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: Considering one Bosmer is known to (seemingly) converse with herself and another jumps off bridges and hugs grizzly bears, it's only fair, right?
Yes, Dere has unburdened himself a bit, but he is still far from recovery. Glad you enjoyed the little stab at Glarthir!

@Acadian: Thank you for the warm welcome back, and for you kind words and nits.

@Grits: Happy to be back. Glad to see you still following along.

@all: My intention now is to have updates available every Saturday, in order to give me the time necessary to deal with making sure the writing comes out the way I want it to as well as deal with whatever that wretched mistress known as real-life has in store for me.

next: Life goes on, but a curve-ball is about to be thrown.

Chapter 10-1: Escalation

“You seem to be looking a bit better today,” Carahil spoke as I entered the dining hall of the Anvil Mages Guild chapter. The morning was dull and gray once again, and it looked to have rained a good deal in the night. The air was chill around the windows, which made me thankful the many candles scattered throughout the hall. Their flames were enchanted to carry their heat far further than any ordinary candle would, and the guild hall was filled with a gentle heat that wrapped around your bones and soothed them with a soft caress. The effect, one of the mages often said, was akin to stepping into a Dunmer sauna.

“The heat is quite comforting,” I replied, taking a seat at the table. “It doesn’t just warm your body… it feels like it warms your soul, too.”

“Abiene’s work,” Thaurron explained, handing a slice of apple to the ever-hovering Sparky the Imp. “She is quite good at relaxation spells and enchantments.”

“She really fits in here,” I replied, grabbing a slice of dark rye bread and slathering it with a generous coating of raspberry jam. “I’ve seen quite a bit of magic that I’d never even dreamed of back home.”

“Indeed,” Marc Guilette replied, helping himself to a sweet roll that looked like it might cause me a heart failure. “Most Valenwood-born Bosmer never get to see the wonders of the Arts Magicka. The Mages Guild isn’t held in high regard in Valenwood and most of the populace would prefer stringing bows and climbing trees to learning such simple spells as to light your campfires and dry your clothes.”

“Well, not all of them,” I replied, my mind on my father, though this time the happiness of the little time we had to spend together. Carahil’s eyes met mine, giving me a strange feeling she knew where I was dwelling.

“It’s been a rough few days for you, Derelas,” she suddenly spoke, catching me off guard. “How are you feeling?”

Oh, erm… quite well, thanks.” I hastily replied. Carahil did not look convinced, though. Rather, she looked frustrated. But she said nothing, and silently returned to her breakfast. Something about her expression said ‘men’ to me.

“You’re missing a finger, Derelas,” Marc piped in, putting down his goblet of milk. “I’m not very sure I’d call that ‘quite well’.”

“Marc,” Carahil cut in, “leave him in peace for now.”

Marc fell silent, and I silently thanked Carahil for quieting him down. Truth be told, I was far from well, and it did not help me much that the only friend I had right now was a rusted treasure chest. Still, it was a start, and despite all that other people might think, the chest seemed to understand my ordeal. It was not a comforting thought, but it was a sobering one; enough to keep me from dwelling during the day. But it was still hard to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt nothing but a compressing darkness closing in on me. It would clamp down on me, suck my breath away, and then I would wake, stars winking in front of my eyes and tears rolling down my cheeks.

Breakfast continued in silence. I accompanied Carahil to continue my treatment once I finished. It had been two weeks now since I escaped death by Caminalda’s hands, and though my strength was almost fully recovered, I still needed to rehabilitate the arm she nearly froze off. She told me I would have full use of it once I was finished, save for the missing finger, a grisly epilogue to a horrific tale.

The clouds showed no signs of breaking as the day continued. Carahil sent me out to obtain some ingredient samples to try and take my mind off things. It did give me a chance to see the Redwood Glade just west of the city. It was a beautiful place, a dense thicket of ancient evergreens stretching all the way to the craggy cliffs framing the western shoreline of Cyrodiil. Arrowroot, Bergamot, and Aloe Vera were in plentiful supply here. The Arrowroot was mostly for my own needs; combined with the dull red-and-white pockmarked Fly Amantia mushroom cap, it brews a potion that aids muscle relaxation. The Aloe Vera was often put to good use in potions to treat burns, but the guild mostly used it to make their special sun-blocking lotion. The Bergamot seeds were to give it a nice, citrus scent. It was quite popular in Anvil with all the beach-goers, and its sales were what paid for most of the ingredients that were hard to find on the Gold Coast.

As I wandered the shady evergreen woodland, I eventually found the cliff face. Below, the water roiled and foamed as it smacked against the gray rock beneath me. Every so often a larger wave would come, and the resulting mist reached high enough to give me a cooling shower. Walking along the cliffs eventually brought me to a lagoon. I had to stop here.

The boiling, angry seas that churned beneath my feet before were gone, the water inside the lagoon was calm and clear. A small wooden bridge that definitely looked like it had seen better days spanned across one of the rocky walls to a small pinnacle rising from the sea. A gentle breeze swept across the tattered ropes and soggy boards, giving the bridge a gentle, but slightly nauseating sway. There was a small tower erected atop the rocks, weather-worn, beaten, and battered. So much so, that a portion of it had collapsed, most of the stonework falling into the sea. Finally, on the far horizon, I could just make out the isle of Stirk.

I seated myself on the cliff face, drinking in the astonishing view. Just north of here was the beach I washed up on, I thought. This was where it began for me, on the coasts of the Abecean. I never did stop to admire the view when I was here, though. It was beautiful.




----




“…would appear Bruma is now under siege. An Oblivion Gate just opened outside not even a day ago.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. I had just handed the ingredients I found to the guild Alchemist, Felen Relas, who I never really saw much of during the day. I had returned to the dining hall to find Marc buried behind a newspaper, with both Carahil and Thaurron nearby, a mixture of shock and uncertainty on their faces.

“An Oblivion Gate has been opened outside the northern city of Bruma,” Marc responded to my query. “They’ve called for Legion aid, but they aren’t going to get any.”

“Why not?” I asked, bewildered.

“The Daedra have begun to move outside of Cyrodiil.” Carahil replied. “Morrowind is in a terrible state, Ald’ruhn has been devastated by a recent Daedra assault on Vvardenfell, and the attack in the east extends as far as Windhelm now.”

“They’ve already begun assaulting Skyrim?” Thaurron responded; his voice surprised.

“And Black Marsh, and High Rock, and Elsweyr,” Carahil replied. “The first Gates opened within them just a couple of days ago. The Elder Council is in complete bedlam. No one expected the Daedra to advance so quickly. The Legion is at its absolute limits, half of the Ninth has been pulled from Fort Akatosh to assist in Black Marsh and Morrowind.”

“That leaves Cyrodiil at half strength!” Thaurron cried out.

“Yes, it does. As I said, the Legion is stretched to the limit now, and if any more provinces fall under siege, we will be in grave trouble. There are simply not enough soldiers to fend off such a widespread attack.”

“Men are being scrounged up wherever they can,” Marc added, folding up the newspaper. “Patrols are being pulled from the roads all over the province, and the Elder Council has begun drafting new troops. I doubt it will make much of a difference, though. One volunteer is worth ten draftees.”

“And our work will be well cut out for us, now,” Carahil continued, picking up an official looking document. “The Akatosh garrison has begun placing massive orders for potions to heal wounds,” she began to recite, moving her finger down the parchment as she read, “replendish Magicka and stamina, keep the troops at optimal strength, ensure that they can cope with long battles, fortify their abilities in both, resist and cure common diseases, resist and cure paralysis, resist and cure poison, resist fire and heat, and resist magical spells.”

“Erm… is that all?” Felen Relas inquired, his footing slightly unsteady.

“No,” Carahil replied solemnly, “They also want poisons to accomplish all the above, as well.”

I had never seen a Dunmer look so small in my entire life. It was amazing he managed to remain standing.

“And that’s just for us,” Carahil continued. “The rest of the guild halls in the province all have their own tasks, many of them a lot less fun than simply brewing potions. Derelas, I’m going to need you to stay for a while to help us get through this, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course,” I replied.

“We can only hope this madness subsides quickly.” Marc sighed. “Anything more happens and…”

“Lady Carahil!” A voice cried out. An Imperial male, I noted. My stomach plummeted, any time the city guard came to call bore ill tidings. “Come quickly!”

“What seems to be the problem?” Carahil called out, rising gracefully from her chair.

“It’s the Cathedral of Dibella! Something terrible just happened!”

This post has been edited by Thomas Kaira: Oct 9 2011, 12:44 AM