To The North, the warm-up RP Options

[Uleni Athram]

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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...
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".. 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.

[Darkness Eternal]

Vaultren.

In the end, the sound came from a small skeever being devoured by larger ones. They were warded off by Vaultren's presence. The Imperial knew this cave extensively from his time in the Legion many, many years ago during the Great War. He understood every corridor, every path and route, and he understood the layout of every single chamber. He knew the strengths, and he understood the weaknesses.

During his time with the group, he studied Kogobal, analyzed Alvara and tried to comprehend Celdryn. They hated him, and with good cause. But hate was such a powerful thing, he knew, for his entire life was full of hate. Hate is a passion, and passion gives way to strength, thus presenting powerful opportunities, which then leads on the victory. And his victory was in his grasp. But even hate can be manipulated and self-destructive. He would use his against them, instead of allowing it against him.

Alvara, peeved and obviously infuriated with his actions, was repelled by a simple gesture of the eyes, and he thrived in the knowledge that he made her that way, for she was seperated from the rest. Being a healer, how could she possibly save herself and Kogobal from an impending collision? The ceilings were infested with armies of sharp stalactites, with a gentle nudge, could pierce the cranium of an unsuspecting victim.

Kogobal knew the tenuous relationship between Vaultren and Celdryn, and was guided by his own concept of morality and righteous nature to leave the two seperated, which in the end would be his own undoing. So Vaultren believed. With Kogobal and Celdryn together, and Alvara alone in the dark tunnels, all he was required to do was to seal their fates once and for all.

Celdryn, adrenaline-dependant lunatic and instrumentally gifted storyteller, had all the reason to believe in his instincts. Vaultren's treachery was speculated, but not expected. It was imagined, but not foreseen. With his words, they believed in him, albeit mistrusting him. And they fell into his trap as cattle to the slaughter. He would not make his mistake again as he did with that Thalmor assassin. By leading them out into the wilderness by taking a path through the Jerall Mountains, especially in this time of year, they walked into the fateful snare.

Traversing through the dark corridors, Vaultren's eyes adjusted to all of his surroundings. He saw where Alvara went, and he knew where the Altmer and the Bard went, thus he returned the way he came, certain they walked in their intended paths down a place where none of them had ever visited before. His layout, a lie. While there were seperate tunnels, there were no stable chambers, only a large chasm that led deep into the frozen abyss. If they did not watch their steps, they would fall to their deaths.

There was only a single entrance and a single exit, and they were both congruent and one in the same. Vaultren went the way he came, and crouched until he reached the exterior of the entrance. No sign of the brooding trio, for they were exploring the cavern in their own accord.

Stepping out into the wilderness, Vaultren stood at the end of the cave and pulled away the small scroll he had purchased from the trading caravan days ago. He planned to use the arcane parchment for other things, but this would serve its purpose quite well.

Such a small scroll containing such power. To his advantage, his honeyed words and sharp tongue and superior persuasion skills, he was able to barter his purchase without losing too many coin. The khajiiti were great merchants, but they lacked a touch in the art of negotiation.

Thankfully for their not-so-shrewd capabilities, he read the scroll, adopting spell with his studious eyes. Fire, indeed, was a destructive force. It licked away and devoured everything in sight. But in snow, it would serve no use, unless it was an explosion. A fiery one. By rolling the barrels onto the cave entrance, he was ready to commence his plan.

Filled with pure rum from the cart of Redguard travelers before their untimely demise at the arrows of Bosmeri archers, the barrels were a liquified explosive. He rolled them upwards and set them at the entrance of the cave. With a proper blast, the snow collected above the mountain would fall over and trap them inside, along with the stones.

With a gesture of the hand, Vaultren formed sparks in his hand which morphed into a concentrated fireball. His hands shook, his eyes were set and focused on the cavern entrance. With a long, prideful exhale, he forced the fiery blast from his fist. His teeth gritted into a terrible scowl, darkening his countenance amidst the bright light.

A raging inferno formed at his feet and formed a powerful funnel that twisted and turned through the air and toward the doomed barrels. Yellow and orange mixed in a beautiful illumination of deathly flames which exploded on impact.

The cave interior was obliterated by the blast, and continued to spasm through out, sending shock waves through the stalactite-ridden ceiling. Cracks spread like a web, triggering a tumultous rumble throughout the
interior. The slumbering snow above the cave trembled, and stones and large icy boulders tumbled down to block the path. Layer upon layer of stone collapsed within.

Vaultren's actions, however, had their repurcussions. The blast radius was enormous, that he himself was impacted by a shockwave and was sent back a few feet by the invisible hot battering ram. He crashed onto the snow with an audiably frustrated grunt. At first, he felt no injury.

Long enough, though, that when he climbed to his feet his legs quivered and some of the dust from the
blast had settled. Only when he walked back did he realize that the clash of fire, rum and stone had not left him
unscathed. At some point, perhaps when he was focused entirely on murder, a rock or some other large debris had struck the middle area of his lower back, and now the black robe he wore was drenched in blood.

Despite the dissipating dust, he took in a deep breath, eliciting a piercing pain from his rib cage and a cough that spat cold blood into the frigid air. Drawing on the moment, he numbed himself to the agony and forced his body to limit the damage as best it possibly could. When the injury stopped in its interruptive procupation, he surveyed the area, anchored in place but twisting into a full circle.

As the dust and snow cleared, he saw the door to the cavern completely blocked from the outside, and possibly even the inside as the impact was enough to sent shards of rock to barricade the tunnel. Some minor projectiles did make its way into his skin, and he felt a brief regret that the Dunmeri healer wasn't there to provide her services. In any case chose to remember and honor the souls who might have been lost in the cave.

Alvara, the one who worried about him bringing the Thalmor on their heads, when the sharpened stones of a cave's ceiling would suffice. So volumptous, undoubtedly a succulent one! But her healing would truly be wasted just as her average beauty. Unlike him, she would age and perish. Perhaps? Vaultren believed so.

Kogobal, a scholar who devoted his time in understanding and traveling, may his time in that cavern be enough for him to dream of a life he never truly lived. Feeding himself the knowledge of his fate. If knowlege is power, perhaps you can be powerful enough to teleport out of this place?

Celdryn, the mad Breton, perhaps he could sing and entertain the others before devouring them in an orgiastic abandon induced by demented cannibalism. I passed your Nine-forsaken test, mad one, perhaps you can pass mine? Think of me as the lion who outsmarted a lamb who believed itself a wolf. You now have my consent to die.

A natural avalanche, some would claim. A terrible tragedy! Indeed, a sad catastrophe, Vaultren remarked with a shrug. In any case, the incoming blizzard would impede anyone from discovering this cavern, and the snow would surely cover any trace of magic activity. By the time those inside would be discovered, they may be piles of bone settling as a reminder that hubris and lowering one's own guard can indeed be their downfall.

Raising his black cowl, Vaultren allowed himself a satisfactory smile of triumph and duty. With limping, but vigorous steps, he marched his way through the wilderness to reach Skyrim - -To the North!

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Aug 6 2012, 12:36 AM