A Skyrim tale - Vengeance and Redemption, Eilidh MacAuley's Tale Options

[PhonAntiPhon]

HELGEN

"What's your name, Elf?"
The shouts of soldiers and the clatter of weapons echoed around the windblown courtyard. Someone's discarded linen shawl blew between the legs of the small group of guardsmen standing lazily to attention beside an old and scarred desk set up in the middle of the wide space.

Behind this desk, holding a quill pen poised over a ragged sheet of parchment, sat a hard-eyed and angular woman of maybe 50 summers, bedecked in the regalia of a captain of the guard.
She sighed, and waved the quill at a soldier standing behind the prisoner.

With a grunt of acknowledgement the soldier lifted his spear and slammed the butt end of it into the small of the captive's back.
She fell to her knees on the hard dusty ground, sucking a pained breath in through between dirty, clenched teeth.
"Your name." Demanded the captain once again.

After a moment longer, the prisoner looked up at the captain behind her desk; regarded her with large, nearly black eyes set in a gaunt face framed by lank, straw-coloured hair from which protruded the pointed tips of distinctive Elven ears.

The Elf opened her mouth and said in a low, cracked voice; "Eilidh."

The Captain regarded her a moment longer.

The Bosmer - (who, incidentally smelt... well she smelt terribly, but she also smelt like a wolf or a bear; slightly "meaty" and "musty"; sour and rotten. All her kind did, it was as distinctive as it was unwholesome; a result of their twisted diet. And yet, the Captain had to admit to herself, she found this one more than a little fascinating) - The elf's face and body betrayed no small degree of history and hardship; thin she was and yet beneath the ragged sackcloth shirt her body was nevertheless sinewy and bowstring taut, the compact muscles hard and surprisingly powerful; at least one of her men had found that out the hard way when they had attempted to capture her.

Her skin was heavily freckled, beneath a layer of greasy filth, and marked by innumerable abrasions, pocks and marks of all shapes and sizes. She was heavily tattooed with any number of vulgar designs.
But it was her face, more than anything, that told of the hardness of her life until now, it's end.

The left side of the Bosmer's face was a mass of scarring, the damaged skin pale and livid against the dirt that covered her. Dark warpaint was smeared across her cheeks and the sockets of her eyes, which were black and moist; vastly deep like some animal's and rimmed with a livid red as of an incipient infection.
The woman's mouth was set in a thin hard line, the lips bloodless.

But enough of this.
She sighed, waved the quill again and once more the butt of the spear connected with the kneeling Bosmer, hitting her shoulderblade with a crack barely muffled by the thin material that covered her.
"ALL of your name, bosmer." She said, spitting out the last word like an insult.

"MacAuley, Eilidh MacAuley." Said Eilidh finally, her dry voice heavily accented.
The captain grunted in satisfaction and carefully wrote down the name on the parchment, poking out her tongue in concentration.
When she had finished she looked up at Eilidh again, saying; "So, bosmer, have ye anything to say in ya defence, afore I pass my judgement?"
It was a pointless question, and she knew it.

Eilidh knew it too.
"Téigh gnéas féin agat soith..." She hissed through yellowed and gritted teeth.
"Speak Imperial!" Snapped the Captain. Eilidh winced as the guard behind her applied his spear to her back once again.
She glanced hatefully at the woman behind the desk and then, a cold half-smile flickering across her lips she said; "Go **** ye'sel' *****."

There was an audible gasp from the men around her at this display of blatent insolence, and for a moment even their leader looked taken aback.
The Captain gathered herself.
"Even if you were not already dead, bosmer, now you are for sure..."

Silence held sway for a moment and Eilidh, naked but for the thin cloth shivered a little in the chill air blowing through the garrison's courtyard.
She ached all over, or at least more than usual. Her brains were pounding in her ears and her mouth had a dry and phlegmy taste in it. Her condition was not helped in any way by the fact that she had not had wine for some 3 days now.
More though, was the pain of what that pig of a legionary had done to her.

Hers had been a hard life, she had had to fight every inch of the way barring a few brief patches of respite. She looked, she knew, every one of the 173 seasons that she had spent on this Gods-forsaken world.
During her time she had committed... dubious acts, both physically and morally, and yes amongst those had been the auctioning of herself, when money had been tight and survival the only factor.
But that was different, she had been in control; calling the shots she had run the game and come out the victor in those encounters.
Yesterday though, that had been something else entirely, that was evil even by her standards of behaviour. There had been a wrong visited upon her the likes of which should never happen.
Ever.

And then, out of the corner of her dark eye she saw him, standing just behind the guard Captain's entourage he was.
He was a big man, broad of girth; fat, sweaty jowls, and sallow oily skin. He was wearing a helmet and facing slightly away from her but she knew him; his stinking greasy body, his breath hot and sour against her, his little piggy eyes.
Oh, she knew him alright.
The blood in her veins ran cold as ice, her heart pounded against her ribs.

He turned then, and saw her.
His plump mouth spread open in fat grin, the thick lips pink against his pale cheeks. He pointed at her with a stubby finger whilst with his other hand he made a sign, the meaning of which was only too clear to the Bosmer.

The sound of the Captain's voice droning on - a litany of her crimes, chief amongst which was simply of having been born a Bosmer - had long since faded into the distance, to be replaced by one repeated thought:
"HE MUST PAY. HE WILL PAY."
Over and over and over, a cold and hard nugget of vengeance.

Had she been able, she would have leapt at him then and there even though her hands were bound.
Indeed, even as she thought it, her body moved of it's own accord, her mouth twisting into a snarl...

...Then hands grabbed her and lifted her roughly to her feet, through a red haze of bloody murder she vaguely heard the Captain's voice; "...for the crime of being an unwelcome element in the Imperial Province of Skyrim, for numerous

breaches of our laws, I hereby refer you for summary execution."

Her captors walked her across the courtyard to the block that sat lumpen and solid; bloodstained and chipped, in the centre of the courtyard. A mute symbol of oppression and arbitrary justice.
She passed him and their eyes met - his, mocking and leering and hers, hate-filled.
She kept her eyes on him as she was led away, maintained contact even as the tendons in her neck began to creak and ache.

Finally she faced the front, faced her future.
173 years.
He Would Pay. Even if in Death she made a pact with all of the Daedra themselves to send her back, He Would Pay.

173 years.

They forced her roughly to her knees, pushing her head onto the block.
Rage boiled within her.

173.
He Would Pay.

She sensed the headsman raise his sword.
1...
7...

The world exploded into roaring fire, and everything around her went insane.

-x-

This post has been edited by PhonAntiPhon: Mar 10 2014, 08:42 PM

[PhonAntiPhon]

TO RIVERWOOD
PART 2 - LARELLEE
[Ambush, Atticus, Obligation]

As quietly as she could she took off her boots, laying them on the ground next to her pack. Turning, she felt on the rock's surface until she found some points where she grip, and hauled herself up onto it's top, squatting as low as was possible.
The boulder itself was maybe six or seven feet high and about half that much again wide. It was roughly circular in shape, although the passage of time had scarred and eroded it, leaving it irregular and pitted. The surface was cold under her bare feet, but the discomfort was worth it for the added grip and relative silence that being barefoot granted her.

Given her position, she could not see very well around the close perimeter of the boulder; but she could hear plenty. Brushing a windblown hair away from her face, she stilled her breathing a moment and listened.
"This way..." A light voice, a woman or maybe a child.
There was the faintest sound of boots moving through the scrubby grass at the base of the rock, off to her left. She was fairly certain that whoever they were, they were unarmoured; she was also fully aware that that would not necessarily make them any less dangerous.
"She was right here, Atticus; here's her things."

There were sounds, furtive and nervous; someone was fiddling with her pack.
"Check it, Atticus! She might have..."
"By the Gods Larellee!" A second voice, deeper than the first. "Be quiet, she could be anywh..."
"...what if..."

Something landed almost silently between them and before Larellee could react, she found herself lying on her back staring up at a spindly shadow silhouetted against the stars. There was the smooth sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath, metal glinted briefly in the starlight, then disappeared with a dull smacking sound into the dark shape of Atticus.
"NOOOO!" She screamed, holding out a hand and struggling to her feet, eyes wide.

Even as Atticus slumped gurgling and twitching to the ground, his attacker spun round and knocked Larellee flat onto her back once again. Winded, she could only gasp raggedly as something evil-smelling and filled with barely controlled anger sat down astride her.
A blade went to her throat, pressed at her flesh; the metal was wet and sticky and there was the coppery smell of fresh blood.

"Wut The Fxxx?" Demanded a harsh female voice. "Wut'z yer byzzyness wi' mai stuph...?" It added.
For a moment Larellee was unable to speak. Her throat was choked with fear and sobs and her vision was clouded with salt tears.
"Atticus! Atticus... You killed him!" She finally gasped out.
"Ai di'nae arsk fr'a naym! Ai hai go' eeyars, eh? An' yez lukkee yer stul alyve yersel', an' yff'n ye wontz tai stai tha'wai then ai sojest tha' ye tull meh wot yoo wont!"

Larellee let out a hitching sob, and took a deep breath to steady herself.
Her mind was racing, she was terrified and full of grief. The voice of the woman sitting astride her was cold and her accent was so thick as to be almost incomprehensible.
"We, we came from Helgen..." She finally gasped out. It was hard to breath with the weight on her chest, flattening her breasts painfully against her ribs. "...He's my b-brother. We're not soldiers!"
She paused, gulping air. Her hands and arms were going numb from where her shoulders were being pinned to the earth by her assailant's knees.
"He's a... a stablehand! I'm a cook! A c-cook!" Larellee broke into further sobs. "We have no weapons!"

The knife at her throat moved away just the tiniest fraction.
"Wye wer ye g'wynne throo mah stuph?" The voice was softer now, just a little.
"H-hungry, we were hungry! We just... saw you and we, we didn't know what to do and... and Atticus, he said, " her voice thickened with barely controlled weeping, "he su-said maybe if, if we took just some food..."
"Humph." Said Eilidh. "Wull, ye'll hae fownde owte i'theyar fyt fer th'lykez o'ye."

The knife left her throat and Larellee drew in a deep, shaking breath as Eilidh climbed smoothly off of her. The Elf moved aside and watched in the darkness as the young woman scrambled up and crawled to the body of her brother.
"Atticus, oh... Atticus..." She rolled him over and cradled his head in her arms, lowering her face to his, she began to weep hopelessly in great hitching sobs.

Eilidh squatted down a few feet away. She wiped her blade on her pack, and replaced it in the sheath at her belt.
She sighed, chewing on her tongue thoughtfully. It occured to her that she may have been a little too hasty, but in fairness they were going through her things and she had learnt painfully that encounters in the wilds were seldom of the peaceful kind.
How else could she have acted, given her situation and all?
Nevertheless, she felt that perhaps she should say something at least, the two of them; Larellee and the now deceased Atticus were pretty far short of being hard-nosed bandits and had clearly not thought the situation through before embarking on their course of action. It would more than likely have gone ill with them whomsoever they had tried to pilfer from, but Eilidh the Bosmer had perhaps more reason than most to stab first and ask questions later. The Elf had a short fuse at the best of times, and these were very definitely not them.

"La-Rellee, iz ytte?" She asked as softly as she could, turning to the stricken woman. Larellee's cries had lessened somewhat now, and she replied after a moment with a quiet "...Yes..."
"Howe owlde air ye?" The Bosmer asked, small talk had always made her feel awkward and if she were to admit it, she was finding herself more than a little out of her depth in the current situation.
A chill wind had blown up by now, and it whipped around the boulder. Eilidh shivered, she briefly considered making a fire but rejected it, there was danger enough about as it was, without inviting it in to warm its hands at the hearth.

For a moment it seemed as if Larellee would not reply, but then she said; "I have 20 summers." She paused, then: "You killed my brother."
It was a simple statement, made in a voice full of sorrow. EIlidh swore and rolled her eyes.
"Dib'lla's teets wummanne!" She tried to keep her voice controlled. "Wut d'ye espek, eh? Creapyn' rown' i'tha muddel o' th'nyte ly' tha'?" She gestured with her arm, pointlessly, in the darkness. "Owte heyar? Ah'm frae Helgynne masel', a prizna coz 'm'a Bozma, ye unnastan'?" She paused a moment, took a breath, then continued; "Ye trye tai tek mah stuph! Haow d'ye thynke ai wuid fxxxyn' b'hayv?"
"We were just hungry." Replied Larellee. "You had the upper hand, " she sniffed, "you could have stayed your blade."

This was, as it turned out, entirely and completely correct. It was also the very last thing the hot-tempered, highly-strung Bosmer wanted to hear.
"Ai wuz fxxxyn' raped, beetyn an aboot tai b exzekyutid!" She shouted, standing up and taking a step towards the younger woman. "An' al o' tha' jes' fer beeyin' me - a Bozma! D'ye fxxxyn' thynke enneewun wuid'a gi'yn me ennee kworta? Eh?" Her hands balled into fists. "Ai wuznae e'en pylphryn' frae theyar stuph..."
She stopped, aware that she had been yelling. The night was suddenly quiet about her, and refocusing on where Larellee had been, she realised the young woman was shuffling slowly away from her and attempting to drag the corpse of her brother with her.

The Bosmer rolled her black eyes and looked skywards.
"Dyb'la's Teets!" She hissed. "Wye me...?"
A couple of strides took her to the young woman and her brother. Larellee, defeated by her burden after only a couple of feet, was sitting with her brother's head in her lap, weeping softly. She looked very small there in the dark; small and scared and desperately sad. Eilidh squatted down on the ground next to her.

"Luik La-Rellee, ye'l ge' naeweyar lyke thus. Nae wi'hum." She put out a hand to the other woman, as it touched her shoulder Larellee shied away, a small frightened sound escaping her lips.
Eilidh closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, she was gettting an aching brain.
"Cum cloasa, eh? Ai'll ge' a feya g'wynne an' worme uz uppe sum." She stopped, adding rather lamely; "Wu'l sea wut th'dorne bryngs..."
Reaching out, she made to take hold of Larellee's brother, to help her with him.
"Leave Him Alone!" The young woman's anger was sudden and sharp, her voice shrill and cracking. Eilidh jerked her hand away, she could see Larellee's teeth gleaming whitely in the darkness as she snarled at her.
They sat in silence then, for a time.

Maybe ten minutes later; at a loss for more to say, Eilidh moved back to her things and pulled on her boots. Rooting around in her pack she found the container of wine once again. Uncorking it and taking a gulp for herself, she refastened the top and getting up, padded softly over to Larellee and placed the wine next to her.
Larellee did not acknowledge her.
"Ai hae go'nae fud fer th'lykes o'yoo, buit thus uz jes' wyne, s'al, hae sum i'ye wun'." She thought for a moment, then trudged back to her pack and grabbed one of the tattered furs from the ground next to it. Returning, she draped the fur around Larellee's shoulders.
Larellee shrugged it off. Eilidh sighed and left it where it fell. She returned to her pack once again.

It was genuinely cold now but despite was she had said, Eilidh did not dare light a fire.
Her night vision was considerably better than that of any human's, but the glare from a fire would render even her unable to keep an eye on the girl. Besides, it would not be light for a number of hours yet, and there were any manner of creatures out there in the wild for whom a fire would be an irrestible attraction.
So she sat in the dark, wrapped in a fur, shivering and cold and chewing on a piece of meat to keep herself awake.

Maybe Larellee was right, maybe she should have stayed her hand. The fact was that she was right and Eilidh knew it too, that was what had angered her earlier. Either way it was too late now and besides the Bosmer could not envision having behaved differently. She had been through more than enough in her life to have painfully learnt to not hesitate in any given situation. Hesitation got you killed, or worse.
"An' soe duz wut yon pare o'eejytz dydde." She said to herself.
Still, she was not without empathy even if she was lacking in sympathy. She could understand Larellee's grief and anger, and understand why she and her brother had tried to do what they had. Gods knew she'd lost everyone and everything she had ever cared about, and done many things just to stay alive.
For Eilidh there was no more grief, had not been for decades. There was anger though, and cynicism, and a willingness to act and act fast; these things kept her hard and focussed and sharp.

She picked at her teeth with a fingernail.
The girl would have to learn that too, would have to harden up to live.
If she survived the night, that was.

She found that she could not ignore her. She felt "obligated" to look after her somehow or to do something for her, however small.
"Mus' b'gettyn' owlde..." She thought. She chuckled to herself, then looked over at Larellee who was still huddled, unmoving, over her brother. Eilidh did not like loose ends and once upon a time the only one living come the dawn would have been herself. But not this time though, or at least not by her hand.
She shook her head. It was perplexing.

The stars swept overhead on their endless journey through the vault; the night wind rustled through the scrubby grasses and soughed mournfully through the branches of the few scraggy trees that dotted the area.
From somewhere aways off to the west came the howling of wolves; closer to however, it seemed that nothing more than birds and small night creatures were abroad.
Eilidh huddled herself further into her fur and rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to stay awake; she was tired beyond words.

-x-