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. I've got a whole story as to what they really are, and why, but that comes next time

@Ghastley: Shield and spell would be nice, but I'd consider that more how a Sorcerer would fight than a Spellsword. Heh, and I couldn't really call him a Spellsword Sellsword if he didn't use one, could I?

As for the first paragraph, the italics re intentional, guess I just missed my target with it.


Right, part three of chapter 5. This was supposed to be the final part, but it seems it's all gone a bit Hitchhikers and become a trilogy in four parts. Unfortunately that means no fighting next time, I'll try to make it plenty interesting though.

And I'm not going to lie, just writing this one made me tired.


Chapter 5 part 3: What on Nirn...?

Last Seed 30 3E 433, Black Rock Cavern

Telindil moves awkwardly through the dark tunnels. He's tense, so tense his movements are jerky and unbalanced, as he fights the tension that sinks into his muscles with every step. His right hand is locked in a vice-like grip about the hilt of his sword, gripping so tightly his knuckles are white as bone. His left hand is no less tense, but lacking anything to grasp has tightened itself into something resembling a claw. Both arms tremble slightly, and Telindil's eyes search the darkness constantly, as if to pierce the darkness by force of will. He doesn't dare use his light spell, so the darkness enfolds him as he moves, smothering his senses as the feel of necromantic magic ahead clouds his mind.

The tunnels leading down are cramped, ancient, and littered with corpses. Some of the bodies were recent additions, others had died so long ago they were little more than powder and dust. Dread weighing heavily about his shoulders, Telindil ventured on. The tunnels led to a vast underground chamber, partly flooded like the lower level of the tunnels, and which contained a sight that made Telindil doubt his eyes. In Black Rock Cavern, hidden by magic and buried deep below the surface, was the still recognisable wreckage of a pirate ship.

No sooner had Telindil resolved himself that that was indeed what he was seeing, than two more of the spectres charged towards him, cutlasses raised. Telindil retreated back into the tunnels, forcing them to fight him one at a time in the narrow confines. One by one he faced them, parrying with his sword and dumping magical shocks into their ethereal bodies. He couldn't help but noticing the uncanny way in which they hovered above the knee-high water, putting him at a disadvantage as their strikes arced down towards him. Blades struck sparks as they scraped against the tight walls and clashed iron to steel. Every shock spell Telindil used he felt a little of as the water carried a portion back to him, and the spectres proved just how different they were from ghosts, turning invisible briefly or healing themselves on occasion.

Eventually, the second of the spectres fell. It had been a more gruelling fight than the previous, seeming to be both shorter and longer, and the darkness had made it worse. As Telindil looked down at the ethereal bodies, he couldn't suppress the rising tide of horror he felt within, now that he knew what those spectres were. Even though he knew, he still had a hard time believing it, but the evidence was right before him. The spectres had not been ghosts, and their remains were unchanged, unlike ghosts or wraiths which largely dissipate when defeated. To do such a thing as this...

Telindil made his way towards the ruined ship, though his mind still reeled at the thought of what it must have taken to get it here. Nothing but magic could have accomplished this, and no mages lived today who could have accomplished such a feat, save perhaps Divayth Fyr or the legendary Psijics. But the lingering, oppressive weight of forbidden magics told Telindil precisely who was responsible for this madness. There was only one being that could have both accomplished this feat and left this magic corrupting the air with its perversion.

Putting aside the thoughts, Telindil looked around spotting another of the spectres to the side of the ship, surrounded by crates, barrels, and chests. It looked as though these spectres, pirates it seemed safe now to guess, had been alive when they were entombed here, and had moved their loot from within the ruined ship. Telindil looked over his sword, noting the notches that marred its once sharp edge, almost lending it the appearance of serrations. He shook his head; Sabine would kill him for bringing his sword back like this, especially seeing as it was one she had made. Shrugging to himself, he readied the battered blade and advanced on the spectre, lightning crackling around his fingers.

This spectre seemed more skilled than the others had, both with the blade and with its ethereal abilities. Bit by bit Telindil wore it down, until with the last of its strength it launched its final attack, putting everything it had behind it. Telindil was caught off guard by the sudden ferocity of the strike, and missed the chance to parry, forcing him to block with the weakened blade. The ancient steel, magically preserved, dug three quarters of the way through the iron blade, before snapping the top third off. Telindil threw as much as he could into his shocking touch spell, dropping the spectre to the floor, unmoving. Exhausted by the hectic fights, he slumped to his knees, his chest heaving from his exertions, the ruined blade slipping from his fingers.

Then he saw the faint glow out of the corner of his eye, there was still one more of them left. Healing himself as best he could, waited as long as he dared before advancing on the final spectre, taking as much time as he could to let his magicka replenish. He had planned to use solely spells, and hope to deal with it quickly, but something Teekeeus had said to him in Chorrol popped into his mind. “Though you are no conjurer, there's no reason you can't learn a little of it. Speak to Alberic, he has a basic spell, bound dagger, that you might find helpful. A blade, perhaps, when all others fail you.” His weary mind almost stumbled over the spell, but a daedric dagger wove its way into existence in his grasp.

Telindil charged the final spectre, slashing his dagger like a maniac at the spectre, who hurriedly discarded the bow he'd been holding in favour of a cutlass. Telindil knew he couldn't hope to block or parry the spectre's lengthier weapon, and so settled for not giving his foe room or time to use it. Telindil buried the spectre under a veritable storm of frenzied slashes and shocking touches, until it fell to the ground, not exactly dead, but close enough to it. Telindil barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before his dagger disappeared.

Making his way back to the area with the crates, Telindil noticed something he hadn't before. The air there seemed less foul, and the crates and chests didn't carry the same ferocious chill as the spectres' cutlasses. 'That must have been why one of the spectres was here,' he mused to himself, 'it must have been the captain'. The cargo, or perhaps more accurately the loot, was unaffected by the magic that blighted the caverns. The cutlasses sticking out of a barrel were like all the others, but the chests contained a dagger with a fire enchantment and an enchanted shield, both of which Telindil took. He also pocketed whatever other valuables he could find in the crates and barrels before dragging himself wearily out of the caverns and back to the surface, glad to put that place behind him.

It had been a long day.

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Feb 6 2014, 05:43 PM