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]

Okay, here's another rewrite, and I'm much happier with this one.

Chapter 5 part 4: Dead Men's Tale.

Chorrol, Last Seed 30 3E 433, Mages Guild; Dining Hall

Three figures sit at the dining table; a weary and haggard looking Altmer, clad in slashed and torn leather stained with dirt and blood. To his left is a Dunmer, even at this late hour he still wears his ebony armour, and opposite him is an Argonian garbed in the blue robes ubiquitous in the Mages Guild. Concern is written across the faces of the latter two, though it's harder to read in the lizard-like features of the Argonian.

“Are you sure you're up to this Telindil? We can do this tomorrow if you'd prefer.”

Telindil poured himself a goblet of Tamika's 415, and drained it far more swiftly than the vintage deserved. He refilled the goblet before replying. “Thanks Oreyn, but no. I'd rather get this done tonight. There are no ghosts in Black Rock Cavern.”

Oreyn opened his mouth to speak, but Teekeeus cut in ahead of him. “My friend, please, let's discuss this in the morning, when you'll feel better.”

“In the morning I expect I'll have a hangover, and be no use to you before midday because of it.”

“Let him speak Teekeeus, he looks like a man who needs to get something off his chest. If they weren't ghosts, then why did the sellswords think they were? And what were they?”

“The sellswords are no mages, they probably call anything ethereal a ghost. As to what they were... I can guess, but I can't say for certain.”

“Wait, Telindil. What makes you so certain that they weren't ghosts?” Teekeeus leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table as his tail twitched on the seat beside him.

“Their form, for starters. These had coherent forms, complete with legs and faces, I've never heard of that in a ghost. They had abilities beyond those of ghosts, healing and invisibility. They carried weapons, cutlasses and bows, and they wore armour.”

Teekeeus scaly brow furrowed at that, and he was silent for several long moments before shaking his head. “I don't know Telindil. I've not heard of any ethereal entities that match your description, outside of folktales about ghosts. You said you can guess at what they are? Let's hear it then.”

Telindil took a fortifying gulp of wine before continuing, feeling it's warmth trace it's way down his throat. “I think... I think they were trapped souls.”

Teekeeus hissed, both from disgust and horror. Oreyn looked on, bemused. “What's so strange about that? More than a few souls went into enchanting my weapons and armour.”

Teekeeus shook his head. “They are not souls Oreyn. Soul gems have no power over souls, despite their name. The energy trapped in a soul gem is like a soul, but only as much as your reflection in a mirror is like you. It might look the same, but there is no substance to it. What the soul trap spell catches is in essence the energy that links the body to the soul. It takes on some characteristics of both, but it isn't truly a part of either. This energy can allow a soul to linger, becoming the sort of ghost you hear of in stories, or can sometimes become a typical ghost.”

Teekeeus poured a goblet of wine, offering the bottle to Oreyn before continuing. “There are accounts of souls lingering, or of necromantic magics that bind a soul to another, but binding souls to a place?” Teekeeus shook his head mournfully. “There is only one necromancer I've ever heard of who could accomplish such an abominable thing. Mannimarco.”

“It would take a magic user of his skill, or near to it to accomplish the rest. There was a hidden area of the cave, concealed by magic. The air there was thick with the feel of necromancy, and in that cave, deep under the mountain, there lies a pirate ship. It's wrecked, but still recognisable. There are only a handful of mages who could have moved it this far inland, and fewer still that could have buried it under a mountain and hidden it away. But only one person could have done all that and placed a necromantic curse that powerful on the cave.”

Telindil drained his goblet again, but didn't reach for the bottle. “Those poor bastards must have crossed Mannimarco somehow, centuries ago judging by the bodies I found down there. He dropped them and their ship under the mountain and left them there to die, cursed to remain there, even after death, protecting their loot and their ship.”

“So these trapped souls, how dangerous would you say they are?” Now it was Oreyn's turn to lean forwards in his seat.

“Now? I don't know. They might be released, they might just be brought back again by the curse. Probably best to post a notice in the guildhall saying it's off limits.”

“I'll get it done tomorrow. I'll speak to the town guard too, and send the word 'round the guildhalls, just in case someone hears a rumour and gets stupid. All this talk of necromancy and curses, an honest fighters got no business meddling in them. No offence meant Teekeeus, but each to his own. I'll make sure no idiots wander in, leastways none we'll miss anyhow, and leave the matter to you.”

Teekeeus nodded cordially. “Thank you Oreyn. I'll send word to the Arcane University tomorrow, tell them what happened, advise them of Telindil's theory and request a team be sent to investigate.”

Telindil shuddered at the thought. “Better tell them to send some Battlemages along as escort, just in case.”

“Of course. Would you be interested in accompanying them?”

Telindil's face grew pale. “Mehrunes Dagon will be giving teddy bears to orphans, and the priestesses of Dibella will take vows of celibacy, before I set foot in that godsforsaken place again.”

That had them all laughing, Oreyn's booming laugh an odd accompaniment to Teekeeus' sibilant chuckling. Teekeeus took a sip of wine and turned his attention to Oreyn. “Perhaps if Battlemages can't be spared, your fighters could be hired as guards?”

“You'd have to supply us with weapons. We don't have the equipment, as I've been telling you mages for years. If you want to hire as guards for your expeditions then you're going to have to pay us in arms. Iron and steel are fine against man, mer, and beasts, but the things you mages get up to...” Oreyn shook his head. “You'd better go get some sleep Telindil, Teekeeus and I'll be at this for a while.”

“Not a bad idea. I've a mind to leave for Bruma in the morning.”

“Whatever you do, don't go near Sabine. She'll use you for an anvil if she finds out you wrecked one of her swords in a single day. And she's been knocking boots with Lum, so don't think your sparring partner'll back you, he's more likely to truss you up and hand you over as a gift.”

Telindil couldn't stop himself from smiling, weary though he was. “I think that's an Orcish courtship ritual. Didn't know Lum was such a traditionalist. Thanks for the warning. I'll leave you two to your haggling.”

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Feb 19 2014, 05:56 PM