she climbed swiftly, hiding herself among the leaves. Pushing her back against the tree trunk, she listened as the horses calmed, and their riders dismounted.

“Yleka, come down willingly, and you will not be harmed! Our orders are only to capture you!” One of riders called out, meanwhile searching the ground for tracks that would betray her passing, tracks that quite certainly were there. His steel boots made a lot of noise when he walked through the dry leaves, and the other rider were looking through the trees.

Just as the eyes of the second rider found the silvery shimmer of her cloak, she leaped out against him. Yleka rolled around to soften the impact, and before the rider had time to react, her blade met the soft skin of his throat.

“Your orders might only be to capture me, but the orders of your general is to kill me. And your people have no right to rule our lands.” She said just as the man's head hit the ground, and his body fell backwards.

The man whom had spoken only had time to draw his sword up to block before Yleka charged at him. Her steel blade seemed almost to dance with his as they fought. She deflected his blade only to kick him as hard as she could, and the impact had him tumbling backwards. He rolled out of the way as she once again came at him, and he parried when she cut at him from every angle she knew.

But he grew weary, for his fitness was not as great as hers, and his arms became weaker. He tried to sidestep, to buy himself time. But a raised root caught his foot and pulled him down, showing to her an opportunity to strike.

In the aftermath, when she stood there looking down on the two soldiers, she felt how tired she truly were, for the strength that had kept her going had been nothing but adrenaline.

“You were good fighters, both of you. Pray the gods be as good to you.” She said, touching the forehead of each soldier with her fingers. Then she tied them to the saddles of their horses, and sent the horses on their way. And so she stood there, simply listening to the forest around her as it recovered from the fight. The faint sigh of the wind in the trees, the chatter of the birds and a snake creeping through the undergrowth, all of them masking the recent events.

Yleka looked around then, on the blood stains that covered the ground. And so she sheathed her blade, pulled her hood up over her head and began walking in the opposite direction of the horses. Mist were rolling in from the hills, and she raised a hand to remove hair from her eyes. Her cloak flapped in the wind one last time, and she vanished from sight.

This post has been edited by saqin: Nov 16 2010, 08:28 PM