A Spellsword Sellsword: Telindil's Tale Options

[Callidus Thorn]

Okay, here goes my second stab at a fanfiction. This wasn't intended to be fanfiction, Telindil was supposed to be a character to write about in the "Today in Cyrodiil" thread, so shorter, more game based updates. That went out the window when I tired writing up the tutorial section, and realised I'd been at it for two hours, had written two pages, and had only just gotten past the first wave of attackers. By the time I was done it covered four pages. Since Telindil clearly wasn't happy being dealt with in brief, a second attempt at fanfiction seemed the thing to do.

As with my last attempt, all criticisms, nitpicks, comments, suggestions and such are welcome, again, don't pull your punches people. And if you feel you need to break out a baseball bat, then you go right ahead and do it.

So here we go again:

Prologue


The Imperial City, Last Seed 24 3E 433, The Bloated Float

The tavern was busy. It was early in the evening, so the dockrats had started turning up, to drink away the aches of the day's labour. Two Altmer are sat at the bar, each on opposite sides. One of them is Ormil, the owner, and the other is a Spellsword called Telindil. The latter is clad in Mithril armour with an Altmeri longsword to match, and arrived by ship that same afternoon. Despite the friendly, jovial atmosphere in the tavern, his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Ormil pretended not to notice. The two had been chatting for a while, mostly Ormil repeating the rumours running around, the two of them interrupted occasionally by a burst of song from one corner of the tavern or other.

“So what brings you to Cyrodiil?” Ormil asked Telindil, glad of another Altmer to talk to, and having run out of rumours to pass on.

“Business and bureaucracy. I'm a freelance Spellsword, a mercenary, and since Traven reorganised the guild I've been told I need to reapply to get my certification back.”

“Your certification?” Ormil was confused by this. He knew Traven had made some changes, like the ban on necromancy, but this hadn't been covered by rumour or the Black Horse Courier.

“The guild's way of keeping track of freelance magic users. You need to be able to show basic proficiency in the schools of magic you employ, prove that you can use them safely, but you're not actually part of the guild. Well Traven put a stop to all that, and revoked everyone's certification So I've come to Cyrodiil to find out what I need to do, since my local guildhall told me it was necessary. So I go to the Arcane University, only to be told that I'm required to sign up to the Mages Guild if I want to practise magic legally.” Telindil shook his head and drank deeply from his tankard, the cool ale doing little to quench his anger.

“That seems rather excessive. I could understand him requesting that everyone reapply for certification if he'd made some changes to what was required, but this? It makes no sense.”

“Well they say that Traven's paranoid, convinced that Necromancers are plotting to attack the guild, or so they say, and that he wants every magic user under his command or in shackles.”

“But the-” Ormil never got to finish his sentence.

“Barkeep!” a voice roared out from behind Telindil, “Your finest ale, and be quick about it.”

Telindil groaned inwardly. He knew that voice. Casamir Lanier, a Breton. The two of them were in the same profession, and were apparently now in the same boat, literally and figuratively. Ormil scurried off, tankard in hand, and Telindil braced for the inevitable. He and Casamir had crossed paths more than a few times over the years, and never without a fight. And by the sounds of things, Casamir was already deep into his cups.

“What's that I see over there?! Lindy? Is that you, you goblin-fondling son of a swine?”

This time Telindil didn't bother keeping his groan in.

“I still owe you for that last run-in, back in Hammerfell. You damn near crippled me, you bastard.” Casamir was glaring at Telindil from across the tavern, sparks flying from both his eyes and his fingers. Telindil stood and turned to face him. Casamir had an unusual build for a Breton, broad shouldered and heavily muscled, and he took more than a little pride in that. Some said he had Nord blood in him, and looking at him in his Orcish forged armour, with a Dwemer claymore slung over his right shoulder, Telindil believed them. He ran through his defensive spells, trying to guess how Casamir would strike. He didn't like having to go defensive, to let Casamir launch the first attack, but he had no choice. He didn't dare try hurling an offensive spell with so many people in the tavern, it was too likely to hit a bystander, but Casamir was reckless enough and apparently drunk enough not to care. It was only then that Telindil realised how quiet The Bloated Float had suddenly become, and looked around at the patrons, frozen in place, fear etched deeply into their features. Then the tension shattered as one of them a young Imperial woman, ran for the door, screaming for the guards. No sooner had she left than the rest of the patrons, Ormil and the Orc bouncer along with them, fled.

Telindil breathed a sigh of relief as the tavern emptied, and it almost cost him his life. Casamir was already hurling a fireball Telindil's way, who barely countered it with a spell of fire shield, though it knocked him off his feet. Telindil expected Casamir to press the advantage, but was able to right himself unimpeded, just in time to see Casamir drop a potion vial carelessly to the floor. Before Telindil's eyes Casamir seemed to change. His stance tightened, his eyes became clearer, and his balance returned. “Still can't hold your ale Casamir? A potion of cure poison again? I thought you Bretons were supposed to be good at restoration?” Had Casamir's potion been a little less potent, or had he been more drunk, Telindil might have been able to goad him. The Breton just sneered at him in response, then the fight began in earnest.

Fireballs hurtled back and forth, lightning bolts tore through the air, and radiant orbs of frost froze everything they touched. Magic was gathered and hurled, only to splash or ricochet off armour reinforced by defensive spells, and the force of their battle wreaked havoc on the tavern. Drinks froze, thawed, then refroze, only to be shattered in a hail of twinkling shards by stray lightning bolts. Half the tables were frozen into a semi-solid mass to one side, the walls were covered by the crazed burn marks of lightning, and the bar was blazing merrily. There was nothing subtle or delicate about the magic used, it was brute force elemental strikes being blocked by defensive spells, a battle of mace and shield by magical proxy. Two spellcasters slugging it out like a pair of punch-drunk brawlers, in a display sure to make any of their old tutors wince at its crudeness.

Telindil knew he was in trouble. Casamir's innate Breton resistance to magic kept the worst of Telindil's spells at bay, letting him use weaker defensive spells, and focus more on attacking. Meanwhile Telindil was being stung by every spell Casamir threw, his Altmer heritage working against him, even through his defenses. He knew he had to end this fight, while he still could. Batting aside an orb of frost with his blade, he charged Casamir, and the next phase of the duel began. Telindil wore only light armour of Mithril, rather than the heavy Orcish-forged steel plates favoured by Casamir, so he was more agile than the Breton. The two danced around each other, Casamir's armour clanking with every step, their blades catching the flickering glow of the fires they'd started, the only source of light remaining in the tavern. The two combatants forgot about offensive magic, instead reinforcing their shield spells whenever they could, and here Telindil had the advantage. His blade carried an enchantment of dispel, though Casamir's armour meant he was still well protected. Telindil began to grow desperate. He might have been the better magic user, but Casamir's defences were near impenetrable, and he wielded his claymore like an expert. Telindil had to dodge most of Casamir's strikes, huge diagonal swings from above his shoulder, which tore gouges in the wooden floor, and threw splinters everywhere. But his dodging left him unable to counter-attack, at least in any effective way. Telindil knew that he was outmatched, and struggled to find a way to either end the fight or escape.

And in his desperation, an idea took hold. As their blades met once more, Telindil brought his free hand up before Casamir's face, and conjured the brightest light he could, shutting his eyes just before the brief flash of light. Casamir staggered backwards, blinking furiously and waving his sword blindly, his other arm waving frantically as he fought to keep his feet and clear his sight. Telindil dodged the blade and drove his sword deep into Casamir's side, piercing one of the few points he was vulnerable, under his arms. Casamir roared with pain, and swung his own sword with what remained of his fast-fading strength, burying it in Telindil's side. Both collapsed to the floor, and that was how the guards found them.

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Dec 13 2013, 06:33 PM

[Callidus Thorn]

Mirocu: Thanks. If you're going to be reading, does this mean I don't need to put updates in the "Where are you Today?" thread?

McBadgere: I had way too much fun with that fight. I didn't actually plan them to have such different styles, it just happened. Glad you liked it.

And it's all new, not a restart, though one or two elements might get recycled later on. Who knows?

Colonel Mustard: Tellybox and Casanova?

Just kidding.

Grits: That definitely what Telindil did. Now it seems he's reaching through screens and demanding readers

Acadian: Thanks for pointing that out again. I've been going over what I've got written so far trying to catch them, but I find it a bit tricky. I often talk like that, so I have a hard time spotting them. And thanks for catching those typos, guess my fingers got away from me a little there.


Yikes! Seems I've given myself a tough act to follow

Okay, here's part one of Chapter 1. I wasn't originally going to post it in two parts, but it's pretty long and I've only finished editing half of it so far. Since I've reached a good point to split it in two, I thought "why not?".

Chapter 1 part 1: Condemned

The Imperial City, Last Seed 27 3E 433, Prison

Telindil lies unconscious, stuffed into a set of ill fitting, rough-spun prison issue clothes, a dull red stain on one side of his chest. His breathing is laboured, but steady. A healer had tended to him before they put him in the cell, but his wound has not been fully healed. “No point restoring a man to full health only to hang him the next day”, one of the guards had joked when they noticed the red stain on his clothes as they carried him in. The cell is dimly lit, by a small window set high in the wall. On the one side a single stool stands before a table, upon which stand a jug of water and a cup beside it. The floor is littered with humanoid bones, and rusted manacles stained with blood hang from the opposite wall on thick iron chains.

Telindil began to stir, then woke. Alarmed at waking in unfamiliar surroundings, he sat bolt upright, then screamed in agony as he almost tore wide the wound in his chest once more. Collapsing backward, he smacked his head against the thin straw sack posing as a mattress, though the pain barely registered amidst the near blinding agony from his side. He lay there for a while, he didn't know how long, and looked around as best he could without rising. It was only then he realised where he was. Slowly he forced himself to his feet, fighting for every breath and gasping in pain with every move, desperate to stand. In his weakened state he couldn't cast anything powerful, let alone remember any of the powerful spells he knew. There were only two within his grasp: A basic flare spell, clearly of no use, and a minor healing spell. It was not intended for such dire wounds, but perhaps with enough casts it would suffice.

Leaning heavily against the cold stone wall for support, he cast his spell over and over again, feeling an infinitesimal fraction of his strength return each time. He was interrupted before he could finish the long, drawn-out process. Four figures came down the stairs, one locking the door behind them before joining the other three, talking quietly about something. Three of them wore identical armour and matching blades, two Redguard men and a woman. He couldn't tell at first whether she was Imperial, Breton, or even Nord, though he doubted the latter. As they stopped before his cell, Telindil got a better look. Only then was he able to pick out the faintest of merish features in her face, the hallmark of the Bretons. She returned his gaze with a look typically reserved for something disgusting clinging to the underside of her boot.

“What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits.” She barked at one of the two Redguards, clearly they were her subordinates.

“Usual mixup with the Watch, I -” The Redguard began.

“Never mind. Get that gate open. Stand back, prisoner. We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way.” Telindil wasted no time in moving right up against the back wall, thankful he'd had enough time to restore some freedom of movement, if not heal himself completely. It wasn't until they walked into his cell that he got a good look at the fourth person, and his knees buckled beneath him in shock. He fell to one knee, head bowed. It was the Emperor.

“Yes Telindil, it is I.” Telindil's eyes snapped upwards, his face a study in astonishment, his jaw slack. “I have seen your face often, Telindil, and heard your name called out amidst dreams of blood and fire. Even now your feet are set upon the path you must walk, and for a time we shall walk it together, until my journey's end. The dawn approaches, and with its coming night shall fall forever.”

Telindil was still trying to make sense of this when a section of cell wall swung open, revealing a secret passageway. A gust of stagnant air, thick with dust, wafted into the cell."Please, sire, we must keep moving.” The woman's voice was insistent. “Better not close this one. There's no way to open it from the other side” She said to the other two, before leading the Emperor through the passageway, into old sections of the city long abandoned. Telindil followed them, having nothing else he could do, leaving a fair distance between himself and the Emperor's party. The walls and floor were covered with a thick layer of dust, the stonework beginning to crack and crumble from age. The stagnant air caught in his throat with every breath, forcing him to fight back coughing fits and sneezes. He watched from a distance as shadowy figures burst from hiding, conjuring weapons and armour with a spell unlike anything Telindil had seen before. Without any apparent discipline they charged to attack the Emperor and his bodyguards.

The Breton woman went down early in the fight. A mace swung by one of the four attackers breaking her sword arm, before the return stroke crushed her face and shattered her skull. The two Redguards finished off the attackers, and left the Breton woman where she lay. They ushered the Emperor through a door at the far end of the chamber, and as Telindil approached it to follow them he heard the click of the lock. He was trapped. He turned back to the bodies of the attackers, and began searching them for anything of value. Their robes were useless, sodden with blood and slashed by the blades the Emperor's bodyguards had carried. Two of them each carried a potion, which Telindil pocketed before he caught sight of the Breton woman's body. She had a shortsword at her waist, and her curved sword lay on the floor where it had fallen. He took the shortsword, testing the balance before taking the scabbard from the woman's belt. Then he picked up her other sword, and took a few practise swings with it. “Too good a blade to leave to rust” he muttered to himself. He was about to turn back towards his cell with the idea of perhaps forcing the lock on the door, when he heard something.

He turned as the noise increased, the squeaking of rats giving way to the sound of stone grinding across stone, followed by several dull thuds that echoed around the room. Telindil searched for the source of the sound, finding that two rats had broken through a section of ancient wall. Neither had fully cleared the hole, making them easy targets for his flare spell. He peered through for a few moments, noting the rougher construction of the room beyond before heading through. Again he fought down a coughing fit at the air, more stale than ever, and thick with the stench of vermin and filth. He drew his salvaged blade at the sound of more squeaking, and cut a pouncing rat nearly in half as it threw itself at him. He found the skeletal remains of an archer nearby, the bones long since picked clean by the rats, leaving no sign of what had killed him or her. Nor was there any sign of how they had gotten there. The skeleton did at least possess some armour, though the leather was rough and old, and he hesitated only briefly before struggling to put it on. It was a poor fit, but it was better than nothing. He stumbled around the room, using his healing spell again, both to help his chest, and to light the area for a moment. He found a locked door with the body of some sort of goblin nearby, it seemed they were down here as well, and were undoubtedly responsible for the death of the archer.

The dead goblin had the key to the door in one of its pockets, Telindil spent a minute or two trying to wrap his head around that particular locked-room mystery, before shrugging it off and continuing. The next room added the stench of death to the mix, and Telindil advanced cautiously, not daring to light a torch, which would mean having no hand free to cast his flare spell. Experience had taught him never to give up the advantage of range, better to fight whatever was out there at a distance. Especially considering he wasn't at full strength yet. He struggled to see what was ahead of him through the ever-present darkness, blade in hand and flare ready to cast, when he made out the faint shape of a rat coming towards him. But it didn't move to attack, instead it ignored him and scurried past, as did the one behind, and he could hear the squeaking of a third somewhere in the dark.

Then he saw it. Lurching out of the darkness like something from a nightmare, a zombie was only a handful of paces away. It staggered towards him with an ungainliness that belied its speed, a dry groan issuing from its dead lungs. Telindil's blood ran cold at the sight of it, and his stomach churned at the foul reek coming from it, almost unbearable at close range. He managed to land a pair of flares on the thing, filling the air with an even more nauseating stench as the dead, rotting flesh was cooked and charred by the magical flames. After the second it was too close to risk another flare, so he led with his sword arm. He slashed at the monstrosity and weaved as best he could around its cumbersome attacks, until it shivered and fell to the ground beneath the assault. Telindil staggered backwards, needing to draw a deeper breath but not daring to do so in such close proximity to the twice-dead corpse. After retreating some distance back up the slope behind him, he managed to catch his breath again, and pressed onwards.

The tunnels began to grow even cruder, clearly dug later, probably by goblins. He knew they were down there, or that they used to be, at least. The tunnels gave way to a series of rough caverns, which were occupied by goblins, as expected. They were spread out, so Telindil only had to fight one or two at a time, brief fights swiftly resolved by flares. Because these were rough tunnels and caves, they were damp and humid in places, letting mushrooms grow. Telindil recognised them, and since they had uses in alchemy, harvested what he could. After slaying a half dozen or so of the wretched goblins, Telindil found his way into a large cavern, lit faintly by the light from a couple of cooking fires. A little light filtered in through cracks in the ceiling, but not enough to see by in its own right. There were several goblins in there, but the first three were brought down by flares before they even got close to him. Telindil exploited the general stupidity of goblins. If they were facing away, then as soon as the first flare he fired hit them, they would turn around to see where it came from before moving. This allowed enough time for a second flare, hot on the heels of the first, to hit them before they became a moving target. It even worked on the goblin witch who led them, dropping the creature before it could even use the primitive staff it carried.

After slaying the goblin witch he searched the body for anything of value, reasoning that the one in charge would hold the best loot, but found nothing save the staff. It might be crude, but it was still magical, and that guaranteed it to be worth decent coin. Exiting the cavern, he found himself back in the older tunnels, as they began to rise again, and finally lead through another hole in the wall back into the passageways and chambers beneath the prison. Below the Emperor and his bodyguards were under attack once more, from only a pair of the would-be assassins this time. Both of whom were cut down with ease by the skilled Redguards. The bodyguards seemed keen to move on but the Emperor seemed intent on lingering, as if waiting for something. Telindil was too far away to make out what was being said, but was curious at the Emperor's behaviour. Choosing to wait while assassins chased him from his own capital? What in Boethiah's name was going on? He had to find out. So while the two Redguards restlessly patrolled the room, watching the shadows for any sign of movement, Telindil jumped down. No sooner had he landed than one of the Redguards barked “Dammit, it's that prisoner again! Kill him, he might be working with the assassins.”

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Dec 17 2013, 12:27 PM