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 IX

Arvas, still upset over the brawl in the tavern, made no attempt at conversation with Belator, who did not understand. Occasionally, Belator would say something but Arvas would simply ignore it; he tried to make amends for doing what he did, but nothing seemed to work.

The night could not have been any calmer; the trees were swaying in the gentle breeze and the leaves rustled. The two moons were full and shining brightly upon the hard ground, making the dirt road look as though it were paved with silver. In the moonlight, Belator’s old bones looked like they were washed very carefully, not leaving a single speck of decay in any crevice. Arvas’s chain mail armor glistened and his cane sparkled a deep red.

They arrived at the path leading up to the castle of Chorrol and Arvas turned immediately south. “We’ll head this way. Once you see a large fort, tell me.” Belator nodded his head and they entered the forest. The usual chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl didn’t really bother Arvas, but another sound made Arvas tense up; a rustle in the leaves. When he had deemed it safe to move further, they continued to travel futher south.

They came upon a large surface ruin; it looked as though it had been worked on. Some of the old, mossy stones did not match some of the most recently placed ones at the top. Then, the same rustle came from in front of them and Arvas pulled his sword out. A figure bounded from the shadows and landed several feet in front of Arvas. “Who are you and what are you doin’ here?” A rough voice came from the figure. A smell of rotting flesh wafted into the air and Arvas knew he had found the place.

“I’m Arvas. I was sent here due to my rising in rank, sir. If you do not believe me, look at this,” he answered at the silhouette as he pulled the black soul gem from his pack. The man tilted his head and moved forward.

“Follow me,” the man said in a hushed voice. His breath smelled as though he had been chewing on mint leaves; Arvas was glad he was at a more cleanly place than Vilverin, inside of which everyone had the odor of a cesspit. Arvas waved his hand behind him to signal for Belator to follow. He slowly inched forward and the man opened the great wooden door with several large bolts hammered into the side. It creaked very loudly as they entered; the man’s feet made no noise a he moved along the halls, but Arvas’s leather boots slapped against the cold stone. He could feel an aura blasting from every doorway, it was a warmth but a chill all at the same time. The man opened a smaller door and said, “This’ll be where you’re stayin’. Try not to do anythin’ stupid, okay?” He strode from the room and Arvas placed all of his belonging under his rather little bunk. The blankets were emblazoned with the tattered skull and skeletal hands as everything else around him was.

He lie down and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

A freezing wind rushed past his ear. He was at the cliffs near the Abecean Sea and a blue robed man, with his hood very low over his face, stepped towards him. His hands were that of a Dunmer’s and the same cold, steel blue glow emanated from his hand. He raised it and the blue glow shot forward hitting his leg. The ice quickly crept up his paralyzed body; he was staring wide-eyed at the blue robed man with a look of despair and horror as his body was frozen solid. The man began to laugh maniacally as he threw a stone at the body, watching it shatter to millions of tiny pieces…

Arvas woke up in a cold sweat; his hair was stuck to his face and his blankets were on the floor. He grabbed one of his shirts and wiped his face with it. He laid his head back down in an attempt and hope of a more peaceful sleep.