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:

I had to chuckle at the first thing the filth-encrusted Telindil did upon successfully getting out of the sewers: He sat down to ponder his situation. Perhaps it is only the ladies who, under the same circumstances, absolutely insist upon a bath in that lake as priority number one. tongue.gif

Telindil's thoughts on the matter: If I have to swim the lake to get anywhere, why take a bath first?

Though he couldn't sit in his armour thinking for too long, as we see below.

Heh, with a little digging, I learned something new. Among the long list of words that I know Brits, Aussies and Kiwis spell differently than Yanks, I just added a new one: Artifact (US) / artefact(UK).

Reminds me of a joke about the english language: The English don't speak it, the Americans can't speak it, and the Australians have never heard of it.

Mirocu:Thanks. I guess I'll have to find some things for Telindil to do between chapters for some short updates.

Well, this was intended to be the update where he gets to Jauffre, but a few things happened along the way, and it ended up longer than I'd planned, so I've broken it in two. This bit isn't as good as I'd like, but here it is:

Chapter 2 Part 1:

City Isle, Last Seed 27.

Telindil sits on the bank of Lake Rumare, looking out across the lake, enjoying the afternoon sun. He is dressed only in his loincloth, his filth-encrusted armour thrown into a haphazard pile a short distance away, far enough for him not to smell it. With one hand he holds the Amulet of Kings before his face, gazing into it, watching the way its facets catch the light. It looks dull and plain in his hands, while around the Emperor's neck it had seemed that flames or light danced within. Behind him, the Imperial city gleams in the sunlight, a beautiful sight. But to Telindil it is a mass of forbidding stone, a dark city of death, where only the gallows awaits him.

It was only as Telindil sat on the bank of the lake that he finally had some time to think; about the Emperor's last words, about what he had found himself in, and about what to do next. One thing for certain, he really didn't want to get caught up in whatever it was that was going on. The Emperor assassinated, the Prince of Destruction waking, dreams of blood and fire, and darkness falling? This was the stuff of bards' tales, or legends, where some hero or other rises to save the day. And maybe one would, but Telindil would sooner sleep with an Orc than let it be him. Half the time they died in the process, and no-one ever gets rich saving the world. But, hero or no, he had to deliver the Amulet. He couldn't just toss it in the lake, much as he might like to. Not because he had any interest in being a hero, but because he should be able to get some coin for delivering it. And since Baurus knew he had it, if Telindil disappeared someone would undoubtedly come looking for him.

Telindil sighed deeply and pushed himself to his feet, and was surprised that his chest didn't hurt as he did so. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and called to mind all the spells he could remember, only to find the majority of them gone. He remembered knowing them, but it seemed the trauma and near death experience on the Bloated Float had driven them from his mind. At least he had some spells back, even if they were only the ones he'd learned as a novice. He ran through them a few times, re-familiarising himself with them. Most he hadn't used in years, but novice spells tend to get firmly wedged in the mind through repetition, so he wasn't too surprised to remember them.

He looked over to his “armour” and sighed heavily before pulling it back on, being very careful about which parts of it he grabbed, and doing his best to breathe shallowly. Once it was back on he dove into the lake, swimming across to the far shore, where an Ayleid ruin blazed a brilliant white in the mid-afternoon light. He crawled out of the water, as quietly as he could. As he'd swum over he'd seen the tell-tale smoke of a campfire, and knew someone was there. Telindil might have no skill at stealth, but he was naturally agile, thanks to being born under the Thief. He was able to get a good look at them before they saw him.

They were armed and armoured, a Dunmer archer and a Redguard with a warhammer. Telindil called out to them as he approached, not wanting to surprise them by getting too close to their camp before being seen. The Dunmer didn't seem to hear him, but the Redguard turned to face him, and immediately drew his hammer and charged. Telindil response was to hurl flares at the Redguard, who was too heavily under the influence of adrenaline to even think to dodge. He charged at Telindil with an almost berserker-like intensity, roaring through the pain of the flares that struck him. He fell to the ground still some distance from Telindil, having taken a pair of flares to the face, as well as a several more to the chest.

Telindil didn't bother calling to the archer. Drawing his shortsword and wrapping a shield spell about himself, he charged. He'd managed to halve the distance before the archer noticed him. He raced towards the Dunmer, a hastily fired arrow ricocheting from his shoulder, deflected by his spell. After that the Dunmer threw his bow aside and snatched a dagger from his belt, but could do little more than flail with the blade, and so posed no challenge to Telindil. The Dunmer's wild, undirected blows skittered off his spell-reinforced armour, and Telindil's return blows pierced and slashed the fur armour that protected the Dunmer's chest, and stilled him. Telindil ran a quick mental check for injuries, finding only a few bruises that he soon healed before returning to the Redguard's body. He pulled the fur armour off the corpse, and discarded the foetid leather and sack cloth that he wore. The fur armour wasn't the best fit, but it was far better than what Telindil had been wearing, if only because it didn't smell as bad.

Telindil looked down at the body of the Redguard and spat in disgust. Bandits. He despised bandits. Petty criminals and thugs, banding together to prey on merchants and travellers, they were no threat to a trained fighter, except as a group. The only ones that tended to be dangerous were the ringleaders, typically the strongest of the bunch. Presumably they were using the Ayleid ruin as a base of sorts, and targeting travellers on the nearby Red Ring Road. He was sorely tempted to enter and clear the place out, but he had bigger fish to fry, and a payday to get to. With that thought in the forefront of his mind, he set off for Weynon Priory, relying on the roadsigns to guide him to Chorrol. It had been quite some time since he had last been in Cyrodiil.

He moved at a steady jog, at a pace he knew he could keep up for hours before getting exhausted, but found his journey interrupted a few times. Twice by Khajiit highwaymen, both of whom demanded more money than Telindil had, not that he'd have given it to them anyway, and so gave them cold steel in lieu of payment. And there was also a brief run-in with a pair of imps that yielded an unexpected bonus. They'd been lurking in an abandoned fort next to the road, and in an old wooden chest on one of the above-ground floors Telindil found a tattered old robe, which carried a shield enchantment. It was only weak, but it provided better protection than the fur cuirass and blacksmith's trousers he was wearing. And it meant he no longer looked like one of those bandits, and less likely to attract the attention of the Legion. He'd already had to keep his distance from the road three or four times to stop a Legionary getting too close a look at him.

It grew dark before Telindil reached the Priory, forcing him to rely on his starlight spell. This was a source of embarrassment to him, and had been ever since his training. For some reason, one unknown to his former tutors, light was the only magic from the illusion school that he could cast. As it was only the weakest form of the spell, casting light a mere 20 feet, he had to alternate between casting it and detect life, as it grew too dark to see much of anything beyond the circle of magical illumination.

By the time he reached Weynon Priory it was late evening, not that it meant much to him, he didn't care how late the hour was, so long as he got paid. No sooner had he entered than one of the monks rushed over to ask his business, but Telindil just brushed past him, and made his way up the stairs. He knew that if Jauffre was half as important as Baurus has implied, he wouldn't be greeting guests when they entered, and there was no-one else downstairs. From the stairs he could see that to the left of the stairs was the dormitory, so headed right, finding an elderly man sat at a desk. Telindil at first took him to be a scholar, his aged, Breton features intent upon the book in his hand, until he cast a more critical eye over him. The grey hair and monk's robes failed to disguise his frame, which clearly had belonged to an experienced fighter.

“Are you Jauffre?”