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]

@Acadian: Thanks for the advice. I hadn't thought about the length of paragraphs, I'll add that to the list of things to keep track of.

And I've no idea what was going on with all those apostrophes, must have been an off day when I wrote that part.


And now the latter half of the tutorial, where we see a little of Telindil's character:

Chapter 1 part 2: Absolved

“No. He is not one of them. He can help us. He must help us.” At the Emperor's words, the Redguards calmed down and returned to patrolling, while the Emperor beckoned Telindil over to him. “They cannot understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I have seen. My Blades are the finest warriors in Cyrodiil, but they cannot stand against fate, though they would still try. The gods have granted me the grace to see the path ahead, though that sight ends this night, the dreams they have sent me do not go beyond the gates of death. But they have shown me a glimmer of hope, one last sight of the stars before the darkness falls.”

“I don't understand, Sire. What do you mean? What glimmer of hope?”

“My Blades could not defy what is coming, but you are not one of my Blades. You are the unknown quantity, and so it will be up to you to decide what comes next. For I go this night to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. But my fate is not yours, and in that there is hope.” And with that, the Emperor called to his Blades, and they set off once more, fighting their way through wave after wave of the mysterious attackers. Telindil hung back from the fighting, unable to match the prowess of the Blades, and wanting to think about what the Emperor had said. As they passed through yet another door, the Blades seemed to tense, as if sensing something amiss. One of them moved forward to scout ahead, before calling back that all was clear. Then it became obvious that something was wrong. A gate barred their way, locked from the opposite side. They were trapped.

The only other door led to a room with no other exit, through a short, arched passage. The Blades left the Emperor there, before returning to the larger chamber, one of them pausing to order Telindil; “Stay with the Emperor, guard him with your life.” Telindil took up a position in the arched passage, sword drawn and flare ready to cast, and then their mysterious assailants revealed themselves.

They attacked in two's and threes, making straight for the Blades. The two of them fought with a strength and skill born of desperation, the strength of men who know that salvation can only be reached by climbing over the dead. Wave after wave of the attackers broke upon them, but for each who fell another took their place. And just as in time even the mightiest of rocks may be washed away by the sea, they could not hold forever.

“Telindil” The Emperor's voice, though quiet, seemed to cut through the noise of combat only yards away. “We must talk, you and I.” Telindil tore his attention from the battle, and moved to stand before the Emperor. “You must listen. The Prince of Destruction awakes, those attacking us are his servants. Take my Amulet, the Amulet of Kings, take it to Jauffre, tell him to find my secret son. He must be kept safe! All hope rests with him now, him and with yourself.” Telindil took the Amulet and tucked it away inside his cuirass, then turned sharply at a shout of pain from behind him. He turned just in time to see one of the Blades fall to the ground, sword clattering to the floor from fingers no longer able to hold it.

As he turned back to face the Emperor, his blood ran cold. Behind the Emperor was another of the attackers, covered in dust and powdered stone. A hole in the wall behind revealing him to be the final part of the trap. From where Telindil stood it seemed the assassin carried no weapon, but then he saw the growing red stain on the front of the Emperor's robes, and realised what had happened. They had failed. The Emperor fell to the ground, no hint of pain on his features, as if one or all of The Nine had shielded him from the pain of his passing. Telindil saw the blade held in the assassins hand, the Emperor's blood dripping from the blade, and for the first time he could remember he was paralysed with fear.

The last Blade saved him. Battered and bruised, but unbroken, he charged past Telindil. He met the assassin blade to blade, and hacked him down with fierce, brutal strokes. Then he stood, chest heaving from exertion, and Telindil got a good look at him. His armour was torn, sections of it hanging loose, and was covered in blood. His sword was notched in places, and he bled from a score of wounds. His shield was a mass of scrapes and dents, barely even round anymore. The sword and shield fell from the Blade's fingers, as though he suddenly lacked the strength to carry them, and then his knees buckled. He looked like a great weight had landed upon him, a burden he had never thought he would have to bear. He knelt beside the Emperor, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said; “No, Talos save us. We've failed.” He cocked his head to the side briefly in confusion, and turned to Telindil. “The Amulet, the Amulet of Kings, where is it? It's not with the Emperor, did they take it?”

Telindil shook his head, reaching into his cuirass and pulling the Amulet out to show the Blade. “No, the Emperor gave it to me just before...” His eyes drifted to the body of the Emperor, he didn't need to finish.

“He gave it to you? Why?” The Blade asked Telindil, confusion warring with suspicion in his eyes and voice.

“He told me to take it to Jauffre. He said there is another heir, a secret son.”

“Another heir? Then all is not lost. But why you? Why not give the Amulet to one of his Blades, to Glenroy or myself?”

“He said that you could not stop what is coming, that the Blades couldn't stand against his fate. He said I was the “unknown quantity”, that my fate was not his, and that in that there is hope. And at the end... He said that all hopes rests with his secret son, and with myself. I don't really know what he meant.”

“Hmm, he must have seen something in you, or perhaps something of what is to come. They say the Dragonblood gives a man strange sight, lets him see events before their time, or things that can't be seen by mortal eyes.” He wearily pushed himself to his feet before continuing. “I must remain here with the Emperor's body.” He pulled a key from a pouch at his belt, and handed it to Telindil. “This will open the door to the sewers, you can get out that way. Take the Amulet to Jauffre, tell him Baurus sent you. Tell him the Emperor's last words. Go.”

Telindil turned towards the hole in the wall, the only way forward, but stopped as Baurus laid a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, that sword you carry, that was Captain Renault's sword, wasn't it?” Telindil nodded and Baurus continued. “It is tradition among the Blades that when they die, their swords are taken to our fortress. I cannot let you leave with that sword.” Telindil didn't want to part with it, but even wounded as Baurus was, Telindil didn't think he could best him if it came to a fight. Sighing resignedly, he handed the sword to Baurus, who nodded his thanks.

“This Jauffre had better pay well for this” Telindil muttered to himself as he turned away from Baurus, who could not restrain himself.

“Pay?! Pay?! You listen, prisoner, the Emperor has given you an order, it is your duty to see it done.” The Redguard was furious. The Emperor lay dead, and this Altmer sought to profit from it?

“Duty? I'm a mercenary. When I'm not employed I have no duty to anyone but myself. And yes, I expect to be paid for this. My property has been confiscated, and will no doubt be sold to cover the damages I caused before I was arrested. I am a broke mercenary, with a plundered steel short sword and second-hand armour older than I am. And I'm charged with protecting the most valuable artefact in the whole of Cyrodiil, possibly the whole of Tamriel.” Telindil was just as angry as Baurus, and was getting angrier, his voice growing louder as he continued his tirade.

“I've just survived the Emperor's assassination, while two members of the Blades didn't, and now you want me to risk my life for free? To carry the Amulet of Kings halfway across Cyrodiil, without being detained by the Legion or killed by outlaws, with equipment not fit for a child playing at being a hero in some game with their friends? And that's assuming the assassins don't want it. It's only because the Emperor asked me to do it that I'm even considering it. I'm not part of the Legion, I'm not a city guard, I'm not a member of the Blades. I've sworn no oath of allegiance, made no vow to serve the Empire, so I've no obligation to do this. So yes, I do expect to be paid.”

Baurus glowered at Telindil, disgust etched across his features, and his words dripped with venom. “If coin is all that matters to you, then I'm sure Jauffre will reward you. Now get out of my sight mercenary, you insult the Emperor by being here.” Baurus placed one hand on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip, and Telindil did not take the threat lightly, heading through the hole the assassin made and into the sewers.

He emerged onto the banks of Lake Rumare a short while later, his rough leather boots encrusted with filth and excrement, his leather cuirass and sack cloth trousers stained with goblin blood, and the most valuable artefact in the empire in his possession. He sat down on the shore, looking out across the water, and asked himself why he didn't just stay in his damn cell.

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Dec 24 2013, 03:08 PM