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 XIII

The fiery sun was slowly rising among the ever snowy mountain tops of the Jeralls and Arvas began to stir. His body had gained back its ability to move during the night and so he picked himself up from the cold dirt. Blood had been spilled all over the pasture and it had painted the soil a sickly crimson. He dusted himself off, quickly said a prayer to Sithis over his fallen guildmates, and headed towards the fort.

How did he know my name? I just arrived here in Cyrodiil only a few years ago. He thought to himself. He went to the stables at the rear entrance of the castle and began eyeing the horses. A hardy, white stallion stood near the old decaying fence. The many black horses in front of him had gained prestige all over Cyrodiil as the fastest, most well bred horses that could be bought. He decided he would take a black one and call it Altor, after a powerful mage he once met in Vvardenfel. He slowly untied his reins and gently spoke to him as he guided the horse over to the low-hanging gate. He mounted and shouted, “Hyah!” He heeled the horse and he began a gallop. Altor jumped over the fence and rode up into the Great Forest. Shouting could be heard behind him as they rode away.

They slowed once they were very deep into the forest, away from the city. The morning sun washed over Arvas, warming his bones. He fretted whether he would be punished for it being the second time he failed to kill the mage. But, he quickly reassured himself that he wouldn’t be punished as any necromancer that has gone against the mage has not lived to tell it. He may be spared just for the fact that he has lived through two battles without being frozen solid by the Dunmeri mage.

Arvas arrived at the slowly renewing fort to see many necromancers pacing around in regular clothing, planting gardens for both food and certain ingredients for their experiments. The vibrant reds of tomatoes, the bright orange of carrots, and the lush green of cabbage and lettuce came together in a beautiful banner under the cloudless sky above.

He tied Altor to a nearby stump and entered the fort. He looked for the familiar face and smell of the man who chews mint leaves. Along the halls, there were many tapestries of the infamous symbol for the Necromancers and many benches and chairs were there as well. He entered the dining hall of the fort and found him at the table, having his lunch. “There seems to have been a problem with the ambush, sir. He killed them all, either they were run through by his blade or frozen in their tracks. I was lucky enough to have been paralyzed by him. I tried to stop him, sir, I honestly did. He’s just too quick. I’m sorry,” Arvas said with great gloominess. He stopped chewing and stood from his chair.

“Dammit! This is the second time you have failed at eliminating that elf! From here on out, no more will you have any assignments that deal with the Dunmeri mage, do you understand?” He shouted into Arvas’s face. He nodded and walked away. “Now go find something to bide your time until we have this menace dealt with.”

Arvas walked from the fort, completely disheartened at the event that took place. He decided that he would go to Chorrol and sit at the Oak and Crosier, drinking his sorrow away.

His journey to Chorrol through the wilderness was uneventful; not a single animal had even appeared in front of him. But he did not care, the only thing he wished to do was prove the Necromancers wrong. He wanted to slaughter the Dunmeri mage that caused all of the trouble he had been involved in.

He arrived at the tavern and sat at the bar. But not before he noticed a gorgeous Altmer standing in front of a group of people, talking. She was stunning; her eyes were an icy blue, capable of calming even the most vicious of animals. Her hair was a golden blonde and her facial features were that of a goddess. He did not wish to embarrass himself, so he sat at the counter. “I’ll have the strongest thing you’ve got, barkeep,” he said slowly. The Khajiit at the bar leaned down, grabbed a mug and poured a strong smelling liquid in it. She handed it to him and he took a great gulp. I feel better already. He thought to himself.

The High Elf had finished her story and went to sit at the bar as well. She caught a glimpse of him and said, “Hi there, I’m Mera. You look quite sad, what’s the matter?” He looked up from his mug to see the beautiful Altmer, staring at him with questioning eyes. His heart began pound in his chest and his stomach felt a tad bit odd.

“N-nothing, M-Mera. I-I’m Arvas, b-by the way,” He stuttered; he had never been in such close range to such a dazzling woman.

“You’re not going to ask me what I would like to drink?” She asked. His heart began to slow down and he leaned towards the bartender.

“Oh s-sorry. G-give her a…” She cut him off.

“I’ll have a small glass of wine, please,” she said politely as the barkeeper grabbed a rather small goblet…