The Temple of Lore, Works of the Schola Options

[Black Hand]

This thread is for the stories of the members of Order of the Schola, for any questions you may have please click on the following link.

http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=3495

ANYTHING that is not a story or poem or whatever should be posted on the link that was just provided. Thank you, not trying to be mean, just trying to keep our sacred temple clean. Now then, an explanation.

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The Temple of Lore is a sacred sanctum of tomes, dreams, thoughts, abstracts, histories, stories, poems, and the written word.

It exists in the twilight, between reality and fantasy, it embraces all forms and images that attempt to define it. It is perception, and the perciever.

There exists an order of men, commonly known to the masses as the Writers Guild, more accurately called the Order of the Schola who have mastered this twilight abstract in the form of storytelling, they alone have the power to transcend to the Temple of Lore, and contibute and take from its threads of knowledge.

They exist amongst us as Journalists, Bards, Old Men sitting on a porch with a glass of lemonade recanting old experiences. If you ask nicely, and your lucky to find the chosen few, a Schola can breathe life into any illusion, any thought.

[The Metal Mallet]

Excellent introduction for this thread Black Hand. Allow me to make a submission. Hopefully, content-wise, it is suitable, it was accepted at school, so I personally think it's all right to post it. I certainly don't condone what happens in this though. But see for yourself... May I present:



A Vicious Haze - A Short Story by Scribe The Metal Mallet

A small child gave me the oddest look today. I was simply walking down the street as I usually do, and as I passed the child I saw their expression. It shocked me. Within that child’s eyes I saw a frightened curiosity. Out gazes held each other until they were jarred loose by the child’s mother pulling him closer to her. As they walked on, I continued to look back at them briefly, still pondering the reason for the stare. I decided that I shouldn’t care. It was just a stupid kid anyway. I had more important things to do.

After grabbing a meal I arrived at the usual place I met Henry. To kill time I decided to examine the new graffiti sprayed across the alley walls. Figure, more expletives. The place reeked of garbage, as customary, and the local wino was already getting sick in the corner when it was only 4:30 in the afternoon. I can’t stand this place yet Henry seems quite fond of it. He claims the alley has “character” that appeals to him.

After a few minutes of waiting, I received a tap on my shoulder that caused me to jump.

“Holy crap, Ridley, you need to pay attention to your surroundings better. What if I was a mugger eh? You would be screwed now,” Henry chuckles as he knocks on my head like a door, expressing his obvious belief on my mental awareness. Damn that smirk of his.

I don’t think of Henry as a friend, more of a necessary acquaintance, so I was not very appreciative of the way he was treating me. “Well if all muggers are as weak as you, I don’t think I need to worry about my awareness,” I retorted back while dry washing my hands due to anticipation, “I have my money, do you have it?”

“Of course I do. Why else would we be meeting then?” replied Henry as he pulled out the much desired item of mine.

“Right, forget about what I just said,” I chagrined as we made the exchange. It was during this exchange that I realized how plain looking Henry was. He didn’t stand out at all. Buzzed, dirt brown hair, brown eyes, medium build, and the only distinguishable fact about him was that damned constant smirk across his face. I would assume that his appearance helps for his line of business, to be able to avoid suspicion by the authorities would be beneficial.

After parting ways with Henry, I hurried back to my apartment, located at a suitable distance from the hell hole I was walking in at the moment. As the homeless men started to reluctantly disappear and the concrete walkways began revealing green grass I began to feel more secure with my surroundings. My apartment slowly appeared around the corner and a swell of pride aroused within me. This apartment building was among one of the more expensive and luxurious in town. Unfortunately, others did not see the same pride as I did. They didn’t care at all.

I entered my apartment, took off my coat, and stepped over the broken table I had forgotten to discard. In fact, the whole apartment was in bad shape. Sofa mattresses were discarded everywhere but on the sofa, some chairs and tables were upturned in the corner, and the kitchen contained more than a few broken dishes. The condition of my home would’ve all been avoided if Henry mentioned that he was going to be on vacation for a week. I had a bit of a fit from being without my little item for too long. Thus, my home turned into a dump. I decided the mess could wait until tomorrow to clean up. I desperately needed my fix.

I eagerly began to set up my burning apparatus and delicately placed my syringe beside me. As I gave the burner time to heat up, I started to prepare my purchase. At the perfect temperature I began to cook the fine, white powder. The familiar scent from the fumes that entered my nostrils brought a smile of anticipation across my lips. The long wait was going to make this experience one of the best yet. Just the smell had my head buzzing.

A bubbling noise brought back my attention. My purchase was ready for use. I carefully poured the substance into the syringe and readied the needle, tapping it to make sure all the air was out. I wouldn’t want anything stupid to happen. I rolled up my sleeve, revealing several dark puncture scars, and then proceeded to tie off my arm above the elbow to protrude my veins. I picked my spot, slid the needle in, and injected my purchase into my bloodstream.

It was rapture. Euphoria. Bliss. It was what I needed. My pains were lost before me in the calming haze spreading within my body. Gone were the fatigue, anxiety, fear, and sadness that seemed to constantly bombard my life and ruined my happiness. Now I was happy. All because of my heroin.

***

A knocking at my door woke me up. I wasn’t expecting anyone. At least I don’t remember if I was expecting someone. Dragging myself over to the door, I opened it a crack to peer at the person on the other side.

“My god, Ridley, you look awful!” A small, feminine voice rose out behind the door. It took me a few moments to realize who it was.

“Rina! This is a … a surprize!” I replied, making no attempt to mask my shock. Rina was a good friend of mine from high school. Everyone would bug us, claiming that we were a couple, but that was never the case, we could talk to each other legitimately, that was our friendship. It was like that until school finished and we went our separate directions. We attempted to stay in touch in college, but our priorities pulled us apart. I didn’t even know she was in town.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just back in town for a little while and I just wanted to say hi to some of my old friends. I’ve already talked to Jacob and Hilary. She mentioned where you live, I always expected you to end up in this part of town,” she said while looking up at me with those big brown eyes. They had a look to them I had never seen before, a very deep concerned look I would call it, “Can I come in?”

“Um… actually, give me a second, I’ll just get into some different clothes and we’ll take a walk. This place is a mess right now, I don’t want to embarrass myself,” I replied quickly as I closed the door. How true that last part was. I didn’t want her to find out about my bad habit. I was surprised the smell of the place didn’t even raise any suspicions. I didn’t want to ruin what we had had together. I didn’t want to reveal to her how much I needed it. How it had its hold on me. It wasn’t going to let go.

***

The walk went perfectly. At least after the initial awkwardness regarding the way I looked. I had not recently looked at myself in a mirror, so I had no idea on how I looked. I decided to pass it off as a recovery to being ill the last few days. It wasn’t technically a lie. Withdrawal is much like a sickness.

Excluding that, the day felt like old times. We caught up on a lot of things. Shared a good laugh here and there. Reminisced about the high school days. We did a lot of that. I think for the both of us, our best memories remained in those days. They sure were for me. Since high school I may have had success financially due to my business career, and I am proud of that, but it is the fact that no one else seems to care that has dragged me down into my present state. I need that state of euphoria in my life. With Rina back in town, I think that I now have a more natural way in getting it.

Too bad the grip that the heroin has on me is too strong. Even now, seeing Rina regularly again, I need my fix. It’s like I need one or the other to make it through the day now. And if I don’t have one or the other, I start to lose it. I’m always forced to make new excuses to Rina about my looks, and I don’t think she’s buying them anymore. That overly concerned expression is popping up more than I’d like it to. The worry and stress of her finding me out has caused me to resort to the drugs to escape. Then the worry and stress increases. I’ve created a vicious cycle.

***

After another dinner spent with Rina, I decided to celebrate the way I usually celebrate a good day. A quick bedtime session. Rina informed me that we would be eating brunch at 12 pm like we usually do. I thought that was odd since what we usually did was eat at 11 am, I quickly ignored it. I had more necessary things to do.

I arrived at my apartment and began the usual procedure of setting up, cooking, and loading up the syringe. I just started sliding the needle in when suddenly a knock came from my door and Rina walked in. Looks like I was careless and forgot to lock the door.

“Sorry for barging in, Ridley, but I made a stupid mistake and told you brunch was at 12 and…,” she trailed off as she saw what I was doing, “Oh no… Ridley what has happened to you?”

“Listen, I can explain,” I pled to her; already I was overcome with dread. And shame.

“No, there are no reasonable explanations for this. I don’t want to hear anymore of your excuses. You’ve been lying to me this whole time, keeping me out of your apartment, blaming your appearance on illness… when all the time it has been this!” she pointed down at me and my drugs, practically shaking in disgust. Those big brown eyes of hers were brimming with tears, “I would have never expected this from you. You had so much going for your future back in high school, hell, you’ve even achieved that success and yet you’ve become this wreak. I was proud of you, but I can’t be anymore. You’re a shell of what you used to be. Go get some help,” she ended sadly and walked out of the room. There was a hollow echo and then rapid footsteps quickly fading away.

I sat there in the middle of my floor until the pain from the needle still inserted into my arm snapped me back into some sort of reality. I pulled it out and dropped it. She said she was proud of me… but I lost it now. All I ever wanted was that. A wave of nausea then swept over me and I rushed to the washroom to empty my stomach.

As I was washing my face I finally took a look at myself. What I saw was a pair of sunken, bloodshot eyes. My face was pale and drawn as if there was no flesh beneath my skin. My hair had seen better days, the once lush and thick, blonde shag was now a greasy mess. I was surprised I could even tell it was me. Looking at the visage made me realize something. I now understood that look that child gave me. I looked like some kind of monster to him, yet there was still some humanity within me for him to want to know what happened to me. A deep, agonizing pain came upon me from this revelation.

I needed to end it, the only way I knew how. I looked at the amount in the syringe; it wasn’t enough for the pain I felt. I quickly made about double my normal dose, and prepared the syringe. I then inserted it into my arm, took a final breath, and injected.

It was rapture. Euphoria. Bliss. Then darkness.

[jack cloudy]

Here's my addition. It isn't related to TES at all, so prepare yourself for sci-fi. Poor robot.



Left behind and forgotten. Written by Jack Cloudy, the Apprentice.


Silence and darkness, two companions who went well together. During the day, sounds could be heard everywhere but during the night, the silence would drown out every sound safe for the beating of your own heart.

Here, the day was as silent as the night. The sun never shone. There was no heartbeat either. Actually, there was not a single being here that was ‘alive’ in the traditional sense. There was one being, though calling it alive would go a bit too far. Even when it was still young, it had missed that essential bit that separates a bug from the rock it sits on. A soul.

Right now, it sat lifelessly in a corner of the room, its grey features hidden by the blackness that embraced the complex. Now, it began to stir, it began to move, to stand and walk. The darkness kept no secrets from its eyes, nor kept it any surprises. Everything was as it had been for countless years. Years that even this being of plastic and metal couldn’t completely remember. One day followed the next, in a neverending rhythm. This day was the latest, the same one like all those before.
Its worn feet thumped on the bare floor without a shred of elegance. Joints protested loudly with every movement. They carried a message, a simple one. ,,Stop, it has been enough. Let me rest.” Yet rest was one thing that the machine would never seek.

The remains of a lush red carpet lined the edges of the room and a single light flickered in a final attempt to scare away the darkness, this was all that remained of the place’s former glory. The machine remembered those days, as clear as the little stream of water jumping from rock to rock high up in the mountains. Despite the loud complaints of its own body and against all the expectations its creators had when it was built, the machine continued to function and perform its duties, even now that these duties had lost their meaning.

It went to what had once been the kitchen. There, it removed a piece of wood mounted in front of what had been the food processor in its better days and caught the greyish goo that dripped out of the hole. The machine dipped a single finger in the revolting substance. It nodded, a motion that had burned itself a permanent place in its programming. The goo was edible, though any sane creature would rather die than eat it. It tasted so horrible, words couldn’t describe it. The machine never thought about those things. All it knew was that a certain amount of vitamins and other things were required to make the food good. As long as it contained that, it was just fine.

The unhappy receiver of the meal wasn’t fine. He didn’t respond when his servant placed the bowl with the goo in front of him. He couldn’t, for he was death.

Something inside the machine creaked. ,,You haven’t gotten out of that chair since the 6th of December 24.381 years ago. That is not healthy. You should move your muscles more. Guess I’ll have to feed you again, lazy. In the meantime, I’m calling the doctor.” It said to the mummified corpse with a slightly feminine voice. It was said that humans felt more comfortable when their machines sounded like a female being. Maybe that was why all military machines sounded like gruff males with a testosterone overdosis. Intimidation was one way to defeat the enemy. Naturally, the death man didn’t respond.
The machine carefully fed the grey goo bit by bit to what remained of its master without noticing how the food dripped down the jaw and passed between the ribs on its way to the floor. At the same time, it extended two antenna on its head and attempted to make contact with the planetary communication net. An attempt that failed as the satellites who maintained the net had all broken down long ago. Most satellites had burned up in the atmosphere, others were fried by a particularly violent solar flare and the remainder suffered from normal decay.

It picked up the bowl, finally noticing the goo on the floor. ,,Tsk, look at the mess you made. Now you won’t get your candy tonight. Also, I couldn’t contact the doctor. The planetary communication net still seems to be suffering from that temporary malfunction that started on the 25th of November 24.386 years ago. I’ll try again tomorrow. You really need to see the doctor.” It informed the corpse with the infinite patience that only a machine could have. The bowl was returned to the food processor after which the machine cleaned the mess on the floor. It then sat down in the corner, so it could conserve the little energy it still had. It only moved to deliver lunch and diner. This had become its daily routine, a routine that would only end when it would finally malfunction and die. Not having a soul was the best thing its creators had ever given to it. If it had one, its existence would have been unbearable. Now, it was simply empty.

The light in the ceiling flickered for the last time and died. Darkness conquered the last stronghold of light. The house, once a place to relax and enjoy a good book during a drink. Now a tomb, both of the man and the forgotten machine that would someday follow.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Oct 3 2006, 03:03 PM

[treydog]

This is a little something I have had kicking around for a while. Still don't know if it will go anywhere....

[Text of a flyer posted in corner clubs and taverns throughout Vvardenfell.]

GREAT OPPORTUNITY!
DON’T DELAY!

Feeling adventurous? Tired of the humidity of the Bitter Coast and the choking dust of the Ashlands? Sick of cliff-racers? If so, come to Solstheim! Solstheim provides unlimited opportunities for the right individual.

You can make your fortune in the land of the midnight sun! See the breath-taking fjords! Search for pirate treasure! Carve out a place for yourself in the unspoiled beauty of this northern paradise! Boats depart Khuul daily. Don’t miss this opportunity for the adventure of a lifetime! Talk to an East Empire Company representative today!

[In much smaller print appeared the following:]

Please note that the East Empire Company (hereafter known as “the Company”) is neither fiscally nor legally liable for: death, dismemberment, injury, physical or mental suffering, and/or property loss resulting from: animals (feral or domestic); eldritch creatures (spriggans, rieklings, fryse hags, &c); drowning, snow blindness, frostbite, hypothermia, avalanche, or blizzard; gods, demigods, demons, unquiet spirits, &c. By viewing this notice (even if unable to read or comprehend this print), you do thereby hold the Company, its shareholders, officers, and agents exempt from responsibility for any injury or loss you may suffer while traveling to, existing upon, and/or traveling from Solstheim.

Respectfully submitted,

Treydog, Editor-in-Chief (and I thank all those who assigned me that rank)

[The Metal Mallet]

This I wrote elsewhere, but I thought it would make a nice edition to the temple.

Memoirs of a Dremora A Fictional Journal Entry by Writer The Metal Mallet

My purpose is simple; serve Mehrunes, serve his followers, and destroy. Seem rather simply do they not? Well, most of them are, but as for serving Mehrunes followers…. I have had… difficulties. Mortals are… odd to say the least. I have since grown to detest their existence quite thoroughly.

Let’s see… I was spending my time patrolling Mehrunes’ plane of Oblivion. Did I mention how glad I am to be the top of the line of Mehrunes’ servants? I can kick scamps around whenever I please and actually RIDE the clannfear! Anyways, I was patrolling Oblivion, likely feasting on a soul of some damned mortal, I don’t quite remember, when the Lord of Destruction himself came to me.

“Rhuragix,” Mehrunes boomed at me, “One of my mortal disciples will be calling a Dremora for service soon, and I have decided it shall be you. Serve them as you would serve me.” With that he stalked away, likely to go start a forest fire in the Valenwood or something.

Finally I had a chance to reap some serious havoc! Knowing what Mehrunes stands for, I figured his followers would definitely have some fun things for me to do. For example, setting a village to flame, or maybe boiling a river, causing much ecological damage. I chuckled gleefully as a purplish haze began to surround me. This is it! This is my time to shine!

Physically being ripped out of Oblivion is a very interesting feeling. By interesting I mean painful. I was as if every inch of my body was shredded apart and established in Tamriel in the most obscenely painful way possible. It would be an experience I would never appreciate, ever.

Gasping in pain (I think the summoner thought I was growling), I arrived in Tamriel. I looked across to see who summoned me, turned out it was a Dunmer. Good start, I had heard the Dunmer were a serious sort of people. He was wearing a deep green robe, dusty from travelling I assumed, and his red eyes glowed intently as he clapped his hands together eagerly.

“Servant! My name is Ralen. I have invoked a powerful summoning spell so that you’ll remain here as long as you aren’t banished. Of course there’s only two ways you can be banished; me releasing you, or getting yourself killed. The former won’t happen as long as you do as I say. Understand?” he asked, making his serious expression seem too serious.

I simply nodded, I had no need to say words to someone I could likely kill with a flick of my wrist. He was quite scrawny looking.

His red eyes lit up as I agreed to his demands. “Excellent! Now to decide what to do with you…” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

I nearly gaped at him. He hadn’t a clue on what he wanted to do with me!? What was I dealing with here? I began to pace about, as Ralen was still pondering on what to do. The only movement coming from him was the scratching of his chin.

Suddenly he just exploded. “Will you stop with that damned pacing!!” he practically screamed as he stormed over to me and openly slapped me across the face.

The insolence of this fool! My hand brushed the hilt of my long sword, but then Mehrunes’ words echoed in my head, “Serve him as you would serve me.” So I merely narrowed my eyes and stood in place. Ralen held my gaze, with an almost motherly anger displayed in his eyes. He then snorted angrily and turned away from me.

“I got it! Servant! Come!” he called. It seemed like he was treating me like some sort of dog. “Your mission is to defeat the main enemy of my friends. That enemy being hunters. They have a guildhall in a town to the south of here, in Tel Vos. The poor Cliffracer are being massacred by these brutes! I want them to pay!” Ralen ranted, anger clearly evident on his face.

I again nodded and turned to begin my way south. An arm gripped my shoulder and spun me around. What did this fool want now?

“You must promise me something first. You must not hurt a Cliffracer, ever. Such beautiful creatures don’t deserve death! So promise me!” Ralen said with conviction.

I nodded and with that he released his grip on my shoulder. I was grateful that he believed he thought me as a mute. I did not want a conversation with this fool. Don’t hurt some bird? Surely this Dunmer would fit better serving Sheogorath, wouldn’t he?

As I began my travel south, a sudden ear-grating squawk sounded over my head. Looking up to the sky I saw one of the ugliest creatures I had ever seen. This is coming from someone who is in regular company of smelly scamps and has had the “privilege” of having a conversation with an Ogrim. It looked like some sort of deformed flying rat with a beak. Even at the height it was at, it smelt like a corpse. Now I usually don’t mind the smell of corpses, but then again, the corpses I smell are fresh. This smell was not, it was rancid. I never thought in my whole career of merciless destruction that I would be gagging on a smell.

Attempting to ignore the creature, I continued on the journey. All of a sudden another squawk was heard and another one of these creatures suddenly appeared over my head. The damn noise they were making was getting on my nerves. Normally, I would just roast them with a simple fireball, problem solved, but I had a “mission” to do and the unstable Ralen would probably be upset if I didn’t get this done quickly. So I attempted the very difficult task of drowning out the sound these things were making.

My attempts proved useless as by the time the town of Tel Vos appeared on top of the hills I had a whole flock of the annoying rat-birds following me. I was nearly twitching in anger. Those hunters were definitely going to know what pain feels like, just because I had to put up with these… abominations!

As the guildhall came into view, my inhibition to kill rose to a near crescendo. I pulled out my long sword and suddenly and “Ting” noise came to my ears. I turn around and come face to face with one of these birds. It was attacking me! To make matters more annoying, the whole flock decided to descend upon me and attack me as well.

I was in a sea of gross-smelling, ear-grating noise, complimented by my “dings” and “tings” of my armour being stricken. I had enough, in one swoop of my sword, disembodied birds collapse all around me. I would have never thought the smell of death would disgust me, but the stench emitted from these birds was indescribable. I started to head to the town once again, but a burst of energy drew my attention.

Over a hill to my right, Ralen came storming, huffing and puffing in anger. No… these… things can’t be Cliffracers! The way he talked about them, it sounded as if they were some majestic, golden bird of the noble skies. Not these bottom feeding scum!

“You made a promise, and not even before you complete my assigned task, you break it!” he fumed. I was now certain this mer was insane.

“I release you from this plane!” he yelled at me, waving his arms frantically.

That indescribable pain erupted from every pore of my body and once again I found myself back in Oblivion. I shuddered, that was terrible. We could really use Cliffracers for our forces…
[/i][i]

[canis216]

Author's Note: This short story will be best understood if you've also read my first two pieces, which are on the loose in this forum. But don't let that small obstacle deter you: this tale exists mostly on its own terms. Enjoy.

By the Sea

Chun-Ook pulled into her home port, the Imperial fortress of Ebonheart, with a single passenger. Usually her owner, Nevosi Hlan, wouldn’t sale with fewer than four, but this Redguard paid well, and he had been eager to see his wife again anyway. A few younger Dunmer, new to the island, had taken a shine to her, and made her nervous when he was gone for more than a few days. He had been at sea more than a week, ferrying a load of Imperial fat cats to Raven Rock—a special fare, but tiresome. It didn’t trouble him much to leave Seyda Neen a few hours ahead of schedule.

The Redguard hadn’t said much as they sailed, but he knew that she worked at Arrille’s place. It seemed odd that she would pay so much for such a short trip—she could only be saving a few hours—but Nevosi wasn’t one to pry. Besides, the Redguard looked like she had enough on her mind, pacing the boat as she had been.

As Nevosi tied up to the great stone dock the Redguard hopped off Chun-Ook, but not before slipping the shipmaster a generous tip. A big spender, indeed.

“Thank you for your haste, shipmaster.” The Redguard spoke curtly.
“My pleasure, sera.”

At that the Redguard smiled, and strode briskly into the plaza, to the great dragon. Nevosi’s eyes followed her for a moment, and then returned to the task of securing his ship.

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Just south of Castle Ebonheart, on the beach, the Argonian Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was doing credit to his name. He was naked from the waist up, lying on his black robe, watching the few wispy white clouds as they drifted by. Five bottles of cyrodiilic brandy stood beside him; another five, empty, were strewn about on the sand.

“Elone, what the hell are you doing here?”

The Redguard, who had been observing the Argonian from behind a tree, just laughed. “Dead drunk and I still can’t sneak up on you. No wonder Caius sent me here.”

“Caius? What the hell does he want with me? The s’wit kicked me out the order two months ago.”

“Yes, I remember. After that incident in Suran.”

“Are you going to lecture me, too? I did it, and I’d gladly do it again.”

“They’re rebuilding.”

At that the Argonian grinned, as only an Argonian can.

--------------------------------------

Night had come to Ebonheart. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun and Elone shared a table in the back corner of the Six Fishes, while the other patrons, a smattering of common folk and off-duty Imperial guards, gathered around the bard.

Elone looked, and spoke seriously. “Come now; let me tell you what Caius needs. We’re wasting time.” She cast a look over her shoulder, at the merry crowd.

“No, let me buy you another drink. I’m commemorating the two month anniversary of my dismissal, after all.”

Elone seized him by the shoulder. “Do this and all will be forgiven. Everything you threw away, we’ll return. Your pay, rank, papers—everything.”

“What could be so important? I’m damaged goods, a security risk. If the slavers had seen my face…”

“Don’t worry about that, Al. Let me tell you a story.”

---------------------------------------

Chun-Ook plied the Inner Sea once more, this time bearing for the mainland. Nevosi Hlan loved the sea, but for once wasn’t happy to be underway. Yes, it was a perfect day for sailing; the sky was painfully clear, and scarcely a wave broke Chun-Ook’s bow. But today Nevosi was carrying those same young Dunmer who had taken a liking to his wife. He had found even more reason to dislike them; not only were they loud and obnoxious fools, they were mercenaries in the employ of Orvas Dren. Apparently, they had some sort of important cargo to pick up, and they needed to bring it into Vvardenfell personally.

The sun was nearly set as Nevosi guided his ship into a small, secluded harbor. One of the younger Dunmer called gruffly from the bow, “You see that manor house to portside? Pull up to the dock.” Muttering, Nevosi followed the order. He could see the stinking light. But they were paying well, these buffoons, 2000 septims up front and another 2000 upon arrival back at Ebonheart. “Yes, yes, very good, shipmaster. Nethyn, jump down there and tie the ship up. Alright, shipmaster. You’ve done well for us. The five of us will go inside and gather the crates, there’ll be 10 in all, enough for a host of mercenaries.” At this, he looked at his fellows and grinned. “Let’s earn our wages, boys.”

As the mercenaries entered the manor Navosi took a moment to recline against Chun-Ook’s cabin door. He was thinking of the 2000 septims already in his pouch, and 2000 more to come. He thinks; I might take a vacation, a nice stay-at-home vacation. Make my wife happy. We’ll carouse at the Six Fishes, or perhaps join that drunkard on the beach. I’ve been working too hard, spending too much time at sea. Maybe I can get a job in the East Empire Company—I could handle logistics, coordinate shipping. And I shouldn’t have to leave Ebonheart, I don’t think…

Suddenly he is aware of a tremendous silence. Moving those crates should be noisy work, and hey, shouldn’t they have a couple of them out here by now? How long has it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? And what happened to that light?

Nevosi started to call out, but decided against it. No, that wouldn’t do. Instead, the shipmaster pulled out his cutlass, walked quietly across the deck, and cut the line securing Chun-Ook to the dock. A warm breeze kicked up out of the southwest, and Chun-Ook drifted away from the darkened manor house and mainland Morrowind.

This post has been edited by canis216: Oct 17 2006, 08:11 AM

[Black Hand]

Okay, it sucks. I know, but I thought it would be funny as I desperately need to submit some work to the Temple.

Hopefully, you get a laugh.





The Ambitious Henchman, a short work by Black Hand

Pete had never been a nameless henchman like numbers one through twelve.

Pete had never been a horrible shot like numbers one through twelve.

And it got on the Bosses nerves that Pete kept killing off his Arch-Enemies, as he told him time and again.

“Pete. Look, I am an international drug dealer, an evil CEO of an evil international conglomerate which launders my evil income, I supply both rogue states and small countries with arms, and quietly cause wars between them, and cash in on the conflict. Do you know what all that means?” The Boss asked Pete.

“It sounds like you’re a busy guy.” Pete said nervously fingering his Assault Rifle, and adjusting his black beret, which matched his black trenchcoat, which matched his black boots, whick matched….oh you get the Idea, the Boss liked his Henchman dressed in Black.

“NO! It means I have a lot of subordinates like you who ARE very busy, while I am very bored, leaving me with plenty of time to come up with elaborate, albeit easily escapable, traps for all the Elite GI’s, Spies, Vigilante’s, Cops looking for revenge, and superheroes who come looking for me in my hideout of the week.” The Boss chided him.

“Okay.” Said Pete, not understanding where this was going.

“What I’m getting at is that I would appreciate it if you stopped aiming so accurately once they do infiltrate my supposedly secure network of elaborately designed, albeit easily foiled traps. I mean, look at number eight! You could put a Mattress in front of his muzzle and he’d still end up shooting numbers three through seven! Now that’s Henching at its finest!”

Suddenly red lights began flashing, and TV screens opened up from the walls. The screens showed a figure in a dark suit and blond hair, with a set of perfect teeth in a never-ending smile climbing up an oversized air-duct.

“BLOND! STOCK BLOND! The elite G.I. spy, part-time Vigilante, ex-superhero, formerly a Cop bent on Vengeance! This will be the most epic showdown of good versus evil ever!” The boss wringed his hands.

“Pete! Go out there and show me what you’re made of – ooooh! He used an EMP grenade to disable the Techno-Hounds!” the Boss admired as Pete ran off.

Two Minutes later, after all the Henchman were dead, mostly from their horrible shooting, and Stock Blond’s unerring accuracy with a .22 pistol, Pete walked into the Boss’s office, the Boss had his hand over his eyes.

“What did we just talk about?” the Boss sighed.

“Well, I was trying not to hit him, as you said, but he flipped himself right into the stream of bullets.”

“Yes, I saw, he was expecting you to shoot AWAY from him, and that’s when he got riddled full of bullets…..’

“Hey, Boss?”

“Yes, Pete?”

“I’m thinking I’D like to be bored, and you could miss Elite GI’s, Spies, Vigilante’s, Cops looking for revenge, and superheroes.”

The Boss looked up for a second. It was perfect. Henching was all the thrills he was seeking. Gunfughts that lasted forever, diving out of planes, biting through bars.

“Okay, gimme the Gun, Pete.”

”That’s Pete the Boss.”

“Okay, Pete the Boss.”

”Hey, Boss?”

”That’s Boss the Henchman.”

“Right, Boss the Henchman?”

“Yes Pete the Boss?”

”I’m bored.”

Boss the henchman sighed as he went off to find another Elite GI, Spy, Vigilante, Cop looking for revenge, or superhero to keep his new boss occupied.

[canis216]

This piece is related to what I've done before, but different. Enjoy.

The Unwinding

It was near midnight at the South Wall Cornerclub, in the Hlaalu center of Balmora. For once the tavern was quiet—the arena in Vivec was hosting a fortnight of combat, and tonight the Hlaalu champions were headlining. While Phane Rielle served a pair of customers at the bar an Argonian and an Imperial coversed quietly at a corner table. The Imperial, a stout man of about 45 years, wore the plain garb of the commoner; the Argonian a black robe. The Imperial took an occasional pull from a fine skooma pipe, while the Argonian nursed a bottle of flin.

“The work is done, I take it?” The Imperial glanced up at his companion.

The Argonian kept his gaze upon the open bottle. “I killed the watchman and waited in the manor. The merchandise was there; weapons and armor for a host of mercenaries. The delivery boys never saw me in the corner, of course. I slit their throats as they lifted the crates.”

“Any witnesses?”

“The ship was gone after I cleaned it up. I think he may have figured out what happened; a working-mer is not nearly so foolish as a bunch of thugs in tin suits. But he didn’t see anything, I’m sure of that.”

“Dren is very rash. He thinks the Emperor is a doddering old fool. Perhaps this will be a lesson.”

“You don’t want me to take action?”

The Imperial chortled, “Knowing you, I imagine that Dren Plantation would burn to the ground. No, Dren is too well-connected. Relations with Hlaalu would be irrevocably strained. No, we’ll keep him contained, for now. I think he’ll have a difficult time attracting addition mercenaries, at least in the short term. But enough of that. Let’s talk about you’re future.”

The Argonian finally pried his eyes away from the drink. “What’s the next job?”

“Patience, friend. I need to process some paperwork, and return you to the good graces of the order. And we need to see how Dren responds. Take a few days off. Your orders will wait.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The Vivec arena was a veritable cauldron of sound. The crowd lived with each swing and strike of sword and axe, and each mighty spell cast commanded the audience’s admiration and wonder. The present duel was of particular interest—it was unusual for Telvanni to participate in the games, and these two young wizards were rising stars in the House. Unfortunately (for one of them, at least), they both desired to serve as Master Aryon’s mouth.

Rethyas Reloth, a Dunmer of perhaps 100 years age, was the favorite. He had insisted upon a duel to decide the matter, and had convinced Aryon that it such a duel would reflect favorably upon the House. Reloth had gained some notoriety as a conjurer of minor daedra. It was said that he had once summoned a cadre of fifteen Dremora to defend the town of Vos from pirates.

Galos Mathendis was not so well known, but all agreed that he was quite shrewd; it was rumored that he once tricked an underling of Master Neloth into surrendering the key to Tel Naga. The next morning, it was said, Neloth awoke to find his tower stripped of its valuables, his guards expertly drugged. The Master’s famed irritability was not soothed.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun, Argonian, was in the bleachers, comfortably drunk.

Reloth opened the contest by summoning the servent of Sheogorath, a Golden Saint. The daedroth sprinted forward, carrying a glass shield and a dark, wicked katana. Mathendis countered by downing a potion, evidently to fortify his speed, as he began to sprint rapidly around the arena perimeter, followed by the Golden Saint. Reloth grinned, and recited the incantation to summon a Dremora, his favored servant—but did not finish, as Methendis launched a massive shockball on the run. It was difficult to see much of what happened next—the shockball had nearly filled the battle pit, and the light had momentarily blinded much of the crowd. Such was the risk of attending a battle between mages. But Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun had been concentrating more on the bottle than the battle.

Reloth was gravely wounded; he pulled a vial from within his robe and downed it hurriedly. Then he froze, a look of terror carved onto his face.

Galos Mathendis turned and cast a spell upon the still-pursuing daedroth. The Golden Saint stopped. Then Reloth’s daedric servant walked calmly over to its paralyzed master and hacked him to pieces.

Much of the crowd was utterly confused, having been unable to see the denouement. When they recovered their vision, they saw Reloth dead, Mathendis alive. Those patrons who had seen the unfolding events, who had perhaps even wagered upon the dead mer, booed lustily.

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun smiled, and lifted another bottle of flin to his scaly lips.

[canis216]

Oh yes, another entry from canis216. Enjoy this one. I got a kick out of writing it.

Clinging to Life

A lilting western breeze pushes my little rowboat a short ways back toward the shore, slightly altering but in no way marring my view of the immaculate buff-colored clouds hovering over Ebonheart. My father used to say that the sea had no memory. I think that’s why, after escaping Vvardenfell, he set sail for Stros M’kai. He wanted to forget the eastern provinces.

I come to the sea to be alone in my dreams. There is something about these peaceful lapping waves of the southern coast… I remember better things.

The few storms are exciting. Not two years ago a squall carried a host of dreugh over the walls of Castle Ebonheart, and I myself saw a slaughterfish impaled atop a flagpole. It was as if the sea were expunging so many decades of bad memories, and the morning’s sunrise was all the brighter for it.

The breeze picks up, a little stronger. I sit up, and look to the west. A few gray clouds are gathering; nothing worrisome, but it will likely rain tonight. But what is that whistling?

I dive into the hull of my little boat, flipping it over but avoiding the arrow. I’m underwater—no reason to panic, even the dullest of my kin can breathe the sea without harm. But my robe is soaked, and weighing me down. Tear it off!—but don’t forget the dagger. It throbs as I seethe—no one interrupts my vacations.

I can’t see, but the scum must be on shore, waiting—no direct assault. The bridge! I swim for it, quickly; he’ll see my shadow but that’s alright. Excellent, in fact.

-------------------------------------

Run, run, run. The lizard mustn’t escape. Leap over the stone wall—there’s a guard watching but he won’t interfere—and up onto the bridge. He won’t be able to hide forever, the n’wah! Breathe, breathe; draw it back, yes, yes, the water shallows up, the arrow will penetrate.

-------------------------------------

“Where is that lizard?” The bowman whispers to himself, almost involuntarily. It’s been near two minutes, and he hasn’t seen or heard his mark. He leans over the wall, trying to look under the bridge. His eyes open wide.

“Been right here, friend.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun slashes his assailant across the throat. His left hand clings to the underside of the bridge.

This post has been edited by canis216: Oct 30 2006, 05:23 AM

[canis216]

Yes, another one. I must be trying to shame everyone else into posting stuff here.
I think this is my outburst of creativity before I write all of my end-o-the-semester papers.

Friends and Brethren

It was quiet yet in the Black Shalk Cornerclub. The arena games would not start for several hours. Most of the club’s expatriate clientele were still nursing hangovers, and would not emerge to drink again until the evening battles. Still, a hardy few were scattered around the tavern: a half-sensible Nord in the corner; the young bard reworking his repertoire of poems, tales, and songs; three Dunmer playing cards near the door, and an Argonian at the bar. He nursed an open bottle of cyrodiilic brandy, exchanging the odd word here and there with the publican, a well-dressed middle-aged Dunmer. The Argonian started a bit when he felt a hand on his armored shoulder.

“Huleeya, let me buy you another drink.”

“Ahh, friend Lingers-in-the-Sun. You startled me. What brings you into Vivec at this hour? And where is your black robe?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was instead wearing the dirty brown cotton robe of a commoner, with the hood drawn over his head.

“One of your brethren forced me to abandon it.”

Huleeya raised an eyebrow. “We should discuss this somewhere… more private. Let us go to Jobasha’s.”

“Very well. But first I want my drink. Riral, could you spare a bottle of brandy for each of us?” Riral Giral, publican, nodded and brought up two bottles from beneath the counter. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of gold. “Now, shall we?”

The door, unfortunately, was blocked. “Hey, two filthy lizards! Where do you think you’re going?” The three young card-playing Dunmer were all standing, and not nearly so drunk as would be desirable.

Huleeya turned to the racists, “Gentlemer, please—”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled two blades from his robe and quite suddenly had one of the Dunmer against the wall; the flat of an ebony blade pressed to the elf’s midsection, a gleaming daedric dagger at his throat.

“I go wherever I please, softskin! Neither you nor the whole Dark Elven race can stop me!”

With that the Argonian brought the hilt of his shortsword down upon the Dunmer’s skull.

“Your friend will need a drink when he wakes up. And perhaps a healer. I suggest you attend to him.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode between the two stunned Dark Elves and out the door.

“Come Huleeya. We can speak now.”

---------------------------------------------

The two Argonians sat at a small table at the bottom of Jobasha’s Rare Books, drinking quietly. The proprietor was up front, haggling with a customer, a Breton carrying an armload of cheap-looking texts. The guard, a ‘gift’ from the Duke, stood in the corner, watching none-too diligently, waiting for his shift to end.

“You know, Lingers-in-the-Sun, it is those rash acts which are responsible for our problem. If you had not burned down the slave market…”

“Was it not the right thing to do? I am not ashamed of what I did. And if Caius would let me kill the softskin… there would be no problem.”

“The slaver has a wealthy family. It would become their problem. You know how this works—a murder leads to an assassination, which leads to another assassination…”

“Yes, I know. Perpetual employment for assassins… except those who get killed, anyway….. So what can be done?”

“Your spymaster could transfer you out of Morrowind. My order has a long reach… but it does not often leave the province.”

“No. My honor forbids me to leave. You know this.”

“Yes… this is troublesome. Let me speak with my Grandmaster. We may be able to make… an arrangement.”

---------------------------------------------

A couple of Redoran were dueling in the arena, arrayed in bonemold armor, armed with silver claymores. Booze and money flowed freely throughout the stands, but for once Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun wasn’t drinking. But he wasn’t really watching the fight either; he was just… there. After a few moments parrying one of the Redoran’s caught his counterpart cleanly across the chest—he went down, sword falling to his side. Healers rushed to the arena center as victory was declared. The crowd cheered the victor, and two new combatants took the floor. It was all so sudden, simple, and clean.

[Black Hand]

Well, I am obsessed with Morrowind and Assassins....so I try to avoid playing it out too much. But here you go.....



Instant Irony, a short story by Black Hand

Ulmesi Baryon shifted in her Netch Leather Armor in the small crawlspace in Rethan Manor. She smiled to herself as the new lord of the Manor, Raynasa Rethan returned home from her inpections into the Shurdan-Raplay Egg Mine.

Redoran it would seem was tired of being pushed around by the Hlaalu, first Caldera, and now this latest unauthorized Stronghold prompted the Warrior House into pushing back. Ulmesi considered herself as one of the few fortunate servants of Mephala to serve in the hidden base under the Grandmaster himself, thusly as an elite assassin, she was sent to ensure the contract was fulfilled, the Redoran payed well for this one.

The new lord disrobed and set herself into the bath to wash away the stink and grime of the cavern. The heat soothing away all the tension in her muscles. Not that being a Nightblade Merchant required rigourous workout routines, but climbing the cliffs of the Odai Plateau did bring a burn into her calves.

Ulmesi quietly moved back the wall panel, and without making a sound, unsheated her well-oiled and well-used glass jinkblade, running as quickly as she could to her mark.

Raynasa saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye, her heart skipped a beat as she saw the enchantment of a jinkblade rushing to her throat. Her hand rose in instinctive defense, and she used the ring that she never took off for just this reason, the ring of shocking touch.

The next morning, the house guards stood staring over the two bodies in the Lady Raynasa Rethan's Bathing Room.

"I wondered why she never woke up this mornin' looks like the Tong got her.." said the Dunmer in Bonemold Armor.

"There's not a scratch on her. This lady assassin never touched her, but it looks like it was'nt from lack of trying, there's still the dagger in her hand, and look at those shock burns. Raynasa killed her first." replied his compatriot.

"Then why is Raynasa dead? She did'nt drown. Her upper body is slumped over the baths edge."

An Imperial Guard, who was also a battlemage walked in following up on the investigation. His keen eyes took in the scene.

"I'll tell you what killed her...that ring. I take it you Guards arent spellcasters. But water makes an excellent medium for shock energy. She fried when the Assassin attacked....ironic that she would have been fine if she were out of the water......"

[canis216]

Another piece. Be warned, I like to bounce back and forth between standard narrative and some rather odd and uneven forms.

I Am Deceit

A flash of fine polished silver pulses through the air like a shooting star, ephemeral yet lodging itself into your cerebrum, becoming part of your dreams. It strikes yet another improbable mass of metal; it is sliding down to the hilt then pulled away, over the left shoulder. The atmosphere flees before the blow, so many subatomic particles fleeing into the dust and gloom. Somewhere the balance must be recalibrated, somewhere something, someone, is slipping. The flash of silver flows to gold in the torchlight, carrying an infinitesimal fraction of the sun into another man’s eyes. Did a man blink, or did the Alduin the world-eater flinch? Perhaps nothing happened at all, just a parry missed; the flash of silver-gold rakes across molded bone and rests.

Thus another arena contest ends.

-----------------------------------------

For a moment, I’m contemplating the Redoran. Yes, they know the value of honor and codes of conduct; to a Hlaalu they may seem irrational, but then the Hlaalu thrive on nuance, politicking, deceit, and suspicion. I envy the simpler ways of the Redoran, the way of the blade against blade, looking into your adversary’s eyes. I have more in common with the Hlaalu, resist as I might, lurking in the shadows. I am deceit.

I need a drink. There is no point to sobriety, in Vivec, at the arena. I can’t escape my dreams, but I can drown them out of my memory. Past the top step an aging Dunmer is offering booze to the unwashed and noble alike. I lay down a few drakes for a hefty bottle of greef; it seems appropriate today, and I deserve to suffer in the morning. The liquor is scandalously bitter; and for a moment I can’t breathe. Someday the sensation will last for an eternity—perhaps that’s why I keep taking another pull.

A Nord with a booming voice—an aspiring graybeard?—calls out the next match. It will be a few moments; neither of the Hlaalu combatants wants to be the first on the floor—they’re trying to find that final advantage.

That’s fine. I content myself to stroll around the perimeter of the stands. Spectators are making their bets, or tossing a few back. In one corner of the arena a group of young Dunmer lounge about, arms embracing the hips of their scantily clad escorts. Ah, there he is. The slaver. I can end this problem.

One of the nearby booths is unoccupied—the vendor sold moon sugar to one of Vivec’s buoyant armigers—I slip inside. The fight is beginning, the crowd’s fervor is building, the liquor flows, the Nord shouts. I take one last pull of greef, bracing for the burn, then extract my crossbow from inside my robe. One viper-bolt already sits in position. I set a couple more on the cool stone floor beside me—just in case. I’m a little drunk now. I rub a little dust on the Dwemer metal cradled in my arms, to absorb and diffract the torchlight. Then ease the sight over the countertop. He’s still there, the softskin, surrounded by women, lackeys, liquor, and a single Khajjit slave. Let’s adjust a little bit for the distance—I want to place the bolt right in his throat, so the s’wit never speaks another word, then perhaps a shot to the heart to finish him off. But one will be enough, I think—he’s never done a day of honest labor in his life, and his hardest living is crawling out of the tavern in the morning. Oh, will the poison make him suffer, yes, yes, yes! Ah here it is, easiest shot I’ll ever take, another Dunmer dead. Yes!, place that finger on the trigger, pull it back pull it back… ease off. Honor, for once. Honor forever.

[The Metal Mallet]

Decided to make another journal entry from our hopefully new found Dremora friend, Rhuragix! Enjoy


Memoirs of a Dremora A Fictional Journal Entry by Writer The Metal Mallet

Lemme tell you, dear readers of whatever infernal realm you belong to, that serving under Mehrunes Dagon is no easy feat. Especially when it seems that oftentimes his followers are just as crazy as Sheogorath’s. That Dark Elf with the hots for Cliffracers was just one instance. I’ve had plenty of other “odd” servants to deal with.

As usual, during my downtime from visiting Tamriel, I was found playing poker with my other Dremora buddies, Phallix, Jubric, and Bob. Of course, I was winning as usual and just when I was certain I would ascertain victory, Mehrunes shows up. Being the flashy Daedra that he is, he just has to stop right onto the poker table, ruining everything. Lord of Destruction indeed.

“Rhuragix! You have business to attend to with one of my faithful servants. Don’t disappoint me,” Mehrunes boomed before disappearing in an ear shattering thunderclap of energy.

Still clutching my ears in agony, I was immediately torn to shreds before being ensemble back on Tamriel. Not a good start, as I roared out my pain, causing a puny little Bosmer to jump three feet off the ground before he scurried a safe distance from me. Or at least a distance he thought was safe. I do have a pretty mean fireball if I do say so myself.

Looking around at my surroundings, I judged that I was in the wilderness of the Cyrodiil province. I had been taking Tamriel classes since the Cliffracer incident so I could actually understand what these mortals were blabbing about. I still felt I had no need to speak with them though as I waved the Bosmer over.

The Bosmer creped out from behind his cover and approached me warily. When he realized I wasn’t going to hit him or anything he started bouncing around in glee, hopping from one foot to the next, a stupid little smirk on his face.

“It worked! It worked! I finally did it right! I’m a proper conjurer now! Hehehehe!” the Bosmer cried. His high-pitch squeal was quite grating on the ears. I hoped that he didn’t always sound like that. After his moment of happiness I found out that he did always sound like that.

“Okay… Well, I brought you here to take care of some annoying Legionnaires that have kicked me out of my cave. Those lousy…,” the Bosmer said while throwing off a string of obscenities, some of which I found quite creative.

After calming himself down, the Bosmer told me to follow him. We walked through the forest for what seemed like hours. The surprising thing was that the Bosmer was completely quiet the whole time. He did not utter a single word of annoyance. For once, I was actually enjoying myself.

Eventually we reached an open spot of land and the Bosmer decided to stop our walk. Keeping his voice low, he whispered instructions to me.

“Just over the hill is my cave, they probably have a sentry out there. What I want you to do is take whoever it is out. I’ll back you up with my bow,” he whispered, nodding towards the longbow strapped to his back.

If we wanted to do this the best way possible, I would’ve suggested he simply used the bow to take out the sentry before they knew what hit him. But I really felt like killing something so I didn’t voice my opinion. Instead, I nodded and began to climb over the hill.

Looking beyond the crest of the hill, I saw the sentry that was expected to be there. Now it was time for me to have some fun! I decided we should keep the noise down, so I went with a stealthy approach. I took out my tanto and managed to sneak around the far side of the hill without the sentry seeing me. You’d be surprised at how quiet we Dremora can be, even in our armour.

I crept up behind the sentry, wrapped my arm around his throat, my hand covering his mouth, and pierced my tanto through his leather armour into his body. My tanto poked threw the front side of the sentry as they stared down in horror before slumping down.

I withdrew my tanto and eased the body to the floor. Looking up the hill I all ready saw the Bosmer skipping down the hill, tittering gleefully. Upon reaching my position, he proceeded to kick the corpse a couple of times.

“Haha! That’s what you deserve!” he spat at the corpse before turning back to me. “Well? Let’s keep going!”

I nodded once more and entered the cave, the Bosmer following close behind. Almost immediately we stumbled upon a front guard who cried out in shock, as he saw me first. My retaliation was a fireball that completely consumed the guard in flame. Before the guard could even cry out in agony, he collapsed to the floor. Mmmm crispy!

We walked past the guard, the Bosmer gagging over the smell of burnt skin and hair. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. How was I ever going to rise in the ranks of Mehrunes when was always stuck with lack wits like these?

Brushing my question aside, we continued down the twisted rock path, which eventually led to a closed door. Many voices could be heard on the other side. It would be no problem for me if I came in there fireballs blazing. It was just that from then on, it would be war instead of stealth. No matter; bloodshed was my kinda thing.

I looked to the Bosmer, who cocked an arrow in his bow. I turned to the door and kicked it down, shouting a battle roar. All the immediate people in the room yelled in fright, but a few managed to go for the weapons. I unleashed a fireball at the nearest one, consuming that man in flame. I turned attention to the next warrior when suddenly a stinging sensation erupted from in between my shoulder blades.

The only person behind me was the Bosmer. The stupid fool had shot me! I went to turn around to give him a piece of my mind, but I then noticed my whole body was rooted to the floor. Great. Not only did he shoot me with an arrow. It just happened to be one with a paralyze poison added to it.

It was then that I noticed the battle axe swinging for my head.



Next thing I knew, I was standing in Oblivion once more. I looked over and saw Phallix, Jubric, and Bob still playing cards.

“Eh, Rhuragix! Back all ready?” Bob quipped, pulling out a chair, “Come play with us.”

I sat down in the chair and rubbed my head. Blasted Bosmer… I hope he got what was coming to him….

[Taillus]

Here is my first story as a member of the Writer's Guild. For now, I will just use my short story set in the Elder Scrolls universe before straying to something different. Hope you all like it, please let me know what you think, good or bad.

Blood is Thicker

Allentus was not pleased with the life lined out for him, predefined before he was even born. Allentus was one of those children quoted to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A child slated to be heir to the throne of Kvatch and take after his father Hector. Allentus was unhappy with the thought of being handed power. To be handed something makes one weak as far as the youth was concerned and would rather write his own name in the sand as opposed to someone scribing for him.

Allentus was a strong disbeliever of the word fate and what it stood for and rather believed in a man being able to take the road less traveled if one so chose and with that, he packed up some belongings and left home. At the fresh age of fourteen, the young Imperial thought he had life figured out. He was off to the Imperial City to make it big as an adventurer and as soon as he could save or steal enough for equipment he would be off, living the carefree life as a freelance adventurer.

The youth practically salivated over the chance to be his own boss. No one to tell him how to properly behave and no one to tell him what was and wasn't gentlemanly. Allentus was going to have his name in the history books as the most daring, handsome and wealthy cave raider any one has ever known and he would do it all under his own pretences, with no one helping him.

Sadly, the fairytale was short lived and made rudely aparent to the child when the unforgiving streets of the Market District in Imperial City made an example of him. Allentus picked the pocket of the wrong man landing him in jail, and since the man had many friends in high places, Allentus went to prison a boy and exited a twenty year old man. Time and prison was not kind to Allentus who now sported a dungeon tan and a bad attitude. Seemingly not learning a thing from his time in prison, Allentus traveled to the Feed Bag in the Market District to drown himself in some strong liquor and make a hasty retreat before they realized he was as poor as a skooma addict...


Continued in part 2

[canis216]

Been a little time since I last flooded this thread with my tales. Here's something...

Breakfast in Balmora

Balyn, get up. Open your eyes. Get up!

Balyn looked up from bed. It was morning; he could see the diffuse dawn’s light through the window. Then he remembered. The man in the bar. A bag of gold changing hands. An appointment he must not miss. No, it couldn’t have happened, he thought, I must have been dreaming. Yet the sack of gold sat on his bed table, right by his head. The deal had been struck, and there was no going back.

Balyn eased his way out of bed and picked up his cheap green shirt and dusty pants from their place atop the storage chest. Soon, ALMSIVI willing, he might be able to afford something a little better. He pulled on his battered shoes, after briefly examining the ever-widening hole in the right heel. His profession took a remarkable toll on shoes, in spite of his efforts to walk softly. Finally, Balyn opened the chest and pulled out his prized flameblade. It was one of the few things he had left that truly worked.

As Balyn ate breakfast—a single serving of scrib jelly—the landlord slipped the monthly rental bill beneath the front door. Was it that time already?, he wondered. Damn. He took the paper from the floor and looked over the scrawlings—the rich lout must be losing at dice still; he’s jacked up rent the last 4 months. For a moment Balyn was tempted to rip apart the document cradled in his hands, but he reconsidered. He would have the money soon enough.

Ready now, Balyn climbed the ladder and out his trapdoor, atop his roof. It was why he wanted the place to begin with; the pursued assassin needs all the secrets he can muster. Today he didn’t wish for anyone to see him leave the house. By Vivec it was a lovely morning—soft sunlight cresting over the eastern hills of West Gash, not a cloud to be seen, and the Odai as placid and clear as ever. And standing above the city, Balyn could see his mark stumbling out of the Lucky Lockup, bottle in hand. The time has come. Balyn downed his last potion of invisibility, leaped down from the roof, and dashed to the Odai bridge.

The mark, a burly but well-dressed Imperial with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, paused in front of the Council Club to take another pull of brandy. Quite suddenly an ill-dressed Dunmer, Balyn Omavel, appeared in front of him.

“Pardon me, sera. Do you have a moment?”

The Imperial looked at first confused, then vaguely angry. “Out of my way, elf. I haven’t any time to talk.”

“On the contrary. You have an eternity.”

At that Balyn seized the man and threw him into the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll show some courtesy, n’wah!” Balyn slashed open the Imperial’s throat, spilling rich red blood over the walk. Passengers disembarking the strider would be appalled, no doubt. But the outlander was dead.

Balyn’s glance circled about. No one had seen—Balmora was still just waking up. The assassin mumbled a few words and found himself back in his home, like nothing happened. Save the blood on his hands.

He found his washbowl and began cleaning off the victim’s blood.

May Mephala forgive me.

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 17 2006, 05:21 AM

[Taillus]

Blood is Thicker - Part Two

The passing hours for Allentus went quickly. Bottle after bottle hit the table until finally, our young alcoholic hit the floor. Disgusted patrons requested that he be thrown to the streets like the beggar he is and without delay, the wishes of thr majority was carried out, the same can be said about the star of the story. Allentus was cast into the back alley and dumped on his face by a strong nord that was paid by the owner to make short work of the young adult.

In a drunken stupor, Allentus pulled a short blade from his worn clothing. The blade, a gift from his father was almost pawned twice since Allentus had arrived but something stopped him, not so much the sentimental value but more a thought that it may someday come in handy. A way of protecting one's self is almost priceless and in an instant, young Allentus made his second big mistake. Before either he or the Nord knew what was happening, the inebriated Allentus tackled the taller, older man to the grass behind the Feed Bag and burried his dagger deep into the side of the Nord's neck.

In an instant, Allentus had gone from a lowly thief, to a cold-blooded killer. The young man was certainly getting his wish. He would end up writing his own name in the sand, too bad it would be accented in blood. Allentus staggered back to his feet, mortified by his act and ran. Just simply ran for his very life He wished he could goback but he knew it was far too late for that. He wanted to turn back time but he knew it couldn't be done. He dropped his dagger in the streets as his feet seldom hit the ground. Young Allentus cried as he looked at the blood that stained his hands.

Just as he rounded his next corner, bringing him closer and closer to the city's gates he was grabbed by the arm and pulled into an alleyway. With a black glove covering his mouth, Allentus was certain he was busted. Caught by the guards and seconds from getting a hanging for his crimes but to his surprise, he was face-to-face with a young man draped in a black hooded robe.

"Take this, and put it on, it will hide you from view. The robe is enchanted with a chamelion spell that activates when you pull the hood over your head. Once you get it on, I want you to follow me. I have a proposition for you." The man in black orders before walking away.

Allentus hauls the robe over his head and follows mindlessly...


Continued in Part three - the final

[Taillus]

Blood is Thicker - Part 3

The black robed man waves a hand, motioning for Allentus to quickly follow as he flips his own hood over his head and runs out of the alleyway before slipping through a half opened door. Once they both are inside, the mysterious man reveals himself again and lights a single lantern, setting it on a rickety wooden table. Allentus was still quite shaken from his actions, seeing as slaying a man proves to be quite sobering. The man invites Allentus to sit, giving him a potent tea to further sober the murderer.

"I watched you kill that Nord, child. Even though it was a mistake you showed some serious skill that could brew into a proficiency we could most definately use in our little Organization. I want you to perform another slaying my child and if you prove successful you will join me amongst the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood. We will give you the power you desire to be written in the history books as the greatest assassin Cyrodiil has ever known." The man whispers with a gravelly voice before handing Allentus a short dagger to replace the one he had lost. It looked identical to his own but pulsated with a very evil energy.

Allentus let the hilt of the dagger fall into his palm. He looked to the man that might just have given him his only way out of prison. Either that or a one way ticket to his own funeral but despite the dangers involved, it seemed like a better idea than fending for himself on the streets of the Imperial City. Allentus asked nerviously what it was he had to do, or who it was that he had to kill to gain access to the Dark Brotherhood and this is where joining the Night Mother becomes tricky.

"Young child, I need you to erradicate the Count of Kvatch." The pale faced man in the black hooded robe smirks as he looks into Allentus' eyes. Allentus quickly found himself sick to his stomach, seconds from vomiting on his shoes and with good reason. Allentus hated the life his father set out for him but he did not hate his father personally. Again he wishes he could go back in time, back to a simpler, more forgiving time and place. he should have been thankful for what he was actually blessed with but now it was far too late to turn back.

"B..but he... that is my" Allentus stutters.

"I know. He is your father. The Night Mother must know that she has your loyalty. You will become her child after your deed and you will become what it is that you want to become. If your father cared for you as much as you think he does, then why did he let you rot in prison? Why didn't he get you free? I will tell you why! He is embarassed, ashamed that his son is making a bad name for him. He believes that he will be looked down upon because of your actions. He is a bad person my brother and you will be much better with us. In the end it is your choice but you and I both know that he will see you to prison if you try to return to him. He will make and example of you in an attempt to prove his strength..." The man states before pulling his hood over his face.

"If you decide to complete this test, you can find us here. When asked "What is the color of night?" you will reply "Sanguine, my brother." to gain access to our lair. May that blade find its target Allentus, I pray that it will."

Allentus watches as the chamelion shouded man opens the door to the house and steps into the street. He leaves the young man with his own thoughts, letting him ultimately decide for himself....

The End

This post has been edited by Taillus: Nov 17 2006, 03:36 PM

[canis216]

Only in Dreams

Fine late afternoon light plays off Lake Amaya, casting low shadows under each ripple. Eno sat upon the beach, fishing pole in his hand. A pair of small slaughterfish sat in the creel by his side. A pair of mudcrabs shambled about on the other end of the beach; he might look them up later. Crab meat would make a fine complement to his fish dinner. Eno smiled; that bottle of brandy would be a fine complement, too. At that a moment a modest breeze came gently across the waters, stirring yet another slaughterfish to the surface. This was big one; it approached the baited hook, and Eno’s eyes lit in anticipation. Now! He pulled in a fine ten pound snaggle-toothed slaughterfish. Dinner would be excellent.

The breeze eased, and the warm fading sun played on Eno’s back. He could scarcely ask for a finer day.

-------------------------------

“Wake up, Grandmaster. We need to talk.” The voice was quiet, yet harsh. Eno opened his eyes. A hooded figure glared at him through the dark, and held a black ebony blade to his throat. “Yes, a nice quiet talk. No shouting. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand… Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. We were to meet in the morning. At the cornerclub.”

“Yes, Grandmaster, I did not forget. But you must understand, I was not inclined to allow you to…make arrangements... before our meeting.”

“You think we have no honor?”

“Honor… yes, I see your point. I am sorry. But I am inclined to paranoia, of late.”

“So you came to our headquarters instead. I fail to understand your thinking, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun.” Eno lay still for a moment. “No matter. Take a seat, assassin, and we will discuss our business.”

--------------------------------

Two assassins sat quietly at a table, faces faintly illuminated by a solitary candle. An Argonian in a dark brown robe sat with his back to the wall; a wizened Dunmer in a fine red robe sat opposite. The Dunmer spoke, quietly, “I know that the situation is inconvenient to you, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. But the Morag Tong is not merely a business. Once we have accepted the contract, we must satisfy it. Mephala demands no less.” The Argonian’s raised his eyes from the table and looked into Eno Hlaalu’s face, “So, your honor demands that the Morag Tong continue to pursue me? On behalf of a foul, drunken, mother of mine-besotted slaver? What honor is this?”

“It is our way, Lingers-in-the-Sun. Our tradition. I fail to see why we should violate for you.”

The Argonian’s hiss rose to a growl, “I will tell you my way, Grandmaster. I will kill you, here and now. I will kill all your brethren in your sacred headquarters, and display their corpses right next to yours. Then I’ll let the rats inside. That’ll be fun. Then, I’ll go to your outpost in Balmora. I’ll kill every last one. Then I’ll go to Ald-ruhn. You can guess what I’ll be doing there. While I’m at it, I’ll stop in Sadrith Mora. I hate the Telvanni, but I’ll be killing Morag Tong.”

Silence.

“Would you like to talk some more, Grandmaster?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 19 2006, 08:45 AM

[canis216]

This one, I am particularly proud of. Enjoy it; nay, savor it. I know I do.

Freelancers

It was a merry evening in the Eight Plates. A tall, handsome young Dunmer—one of the newest members of the Balmora guard contingent—was performing a traditional dance atop his shield, surrounded by a clapping and giggling group of revelers, keeping time, drinking brandy. The troubadours played in the corner, an improvised band featuring the trader Ra’virr on the guarskins, Fast Eddie Theman on the lute, and the tailor Milie Hastien singing a fine old tune. Their music filled the dim space of Balmora’s finest tavern.

Balyn dearly wished he could join the revelry—Milie’s voice wasn’t the only fine thing she had going on—but he sat at the bar, and waited. This was business.

His client was late. Balyn consoled himself by nursing a bottle of mazte, taking a sip whenever he felt he needed to flee. After Balyn had nearly convinced himself to stand up and go, or join the party, a middle-aged smartly attired in a custom tailored shirt came down the stairs and made his way to the bar.

“I’m glad you waited for me, Balyn. I had some business to attend to. I’m sure you know how that goes.” Feigning agreement, Balyn nodded. “As you no doubt have guessed, I require your services once more. I’m concerned that one of my neighbors is watching me a little… closely. In my line of work I find such a trait worrisome, if not downright inconvenient. You know this man as an old skooma addict, but everytime I see the man I feel his eyes following me… I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but I can take no risks. My peace of mind is worth 2000 gold. What do you say?”

Balyn mulled it over. 2000! It was more than he had ever earned working for the Morag Tong. But, he thought, I must not seem too excited; no, I can negotiate, get a little more. But 2000!

“2500, Helas.”

“Impossible. 2100. No more.”

“Surely your peace of mind must be worth at least 2250 drakes.”

Vorar Helas smiled, and nodded. “Yes, it’s worth that much.”

The Dunmer shook hands. Vorar Helas ordered a bottle of brandy. Balyn Omavel joined the party.

-------------------------------------------------------

The sun was sending the first shafts of morning light over eastern hills when Balyn stumbled out of the Eight Plates. What a glorious night! He had taken his own awkward turn upon the shield, impressing no one, but his grace in poking fun at his own dancing had won him a peck on the cheek from Milie Hastien. It seemed that Balyn was finally finding his niche in Balmora—fewer Tong jobs meant more free time, and the opportunity for a social life.

But now it was time to head home, and off to bed. He would need to be well rested if he were to properly earn his gold. Balyn was not the most conscientious of the Morag Tong, perhaps, but he still believed in a job well-done, even when freelancing. Freelancing! The idea still sent a pulse of ice down Balyn’s spine, but a few more nights like this would ease the trauma. He smiled as he thought of his brother—Taren did not support his younger brother financially, nor would Balyn ask him to, but it gave Balyn some comfort knowing that he was safe from open retribution.

Balyn crossed the Odai and turned the corner around Hecerinde’s place, then started to jog. A figure in a dark brown robe was hunched over the trapdoor, on the roof. He shouted at the interloper, “Hey you! What are you doing? Get out of there!” The figure stood up, and then Balyn stopped, turned, and began to run. The trespasser cradled a crossbow in his arms. Balyn had almost reached the corner when he felt the white-hot poison bolt lodge itself in his back; he screamed. Staggering forward again, almost to the corner, almost to safety—he digged into his pockets for the healing potion he always carried—almost….. Another bolt struck him, in the neck. Balyn collapsed.

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Eno Hlaalu and Huleeya were sharing a corner table at the Black Shalk Cornerclub when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode briskly through the door.

“Back so soon, assassin?” Hlaalu looked him over.

“The freelancer is dead, Grandmaster.”

“That bittergreen works quickly indeed,” murmured the Dunmer.

“No bittergreen, Hlaalu. Not my style. Viper-bolts.”

Eno Hlaalu stood up; he nearly shouted, “What! Not your style! His brother will know! This is unacceptable!” Then he looked into a drawn crossbow.

“Unacceptable for you, perhaps, but I think I’ve done more than enough to satisfy our agreement, unless you want me to kill his brother, too. Or would you rather I kill you instead?” The Argonian did not lower the crossbow.

“Fine, assassin, have it your way. The writ on your head will…fade away. But tread carefully, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. Next time could be different.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 23 2006, 03:21 AM

[canis216]

Regrets

Caius Cosades and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat quietly at the corner table of the South Wall Cornerclub soaking in the scene. A Bosmer and a Khajiit sat at the bar loudly debating which of their respective races made better thieves; the remaining patrons, also thieves, sat at tables adjacent to bar, inserting their own bawdy commentary into the discussion between drinks. Phane Rielle kept the liquor flowing liberally, as always, and put in a few good words for Bretons.

“But you must admit, Aengoth, that it is much easier to steal when cloaked in a spell of illusion”, he interjected.

Aengoth burst out laughing, “Come now, Phane. Even Breton magicks run out sometime. But I never have to worry about running out of stealth.”

“But what about picks and probes, friend? You wouldn’t be much of a thief without that hardware.”

“Not even little kitties forget their tools, good friend Phane Rielle! Habasi tells you that only the dumbest thief could do such a thing, an embarrassment to Habasi’s profession.”

------------------------------------------------

And so it went, on and on. It seemed to Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun that all these thieves did was drink, smoke, and talk.

He tossed back another brandy; Caius lit his skooma pipe.

------------------------------------------------

“Am I in the clear now, Caius? I am tired of waiting.”

Caius passed a small brown satchel across the table. “You’ll find some money and paperwork in there. Your license to kill has been restored. Also, your next mission is this envelope.” Caius passed an unmarked gray envelope to the Argonian. There’s no need to hurry on this one. I expect your mark won’t be in the open for a few days, anyway.”

“Then I think I can take care of something else. Take a look at this note—I found on the body of one of the locals.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun passed a crumpled piece of paper to the Imperial. “An unfortunate side job I had to take. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, of course…” he murmured—then Caius Cosades’ eyes opened wide. “Vorar Helas hired someone to kill me? I knew he was dirty, still….. Very well. You can eliminate him. Assassination may be legal in Morrowind, but this is a crime against the Empire.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded. “I expected as much. He’ll be dead by morning.”

-------------------------------------------------
Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun exited the South Wall at about 2:30 AM, under the eternally vigilant masses of Masser and Secunda. The night was clear, cool—only a few burning lanterns gave warmth to the streets. The assassin checked his blades—ready. He threw the hood of his robe on—he was wearing black once more—and made his way up the stairs, to highest Labor Town. No movement graced the street, and the only sound came drifting up from the South Wall—the argument had not yet ended, indeed, when could it ever end?

Vorar Helas lived in a modest two story house at the end of street, next to the spymaster. The hooded Argonian crept up the back stairs to the rear door—locked of course, but no problem, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled a pick out from his robe, smiling as he thought of debating thieves and little kitties breaking into homes in Elsweyr or the Imperial City—anywhere and everywhere really. Reverie took the assassin nearly to Iliac Bay, until he heard a muffled scream inside the very home he was breaking into.

He jerked the pick, and the lock was undone.

Inside—he stood in the bedroom, blades at the ready. Helas was not in bed. But someone was downstairs, shuffling about, muttering.

Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was barely breathing, staying quiet, concentrating at the task at hand. He eased his way down the stairs—he smelled blood.

A trim Dunmer male, dressed casually, stood over a gutted, bleeding Khajiit slave. A bloody dagger lay on the stone floor.

“Helas!” The assassin leapt down the stairs at the wide-eyed Dunmer, raising his ebony shortsword. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought the hilt down upon Vorar Helas’ skull.

“You barbaric scum! I was just going to kill you! Now you suffer!”

Helas, just conscious still, struggled to rise. “Wha… what are you going to d-d-do, lizard.”

At that the Argonian struck Helas’ face with the flat of the blade. “The better question, scum, is what won’t I do. My skill in destruction magic is modest, Dunmer, but I think you’ll come to regret it nonetheless. But I think I’ll start with a few ‘noise’ spells—just as a warm-up. I assure you this will hurt quite a bit. You’ll beg me to slit your throat before I’m done.”

------------------------------------------------

The sun was high over Balmora when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat down on Caius Cosade’s bed and stared down the stony floor. “It’s done Caius. I think I may have exceeded my orders…”

Cosades stood across the room, leaning against the wall. “I thought I heard a few screams, Al. I won’t ask what happened. I don’t really want to know—I seen too much on Vvardenfell already. My superiors seem to think so, too. I’ve been recalled. It’s just as well—Helas may have told his Camonna Tong superiors about my interest.

“Recalled? Where will I get my orders?”

“The Nerevarine will be ranking agent on the island, but you’ll get your orders through Elone, for a while. The Emperor still has need of your services here.”

“Wait, wait… the Nerevarine? The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar, the Temple saint? You’re joking, right?”

Caius Cosades said nothing.

“Damn…”

Then the Imperial smiled.

“Caius? Damn, I thought you were serious for a minute there. The Nerevarine! Good one, old friend! Heh, I hope you keep your sense of humor back in the City. I’m heading back to Ebonheart—I need the rest.” With that the Argonian saluted his spymaster and stepped out the door.

Caius Cosades stood and smiled.