Shades of Ending, set after the oblivion MQ Options

[Olen]

Well it’s been a while, a long while, since I posted anything. I have been writing, some stuff which was non-TES, a false start which I spent too long fighting… There’s also another ~80k piece which I’ve left on a hard drive in Scotland so I’m taking a hiatus. Anyway I decided I fancied posting something.

This is unplanned and unfinished. I prefer to write all of something with a lot of planning and then post, but this time I thought I’d just let it flow and see what comes. Hopefully it won’t be too unpolished and I intend to make it more episodic so if I do lose interest for a bit it shouldn’t matter so much. The plan is to post one section while I write another, that way any criticisms can be addressed as I go.

Anyway without any more waffle a short intro.

Shades of Ending

1.1 Questioning

The prisoner met Verus’s eye across the scarred table. The watchman swallowed. “It does not look good for you,” his voice was quiet. He knew he should feel disgust, hatred even for what the man had done. But it was tempered. Perhaps it was because the man had more brain than most of the scum they dragged into the Cheydinhal prison. Or perhaps it was because he understood why, though he’d never admit it. Or it could just have been the passing resemblance to his son. Same dark hair and eyes, and not so different features.

Damn he hated this place, the sooner the investigation was over the sooner he could go and see the real thing back in the Imperial City. Not that distraction like this helped.

The prisoner looked back, “I’m fetched aren’t I?”

Verus winced at the tone and nodded. “Ferir,” he said the man’s name, gave him that much respect, “double murder of Imperial guards only leads to the gallows.”

“And it doesn’t matter that it was self defence, that they were trying to kill me? Had already killed my friends. We didn’t attack them.”

“It doesn’t matter. And even if it did you’re guilty of enough else to string you up. Possession with intent to supply – don’t tell me that much skooma was for personal use, our mage says you’re clean anyway. Bootlegging. Smuggling. As little as I like it you had it coming.”

Ferir nodded.

Verus could hardly believe it, they were always full of guar apples. Fake bravado to start with which slowly decayed into pleading. There was fear there certainly, he reeked of it, it was in the way he sat and moved. There was pain too, but mainly Verus thought it was resignation in the prisoner’s voice when he spoke. “Can you at least tell me who you killed?”

“I’m not meant to.” The gaze from the dark eyes flashed fierce like glowdust on a fire. It was the same spark which had cost the lives of two of the Imperial Legionaries who had raided the smugglers cavern, and it caught Verus off guard.

“You have a family.” It was a statement. “The people in that cave were as close to family as I’d found. You come and kill them, and within the next couple of days…” His gaze dipped to the scored boards of the table in the interrogation room. It slid uneasily round the manacles which held him. “I just want to know if any of them lived.”

“The patrol killed five. A two humans, a man and a woman, two khajit and a dunmer male.” If you had better luck you’d have been in that list. Verus didn’t add the thought, its truth was too bitter.

The eyes screwed closed. “The dunmer, what colour was his hair?”

“Red.” Verus watched Ferir deflate. His eyes shut and he thumped his wrists against the table, the chain which held them didn’t allow space for it to make more than a dull thud. He muttered something Verus didn’t catch, and decided not to press.

When Ferir finally opened his eyes again they were bloodshot. “Have you got what you want now?” There was anger in his voice, but also sadness, enough to suppress the flames, if not entirely quench them. “You know someone got away, you’ve got our contacts. I’m in pain, several of my closest friends are dead. Have you done enough?”

Verus frowned, it wasn’t something he was used to. Lines about choosing this fate when he chose crime seemed flimsy, paper props for the tragicomedy which passed as justice in this town. Ferir hadn’t lied about the pain either, the man was a mass of bruises. The legionaries had worked him over, and who could blame them? He wasn’t the only one to lose friends. Occasionally his hands would sneak towards the lower ribs on one side only to be rudely stopped by the chain.

Not that they’d waste healing on a condemned prisoner. You should have died in that cave. Verus shook his head, trying to dislodge the malaise which had built. He stood, this was too discomfiting. For a moment he struggled for words, then gave up and offered Ferir a single nod before leaving.

[Olen]

RL has been rather hectic of late but I have another update. Can't promise that they will be particularly regular but this piece isn't strictly dead, more just semi-dormant. For individual responses:

Haute - I'm glad the characters are working for you, and the morality. I've never been particularly convinced by good and bad, most people are working for what they think is good (even the power hungry lunatics generally want to change the world in a way they see as better). I have a few plans for them but not that many, this piece is largely character driven, it makes writing it quite a lot of fun.
One thing I'd mention is that Ruben isn't travelling with a dunmer, Ferir is human. This may become relevant at some point - is there anything on how long different races live?

SubRosa - I've been playing with changes of PoV, the last piece I wrote had multiple PoVs in different arcs and didn't work for me (it ran aground at the 60k mark). This time I'm sticking with one arc but hopping between characters. Perhaps not the most standard format, but then this is the internet so I'll do what I want.

Grits - Yes I wanted to put two rather incompatible characters together. There will be more.

Zalph - Thanks for the comment. I'm glad my view of law enforcement in Cyrodiil works for you.

Destri - Now you point it out I do seem to use water motifs. I'm glad it worked, though I'm not sure it was entirely deliberate.
And yes I'm keeping within a unit but switching PoVs. As much as I like the immediacy of first person for character interactions (which is what this piece grew from) third is better. I still don't know how you manage so many characters though

All - the question about how long races live was directed at everyone. Also apologies again for the slow rate of this piece, RL is busy.

Recap: So far Ferir, a smuggler and skooma maker, has had the base of operations he worked from stormed and the other's there killed (with a couple of exceptions). He wound up injured in Cheydinhal jail for killing two guards during the raid with a fireball being involved. In my version of Cyrodiil they use 'black irons' to prevent mages from casting in jail, these are a problem for him. Before they executed him he ran with Ruben, an ex-guard who was also in jail for killing a Guard from the IC whose contacts within the Cheydinhal guard got them out. We join them in the wilds.

1.7 Freedom's Call

The fever headache had built in dark waves. They crashed over him bringing nausea in their wake. Ferir glared at the food. He knew he should eat but he didn't want to. Ruben was clearly struggling, the result of too many drakes spent in the tavern and too much of what exercise he got aimed at strength. Even so they'd made good enough time before breaking for what was too late to be lunch - though Ferir doubted you could have afternoon tea sat on a rock in the middle of nowhere wearing clothes turned stiff with dried blood. Still the cooler air under the tree had quieted the roar in his head to a dull pound he could just think over.

The second iron had to come off soon. The idea of beginning the afternoon's walk again slithered from his mind, but it was his to suggest. Not a chance. But neither did he want to ask Ruben to do what he should be able to do himself. Using the file would eat time, though he wasn't sure if that might be a good thing.

Did they have time now, he wondered. They were a long way off the beaten track, it was over an hour since he’d seen the last evidence of habitation. Healed they might make the Reed River by the following evening, he doubted anyone would follow them as far as the eastern shore, and by then they’d be back in country he knew.

He glanced to his pack. His intention had been to recommence the journey, that evening would be soon enough to see to the iron but the thought of the pack on his sore ribs made his fingers curl. Instead he reached in and grabbed the file. He needed healing, and that meant being able to cast a spell.

After a time the sound of his ineffectual progress against the iron drew Ruben’s attention. The man stood with a long groan. “You want a help with that.” Ferir wasn't sure if it was a question.

“If you want,” he said and tempered the words with a shrug.

Ruben took the file. “How’d the other one go so quickly?”

Ferir stretched his fingers, the work made his hand cramp. “It was damaged, probably the smith struck it wrong.”

“You’re not in any condition to get much further, I might not know the country but I know people.” There was a blade of black humour in his tone. “Aye I know them well. I’ll see to this and you’ll tell me how you came by it.”

“What?”

“How a smuggler ended up a mage, or was it the other way round?”

“Neither,” Ferir said with a half smile, “I’d not say I was a smuggler, it was just work. But I’m even less a mage, if you think I’m Oruntur you’re wrong.”

“So why’d they crack out the black irons. Need the castle mage to open and close them and Ulene can be a guar about it, bloody dark elves are all the same.”

Ferir tensed involuntarily. Whoreson, how much else don’t you like? How in hell had he ended lumped with this moron? He took a breath, the same moron who was trying to free him so he could heal. He would keep the peace, that was insult enough in itself.

Ruben must have sense some of his thoughts, though not the root. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

“I killed two pigs, a fireball was involved.” There was a certain pleasance in the way Ruben tensed at the term.

“You must know some magic?”

Ferir gave a half shrug, as much as he could while keeping his hand still. “I picked up some, we had some books, the odd lesson here and there. It's just a bit of fire, and I can heal.”

“But learning magic is really expensive. That’s why only the rich have it, and the guild and at least they control it unlike the damned altmer nobles.”

“I had money. The skooma was profitable. I’m rubbish at destruction really and I learnt my restoration from a healer I helped.”

“A priest?”

“A witch.”

Ruben was silent for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “You know you can’t trust those.”

Here we go. Ferir waited for it.

“Only last week Jarand, one of our foresters came in saying he’d run across daedra in the woods well east of Cheydinhal, they hushed it but I overheard his initial report. Fair state he was in too. It was the mages who opened those damned gates in the crisis. We lost a lot of good men," he paused long enough to gulp a breath before the rant continued, "oblivion the Empire’s never recovered, I wonder if it will.” Ruben sounded like the idea saddened him, Ferir supposed it took all sorts. “And they do darker things, witches, daedra worshippers, sorcerers. You must have come across them.”

“There are places to avoid if that’s what you mean,” said Ferir.

Ruben went quiet, the file continued its passage back and forth across the rivet, grinding the proud head into obscurity. “One of my early assignments, the first which went backcountry outside the city.” He paused again. “Mages are all the same, they all mess around with things they shouldn’t. Some do it by accident, most don’t.”

Ferir wondered if he was exempt but didn’t much care.

“We went out to Fort Scinia, we’d had reports of problems there. Who the hell wanted Cheydinhal to deal with a problem that far into the wilds I don’t know. There was talk of garrisoning it again, sometimes I wonder…” Ruben broke off and took a slow breath. “Mages, and corpses walking around. Zombies like things from stories, or nightmares. They ambushed us, only I survived.”

Ferir nodded and let the slow rasp of the file fill the silence. “And you never went backcountry again?”

Ruben nodded.

“Avoid the deep places. If you want a home choose a cave over a mine and a mine over a ruin. Stay clear of the forts of old and better to lie down in a grave than enter anything older.” It wasn’t exact, but Ferir remembered the gist of the words of an old forester he’d met years before.

There was no reply but the hypnotic sound of the file.

They both sat with their thoughts. Ruben with whatever distant memories he’d dredged, and Ferir doubted he’d heard half of it. Nor did he care, his thoughts had returned to the foothills of the Valus mountains and he high pastures beyond. To Sundew Cave. Was it chance which led his feet east?

Returning there would be insane. Really? They’d expect him there, but he needed to see it. To see what he’d lost. Would looking on the bloated bodies of those he’d called friends really help? To be certain. To be certain, to know that the old legionary had spoken true, that those who he thought were dead were. Could he face the smashed ruins of his life so easily?

Yes. He sighed, his eyes flickered closed as he did and pressed a frown on his mouth. He already felt what he’d gained. As much as he tried to hide from it the sense of freedom repaired glowed in his mind. The world was laid bare before him, for now he was pushed, but soon he would be blind for choice. Could he look on the shattered glassware, the broken barrels and burnt crates and empty coffers which had represented his achievement? Yes, without a second thought he'd burn them himself for the freedom. The thought forced its way into his head like a snake, but the worst part writhed within it like a devouring worm. It was thought before he could stop it. Would he look on the corpses? All but one.

The idea was barely formed before he smashed it to pieces. But had he not dreamed of such? What am I? Who am I? Ferir shivered.

“Pass me the steel.” Ruben's voice dragged him back to the present. He blinked and saw the other man looking at him. “You alright?”

“Yes. Fine.” Ferir shook his head and pulled the steel from the pack.

Ruben took it and Ferir braced for its bite. It pressed into his skin. He felt Ruben apply more pressure. It got sore. Very sore. He bit in a cry. The cry pushed forward. Just before it could escape the iron gave a metallic screech and twisted apart. The hateful thing fell to the loamy ground.

Ferir met Ruben’s eye and smiled. He rubbed the reddened skin where he steel had pressed it and then raised his hand. Ruben scuttled back as a flow of white energy rose up it and burst from his palm showering him. He felt the cold splash and instantly felt a little better. He went to again and stopped, he wouldn’t be able to heal it all, he had a will to him, enough people had told him that, but it didn’t take long before he just couldn’t pull any more magic from within. What needed it most?

The internal stuff. He’d got away with it but he wasn't even sure how bad that was and it was hurting more. That was sensible, but almost immediately he knew he wouldn’t. It could wait, they might be a little late to the river but the wound across his chest had time against it. If he’d got it immediately it would have been nigh on invisible, but a day left to mild infection and the inexpert machinations of nature was another matter. The sooner he got it the less it would show. Not that he didn’t see it for what it was.

Vanity. But where was the shame in that? He pulled off the filthy and torn shirt and put his hands over the long wound. It was a tight line under them, hot and angry. He reached for his magic. His mind followed the tricks he’d been taught, flowing in tracks worn by a thousand cuts and burns earned cooking up khajit juice. It was a thin line of power burning through the centre of his mind, a hot filament of power rushing ever skyward. He reached into it and drew, shaping the raw energy balancing it like a carnival plate spinner and letting it run from his fingers. He was at every point in the process. The burning face of the source and the cool shower from his fingers were one. Not just together but the same place and thing, all points at once as time stopped. Only then did the true healing start.

He reached through his fingers into the wound. He felt the first pockets of pus where the lavender had been spread thin. Tiny things for the moment, dwarfed by the hot anger of the surrounding flesh. He felt the coarse scarring which already formed across the rift in the skin. He manipulated, squeezing, diminishing and killing the poison, ultimately an act of destruction, while simultaneously reknittng the skin, the blood vessels in it, opening some, joining others. They laid new tissue down at an unnatural rate while he made sure it was smooth and controlled. The drew the wound shut.

Then time began to knock. The white force he was using slowed, he could no longer quite kill the pockets of matter, nor stop the growth going as it pleased. The concentration became hard. The process which made the healing balm faltered and as soon as he thought of it it was too much and the whole fell apart leaving him blinking in the late afternoon sun.

The wound was much diminished. Only the deep sections remained, and they looked better, not so much healed, for it was cleaner than that, closer to mended. The next session would finish them when he’d rested. Other sections of the wound were almost invisible, though some had left a puckered whitish pink line, especially where the pus had been worst. Ferir frowned. It would go or it wouldn’t, time would tell and the spell had spread enough that he felt better elsewhere.

His frown deepened when he looked at the shirt. With the clean feel of the magic, he’d heard some people describe it as minty, it looked foul, even if he was in need of a wash. He slung the blood stained thing over the back of his pack and stood. The casting was tiring, but he felt better for it. Psychologically as well as physically, now he was improving things as well as just running. He glanced at the black iron where it lay. However little he liked it leaving the other had been a mistake, he wanted nothing certain on the trail so he put it in his bag.

“Ready to continue. The country gets more interesting soon. Hillier so we should be able to find a stream to camp by because I’d welcome a wash.”

Ruben grunted. He seemed surprised. With his back turned Ferir grinned and led the way.

This post has been edited by Olen: Nov 21 2011, 09:52 PM