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: A hard revelation for our hero indeed. So much has happened to him in such a short time, as well, it's small wonder he is unconsciously looking for a way out.

@ghastley: Ring finger means ring finger. Assassin's Creed style.

@mALX: We aren't done reliving the past yet. Glad you enjoyed it.

@Acadian: Missing a lot more than just the finger, as you know. I'm glad you enjoyed Abiene's cameo, as well as Dere's inner dialogue.

Nits picked

@Grits: Our lively Bosmer descends to melancholy as he finally figures out how little he has to look forward to. Everything needs to get worse before it gets better, but who's to tell how bad it's going to get for this poor guy? Only time will tell.

@SubRosa: Well, this is the Mages Guild, after all!
I see the LotR similarities are not lost on you. Only our short elf is not trying to toss an ultra-evil ring of doom into a giant volcano this time.

@Lady Syl: You flatter me. Thank you for your kind words.

@all: It has been a REALLY long time since I last posted here in the fan-fic forum, and I have regretfully fallen far behind in my reading, but be assured I will eventually catch up on what I have missed. It took quite awhile, but I am hopeful that now, my muse has been recovered. I have also finally decided on where to go next with our frugal tale here. So, without further ado...

Chapter 9-5: A Rusty Tale

It was two days before I was allowed back on my feet again. In that time, the melancholy that threatened to steal my heart had calmed somewhat, but I seriously doubted that the gaping hole it left behind could ever be filled once again. Today was highlighted by an iron-gray sky that promised rain. Indeed, I could see the faint curtains beginning to lower upon the mountains of Valenwood, just across the Strid Delta. This was the closest I had been to home since I left. It made my mind wander, back to the simple days of treetop homes and learning to hunt, nary a care in the world… all stolen, ripped from my life when my parents never came home that day.

I spent my morning at the harbor, watching a middle-aged woman engrossed in her portrait of the hilltop lighthouse marking the entrance to Anvil Bay. Ships came and went in the numbers of almost five to ten every hour. Above me, honking geese were on the wing, making their ever-dutiful journey southward as the wet, rain-filled breeze blew the morning chill away. Every so often, the laughter of seagulls would play across the masts, occasionally accompanied by a sailor wiping off his clothing and throwing whatever they could get a hold of at the mischievous birds. It began to drizzle as I made my way back inside the walls once I had my fill of the harbor scenery.

It was then I noticed a chest that stood out from the rest of the many hundreds of wooden containers. This one was colored a vivid shade of red, and he stood apart from all the others, no one even sparing a glance at him despite his unique nature. An outcast from his world, he stood apart from his life… it was small wonder I was drawn to it.

The chest was careworn, forgotten, and perhaps a little drunk. While surprising, it was also fitting, considering the bustle of the port upon which it stood, an outcast among the other crates and boxes destined for lands near and far. The rust-red chest seemed to eye me hopefully as I approached.

“You’re the first I’ve seen to look as lonely as I am right now,” I began. I knew that I would get no response, and deep down I felt my conscience yearning me to just walk on. ‘What good would it do to pour your heart into a stupid chest?’ it said. Who knew? If this chest were alive, it would be the only one whom I could relate to.

“I’ve always wondered how some people manage to cope with a life so dreary they have nothing to expect but death,” I continued. The chest seemed to turn slightly to give me his attention as I spoke, which encouraged me onwards. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a life one might consider normal… I think I might have forgotten what it means to live.”

The chest made a slight shrugging motion with its lid, as if to say ‘I’ve been down that road, too. It is hard, really, when you know that no one in the world truly cares about you.’

“I hear you,” I replied, causing a couple passing sailors to raise eyebrows at me. I ignored them. “It’s been five years last since I’ve known peace. Ever since my parents never came home.”

The chest responded by cocking its lid slightly, encouraging me to divulge more.

“They had left to explore the remains of a recently excavated ruin, Ayleid origin, called Nornalhorst,” I said. “It was reasonably close to home, just near the Valenwood border. They only expected to be gone a week.

“But the week came and went, then another, and another… I kept telling myself ‘just one more day, Derelas, just give them one more day.’ But soon, the weeks had turned into a month, and when the person to finally knock on the door turned out to be my uncle Godrian, I knew they were never coming back.”

My face stung thinking back to the day he arrived at my home, his face grim and an official letter from the Guild my parents worked for in his hands announcing them missing, presumed dead. I remember how he held me close as my world fell to pieces, trying in vain to convince me that everything would be okay. But the truth was, it would never be okay. My parents were missing, yes, but no one knew for sure if they had passed on. They might continue to exist in an eternal torment, especially given what was fabled to inhabit the ruins they explored.

“We moved away the next day, sold the home in Arenthia and left for Godrian’s at Greenheart. But we couldn’t afford to move everything, and now the clothes in my pack are all I have left from that time.” Everything else had been sold off, I thought to myself. The furniture, the books, even my father’s collection of Welkynds. The thoughts were a fresh wooden club to my gut as they returned to me. Every memory of my loss was now unshackling itself from the depths of my mind, and I had no hope of retaining any composure as the story spilled out. Tears spilled hot and fast, and my voice was soon hoarse with grief and sorrow.

“Godrian tried so hard to convince me that they had died, that there was nothing we could do for them. I never believed him.” I continued, eyes streaming like the midday rain. “He just kept telling me ‘you have to get over them, Derelas, there is nothing you can do dwelling on them.’ But I couldn’t help myself; it was as if a part of me knew that my parents were still anchored to this world, one way or another. As if their souls had not found peace. I tried for so long to let them go, but I never could. Every night when I went to sleep I was haunted by dreams of dark corridors and red eyes.

“After a year with uncle Godrian, I just couldn’t handle sitting still anymore. I packed my clothes and left in the night.” I continued. “I ran to the port, and stowed away aboard a trading cog bound for Stirk. I figured I could get a ship to Cyrodiil from there, well away from the city guard that would undoubtedly be looking for me all over Greenheart. I didn’t really care where I went then, so long as it was not Valenwood. I needed to find my parents, I just couldn’t take sitting around trying to get over them.”

“And then the most terrible storm you could imagine came when we were nearly out to sea. The winds were so strong the sails were ripped clean from the masts, and the waves… you wouldn’t believe the size of them. Within ten minutes, the ship was capsized… with me stuck in the cargo hold. That was truly one of the most frightening moments of my life, struggling to the surface from a ship that was upside down. I at least managed to retrieve the gold coffers from the captain’s cabin before the whole thing flooded, but I had to leave most of my belongings behind. All I could carry was my rucksack. Once I got out, I was able to get ahold of an empty barrel to keep me afloat, and my one stroke of good fortune was that the winds were blowing toward land.”

The chest then gave me a look. “You wondering why I didn’t die from exposure? Well, my dad had taught me a basic spell to light fires before he disappeared that kept me warm, and that certainly helped. The storm broke early morning and by that time I had been washed up on the beach. I spent the day naked in the sun drying off all my clothes and hoping to Y’ffre no one would come around to see me. It was… difficult, turns out the beach is a popular riding ground for the Horse Whisperer Stables. I left as soon as my clothes dried off, first to Anvil, then to Skingrad, and finally to Weye. My plan was to enroll in the Arcane University, as they were the ones who contracted the Guild of Archaeology to excavate and clear the ruin. But then I met Faith… and now I’m here. Huddling for my life because two powerful beings want me killed.”

It was then that I noticed a small key had appeared on the ground, one I was quite sure had not been there a second ago. Wiping my eyes, I picked it up, and tried it on the lock on the rust-red chest I had just poured all my sorrows into. With a click, it sprung open.

“So you want to keep me company? That’s kind of you.” I spoke softly. “Keep my things safe?”

The chest nodded with its lid. Smiling to myself, I closed it, clicked the lock closed and turned to head back to the Mages Guild.

My eyes were greeted by a sizeable crowd, all huddled in the rain and eyeing me with strange looks. It was only then that my brain found its way back to reality again. I had just bawled my heart to a giant, rusted treasure chest… oh, great.




----




“So you have no idea where he is yet?” a man in hooded black robes asked another, who bared very prominent fangs and growled in response.

“We were tailing his ash-born friend, but she gave us the slip around Skingrad. Apparently she managed to convince some crazy Bosmer that our men were Marukhati Selectives or something like that… it didn’t end well.”

“I see…” the non-vampire man replied. “But you are quite sure she was headed west?”

“It is without question,” the vampire replied, though his face still bore marks of repressed rage. “Nevertheless, it is hardly helpful to us; we don’t even know where they might be keeping him.”

“It is a start, Valtieri,” the cloaked man responded, a small, yet sinister smile curling his lips. “There are only two cities where he could hide past Skingrad, one of which is but a mere shell of what it used to be.”

“And how many villages?” the vampire snapped. “Brina Cross, Gottshaw, Gweden, Sutch, and who knows how many more? They could have sent him to Stirk for all we know!”

“And that is why the search must continue, Valtieri.” The cloaked man calmly retorted. He had not even flinched at the vampire’s sudden outburst; he merely stared calmly into his deep red eyes, waiting for him to calm himself. “But obviously the Dunmer lass knows about us now, so we must change tactics. We know that she was in Skingrad, and that she was heading west, so…”

“Sir! News!” A Bosmer came dashing into the room, quickly doffing her simple outfit, revealing the black-as-night leather armor beneath it. “There was a big ruckus just outside Brina Cross a couple days ago; they say a Bosmer got seriously injured. He was working for Carahil of the Mages Guild trying to get rid of some highwayman.”

“Where did you learn of this, Talaendril?” The cloaked man quickly inquired, his expression indecipherable.

“It’s all over the Black Horse Courier, Speaker Lachance.” The wood elf named Talaendril replied, bowing her head slightly in recognition. “You think this Bosmer they mentioned might be the one we’re looking for?”

“Brave but foolhardy deeds for the Mages Guild? Sounds like him.” Vicente mused aloud. “When can you leave for Anvil?”

“Immediately,” Talaendril replied.

“Immediately will not be soon enough,” Lucien responded. “No doubt the Dunmer suspects trouble, that’s why she is headed there. We cannot risk a confrontation with her, not yet.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Vicente inquired aggressively.

“Keep an ear to the ground. It is pointless to try and spy, not when the Dunmer already knows we were following. Put out some feelers in Skingrad, the local vampires might prove helpful, especially if they follow His influence. The least we can do for now is keep them in Anvil.”

“With all due respect, Lachance,” Vicente growled, obviously highly displeased at the response, “I do not wish for this sanctuary to have anything to do with Him.” Vicente put as much contempt into his voice as he could muster into his final word. Lucien simply stared calmly into his eyes yet again.

“Well, unfortunately, you have your orders. Unless you wish to disobey the will of the Night Mother and be Purified?”

Vicente recoiled, hissing. “Fine,” he said after a long pause. “Talaendril, take some Murderers with you and stake out Skingrad.”

“You may need to deal with that crazed Bosmer while you are there,” Lucien added, “Perhaps play into his fantasies. With luck, you might be able to get him to do something stupid. But don’t give him a reason to suspect you of anything.”

“Yes, Speaker,” Talaendril replied, making her way to the central chamber of the Sanctuary.

“Report back to me when they arrive,” Lucien then told Vicente before he left the chamber, as well.

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Oct 7 2011, 05:32 PM