To The North, the warm-up RP Options

[Uleni Athram]

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chorrol, 4E 200


Orange.

That was the color of the skies as Magnus drowned in the west, the final sunburst reaching its extremes in an effort to reclaim its seat in the highest heaven. From behind a veil of space in the east, Celdryn could see the Twin Moons usurping, slowly vanishing the orange with the blue touch of the incoming eve. Such a strange day, or dusk, indeed, to see the three observers in one, vivid moment. Suspicious townsfolk took this as an omen of things to come; indeed, from his conquered spot in the dome of one of the watch-towers, he could hear old naysayers preach on about momentous events that scour and scar all of Tamriel. He could also hear the buzzing of Chorrol.

Even as night stalks the skies, this city was busy as bustling Daggerfall in her drousy day. He turned to glance down and observed the ants as they carried on with their duties; one particular ant caught the green-piercing stare; a fat dunmeri clothed in fine silks, flanked by bored-looking Thalmor, the trio pushing their way towards the Castle. Celdryn watched the dunmer looked wearily at a certain spot in the courtyard; the Breton marked it in his mind and waited until the Twin Moons finally shared a seat on the throne of Magnus; watching from above as Celdryn finally made his move.

The midnight veiled the Breton as he jumped down the tower in one leap, landed expertly on the battlements. The guards posted here drunked themselves to a stupor; at least that would be the explanation they would have after they woke up from their spiked drinks. The ones that walked would no longer recognize the form of Celdryn; to them, he was just a brown lump in a dark setting. A harmless nothing. Fluttering of cloaks as he scaled the outer walls of the castle's closed gate. Reached the top, and glanced down at the courtyard.

There he was.

The dunmeri, now cloaking himself with a nondescript cowl and robe. The guards weren't there; probably bought off to disappear. The green eyes narrowed as the elf flailed his arms about like a madman, muttered some phrases in an alien tongue. The calm wind became enraged, shrieked like a banshee. Torches in the courtyard blew themselves out. Darkness now. Even the light of the Twins faltered as the courtyard became a pit of brooding blackness. Celdryn recognized it immediately as black magic. But to what purpose? And why here, in this very compromising spot?

He got his answer as white tendrils rose out of the courtyard's well, and hovered like hackle-lo smoke around the dunmer wizard, who now looked as if he snorted the sweetest skooma. From this distance, Celdryn saw the elf's nostril flare wide and the tendrils sought it out like it was being pulled... A long, audibe gasp of pure ecstasy from the dunmer. He flailed his arms again, muttered in that dark tongue, and the black mist disappeared along with the banshee wind. The dunmeri shuffled into the confines of the castle, and locked the entrance behind him.

Celdryn, seeing this, could not help but be interested. What manner of thing rose out of the well that the dunmeri snorted? Is it something sinister?

Or what?

He decided to find out. He jumped down with wraithlike grace and tiptoed to the well. The air around it seemed thicker; breathing became labour, as if something covered his nose. The brave breton fiddled with the well's lock for sometime, before he cracked it open and set aside the iron covering. He peered down. Pure darkness. From his satchel, he produced a glowstone; one of those useful tools made by the Dwemer. He dropped it in to test the drop; considerable, but not beyond his skill. He stood his bow against the well and his quiver also. No use for those ranged death-dealers to where he's going. He readied himself for the jump...
----------------

".. himself for the jump... And that is the end of the tale. I should reall-"

The enraptured crowd quickly voiced their complaints against the bard, demanding closure from the cliffhanger he cruelly set upon their curiousities. The owner of the Oak and Crosier had to rely on his loud voice and threats of expulsion to quieten them down on this fine evening. The poor bard, who was on the verge of being manhandled by the mob, shot him a grateful look. He then announced that he would continue the tale of the dashing rogue Celdryn Minan'Kherus tomorrow eve. And until then, here he scooped up his colovian fur helm that full of coins, he bid them au revoir. With the mob now turning to their drinks, the bard approached the counter and sat on a stool closest to the khajiit owner.

He flashed the cat another grateful smile.

"Thanks," he said, breathless from his tale, "I owe you one!"

The Khajiit shrugged and produced a frothing mug of chilled ale. The young bard took it and drank it to the last drop. The khajiit made a remark that had the bard laughing.

"Come now, Tal'Jhiro. A bard is born to seduce; but in order for his tales to have effect, it must sometimes rhyme with the bells of truth. And truthfully? I really did scaled the walls of a castle."

Tal'Jhiro looked at Celdryn with those amber orbs. He then decided that this breton can white-lie all he wants as long as he pays. The cat scooped up the payment and went to service another customer. Celdryn stood up, walked around the counter, and took a bottle of wine from the shelves. He returned to his seat and just as he was about to enjoy being stoned, a young teen of no less than eight winters approached. The kiid tugged on Celdryn's cloak. The Breton turned to face him, annoyed, but it vanished as he looked upon the enquiring eyes of the youth.

"Weh der dwagons undah dah well?"

"Tomorrow child. All shall be revealed.. Tomorrow."

The child didn't took the hint. He stayed, rooted to the spot, puppy brown eyes engaging the greens of Celdryn.

"Ohkay. But.. can I as' you a kweston?"

"Fire it up like you're a professional archer, boy."

A brief confusion on the child's grimy face before it was replaced by the undeniable curiousity found only in the innocent. But before the child could speak, what Celdryn could only guess as the mother appeared from nowhere and pinched the child's ear. Apparently, this child, name of Timothy, slipped out of the house JUST to listen to the tales of the local bard. Celdryn also received a verbal-lashing from the mother bear, who made sure Celdryn wouldn't 'preach his daedric lies' when little Timpthy was in the area.

When they both took their leave, Celdryn sighed. When he turned to his drink, he found it not on his hand, but on the hands of the stern-faced Tal'Jhiro, whose eyes spoke of much amusement at the Breton's suffering.

"Damn it," he cursed.

[jack cloudy]

Kogobal applauded politely over his meal as the bard finished his tale. He had hoped for more. While mindless in its goal to entertain, the story had been captivating. He wanted to know what Celdryn found in that well. Had it been some foul secret, the dark magic the Dunmer had employed? Or were they simply some fuming plants with hallucination-inducing properties? Did the mer really sniff skooma and had the dark magic been nothing more than simple telekinesis? He wished to know but the Breton had made it clear he desired to gain as much with his story as he could.
“Perhaps tomorrow. I can always come back here in a flash and a snap.” Kogobal thought and made his own contribution to the donation-hat. Then he smiled and returned his attention to the rapidly cooling slice of venison. It was all fiction of course, nothing that truly deserved his interest.

Earlier that day

Finally, Kogobal thought, his feet had brought him to Chorrol. He didn’t stay for very long. Everyone treated him as if he’d loudly proclaimed a desire to eat their children. The library wouldn’t admit him, neither would most bookstores. And the people, they terrified him. By the time he was constantly looking over his shoulder to avoid the inevitable lynching, he figured he’d had enough. So he went north. North to Skyrim. Skyrim where the Nords lived, with their magic of yelling. Or so he’d heard.

So now he stood at the gates of Chorrol, though behind a bush and just out of view. Out of habit he checked the misted and scratched surface of his staff’s little glass cap. The sphere was dull and lifeless, as it always had been. With a sigh he shook it and angled it for a better look but nothing stirred within. It was a ritual that had become more than just an aspect of his quest. It had become a part of himself. He simply wouldn’t feel whole if he didn’t peer into the orb at every junction in a road, at every landmark he passed, every morning and every evening. So now he watched, searching for that elusive glimmer of light. But nothing stirred.

Kogobal sighed once more and turned to the second ritual that made him Kogobal, the wandering heretic. He closed his eyes and sought the world, the oneness that united each place with each place. Separate yet connected. From the world he found himself, the grass he stood on. He felt its place, its weavings and its song. With a mental flick of his fingers, he bent one of the weaves, pinched a note, folded them into a complicated and stable knot. Then he fled the oneness and opened his eyes. From now on, whenever he wished it, he could recall that knot and return his flesh and soul to this place. Right here, behind the bush.

With both rituals completed, the encroaching night was free for him to do as he pleased. Kogobal stepped out beyond the bush and walked for the gate. While the guards looked at him sternly, they did at least not reach for their weapons. The people of Chorrol were the same. They looked at him, but without murder in their eyes. Kogobal decided he liked the quaint little city.

He walked around for a bit and then entered a nice looking tavern. A bard had just begun spinning a tale. Kogobal ordered a meal and sat down to listen.

Back to the now

The fun of the evening was spoiled by a child’s mother. Quite loudly she ranted about how the bard’s stories were evil, corrupting and dared she say it, heretical. He would do best not to tell his lies in her city anymore. Kogobal’s face became a stony mask of disgust.
“Ignorant hag.” He thought. He couldn’t let this slide and when the woman dragged the child passed his table, he spoke.

“How can we ever obtain knowledge if we blindfold ourselves to the world with a pleasant fantasy? This land is not made of pure good, sunshine and cute little ponies dancing in flowerfilled fields. To learn is to question, to seek truth by thought. Minds are there to be nurtured, not shackled down. Do not deny the child this by forcing ignorance upon him.” He said softly while trying to keep both his face and his voice under control. He thought he managed better than the child’s mother.The woman faltered in her step, the child looked up at the tall, oh so very tall man with the golden skin, his eyes growing big. The mother glared at him and tried to form words. But in the end she said nothing and dragged her son out of the inn.

Kogobal watched her go and shook his head. Perhaps he did more harm than good.
“In any case. If the Dunmer had truly managed to shove a dragon down that well, it would have an awfully hard time scratching its back down there.” He muttered to himself and laughed.