Light through Darkness, Book 2, are we truly safe now? Options

[Thomas Kaira]

Welcome one and welcome all to the continuation of Light through Darkness!

For those of you only now joining us, here is the link to our previous thread:

Light through Darkness, Book 1

Enjoy your stay! All comments and criticisms are welcome.

@haute ecole rider: Magical lore is one of the many things I wanted to tackle in this tale. It is a way of getting my brain in gear, thinking about how I can make a gameplay change actually fit into the lore of the story, so I quite enjoy doing that. As for Dere, don't worry, he's landing in a cave, so he should be alright.

@Lady Syl: Thank you much for your approval of the Recommendation system. That brawl also served a very specific purpose: it let the reader know the Oblivion Main Quest would be taking place in this story, but not through the eyes of my protagonist. That is why I elected to have Julian make a cameo there, it would help to reaffirm that point.

@SubRosa: Interesting letters, I can definitely make something out of those. Ideas have already come to me, but I wouldn't tell even if you tied me to a chair and whipped me. I'm actually playing more on the game's version of Irlav, it makes sense to me that he would be a huge slowpoke who doesn't really have any passion but for making students' lives miserable.
Nit be picked.

@mALX: No, I guess Maxical's contempt for clothing might not be so bad anymore. I'm sure she would adore these Stepstones as they are right now.

@Acadian: Well still, Mer can get impatient, too. You of all people would understand this.
Nits be picked.

@all: A new thread brings new beginnings. But what will these new beginnings mean for our characters, or for Derelas? Only time will tell.

next: Welcome to Anvil, city of the sea.

Light through Darkness, Book Two

Chapter 8-1: Double Trouble

After sloshing my way out of the giant pool of black water illuminated only by the playful flames of my torch, I was feeling quite grateful I wasn’t wearing any shoes. Nevertheless, it was a highly unpleasant feeling for my legs to become so wet so suddenly, and not just because the water was so cold. As I pulled my shoes back on over my flax socks, it started to occur to me that this probably was not the worst I could expect from these Stepstones. The frayed and cracked surface of the stone that received me made me rather certain that it was not supposed to be here. What sort of cataclysm might have transformed what was once a verdant hillside into a musty cave full of tidewater was not something that thrilled me to ponder, but that was hardly the point. If I were to be using these things, there was no telling where I would end up. The only silver lining I had was that they were scattered all over the place; you could find them in farmer’s fields, up on top of the Colovian Highlands, and, as I learned today, perhaps even at the bottom of the sea. Just to use one would be to gamble my life away, assuming they still worked, of course.

Once I finished pulling my shirt back on, I made my way to the small door where the water was only just flowing through the tiny gap between the damp wood and the glistening ground. The water was actually noticeably lower than when I arrived as well. Looks like the the tide was going out -- Anvil was a coastal city, after all, so it would make sense. I placed my palms onto the moistened boards and pushed.

The door did not respond. Two more pushes and some pounding later, and still nothing had changed. Trapped, perfect.

The floor ran completely dry as I contemplated what to do now. I couldn’t burn the wood, as it was far too wet. My only chance would be to break the door down, but I didn’t have anything quite heavy enough in my pack. And all that was in here in this cave were a few moldy old barrels and crates, hardly what I’d call destructive weaponry.

I then noticed the door had a handle. Gnashing my teeth at my oversight, I promised myself that no one would ever know of this as I pulled the door wide.

The time I spent awash in my ignorance (literally) coupled with the sheer distance traveled meant that the sky was now turning orange in the rays of the setting sun. Never before had I witnessed such a brilliantly vivid complexion upon the sky. The majesty was mirrored upon the lazily sloshing waves of the ocean, and the air was filled with the squawking calls of seagulls. To my left stood a great limestone cliff face, roughly hewn and treacherous with water roaring into rapids and out of blowholes along the base. To my right, I could just make out the tops of huge redwood trees along a similarly rocky coastline, and the slowly panning beam of the nearby lighthouse finished the scene. It was one I was quite sure numerous painters had taken upon themselves to recreate on canvas; never before had I had such a spectacular view.

The great spires of Castle Anvil loomed behind me, their cast shadows reaching clear to the other side of the nearby lagoon separating the two shorelines. They were so tall I could barely see the top of them from where I stood, as I would probably crick my neck if I tried to look any higher. As I made my way along golden-grassed and rocky shoreline of what I came to realize was a small island, the walls of Anvil came into view. The walls themselves were nothing special; it was the watchtowers that set them apart. Each tower was topped with a great conical roof, all with tiling to match the sky. The sun-kissed stucco walls beneath the roofing gave them a whitewashed sheen of which the Ayleids would be proud could they have seen them.

The great dual steeples of the Anvil chapel rose above the great brown stone of the walls with such elegance and grace they looked to be dancing with the clouds. Every last inch of the cathedral I could see that was not covered in vibrant stained glass or brilliantly orange roofing was covered in miniature statues, likely of the Nine Divines, as I could not see any faces from my distance. The chapel was easily four times the size of Bravil’s Chapel of Mara, with over twice the number of windows and buttresses, and more steeples and spires than a man could shake a stick at. Instead of one rose window, there were three, and every pointed archway, every toll of the deep, vocal bells spoke of flamboyance and grandeur – of the city that surrounded it.

Screenshot

As I made my way across the bridge leading from the castle to the city proper, I glimpsed a strange sight in the distance. The top of a high mountain peak had been blackened, and I could just barely make out a set of crumbling stone walls, as they were practically camouflaged by the ground and trees – Kvatch. They were still smoking. The sight was a blistering reminder of the reality surrounding the glowing, beautiful façade of Tamriel: danger is everywhere, and can strike at any time. Kvatch was unprepared, and they paid the price for it, but I couldn’t ever feel that they deserved what had happened to them.

Passing through the city gates, I was immediately brought to the courtyard surrounding the grand cathedral. Every inch of land that was not paved was covered in a lovingly kept bed of velvety golden grass, and unlike in Bravil, none of the tombstones in the graves had been allowed to crumble. Across the street, just north of the numerous fountains and gardens in Chapel Parkway (if the signs were to be believed), I saw yet another peculiar sight spoiling what was otherwise an untold majesty. It was a celebration of architecture and nature coming together as one in the autumn breeze here in this courtyard, but just this one sight removed all pretenses this city had to splendor. A manor house stood nearby, squalid, unkempt, and crumbling in the salty air. Every last one of the numerous vines snaking their way up the fragile walls was dead, and the roofing had fallen off in numerous places.

“Quite an eyesore isn’t it?” A voice came from behind, making me jump.

A guard clad in embroidered orange leather had come up behind me as I stared transfixed at the rapidly splitting personality of the city of Anvil. For I could just make out the High Street from behind the cathedral now, and I saw that for every majestic manor and shop, there stood another crumbling slum. It was like the city was at war with itself, fighting for whether its beauty or its sheer despicable squalor would dominate its walls; as if it refused to admit to itself that the splendor I saw from afar was little more than a farce.

“Owner’s been trying to sell that dump for a month now,” the guard continued, casting a contemptuous look back at the dilapidated house. “I have to say, I’ll be quite surprised if he can even give that place away, it’s such a blight.”

“I’ll say,” I responded, eyeing an upturned rubbish bin nearby.

“You new in town?” The guard then asked.

“Very,” I replied, “and I’ll need a little help figuring out where everything is.”

“Well, we patrolmen have got to do something,” the guard responded with pomp. “What are you looking for?”

“The nearest inn,” I replied, “and the Mages and Fighters Guilds.”

“The Count’s Arms is the best inn in the city,” the guard replied, indicating a large, well kept building a ways up Abecea Walk. “Ask for Wilbur, he’s the publican.”

“And the guilds?” I asked.

“Yokuda Loop, just across from Sea Queen statue,” the guard replied. “They’re both right beside each other, so you can’t miss them.”

“Thanks for the help,” I finished, waving a quick farewell to the guard.




----




A man in a black cloak arrived at the small wooden door, and it opened the instant he knocked.

“Ahh, Lucien,” the Dunmer greeted the shifty man warmly, allowing him to step inside. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“As I noticed,” the man returned. His voice carried a hint of malice and mystery that he was incapable of fully hiding. “So, for what have you summoned me, Tadrose? The journey was long and I am quite tired so do please try to remain brief.”

“You know why you are here.” Tadrose replied, offering a goblet of deep violet wine to the man named Lucien, which he accepted after a mild bout of consideration. “Your Brotherhood has been giving us quite a hard time as of late.”

“We are assassins, it is our business to interfere with your noble callings,” Lucien retorted smoothly. “I expect your plans have held up, all the same?”

“Yes, our mutual friend is safe in Anvil now,” Tadrose replied. “And I am going to need your help to keep it that way.”

“You would ask me to commit treason against my order?” Lucien questioned, cautiously but unfazed as a faint smile came to his lips.

“If it is not too much trouble for you,” Tadrose briskly responded, raising her own goblet of wine to her lips. “There is a man of some stature under your command, one Vicente Valtieri, I was wondering why he called for the death of our friend.”

“He fears what he might become,” Lucien replied. “He would rather see our friend dead than allow him to be given an audience with the Vampire Lord. He knows of what the Lord carries, and he knows that our friend is the only one capable of taking it from him. Naturally, he hastened to preserve his own life.”

“And you allowed this?” Tadrose interrogated.

“To refuse him would have compromised my comfortable position as Speaker for Cheydinhal,” Lucien replied smoothly, “I deemed it prudent.”

“Then I hope you have given some thought as to how you might reverse this problem you’ve caused for us?” Tadrose responded, her eyebrows narrowing. “I do not think our masters would particularly enjoy being told by you that one of your assassins managed to pierce our friend’s heart in the night.”

“And given their prodigious skill, I am quite surprised that he still yet lives.” Lucien added.

“Really?” Tadrose inquired, a dangerous note in her voice.

“There may have been some tipping of the scales in Vergayun,” Lucien responded, still unfazed. “That much I will tell.”

“But can you, or can you not make this contract vanish?” Tadrose pressed. This time, Lucien did smile.

“There is a certain exploit I might be able to take advantage of,” he replied, draining his goblet.

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Apr 13 2011, 02:49 PM

[Thomas Kaira]

@rider: Unfortunately, I did leave you hanging for a rather long time. Apologies, but I got a bit sidetracked, what with my new mod and school winding down, I had a lot to deal with over the past few weeks. I'm back now, though, and ready to continue things along. I'm glad you enjoyed the picture I pained of Anvil.

@SubRosa: Indeed, Cyrodiil City is the busiest city in Tamriel, remember I haven't yet shown you the Waterfront down their way (but I did show that it was quite crowded, remember?). Anvil is the major port-of-call for Hammerfell and High Rock, and so receives about as much business as the Waterfront does because ship captains don't want to have to go all the way around the Niben just to deliver their goods, after all.

@mALXicoon: If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it! Anything you want to, do it! Want to change the world? There's nothing to it!

@Acadian: Unfortunately, things are about to get even more shocking for Dere. I am humbled that you enjoy the writing so much, thank you so much for your words!

@Lady Syl: Okay, okay! I'll get with the program, my demented Duchess!

@Grits: I didn't call it Light Through Darkness without reason, you know! Wow, I'm so glad you liked that installment so much! Thank you for your kind words.

@all: Time to break out of this latest hiatus. Sorry it took so long to get this segment out, but I had prior commitments to attend to.

next: We are in a pickle, how will we escape from these vile necromancers now?

Chapter 8-3: The Sylvan Ranger

My vision returned. I was staring at the dark stone ceiling of a chamber I could not hope to determine the location of. The ominous flickering of red-orange flames, licking away the darkness with their own shadowy light, lit the chamber. As my vision slowly sharpened, so did a searing, yet blunt pain in my chest. Looking down at my torso, I could see my clothing had been removed, and the pain was originating from an angry red burn in the center of my chest, coupled with an odd tingling feeling that spread from my bones to my fingertips. I tried to move one of my arms to cover the burn, but I couldn’t. I had been bound to the stone plinth upon which I lay, as well as disrobed and disarmed. If there was ever a time that I would feel such helplessness and fear for my life, it was now.

There was chanting nearby. No fewer than six necromancers had gathered in the chamber. Their heads were bowed, and their words spoken in a black language I could not understand a word of. I recognized the Altmer who had bested me; it wasn’t too hard, given his height, and also because he had belted my blade around his waist. The sight nearly sickened me with rage. Seeing such filth wear my father’s sword was despicable beyond words to my eyes.

“Release me, you s’wit! Let me go!” I exclaimed, struggling against my bonds as hard as I dared.

“Silence!” The Altmer responded in a commanding tone, sending a cascade of bright green energy into my body that caused my voice to evaporate and my muscles to harden like stone. Unable to move or speak, all I could do now was watch, and wait for a torturous undeath to take me into her cold, frail arms.

“Sylvia,” The Altmer spoke again, this time to a Bosmer dressed as he was, “prepare our guest.”

The Bosmer approached, but as she did, I saw something different about her. She did not carry herself with the ostentatious, proud gait the rest of the dark wizards did. Rather, hers was lithe and graceful, and her eyes carried not mockery, but determination. When she was but inches from me, she spoke to me in a barely audible whisper….

“Do not struggle—yet. I can release you from here, but only if you do exactly as I say.”

She slipped a small dagger beneath my arm, completely hidden from view of the other wizards. As she did, I felt the blade snag at the ropes that bound me, and cleanly cut through them. She masked the movement by then bringing her hand down to her side to retrieve her own dagger--an ornately carved silver blade.

“When I tell you, cut yourself loose with this. Until then, remain still and say nothing.”

I blinked my acquiescence, and she gave a small nod in return. She then brought her dagger up with a flourish, and then back down onto my skin. White-hot pain gripped my body as she carved into my flesh. Blood began to weep from cuts just deep enough that they would scar. After several moments, she stepped back, and I was left to admire the ritual glyphs she had carved upon my chest. This time, the Altmer stepped forward, slowly drawing his blade… no, my blade, and ready to skewer me on the tip of it. Though frightened beyond all comprehension, I still kept my now unbound right hand resolutely still, waiting either for the Bosmer’s word, or the very last second I would have before death.

What I next heard was a wild cry of pain and shock as a long, slender saber’s tip appeared before my eyes penetrating his stomach. This one did not shine with the same vigor as my own, but I could still detect a similar delicate beauty in its craftsmanship. The dripping blood only barely avoided contact with my hand, which was now taking up the small knife the Bosmer had hidden beneath my wrist with all the due haste I could muster. The air began crackling with electricity as the remaining necromancers readied spells to shock their new traitor into submission as the knife in my hand sliced through the ropes binding my hands and feet.

The Bosmer quickly turned, shielding herself from the five massive shock spells sent barreling her way with the body of the Altmer. The air around him exploded as his robes were set aflame by the heat and magnitude of the spells. The wood elf behind him was blasted backwards into the plinth. Quickly regaining her footing, she kicked the Altmer’s body away into the arms of another necromancer, who yelled out in shock as he jumped out of the way. I had now leapt up from my prison, and was now standing next to my Bosmer savior with my father's blade back in my hands. The chamber was now bathed in light, and my blade gleamed with heat, ready to slay those who had threatened its master.

The knife I was grasping in my left hand disappeared from my grip as the Bosmer snatched it away. She then threw it with carefully controlled force into a necromancer who was readying another bolt of lightning to cast. It hit him, blade first, clean in the neck. He fell to the ground, blood gurgling in his throat and spilling out of his mouth, as the two of us then stepped forward to charge down the remaining four wizards. The first to fall by my hand was the one who had nearly received the flaming body of the Altmer in his hands. Before he could find his footing again, my blade sliced twice through his pelvis and once across his neck, sending him to the ground in a blaze. I quickly grabbed his staff from his slackened grip and threw it at the next nearest necromancer to myself. It smacked into the female Breton’s head with a satisfying thunk, forcing her gaze away and breaking her concentration on the spell in her hand, which then fizzled and died. Unfortunately, she was not the only one aiming for me, and immediately after, I received another immensely painful shockbolt to my chest. The intense pain hit me like a stabbing knife and a thuggish punch at the same time, and I was barely able to keep my feet. The intense pain was coupled with the odor of burnt flesh and a noticeable tingling throughout my body. Wasting no time, I leapt up to the necromancer I had unbalanced with the thrown staff, and sent my blade slicing through her wrist. Her casting hand then parted company with the rest of her arm as she screamed in agony, but I would hear none of it, for I was already advancing on the wizard who had shocked me half to death.

Two things then happened at once. First, he conjured a white spell from his staff which smashed into me with the force of a barrel thrown by a giant. As I was knocked off my feet, completely winded, a visceral slashing noise, followed by his buckling legs, told me that my Bosmer partner had just hamstrung him. The body of another necromancer lay nearby, his head lolling ominously, only just still connected to his body by the smallest bit of skin and sinew as blood pooled around him. As the necromancer who had knocked me back fell to his knees, the Bosmer pulled his head back with all her strength, and sliced through his throat with her sword. Drips of blood flecked the walls as he slowly fell forwards, defeated. The only noises left now were of me and my partner’s breathing, and the moaning of the necromancer who had lost her hand.

“Why in Y’ffre’s Green Gables did you come here?” She asked. Her voice was light, but carried well. “Couldn’t you have picked someplace better to clown around?”

“Not really,” I rebutted, “I’m looking for something, and that something happens to be inside these ruins.”

“Oh, an adventurer, then, right?” She replied in an uncouth tone. “You must not be that experienced to have been bested by this lot.” She kicked one of the bodies to reinforce her words. “These fetchers haven’t been able to snatch a victim for months now. Well, not since I was down here.”

“So, why the change of heart?” I asked, ready to know what this woman was playing at. “Didn’t want my death on your conscience, or was I just unworthy of being zombified?”

“Hardly,” she replied, lifting her robes off her lithe frame, revealing gleaming silver armor of what I recognized to be Mithril. “I am Sylvia of the Smoke Hole Sylvan Rangers. I was sent here to keep an eye on this lot, make sure they kept their noses out of my clan’s business. I could have let them kill you, but fortunately for you, I’m not one to let innocents die so easily.”

“Well, lucky for me you were here,” I responded, getting to my feet having found my breath again.

“And lucky for me you at least know your way around a blade,” She added. “Do you have any idea what those cretins almost did to my hair?”

That comment was just enough to remind me that I was standing talking to her with no clothes, and possibly with enough electricity in my own hair to start a small storm outside. I felt myself growing very red as I searched for the rest of my possessions.

“Erm, would you mind?” I timidly asked Sylvia the Sylvan Ranger, and noted that she, too, grew rather red. Apparently she didn’t realize I was in a bit of a soft corner, either.

“Oh, uhh… right.” She replied hesitantly, quickly shifting her gaze away. “Your pack is over there,” she indicated a corner of the room with several glass apparatuses set up on a small table, “and I hope you packed a change. The clothes you brought with you here are in quite bad shape.”

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: May 8 2011, 01:15 AM