The Shadow Under Fort Sutch, RP Playground Thread Options

[Uleni Athram]

The Shadow Under Fort Sutch
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Things were slowly going back to normal.

The momentous events of the Crisis were undeniable and unforgettable, but as time marched on ever forward, so too did the memories of fire and Oblivion slowly fade. The Empire, battered and bruised, laid low the Prince of Destruction and His unholy legions with the help from her sons and the Divines. They paid a heavy price, for the glorious line of the Septims ended with the shattering of the Amulet, and Martin's ascension to the splendors of Aetherius. The Ruby Throne lies unseated, the Crown unwore. The Scepter that commanded red legions to conquest commands them no more. The last divinity of Tiber's line stands petrified in the bloodlines' last moment of glory. A grave price indeed, one that would echo and change the Empire's fate forever, but it was a price they willingly paid. To maintain balance and order in the world of mortals. The populace all over the Empire contributed heavily into itz rebuilding. The toils of restoring the glory that was Cyrodiil slowly helped ease the shock and the horror. The Crisis would never be forgotten, yes, but in time it would be fade.

Things were slowly going back to normal.

From Bruma to Leyawiin, from Cheydinhal to wounded Kvatch, news spread of the collaboration between the three Guilds of Anvil. Even wounded Kvatch has heard, and the Empire bristled with curiousity and excitement. Even the other provinces took ear of the Expedition, headed by the famous Oedipus Nebraska, he who is renowned in the land for his deeds of daring. The eyes of this veteran adventurer has seen something in the darkness below Fort Sutch, and is eager to drag it into the light of discovery. All manner of characters and personalities are drawn to this expedition. The thrill of journeying forth in a strange land? The riches and rewards of fame it allures the world with? The discovery of secrets long buried by the ancients, whether it be damning or enlightening? Or the chance to create history with their own hands?

The Shadow under Fort Sutch detests the light from above, and will test those who invade if they are strong enough to even uncover its barest of secrets.....

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OOC: Okay, the introduction is finished. Since DE is the first poster, please, do your magic and let's get this show on the road! *roars*

[Illydoor]

A Murky Swamp, Black Marsh, 3E 422

‘Be still, Ananse.’

‘I am still, mother.’ Ananse replied. She chuckled.

‘No, hatchling, you’re not. Your legs are wriggling like a spider!’

There was a pause. ‘Like Ananse’s?’ Despite himself, his legs stopped moving. His mother laughed again.

‘Yes. And you know what Ananse was? He was a mischievous little spider. Will you let me help you now?’

‘But it hurts.’ Ananse scowled, wriggling on the bamboo mat.

‘Well that’s what little mischievous spiders get, for playing where they shouldn’t.’

Ananse knew she was right. The Thorn-Wallows were a dangerous place for a hatchling. And out of all the dangers hidden in the vast nest of mangroves and swampland, he was bested by a bramble. His tail, an amenity he often forgot he possessed, had gotten wrapped up in the vicious twines, and screaming like a Yapperfish he ran all the way home with half the tree attached to his rear end.

He stayed still, moody at his own stupidity. How silly he must have looked to the village.

‘He was never caught.’ His mother began untangling the thorns, plucking them out of his scales.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes dear. Yes he was, many times. But Ananse knew that no matter how thick the web was spun, there is always a way out…’

…………..

Seventeen years later

Ananse blinked his yellow eyes into the darkness. His breath was still close, short and ragged, as if he were choking. His ribs ached like hot brands beneath his skin, but he fought the urge to hiss in pain. For some reason something told him it was better to remain still at this present moment in time. And he was right.

A cloth mask covered his face, smelling of mouldy flax. He definitely didn’t remember putting that on. A rough cloth had been stuffed into his mouth as well, explaining his shortness of breath. He didn’t remember doing that either.

What was more disconcerting however, was that Ananse was adamant his legs were perfectly still. Yet he was definitely moving. Strong hands were around his wrists, and he felt his tail slither on the ground beneath him, his heels bouncing on the floor. Realization snapped like rope holding a tethered weight in his mind, and in that instant he heard voices above him.

‘Pick his damn legs up will ya? His filthy claws are clacking on the deck!’ A gruff man whispered angrily.

‘We’re nearly there. There’s no guards about anyways.’ Came the faceless reply.

Ananse remained completely inanimate as he was dragged across the boardway, quietly assessing the situation. It was not good.

He could feel the wooden planks of the gangway bobbling beneath his feet, and even through the decaying smell of the mask he could still pick out the scents of brine, of salt-crusted rope and drenched timber. The waters whispered softly below. He was still in the docks at least.

A faint twinge of yeast and honey waved over his attuned nostrils. Ale. He was near the Fo’c’s’le – no, passing it, and turning.

The Harborside Warehouse. A well-known den of iniquity and criminal activity amongst these parts, and for the select few, a known sanctuary of the Thieves Guild. He waited as his two captors stopped at the door, knocking thrice in the encoded pattern. Heavy bolts were withdrawn.

‘Evenin’ Wilhelm. We’ve got the bugger.’ One of the cronies said. Wilhelm, or Wilhelm the Worm out of his earshot, stood manager over the Warehouse to ‘keep out the rats’, he attested. Nobody knew that truthfully, he kept the rats in.

‘Good. Bring him in.’ The Nord growled.

Of course, it would all come back to him now. A knock on the door in the night, and then when a slumbering Ananse had not answered, a kick to break it down. Shouting voices, threats and curses. Before Ananse could blink the sleep from his eyes, the two men had hooded him, and kicks had bludgeoned him in the flanks and legs and face, before a blow to the back of the head had put him back to sleep just as quickly as he had come out of it. The guild didn’t mess around.

Rough hands lifted Ananse onto a chair, and then suddenly, the hood was whipped off and his sight came rushing back.

‘Well hello, Coin-Eye.’ A sultry voice came from across him. Ananse struggled to lift his gaze to meet the source. He saw finely woven, quilted shoes, the beginnings of a garish russet felt garb. He didn’t have to look up to recognise the man as Orrin, Shadowfoot of the Thieves Guild in Anvil.

‘Ah, of course, where are my manners. Thank you, Dranas, Krognak. That’ll be all.’ Hands were lifted off Ananse’s shoulders, the ache in his ribs subsiding a little. Orrin leant forward to remove the cloth from his mouth. He reeked of perfume and nobility, yet out of all the descriptions one could attribute to Orrin the Fence, ‘noble’ was certainly the least appropriate.

‘What am I going to do with you, my lizard friend? Hmm?’ Orrin sat back, steepling his fingers. The rings that adorned them shimmered in lamplight, along with his oily white hair.

As his eyesight steadily returned, scaly lids peeled back fully, Ananse began to feel some of his usual self return. Unfortunately, that self was a bit of an idiot.

‘Will the coalskin human give Ananse some wine? His throat is terribly parched.’

That earned him a clip round the quills.

‘Wine? You think we can afford such luxuries after your little stunt earlier?’

‘Ananse does not understand. What have I done to displease the oilskin man?’ Another strike.

‘You won. You f*cking won.’ Orrin cursed, raising his arms as if to say it was obvious. The candlelight sputtered inside the gloomy warehouse. ‘Two years of being the worst gambler in the entirety of Anvil, not winning even a beggar’s share of a Septim and you go in and triple-fold the bounty in one fell swoop!’

Though he didn’t show it, Ananse still did not understand. It was true; he had finally won his first major share in a gambler’s den just east of the Flowing Bowl, much to the chagrin of his opponents (it was well known the naïve Argonian was not the best gamester, and a little ‘green’ when it came to the underhanded world of fixing and swindling, which to say was ripe in the Anvil Docks). Though he failed to see how that tied in to Orrin’s misfortune.

‘You stupid scaled twist of flesh. All you had to do was lose, like you always had! It was planned you see. Did you know your opponent was Audens Avidius, of the Imperial Watch up South? He is one of our largest and most generous benefactors, and unlike that honoured user Lex, he understands the machinations of the guild and its part in this world. He hides us from the predations of the Guard, and we allow him some loot in return.’ Ananse shook his head, he had looked like any other human he’d met. Bald and smooth and with those silly little strips of hair they called eyebrows.

‘We’d tipped him off about our big haul and how you’d be splashing it about like a feckless back-heeler in the alley docks. Since he can’t be caught taking his share directly from us, what better way to pay him for his allegiance than having him win it in a wagering match against the most inadequate gambler in Cyrodiil. And you went and won, taking all of his money along with it.’ Orrin ran his hands through his shiny white hair, or what was left of it. ‘Now he thinks we’ve swindled him, and threatens to reveal our presence to the Guard.’

‘Not Ananse’s fault. You did not tell Ananse. I thinks, it is your faults.’ Orrin looked up from his hands with a baleful glare. Perhaps, Ananse thought, he should not have said that. The hoary Redguard stood up, pacing around the chair where Ananse was slumped.

‘I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d blab your big lizard mouth off about Audens if I did.’ His hand slipped to the pommel of an arm-sized bludgeon strapped to the green waist of his ridiculous outfit. ‘But you’re right. It’s not your fault.’ He took it out, and laid its heavy, menacing head against Ananse’s shoulder. Ananse suddenly felt his scales crawl, and his blood ran hot with fear.

‘But somebody has to pay.’ The weight was lifted, and Ananse heard the blow before he felt it, a deafening crunch against his cheekbone.

‘You’ve always been a… thorn’ The blow fell again, this time against his left shoulder. ’…in the Guild’s side, Coin-Eye.’

The next one hit him in his scaly chest, just above his tattoo. There was a creaking of wood, and both chair and lizard fell to the floor. Above the commotion, a sibilant hiss of laughter could be heard. Orrin stopped half-swing.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Nothing. Just Ananse wonders if oilskin man took beatings from his grandmothers. And if she taught him anythings, because surely she would be most disappointed.’ Orrin’s already scowling face deepened.

‘Krognak, fetch the axe. I’ve had enough of this swamp-filth.’

The orc nodded dumbly, and went bumbling off to find his weapon. Meanwhile the other hired muscle, Dranas lifted Ananse to his knees to assume the execution position.

Now he’d really done it. Ananse was about to re-join the Hist in a few moments if he didn’t think quickly. He could hear Krognak coming back already. His hands were still bound behind his back, but his legs were free. Maybe he could kick himself… strong dunmer hands clamped down on his shoulders, forcing his head down and baring his neck.

Out of the corner of one yellow eye, Ananse watched as Krognak lumbered slowly closer, axe in hand, a malevolent grin cracking his face. The brutal edge of the blade, still bloody from its last execution, glinted dully in the lamplight like a rusty smile.

‘Not so funny now, Argonian, are we? You are hereby expelled from the guild and all its affiliations. Any last requests?’ The poisonous voice of Orrin slipped into his ear, and his head was shoved towards the floorboards. Below them, he could hear the sound of the lapping waves swelling beneath the docks, and wondered if he would ever hear them again.

No matter how thick the web, Ananse…

The cleaver was raised, high, as if it were floating away, and Ananse’s life boiled down to those fractions of a second before its ascent was checked and the fateful descent would begin.

…There is always a way out.

‘WAIT!’ He cried. The axe stopped, hanging there like death incarnate. ‘My quills.’

‘What about your damn quills, lizard.’ Orrin spat.

‘They are sacred to our race. Pleases, oilskin man, let Ananse keep his quills pristines. Ananse does not want to enter the Hist with his quills halved, it would mean dishonour. You would grant me this one wish, yes?’ Krognak looked up with simple eyes. Orrin looked puzzled, but eventually conceded.

‘Alright, lizard. Consider this your last courtesy in this world.’ He nodded to Dranas. The Dunmer walked to the other side of Ananse, keeping his head down. He could feel the spiny quills being drawn back.

‘No! You must hold them with two hands. Ananse’s quills are his pride!’ Dranas growled, but obliged.

‘There. Now Kragnak. Cut his head off and let us be done with it.’

The axe rose again, and Orrin watched in glee as his revenge rose with it. Ananse would have to time this perfectly.

‘Now!’ Orrin screamed, and Kragnak grunted as he brought the weapon down in an executioner’s blow. At the same time Ananse pulled his head back with a sudden jerk. Dranas’ hands, holding onto the quills, came with it, into the path of the death blow.

The axe bit deep into his blue-skinned wrists, and he shrieked like a banshee. One hand was severed completely, the other hanging limply off a loose piece of gristle as he raised his stumps to his face with horror.

The Orc roared, and swung the axe round for another blow. Ananse could hear Orrin bellowing in rage in the background, but he stayed where he was, waiting for the axe-stroke. He was in the perfect position. The huge blade swung down once more, about to cleave him in two, and at the last moment Ananse side-stepped to the left and the blade glanced past his head. It hit the wooden floorboards precisely where Ananse had aimed for; widening the large crack he had already seen during his time kneeling in wait. The floorboards creaked once, then with a sound like cracking thunder gave away and the lizard was plunged into icy water.

Ananse did not look behind him as he swam away below the shifting docks. Even underwater, his hearing could pick out the wails of the agonised dunmer, and the fury of Orrin as he raged and seethed at his escape.

Underneath his scales, Ananse’s blood prickled him. How had he just done that? Not in his wildest dreams could he have thought of such a thing happening. A thousand thoughts and questions ran through his mind, spurring his legs and arms against the currents like fuel. But one stood out against the rest:

Ananse could not stay within the walls of Anvil anymore. He would have to go far away, very far indeed; somewhere the Guild could not follow him, where the web was not as thick.

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Feb 1 2013, 08:43 PM