Foreigners are Always Interesting (Working Title) Options

[legionslayer]

Hello all! I'm new to the Chorral.com forums but I've been playing and modding in Elder Scrolls (mainly Oblivion) for some time. As of now I'm really trying to get a feel for the lore, speech patterns and beliefs of the various races, starting with those I'm most familiar with, the Nords and the Dark Elves.

For my first project, I'm posting the first draft of the start of some fanfiction set in the Third Era (3E?), Oblivion time period. Though this is still a rough draft, I'd appreciate any comments you might have. I'm particularly interested in errors in how I've characterized the various races, tips regarding how they talk and relate to each other, and any other backstory I might have misinterpreted from what little I got in the game (sadly, I hurried through most of Oblivion) and from the UESPwiki. I'd particularly welcome suggestions for making the dialogue fit better with each race, with links to appropriate samples if they're available. Also, if I've tripped up somewhere in the weapons or armor, feel free to point that out as well.

I've worked regularly with a writer's group for a good while and have a fairly thick skin when it comes to my work, so feel free to comment on anything you think could use improvement--it's doubtful you'll hurt my feelings. All I ask is that you provide specifics as to why it stuck out to you and a suggestion for how to fix it. And, of course, I'll happily return the favor by taking a look at anything you might have up.

Thanks all!



Foreigners are Always Interesting (Working Title)

1.

It was not the ringing sound of blades colliding that roused Tarel from his slumber underneath the overhang of massive Prayer Rock, nor the grunts and cries of men as they were struck or cut or fell with a crunch against the newly fallen snow. It was the cursing—-particularly, the shrill, female voice that was doing it and the strange, slippery sounding words she used.

The clash of blades as they spilled the blood of men was nothing to get upset about—-Tarel was a Nord, after all, as accustomed to blades clashing and men shouting as he was to breathing and eating—-but the cursing of so obviously foreign a tongue this deep in Skyrim had him curious. He laid quiet with his ears open and listened as the men screamed murder, the woman shrieked curses, and blades rang together in the cacophonous singsong of combat. Yes, the woman—-he'd assume she was a woman, because the idea of a man with such a high voice was unsettling—-the woman doing the cursing was doing it in a way that almost sounded like poetry, if poetry could be made of shouted statements that one's parents made babies with goats. Nords and most especially Tarel cursed often, and heartily, and with good reason, but never had Tarel heard a string of curses that sounded as pretty as this.

Tarel pondered a moment, the sat up and stretched his arms to the sky with a massive yawn. His brother Havel had the daytime patrol (Tarel had the night) and would certainly have roused him had the fracas Tarel heard been any threat to Lorna, the small hometown they shared. Whatever the fight was about, it was obviously none of their business. Even so, Tarel pushed off the pleasant sloth of his late morning nap and grinned. Foreigners, by nature, were always interesting. He stomped out his sputtering fire, took up his greatsword, and lumbered into the snowy wilderness beyond his shelter to see what all the fuss was about.

Tarel found 'the fuss' not twenty paces distant, stretched out in a tableau of blood-stained and trampled snow in a small pass, directly below his sheltered lookout. Three dead foreigners, Redguard and Breton by the look of them, were lying in pieces spread out in a circle around a pair of harried looking Dark Elves in tattered, flowing cloaks. Five more warriors in mismatched armor and gray snow cloaks ringed the two elves in the middle, circling warily.

The first elf they hunted was a frothing red-eyed maniac wielding what looked to be a claymore far larger than seemed practical. It was most likely the weapon responsible for cutting three of the unfortunate hunters into so many pieces. His thick black cloak had been tattered by blades and rocks, and it rippled in the wind to reveal hard boiled leather armor underneath. Pressing her back to his was a slight Dark Elf in a tattered brown robe wielding a glittering blood-stained dirk in each hand. A ponytail of dark hair whipped against her cheek, and her snarling mouth matched the curses flying from her lips. She screamed at the men surrounding them, all in that strange, foreign tongue that sounded so new and pretty to Tarel's ears.

Tarel watched as the remaining five foreigners moved in on the two Dark Elves from all sides, the motions beneath their mismatched leather armor and billowing gray cloaks suggesting a Khajiit, an Argonian, and a Nord, as well as a pair of fresh green Imperials whose swords were shaking in their hands. The Dark Elves had the experience, to be sure, but the five that ringed them had the numbers. As Tarel knew from his many scuffles in the Imperial Army before his discharge and return to his hometown of Lorna, even a cluster of relatively unskilled swordsmen could still draw blood from the best of veteran blades. All the mob had to do was attack all at once, from all sides, with absolutely no idea just how badly they were outmatched.

The large Dark Elf frothed at the mouth as he watched his hunters come, a mountain of barely contained rage. By comparison, the smaller female at his back was a picture of restrained energy, snarling and cursing as her dirks practically danced in her hands. Tarel settled cross-legged on the edge of his lookout and balanced the cool steel of his greatsword across the massive muscles of his thighs.

No matter how it turned out, this was going to be an impressive fight.

[legionslayer]

3.

Rare and strange metals, Tarel thought as he rose, to cut so easily through blade and bone alike. Strapping his greatsword across his bare back with the leather strap he kept for just such a purpose, Tarel climbed backward and down from his post atop the rock, letting the Dark Elves leave his sight out of necessity. Royalty, then, or are all wild Dark Elves so armed?

Tarel was careful to place his boots on rock where the snow was fresh and the ice was thin. Even the greatest of Nord swordsmen would succumb to a broken neck if they didn't watch where they put their feet. After he'd reached the relatively safety of the ground, Tarel turned his attention back to the Dark Elf woman to find her kneeling over her fallen companion. As he approached, she ripped the dagger from his eye. Tarel winced at the violent motion, then relaxed when he saw her pouring the last of the liquid from an ornate bottle on her friend's face. A healing potion. It might be enough to save his life, if not his eye.

"Hullo there!" Tarel shouted as he approached, wanting to make certain the woman noticed and evaluated him before he was close enough to seem a threat. "Looks like you've had a bit of trouble!"

The Dark Elf's head snapped up. Her deep red eyes cut into him as keenly as a blade. The focused rage she directed at him was far more biting and personal than anything he'd seen in brawls among his brothers, or even from men he'd killed on the fields of the Empire's victories. This Dark Elf, though she cursed as prettily as any, could hate in a way far uglier than her fresh clawed face suggested.

"Easy now," Tarel continued, stopping well away from her and keeping his greatsword resting casually against his shoulder. "I've not come to do you any harm, fair Dumner."

Tarel hoped he was pronouncing the word for her species right. He'd heard from a passing Redguard that Dark Elves preferred to call themselves Dumners in friendly company, but given his penchant for making an boat of himself, he'd just as likely called her a Nine-damned fool.

"You've had a right hard time of it, judging from all these dead men, and I've no wish to add to your suffering or test your blades." Tarel grinned in a disarming manner that he'd always found useful with the local women. "I just wondered if I could offer any help."

"Foreign thug," the Dark Elf spit back in heavily accented Cyrodillic, the words far less pretty than those she spoke in her own tongue. "You watched us from your rock and you did nothing." She hid the bottle back inside her robes.

Tarel winced, surprised and a bit annoyed that the woman had noticed him far above her, while involved in a fight. Though it hurt his pride to know he'd been so obvious (he liked to think he blended well into the snow, despite what Havel said) he took her accusation in stride. Unlike the two Imperials whose throats she had slit with the ease of gutting fish, Tarel was not going to underestimate her.

"Yeah, well, about that. See, I am my brother Havel are the assigned protectors of our village, here, and you—-well, no offense, fair Dumner, but you and your big partner there are strangers here, just like the men, lizards and cat you slaughtered. Seein' as me and Havel are the only thing keeping the mountain lions and bandits from chewin' up the elders and women folk and young ones, it'd be right stupid of us to go and get ourselves killed in some skirmish that isn't rightly our affair."

The Dark Elf woman glared at him, then spoke again in her guttural Cyrodillic. "My sworn sword is dying from a cowardly strike from a bandit. Your blade at our sides could have kept that fate at bay."

"Could have," Tarel agreed, shrugging in a way that was both casual and uncommitted. "You were outnumbered, sure enough. But without knowing who had the right or the wrong of it, how was I to know you weren't hunted for raping women or murdering babes?"

The woman rose like a ghost and spun her dirks, starting toward him with a limping stride as her side bled freely in the snow. "You assume too much," she whispered, with rage that might well be melting the snow.

Tarel stepped back and raised a hand, keeping his greatsword balanced on his shoulder. "Now miss, I didn't mean no harm by that, just givin' you the reasons as to why a smart Nord doesn't get himself involved in what's rightly a stranger's business."

Tarel kept his disarming smile wide, but he did raise his sword as she approached. He settled into an easy guard that gave the Dark Elf pause, even through her blinding rage. Tarel wasn't a stranger to swordplay, having lived and breathed it since he could walk, and she could see that, at least. She stopped.

"That is, we don't get involved unless we're invited." Tarel grinned and took another breath, then let his guard lower when the woman didn't move. "See miss, you're wounded, as is your big friend there, if he's still alive. Regardless of the whys or whereabouts of you being here like this, I don't see why I can't offer you my help. We have healers in my village, not as grand as you're used to, I'm sure, but old and wise and good at what they do."

In the few moments the Dark Elf female had stood across from him, the snow below her had turned bright red with blood. At the rate she was losing it, Tarel knew she would soon pass out or die. He felt bad for her, and maybe a bit worse for her friend with the missing eye, but not bad enough to step closer then step back, like that Khajiit, watching his guts spout out around his ankles.

"How do I know I can trust you?" the Dark Elf whispered, her rage and her hate giving way to what even Tarel's eyes, untrained in Dark Elf facial expressions, couldn't help but think must be an all but overwhelming despair.

"Well now miss... I suppose you don't." Tarel let his grin fade, turning as serious as he felt he ought to. "But after considerin' your other many options--"

"No." Her face hardened again. "It's just the trick Kajel would use to finish us. Test us brutally with steel, and then, if we survived, slit our necks as we slept safe in the hands of miraculous *rescuers.*"

"Now miss—-" Tarel began, but he never finished. The Dark Elf screamed and rushed forward, her dirks flashing, then tripped on a rock and fell on her face. She landed with a thump that was loud enough to make Tarel jump. It was an inglorious, horribly unjustified end to her last valiant stand against a whole world aligned against her, but it kept her alive. The rock her head had struck beneath the snow had been gracious enough to knock her unconscious.

"Well," Havel said from Tarel's side, causing his younger yet bigger brother to jump yet again. Havel was a full foot shorter than Tarel and less broad in the shoulders, though he shared his brother's long blond hair, square jaw and hard, muscular frame. Tarel had always been envious that Havel could move so quietly in the snow, but he supposed that was because his big brother was smaller.

"What've we got here, little brother?" Havel asked.

Tarel lowered his sword. "A sprightly young woman who's been in her fair share of knife fights, and her big partner, close to a berserker as I've ever seen in a Dark Elf. They're both dying, and given it's neighborly, I'd say they need our help."

Havel nodded. "Lucky for her she didn't break those cute little dirks on a pair of Skyrim's biggest greatswords." He grinned at Tarel as he spoke and thrust lewdly, advertising just what 'greatswords' he was talking about.

Tarel responded with a grin of his own, though inside, he wondered about his brother's boast. After all, Havel hadn't actually seen this woman use those 'cute little dirks'.

"Well, I'll carry her, I suppose." Havel trudged over to the unconscious woman bleeding to death in the snow. "After all, you're the ox here, little brother, and so..."

Havel lifted the unconscious, bleeding woman from the snow as if she weighed no more than a winter dress. He walked quickly toward their village of Lorna. As he passed Tarel, Havel jerked his head to the massive pile of Dark Elf that had collapsed among an equally massive pile of dead enemies.

"You get to carry the big one."