Necromancer's Dream, A Story of Arvas Options

[Lord Veneficus]

I know, it's short; just bear with me.

Chapter I

Arvas sat in the dim, noisy tavern on the outskirts of the Imperial City. The drunkards stumbled about the room, bumping into tables and spitting curses at the more sober groups of people. Much raucous laughter filled the smoky air as traveling minstrels strummed their lutes and pounded on their drums. The innkeeper was hunched over a dirty glass, proceeding to wipe away the grime caked at the bottom of the mug. He was balding and almost as tall as Arvas; but due to his massive hunch, his head came up to Arvas’s chest. He was slowly swaying back and forth with to the tune of the music.

“Excuse me barkeep, can I have another tankard of beer, please,” Arvas asked, raising his cup up. The barkeep disappeared behind the counter and returned with a somewhat clean mug. He hobbled over to the beer tap and poured Arvas a generous amount. Arvas took the mug and raised it slightly, saying, “Thanks.” He downed the beer in minutes.

His life had recently taken a downfall. He had to flee Morrowind, as he wanted to free himself from the temple. He didn’t agree with all of their beliefs.

A man had stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. His staff glowed with bright blue magicka. No one seemed to care as he screamed into the face of a rather bulky man, who was unfazed by the dark-robed mage in his face. He rather stared off into space. “I…I could… kill ye righ’ now if ye wanted me too, Bjorn.” He stuttered as he wobbled to the door. Arvas stood from the creaky old stool and began for the door. The innkeeper looked at him and said, “Where you goin’ boy? Come pay for this.” He shook the empty mug at him. Arvas sprinted from the tavern, away from the Imperial City.

He entered the fort that he had cleared out a few days ago. It wasn’t very large because it was only built for a captain and several of his men. The beds were ancient and holes were eaten out of the sheets from the many moths that floated about in the darkness. He slumped down into his bed and attempted to sleep, which proved difficult. He was worried that at any moment someone could come in his small makeshift home and take him back to Vvardenfell.

After two hours of tossing and turning, he finally fell asleep, dreaming of one day becoming the greatest sorcerer of the ages…



This post has been edited by Lord Veneficus: May 13 2008, 01:12 PM

[Lord Veneficus]

Chapter III

Arvas folded the letter up and placed it in his small pack. He had plenty of time to waste before it was time to go to the meeting. He decided that he would go to the arena to watch a few gladiators get butchered.

The area around the arena was serene and beautiful. Colorful flowers lined around the base of the gigantic statue of Saint Alessia, leader of the slave rebellion. Trees lined the walkways throughout the Arena courtyard, poplars and oaks. The entrance was crammed with people trying to get into their seats. Arvas walked up to the empty clerk’s desk. “Hello, care for a ticket?” The Altmer asked. Arvas pulled his gold pouch from his belt and asked, “How much?” The pale Altmer pointed to a sign to the left of him. A little ways down the sign, a price for a ticket was ten septims. He counted up ten coins and handed them to the High Elf.

Arvas sat down and the announcer’s voice rung out over the roar of people thirsty to see some blood. This match was supposedly between the Grand Champion, Bartholomeo and the Blue team’s Champion, a Nord; Arvas couldn’t remember his name. “PEOPLE OF CYRODIIL! BELIEVE IT OR NOT, THE GRAND CHAMPION HAS BEEN CHALLENGED! BY WHOM YOU ASK?! WHY, THE BLUE TEAM’S CHAMPION, ERIC SNOWMANE!” A chorus of boos erupted from the crowd, they obviously didn’t like Eric. “LET THE BATTLE… BEGIN!” The two men came rushing from the wrought iron gates that swung open. Their blades collided.

For several hours, Arvas watched with excitement at the blood being spilled for his entertainment. The Nord was very strong and Bartholomeo was very good at swordplay. The blue sky began to darken overhead and Arvas began to worry if the match would be over in time for him to arrive at the meeting. Then, a sickening crack pierced the air as the Grand Champion fell to the compacted sand and began to cry out in pain. Arvas began to scream, “Cut his throat! Cut his throat!” Soon, the whole of the Imperial City began to chant it with him. The Nord sliced his neck open, with blood gushing from the wound. As the Nord yelled, Arvas made his way to the door, so he wouldn’t be trampled by the many spectators packed into the giant stadium.

Outside, he made his way to the shore. He planned on swimming to the island, as he did not have a boat with him. He then came upon a small dock protruding outwards to the massive Ayleid ruin he had read about in the sealed letter.

The old planks creaked with every other step he took, making a noise similar to that of a slow dying mudcrab. When he reached the end of the dock he dove into the water. The cold water washed over him, his hair floating effortlessly in the ever slow churning waters of Lake Rumare; the end of his tunic was rippling at his knees. He resurfaced and swam the short distance to the shore of Vilverin.

He took his tunic off and rung it out enough to not freeze him in the chilly wind. After he had shaken off most of the water from his armor, he walked up to the stone door of Vilverin and placed his hand in the center. It glowed a bright blue and slid into the walls.

He stepped inside to hear voices bouncing from the old walls of the once great city of Vilverin. He strode down the spiral stone staircase and opened the rust caked grate. A man wearing black robes, walked up to him; his face was obscured by a dark hood. The robes had the same symbol on the letter emblazoned upon the front of them. “Where is the letter?” He asked. Arvas handed him the letter; the man nodded and motioned for him to go deeper down the stairs.

Arvas carefully continued down the many flights of steps and opened several more sets of doors. Everything was dark; Arvas couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face. When he arrived, a short woman stepped up to him and handed him the same dark robes she was wearing. “Put those on and step into your new life, brother,” she whispered in the utter darkness. He put on the robes and was lead into a brightly lit room.

Black banners fell from the ceiling, many mages roamed about in search of dark magical items to better their evil ways. Black Soul Gems were stacked in baskets on different tables, their dark power overwhelming in such great numbers. There were magical duels going on in the center of the room, mages being thrown into the walls with every spell thrown at them.

After hours of looking at dark artifacts, the mages had settled down and took their places in rows of chairs several yards away from the small market. A High Elven man stepped up to a podium, causing a loud chant from the mages seated in the many rows chairs. “Lord Mannimarco, we serve you and the Order of the Worm until our dying breaths.” Arvas sat and began to listen to Mannimarco present his speech…