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]

@SubRosa: You know how much I adore your hot-tempered Forester! If I may say so, I am also awestruck by how comfortable Teresa is with her sexuality, and how well you manage to bring it across to the viewer. She has never once backed down from the fact that she prefers estrogen over testosterone, and I applaud you for that, in this here day and age where the U.S. is so horribly prejudiced against same-sex relationships. I can only dream of having character as strong as that.
Oh, and every faint smile from you is much appreciated. Thank you very much.

@Acadian: That segment was largely geared toward letting the reader know I am not letting my loose plot threads dangle. It was a sort of "gather the strings together" moment in the story, one which also gave me an excuse to let you know where things stood in Bravil with the Tourney, as well. I have decreed that Derelas is definitely going to miss the tournament, but it is still going on in the background. There is plenty that happens in the background with this tale, and I do that mainly to help cement the readers firmly into the world. And like with 'Rosa, I am glad you got a grin out of the end, I was hoping you would.

@mALX: When it comes to narcotics, I consider Skooma to be something of a mix of Methamphetamine and Ecstasy. Highly intoxicating, and it can be even more helpful than Viagra when it comes to a man "getting it up," but at the same time incredibly addictive and when you come off the high, it makes you extremely twitchy and paranoid. I had to research the effects of Meth during a mock trial event in high school, and the drug is actually a constant problem where I live (since it's so easy to hide the production gear now).

@Grits: And now that that is done, it is time to break out the canvas and oil paints. I shall be famous for this one day! I will dethrone the Mona Lisa with this indescribable imagery (or I'll get tossed into the asylum, but the way I see it, I win either way).

next: The next segment contains a cameo from one of the characters in Jerric's Story, on which I consulted Grits to ensure I had the characterization correct and to obtain approval for the usage of said character, as well. I hope you enjoy the guest appearance.

Chapter 9-3: An Icy Return

The golden-skinned, long-eared Altmer laid her warm hand upon the icy cold forehead of the walnut-haired Bosmer in the bed where next she sat. Her thoughts were an utter mess of uncertainty that even for one as logical and knowledgeable of the workings of the world as she could be, she could not get over the idea that she might have overstepped her bounds this time. The Bosmer’s forehead was so cold that if it weren’t for the fact his heart still beat on, she would have given him up for lost. The thought that he might have been killed, despite everything that was done to ensure safety, then hit her heart like an anvil crashing to Nirn.

“Derelas, I’m so sorry….” Carahil whispered--tears spilling out of her eyes as she cast as good a warming spell as was known to her.

Dusk was falling, and the clear of pre-Zenith had given way to a cool overcast that promised rain the coming day. Carahil was absorbed into her research as she tended the front desk; many books lined the gilded mahogany tabletop. From the room next door to the right, the citrus smell of bergamot reigned as Felen Relas, the Anvil alchemist, brewed together potions that bolstered the body’s ability to fight off disease. It also helped prevent nausea and seasickness, making the potion quite popular, given the location. It’s too bad we haven’t figured out a cure for hangovers yet, though, Carahil thought to herself, leafing through the pages of her book and jotting down a few notes. Such a potion here would make Felen a very rich man indeed.

A loud crash shook Carahil out of her thoughts as the door flew open, and the sight that greeted her caused her blood to turn to ice. The battlemages had returned from the Brina Cross assignment, but they were all working to carry in a familiar wood elf. His skin was badly frostbitten, his clothes had frozen to his body in three places (from what she could tell), and he was unconscious, the only sign of life coming from the faint rising and falling of his chest.

“By the Gods… what happened?!” Carahil nearly screamed, all composure evaporating at the sight of the gravely wounded Bosmer.

“The mage attacked much sooner than we expected,” Arielle Jurard responded, quickly doffing her hood so she could see her way inside. “It was a female Altmer named Caminalda, she pounced before we were ready, and nearly killed him. He didn’t even have a chance to defend himself, no weapons of any kind. Why not?”

“I asked him to leave them behind,” Carahil quickly replied, fighting back another wave of hysterics, and wincing as she nearly bit her tongue off. “You knew why, we needed him to play the part of a convincing target. You were his only line of defense, by Dibella!” Carahil’s temper was nearing exploding point now. How could these imbeciles have fallen behind when they knew that the life of this wood elf depended on them? “And now look what’s happened! You can explain yourselves later, for now, get him to the treatment hall!”

The entourage of confusion hesitated at her words, and Carahil would have none of it.

“What, are you waiting for me to stick a Mudcrab up your behinds?! MOVE!!”

The threesome then sorted themselves out enough to maneuver their precious cargo inside, and hurried towards the back. Arielle moved to follow, but Carahil restrained her with an arm in the doorway.

“You will wait in the library for me to return. We have much to discuss, and I would pray to Dibella that he will survive.”

Arielle gave a dejected nod, and turned to sit among the stacks without a word. Carahil, meanwhile, raced for the treatment room, hoping to the Gods it was not too late to undo the damage that they… she… had caused.




----




A door creaking open broke Carahil’s tearful reverie, and though she did what she could to pull herself together enough to speak to whoever it might have been, it was impossible to hide the tracks on her cheeks.

“Are you all right, Carahil?” A young Breton in a plain brown outfit inquired softly, setting a porcelain cup of tea down on the nightstand beside the bed. “I’ve never seen you like this before, what’s going on?”

A long silence filled the room, but just as the Breton rose to leave, Carahil finally spoke.

“I never should have asked him to go,” she said, her voice heavy with grief and depression. “I should have waited until the mages had a better idea what they were up against.”

“Will he be okay?” the young Breton asked. Carahil turned to view her somber face. Her hair was a matching shade of auburn to her clothes, and though her face was rather plain, it was not unpleasant. On the contrary, her face combined with her equally mundane body did a lot more for her looks than even the roundest of hips could ever hope for. Hers was the face of pure, unconditional compassion, the kind of face capable of warming the heart of even a Frost Atronach.

“So long as we have someone give him warming potions and spells every hour, he should recover,” Carahil replied, “but this never should have happened. I should have waited until we were better prepared.”

“It’s no good crying over spilled potion, Carahil,” the Breton replied, “I can’t bear to dwell on how someone may have been hurt, I just try to focus on what I can do to make them better.”

“I know, Abiene, but this young one nearly died today, and it’s my fault.” Carahil practically sobbed. “Just seeing him come in today, nearly frozen solid, I wouldn’t be surprised if my heart had stopped when I saw him like that. Dwelling on how people may have been injured is one thing, but to know you’re responsible?”

“Carahil, please,” Abiene spoke in a low voice that also threatened tears, “please don’t blame yourself. It’s not like you to fall apart like this. There is no one here to blame but that horrible mage who did this to him.”

“But I nearly sent him to his death!” Carahil cried out, her voice breaking. She then buried her face in her hands and heaved a deep sob of regret. “I asked too much of him, and I almost got him killed. How can you begin to live with that on your conscience?”

Abiene said nothing; Carahil suspected she was trying to regain her own composure now, as well. It wasn't normal for her to betray such vulnerability, as she normally put her feelings aside for the task at hand. Impartiality was one of the many virtues she had taught Abiene, and she was certain she had never seen herself in such a vulnerable state before. It was likely as shocking and unnerving a sight for her as it would have been to watch an Oblivion Gate open right in the lobby of the Guild.

Abiene stood, and then went around to Carahil’s side. Helping Carahil to her unsteady feet, she then wrapped her arms around the slim Altmer’s waist, and Carahil felt her pouring every last ounce of compassion and love she had into her. Carahil leaned her head onto Abiene’s shoulder, taking several deep breaths, and struggling to find her strength once again. It was several minutes before they broke apart.

“I can watch over him for now,” Abiene told Carahil, her voice light and tender as she brushed a small lock of hair out of her eyes. “You should go lay down. You need some rest.”

“Thank you, Abiene,” Carahil replied, brushing the Breton’s cheek with her hand. “You make me so proud, seeing how far you have come.”

“Don’t forget your tea,” Abiene spoke with a small smile as Carahil left, prompting her to turn around and pick up the porcelain cup. She then gave it a sniff.

“Chamomile and Lemon Balm…” Carahil recited before sipping it. “And something strong and bitter, too… I would hazard at Motherwort?”

“I thought you could use something calming,” Abiene replied, giving yet another small smile to her mentor as she put her hand to the Bosmer’s forehead. “Jerric turned me on to the Motherwort, but be careful with it, it is quite strong.”

“He always was a fine alchemist.” Carahil mused to herself, though just loud enough for Abiene to hear before asking her a more direct question. “How has he been coping?”

“He still has the night terrors about Kvatch,” Abiene replied, “though he does say it is helping him to drink a calming tea before bed each night. It’s how he introduced me to the idea of using Motherwort, though he prefers I use about three times as much as I put in your own cup.”

Carahil repressed a grimace. “Sometimes, I wonder if Nords even taste what they eat, they wolf it down so fast.” She sipped her tea once again. “How long can you watch over him?”

“If he’s the only patient we have right now, I can keep an eye on him for the rest of the day,” Abiene replied, placing a hand to the Bosmer’s forehead, and nearly shivering over how cold it was. “He certainly needs someone right now.”

“And I can think of no one better suited to help him to recovery than you,” Carahil finished for her, draining her cup. “Felen should bring in some warming potions shortly, make sure you give him a dose every hour, and once you feel he’s ready, I’d like you to try to get him out of his clothes, they’ve been grafted on in several places.”

“And the frostbite?” Abiene inquired as Carahil made her way to the door.

“Felen has something to help with that, too. Mind you don’t touch it yourself, as it will burn healthy skin, but it should help heal the frostbite.”

“Thank you, Carahil,” Abiene bade the Altmer as she made her way out, prompting Carahil to pop her head back into the door-frame.

“No, child, thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being there for me.”

----

Post Script: Character Abiene from Jerric's Story used with permission from Grits.

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: May 28 2011, 12:52 AM