The Unlikely Incarnate, The Tale of Iocus Magna Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Okay, since everyone else seems to be doing a Nerevarine story I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon and do my own one, with a character who is rather different to the other ones knocking around. It probably won't be as long as the others around, but hopefully it will be as enjoyable to read.

Oh, and don't worry Grey Knight fans, I'll have that going at the same time, too.

The Unlikely Incarnate-The Tale of Iocus Magna

“Iocus Magna, I sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead, for the charges of embezzlement, fraud, theft and the evasion of tax,” the judge announced, banging his gavel. There was a murmur around the courtroom as the crowd that had drifted in discussed the sentence. None of them knew me, and as far as I could tell they were glad to see me go-the idiots had lapped up every word the judge had said.

My guard grabbed my shoulders and led me away from the courtroom, back to my cell in the Imperial Prison, where I would once again have to spend my night with whatever drunks the watch had dragged in. The guard holding me pulled me down the prison's corridor, surprisingly, to a different cell from the one I had been held in for the last few days.

“Condemned cell,” he announced impassively. “Have a nice night.”

It was comfier than the one I was in before-instead of wooden benches there were proper beds, and the jailers here had actually made a decent attempt at keeping the place clean. If it wasn't for the bars across the window and replacing a wall, it could almost have been a room in a good inn. On one of the beds, a Nord, was snoring loudly, a tray with a plate and a mug on it on the floor beside him. I guessed it was the man's last meal.

I slumped down on one of the beds, thinking through the developments of the day. I felt numb-at the behest of a judge, no doubt being told to have me killed by whoever he answered to, I would be hung. I couldn't imagine a worse way to go, with a noose strangling the life out of you while you kicked uselessly, like some practice dummy in a breeze.

“What're you in for?” It was the Nord, still on his bed, his voice cutting through the haze of my despair. “Well, lad?”

“Me?” I asked. “I'm in for theft.”

“Theft?” the Nord seemed puzzled. “Seems a bit harsh, doesn't it?”

“Not when you con a tax collector out of ten thousand septims,” I replied. Strangely, the Nord laughed, and even stranger, I joined him, laughing hard for almost a full minute. After our burst of macabre hilarity had subsided, I asked; “You?”

“Murder,” the Nord said. “I caught a man with my wife so I killed them both.”

I wasn't surprised he'd done that-the Nord was built like a castle wall, and it wasn't hard to detect the palpable air of aggression surrounding him. He got up and extended a massive paw in my direction.

“Sven Strongback,” he said. I shook it gingerly.

“Iocus Magna,” I replied. I appreciated the gesture of companionship Sven offered, and suddenly felt better. I may well have had my last night in the company of a murderer, but at least it was company of some sort.

We talked for the rest of the evening-Sven about his life in Bruma, and me about my childhood as an orphan in the Nibenay Basin, and my constant obsession with getting some more coins to fill my purse. We ended up talking about just about everything we could.

But we never talked about the hanging tomorrow. I reckon now that even Sven, with his attitude of aggressive bravado, feared his death. I didn't blame him. However big and muscular you were, there was nothing you could do when you began to dance the hemp fandango.

That night, I barely slept, entertaining the thought of the hanging with a sick dread. Though when I did, I had the strangest dream.

I was in a void, shrouded in complete blackness. There was no light, not even enough to see my body. I felt like a ghost, floating in the afterlife. Perhaps this was just a taster of what was to come? I didn't know.

Then the voice came, ringing out from the darkness with such such clarity that it seemed to brighten the void around it. But then, it was a dream, and these strange things always seem to happen in dreams.

“Do not fear, Iocus,” it said. “You shall have salvation.”

Then the voice faded and I was left alone in the dark of unconsciousness.

#

The staccato drum beat of the warden's baton drumming across the bars of some poor bugger's cell woke me, as it did every day. I wiped sleep from my eyes, and then with a sick feeling of fear, remembered what day it was.

The die I was destined to die.

“Food's up, you two,” one of the guards said, holding a tray with two large sandwiches on it. “Enjoy it.”

For a last meal, it could have been worse. Sven and I ate in silence, Sven devouring his sandwich like a wolf would, me taking slower bites, savoring the flavour of the bacon filling and hoping that I could somehow stave off the inevitable. But the inevitable came.

Sven and I were shackled and led from our cells, into the courtyard of the Imperial City prison. The gallows had been set up, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch it. I had sweet talked one of the guards into getting me a copy of the Black Horse Courier, and I remembered that my trial was mentioned in the news-scroll. I couldn't help but feel flattered that my crime was heinous enough for them to mention it. Still, ten thousand Septims was a lot of money.

The drum that signaled the hanging began its slow, relentless beat, beaten by an blank faced man in cheap clothes. I saw a man prepare the nooses, sizing us up and making adjustments to our nooses. So, that man was to be my executioner.

Without a word, Sven and I were herded up the steps, and placed on a stool next to our respective nooses.

“Do either of you have any last words to say?” a man dressed in the robes of a priest asked. “Any regrets?”

“My only regret is I never got a chance to spend a penny of that cash,” I announced, to a ripple of laughter. Despite my fear, I wasn't going to let the crowd see it. Give the people a show, that had always been my philosophy, and I wasn't going to abandon it now.

The priest gave a disapproving frown, but then asked Sven the same question. He simply shook his head.

“Very well then,” the priest said. “Let justice be given.”

I wondered at how many times the priest had given this ceremony, before marveling at the brain's ability to distract itself from its imminent demise.

I suppose I hadn't lived a bad life-comfort wise, of course. In the terms of morality, I had been mired in poverty, but I always managed to keep enough cash to get by and get on. And now, at the hands of a length of rope, I would die. I mentally corrected myself-rope didn't have hands. Just because I was about to die I wasn't going to allow sloppiness.

Sven and I were stepped onto our stools after being prodded by a guard, and the nooses were fixed around our necks.

The drum beat on.

At a command, two guards, holding hammers, knocked our stools loose.

At first, there was the feeling of my throat being grabbed, as I felt the noose constrict, before my vision began to be tinged by red as the blood in my head began to get cut off. Vaguely, I heard the priest give some sermon about how this was an example to all law breakers, and to all other sinners, but I wasn't really able to listen.

Gradually, the thudding of my heart slowed. I didn't bother trying to breathe-it was pointless and I barely cared.

Dying is a strange feeling. I didn't feel afraid now that it was happening, I could shut out the pain of the noose and felt strangely peaceful.

Soon, my vision began to darken, the world become unfocused and the priest's sermon just faded.

The blackness came slowly. I suppose I could describe it as similar to watching a snail crawl across a rock-you turned away for a minute and it had moved slightly. It wasn't surprising as such, just to be expected.

Then the blackness descended fully and wiped everything out.

[Colonel Mustard]

Part 3-Seyda Neen

I must confess that my first real sight of Vvardenfel was somewhat of an anti-climax. Seyda Neen, was, and still is, a complete dump. There are no two ways about it, sadly. Even the residents are willing to admit this. I really need to sort the place out sometime.

However at the time, I had my attention occupied by something more pressing. Namely the gigantic insect standing just outside the town. While, in retrospect, it was quite amusing, the fear that gripped me upon seeing my first silt strider was genuinely one of the most distressing things I had felt in a long while.

My face white with terror, I grabbed the shoulder of the guard standing next to the door of the census office and squeaked; “What's that?”

The guard looked at me then burst out laughing.

I will admit that so far the combination of being hurried off a ship, seeing an insect far bigger than any insects should be and then being laughed at was doing very little to improve my temper.

“What the bloody hell is so funny?” I snapped. “Well?”

The guard gave a grin and then said; “You're new to Vvardenfel, aren't you?”

“Well yes I am,” I said. “And what's so damn hilarious about that?”

“That there is the silt strider,” the guard said. “What they use to get around here. Not as fast as a horse but a damn sight safer.”

“Right,” I said, somewhat snappishly. “Thank you.”

I left the belligerent guard to his post and headed towards a building with a sign proclaiming it to be 'Arrile's Tradehouse.' Before I could reach it, I suddenly found myself accosted by a wood elf.

“Excuse me sir,” the wood elf said. “But I was wandering if you had seen something of mine.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “What were you looking for.”

“A ring,” the elf said. At this point I shoved the ring I had found deeper into the pockets of my prison clothes. “It's an old heirloom of mine, and has a powerful healing enchantment.”

I faked a voice of sincere concern and shook my head.

“I'm afraid to say I've seen nothing of the sort,” I replied. “Though I'll make sure to keep my eyes open.”

The wood elf thanked me for my time, and left looking disappointed. Now, I ask you not to judge me too harshly. I had only a two hundred coins to my name, a dagger that was so rusty it probably couldn't harm a fly and a few books and plates. I needed any gold I could lay my hands on desperately.

With the elf out of the way, I entered the tradehouse, and found myself in a large and comfortable looking room. A large counter stocked with various weapons and traveling supplies occupied a large alcove, while a fire crackled merrily in a grate near the stairs.

A dark elf at the counter looked up as I entered, and immediately adopted the kind of predatory smile that any tradesman adopted when he saw a customer. Well, I doubted he had rumbled with a customer like me for quite some time.

“Welcome to Arille's Tradehouse,” the elf said. “I'm Arille, and how can I help you, sir?”

“I was looking for a weapon,” I said. “You have anything?”

“Look around you, sir,” Arille replied. “Tell me what you see.”

“Weapons,” I said. “And good ones, by the look of them.”

It always helped to butter merchants up before you bartered with them.

“And perhaps sir could do with some clean clothes,” Arille said, glancing at the ones I had been given by the prisoners. “I'd be happy to supply you with some.”

Arille was good at what he did, I'll give him that-constantly calling me 'sir' was a nice way to try and get on my good side.

“So what weapons would sir be looking for?” Arille asked.

“Something not to heavy,” I replied. “A sword of some sort, single handed, preferably.”

I glanced around the racks of weaponry.

“How about that sabre?” I asked.

“An excellent choice,” Arille said. “Sir has quite an eye for weaponry, I see.”

I was beginning to find being constantly called 'sir' a little silly and somewhat irritating.

“It is made of the highest quality iron,” Arille continued. “I will admit, perhaps not the most powerful weapon around, but a sturdy and cost effective one if you're strapped for cash.”

“How much?” I asked.

“For you?” Arille said. “Just eighty gold pieces.”

Fat chance, I thought. Let the haggling begin.

“I'll give you fourty,” I said.

“Fourty?” Arille exclaimed. “I wouldn't even make a profit on that!”

“Well there's not way I'll pay eighty,” I replied. “Of course, I could just take my shiny gold elsewhere...”

I left the unfinished statement to hang in the air like a threat.

“Now sir, I can lower the price to some extent,” Arille said. “How does seventy sound.”

I made a great show of thinking it through, before saying; “Fifty.”

“Now, I can't lower it that far,” Arille said.

“Why not?” I asked. “You can't have paid more than fourty for this.”

“It was imported,” Arille answered. “I had to pay tax for it.”

“Oh really,” I said slowly. I suddenly picked the sabre up and examined a 'B' embossed on its hilt. “What do you call this?”

I showed Arille the symbol, who went a little pale.

“That's the seal of Balmora, isn't it?” I asked innocuously. “Which means that it was made here, not imported. You lied to me Arille, and we all know how bad it could be for your reputation if people found out your were a liar.”

Exactly how I knew what the town's seal looked like is unimportant, suffice to say that involved a complex scam, forged papers and mudcrabs.

I'm still finding it hard to forget about the mudcrabs.

“Look,” Arille said. An Adam's Apple had formed on his throat and was bobbing up and down in panic. “I'm sorry I lied, but if you keep this quiet I'll let you have it for fourty.”
b
“Twenty,” I said.

“What?” Arille said.

“I can say that you're a liar to everyone in town and ruin you, or I can have it for twenty and keep this quiet.”

“Alright,” Arille said, still looking worried. “Look, is there anything else you want?”

“Some fresh clothes,” I said. “And a pack of cards.”

#

It turned out that Arille's Tradehouse also doubled as an inn, with a bar in the upstairs rooms. I headed up there to ply my trade.

To do so, I needed a target to pick out from the various patrons. I spotted a Nord sitting alone at a table, and adopting one of my stand in guises of Ranard Tallis, a lovable loser who was useless with a pack of cards until his opponent got complacent and made mistakes. I didn't have the glasses needed to perfect the ruse, but I simply needed to adopt the expression of hopeless optimism and that was usually enough.

I ordered a drink and sat down next to the Nord, engaging the man in small talk until my drink arrived. After a few more I steered the conversation to cards, and then challenged him to a game.

An hour later I had earned one hundred gold pieces and my Nord opponent had gotten a bit too tipsy for my liking-while he was currently on the amiable, graceful loser stage of drunkeness, I had a feeling he would probably switch to the frothing at the mouth maniac stage any minute now.

I collected my winnings and left the tavern, deciding to leave the Nord, who wished me a surprisingly cheerful farewell, to his own devices.

I hurried over a wooden bridge that led out of the dismal town, and up to a hill to the silt strider platform. The driver there, a dunmer woman greeted me cheerfully.

“Care to ride the silt strider,” she said. “I can take you almost anywhere in Vvardenfel.”

“How much would a ride to Balmora cost?” I asked.

The dunmer woman looked thoughtful for a moment and then said; “Thirteen septims.”

It was a reasonable enough fare and I reached inside my purse to fish out the sum. After I had done so, she hopped into a hollow part of the massive insect's shell and then helped me aboard. She grabbed a whip from beside her seat and cracked it above the strider. With a deep and mournful moan, the strider began its walk to Balmora.

I believe I mentioned earlier that boats and I have never mixed terribly well. For those of you have had the good fortune to never, ever ride on one, count yourself as a very lucky person for being unenlightened in such matters, and let me just say that it is at least ten times worse than any boat. At least with boats you can sometimes have smooth waters, and if you don't then at least you can retreat below decks to try and recover.

Instead, all I could do was close my eyes and throw up.