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]

SubRosa - Magic is likely to play a big part in this. I see it as having greater potential than waving your hands and something happening, but with more complex things becoming very rapidly more difficult. It should keep things more balanced while allowing me a bit more freedom. For lifespans that was about what I was working on. The lore is completely jumbled with dunmer lifespans covering two orders of magnitude (70 years for Morvayn and 4000 for Divayth Fyr).

Nit's are picked and one bath coming right up...

McBadgere - Glad you enjoyed. This will continue... slowly.

Grits - It's good to have so many readers still interested. The magic idea is a nice one, it fits with the Telvanni mages living for so long too so I might well hijack it to some extent.

Haute - I see the crisis having lasting effects well beyond he immediate. Houses are relatively simple to rebuild but something that large is going to leave a mark on the way a society thinks which won't fade for decades and probably never completely, especially as there is unlikely to be anyone particularly encouraging reconciliation.

Nit fixed... if English spelling was systematic my life would be easier...

All - In the last part Ferir managed to escape his black irons and so could do magic again. Some more of their past emerged. He healed and they continued east. This next part is the final instalment of the first chapter.


1.8 Fresh Water

The waters of the Reed River were quick and cool, fresh from their mountain headwaters. Ferir lay back against the rush and watched as the sun crept over the high peaks of the Valus mountains. New mountains, at least if the books were to be believed, they were sharp with spires untamed by the grinding wheel of time. He relished the tight chill of the water and half shivered. Repeated healing sessions the previous night had more or less mended his wounds. There was still the achy hangover which only time, or a fabulous talent far beyond his, could shift, but the water helped there.

He’d known people who thought the streams and forests of Cyrodiil were alive. Aedra, nymphs, spirits - the names varied but as he immersed his head in the soothing roar he could half believe them. Not that it mattered. Who cared? It might be fun to see one, in much the same way it was nice to watch the deer lek in the autumn, but people seemed to get so obsessive about them.

His feet curled for purchase on the smooth stones as he stood and splashed water in his face. He cupped another handful and drank it. That was one of the best things about it up here, the water was potable. At least it was upstream of where he’d washed. The sun broke through the trees and a ray reached down over his back to the shore. The eastern shore, would they be followed this far? Maybe, but not found. The area was huge and inhospitable, particularly to the law.

He stood naked in the blue morning sun, a stronger shiver ran though him. A towel would be nice. The packs lacked certain things. Damn it, while I’m at wishing a hackle-lo, mug of klah and flask of Mímisbrunnr would be nice. Or at least a beer.

For all that the packs contained what was necessary to survive they lacked what was needed to live. Instead they were weighed down with rubbish - who needed tent poles? Certainly they were useful, but for the weight a tree would do.

“You going to sun yourself all day like a lizard?”

Ferir stretched up extracting a crunch from somewhere in his back and turned. “We’re east of the Reed, this is real back country. Do you know who’s in control here?”

“Cheydinhal county ends there,” Ruben grunted as he sat stiffly up, his blanket still pulled around him, and pointed at the opposite shore “So any guard, or fighter’s guild member gods preserve us.”

Ferir gave him a half smile. “Really, I’d have been more inclined to say no one.” He walked back towards his pack and regarded the clothes there with distaste. He hadn’t been the first person to be issued the prison ones, and the standard issue guard kit smelt as bad as it looked. Ruben groaned as he stood. He’d struggled at the end of the previous day. Ferir had let him, not because he particularly disliked the man but when energy ran out pride could carry someone further than sympathy. As he’d guessed Ruben’s had been sufficient. “Should be easier today,” he said.

“Thank the nine for that. Why?”

“We’ve been going a couple of days,” Ferir shrugged, “unless you’ve got blisters it gets easier. And it’s not such a long day, we need supplies, and I want to be fresh in case dreck goes down when we buy them.”

“There’s no towns out here though…”

“Heard of Carbo? He was a legend, people still come and go through his camp.”

"I've heard of a Carbo, near legend in the legion. Served out in Vvardenfell in the blight."

"Not him. A smuggler turned bandit turned kingpin. He's dead but his camp isn't."

“Outlaws?”

“So are we,” Ferir pointed out.

Ruben frowned.

They set off soon after. Ferir was tempted to stay by the river for a little longer but a breakfast of hardtack was as well eaten on the move. They stayed close to the river anyway, it was months since he’d been there but he could remember the area well enough. Verdant forest sprawled to the waterside. There were trout in the river, if you could be bothered fishing, or knew a particularly powerful lightning spell. He’d only seen that done once, most mages powerful enough either had servants to buy fish for them or lived in remote castles, usually ruined and always with a tower. In spite of what they claimed Ferir had a feeling there was only so much boiling quicksilver that could still be considered healthy.

It was one of the reasons he’d never learnt more, that and the guild and it’s damned rules. Gone were the days where it controlled all trade in magic, and hence almost all mages. The weakened Empire helped, it was easier to set up a black market when there were few patrols but the real cause had been internal. It had bent under pressure and outlawed necromancy.

Ferir didn’t really see the problem, yes it was an interesting area no doubt, but there were others. If you’d spent your life pursuing it then you would be annoyed, but if you’d spent your life cutting up corpses and making them walk then you were crazy. Perhaps their definition was too broad but that begged more questions. Why necromancy? He’d only met two, both buying supplies fortunately, but they smelt weird, lived alone and in his opinion needed a stiff drink and a better hobby. And possibly a night out in Bravil.

It was the conjurers and daedra fanciers who posed the threat. It was they who had caused the crisis, and who had a force to unite them. They also practised in every guildhall in Tamriel as far as he knew. It was suspicious, but then so was so much when seen as an outsider. Presumably those who lived with it were just too close, like trying to look at your own eyelashes.

The walk along the river passed that way. He was lost in his thoughts, what should he do next? The first couple of times it stung, but he swept that away, it was a valid question. Save grieving for when there was time, and at the cave. That loomed on the horizon. He could learn more magic, or alchemy anyway. Though there was the axe, or maybe a bow. The idea appealed but from his limited experience it was best left. Too unreliable unless you were very good, and what could one do that a fireball couldn’t?

Tributaries joined the river as they went south. It grew, but the hilly country remained untamed and soon they walked by a crashing torrent. Ferir knew that it slowed as the hills ended, this was more a section of rapid than anything, but the roaring sound was like a physical presence within his head. The cold spray smelt slightly peaty and the churning white sinew of the water left its glory undimmed. It crashed down a steep section, not a waterfall, but close, and at the bottom stood the soom drukpa, three granite ovoids. Two were a good twenty feet across with the third lying under them a little longer. The waters surged against them.

There were all sorts of stories told about the soom drukpa, or the tres angeli, or three sisters, depending on who you asked. He always used the eastern name for no better reason than it was the first he’d heard. To the Argonians, who’d once lived even this far into Cyrodiil, they were the eggs of dragons. If they laid eggs like that Ferir was glad they were extinct, if they’d ever been real. Other legends spoke of gods, or aedra. The only credible one was that Sheogorath was behind them. The resemblance certain people, mainly imperials with too much of a fixation with the nine, or those in need of a good night in Bravil, saw supported the involvement of the god of madness.

Whatever they were was unimportant, they were the landmark he found Carbo’s Camp by. Turn away from the river, breast the ridge and it was in a deep gouge in the landscape which dwarfed the small stream which ran through the camp. He turned away from the river and started inland. Ruben followed, and glanced around uneasily. Ferir carried on into the bush ignoring Ruben’s confusion.

Why? The question came unbidden, though not wholly unexpected. Ruben was a bit of an oaf, but was he really? A few badly placed comments, but plenty of people were like that. He had been a guard, and Ferir was willing to bet that whatever went down was worse than they done him for. But he’d known enough criminals. Was it because he owed Ruben one, a large one? But he was paying, had paid probably.

“We’re headed for Carbo’s Camp.”

The former lawman stopped. He mouthed in shock for a moment before he managed to speak. “But that’s a bandit place, outlaws, smugglers, vagabonds… I didn't realise you were serious.”

“We need supplies, and to hear what the word on the wind is.”

“But they’re bandits.”

Ferir nodded, his upper lip rising a little. “Can’t say I like it, but we haven’t got much choice. Survival comes first. Always.” He paused then resumed walking. Ruben followed behind. “You’ll want to be careful there,” he said, “they won’t like guards. Don’t want you sneaking around, if anyone asks you’re my uncle, enough there will know me, though they might not welcome me…” Not after that last deal… this could be fun.

This post has been edited by Olen: Nov 27 2011, 09:42 PM