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]

Thanks, Acadian.

And now for the next part:

Chapter 3 Part 1: Guilds

Chorrol, Last Seed 29 3E 433, Fighters Guild.

“So you want to join the Fighters Guild?” The question was asked by a Dunmer clad in Ebony armour, with a matching mace at his hip. Telindil could tell just by the casual way the Dunmer stood in all that armour that he was a veteran warrior. No one stood in platemail as if it weighed nothing unless they'd spent decades training and fighting in it. His expression conveyed that fact even more than his stance. It was the sort of expression generally seen on drillmasters for the Imperial Legion, when presented with a particularly feeble group of recruits.

“That's why I'm here.” Telindil answered, unfazed by the Dunmer's glare.

“Then you'll need to speak to Vilena Donton. She's the Mistress of the Guild, and handles the administration. She's upstairs, the second flight's round the corner.” The Dunmer made no move to stand aside though, and in response to Telindil's confused look, continued speaking. “But you'll get to her later. She may be the Mistress, but I'm Modryn Oreyn, the Fighter's Guild Champion. I'm the Master. She can administrate all she likes, but make no mistake, this is my Guild. And in Chorrol, no-one joins unless I say so. And I don't say so until you've shown me you can fight. Still interested in joining?”

“Like I said, that's why I'm here.”

Oreyn's fierce countenance actually cracked at that, and the merest ghost of a smile blurred across his features. “Good. First things first, a few questions.” Oreyn plucked a piece of paper from a stack on a nearby table, along with a quill and ink bottle. “Name?”

“Telindil”

“Occupation?”

“Freelance Spellsword”

“Guild certified?”

“I was until Traven revoked everyone's certification. I'm here in Cyrodiil to join the Guild.”

“Why haven't you joined already?”

“I just got into town. I stopped in at the Guildhall before coming here. The Argonian who runs the place likes to sleep late.”

This time Oreyn really did smile. “Ha! Mages. Too fond of comfort. That's why I don't trust them. I make an exception for those that learn to fight properly, but I put my faith in steel and sinew rather than magic. I take it you're an experienced fighter?”

“More than 50 years, all told. All of it mercenary work.”

“Good. And your magic? With that much experience I expect you to have some powerful spells at your disposal.”

“Not any more. I recently suffered a near death experience, or at least I'm pretty sure that's the case. My memory's a little hazy on that front, unsurprisingly. It seems the shock or trauma pretty much knocked them out of my memory.”

This had Oreyn frowning again. “Hmm, disappointing. I assume you'll be getting new spells and training as needed?”

“Of course”

“Very well. Any trouble with the law? And we will find out if you're lying.”

“There was an issue in the Imperial City, but that's been resolved. Or at least it will be in a day or two. You know how bureaucracy is. No-one's happy until they've got a stack of papers for something you can sum up in a sentence.”

Oreyn glared at him, as if to see inside Telindil's head by sheer force of will. “Good enough. But if the matter isn't resolved by the time our runner gets to the Capital, I will personally throw you out of my Guild. From a second storey window. Understood?”

Telindil nodded. Oreyn put the form aside, and crossed to a bell, ringing it loudly twice before shouting “Fresh meat!” There was a brief commotion as apparently all the members present assembled. Oreyn beckoned to Telindil, and led him downstairs. “This is out training hall, and also serves as a proving ground for new members. If you want in, you need to impress me. The test comes in three stages: First I test your bladework, then your footwork, and finally you face me with everything you've got. We fight with practice blades. They're wooden, but have a steel core, for the weight and balance.” He picked up one of the practice blades and threw it to Telindil, arcing it through the air to let him catch it safely, before taking up one for himself.

“For this first part, I will only defend. Come at me.” Oreyn suited action to words, slipping into a combat stance, his blade held low in his right hand. He held it pointing upwards and inwards, so that it rose across him. Telindil assumed a ready stance of his own, left hand forward, raised to cast as he had been trained. His sword was held behind him, arm extended and sloping downwards, blade pointing toward the ground. He took two quick steps forward, bringing his practice blade in a rising slash from right to left. Oreyn advanced a single step, setting himself as he brought his blade around in a sold block. The force of the block rang down Telindil's arm, and he used it, turning a quick spin to lead into another attack. As his blade arced towards Oreyn's head, the Dunmer's blade was there waiting for him, with another powerful parry.

The test continued for a few minutes, Telindil's every strike blocked, before Oreyn decided he'd seen enough. “Now for the second stage, you defend I attack” Again Oreyn suited action to words, not giving Telindil any time to gather himself. Oreyn moved like water, swift flowing steps and slashes that should have been impossible in that armour. Telindil spent more time staggering and reeling than actually blocking or parrying, to say nothing of his more frantic dodges. But he managed to stay just ahead of the blade, most of the time. By the time Oreyn called time on the second stage he could feel a few bruises forming under his armour.

Oreyn gave Telindil some time to recover, his expression showing no sign of the old drillmasters glare. Telindil took this as a good sign. Oreyn walked to a chest standing against the back wall and unlocked, retrieving a potion vial and an amulet. “Between these two, I will gain the ability to absorb any magicka you throw at me, for a time. This last test will end when the potion does. I need to see everything you've got, so don't hold back. Telindil dropped into his ready stance once more as Oreyn downed the potion and placed the amulet reverently around his neck. He stood three paces away from Telindil, and assumed the same stance as before. “Begin.”

Again, Telindil came forward in a rush, his blade arcing round. This time he bent his arm at the elbow, turning a sweeping slash into a sudden thrust. Oreyn batted it aside and lashed out with an elbow aimed at Telindil's head, forcing him to duck the arm and sidestep. The two danced around each other, Oreyn the faster and more graceful despite his heavy armour. Telindil stuck to his preferred method of fighting a heavily armoured opponent, using his blade to keep Oreyn's at bay and open them up for touch based magic, which armour did nothing to stop without enchantment. He took more than a few knocks in the process, but by the time they were done Oreyn was smiling warmly. “You'll do Altmer, you'll do.”

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Jan 8 2014, 06:40 PM