Severan, In His Own Words Options

[Callidus Thorn]

So, here I am again.

I didn't plan to be. I was going to take a break from writing fanfiction for a while. But when I went back to Oblivion there was someone waiting for me. His name is Severan, and I just felt that I needed to write about him, because he's that sort of character.

And when he insisted on a second draft, well, this became inevitable.

So here he is:


Chapter 1, part 1- The Story So Far

I suppose I should begin by telling you a little about myself.

My name is Severan. As for the rest of it; I’ve got a last name, a choice of two in fact, but my current situation puts me somewhere between them, so I use neither. I was born in Sadrith Mora, raised by my mother, a member of House Telvanni. I never knew my father. I was told that he was a member of the Mages Guild, an Imperial Battlemage named Stenara Acilius, stationed to Vvardenfell at the time. My mother was sent by House Telvanni to seduce him, acquire any information he might have had, and, ultimately, try to convince him to leave the Guild and join House Telvanni. Obviously, she achieved the first part, or I wouldn’t be telling you this. The rest… well, let’s just say that she got somewhat distracted and never got around to it. For obvious reasons I didn’t exactly pry into this particular area of the past. In case you were wondering why I never knew him, he was sent back to Cyrodiil before I was born. I’m told I got my name from him, it was his grandfather’s name, but I don’t seem to have much in the way of Imperial heritage. Which makes me rather lucky I suppose, as you’ll soon find out. While I never knew him, or received letters from him, I cannot recall my mother ever speaking ill of him, so I assumed there had to be some reason for the silence.

You noticed that I said “Was” when speaking of my father? I thought you might. I’ll get to that, but until then, please, let me tell this my way.

Growing up in Sadrith Mora leads to certain decisions. The entire town is split down the middle in a sense. It’s home to the Telvanni Council as well as an Imperial fort named Wolverine Hall, and the Telvanni are more than a little hostile towards them. So it should come as no surprise to you that my mother, herself a member of house Telvanni, encouraged me to join its ranks. “In Sadrith Mora, you're either Telvanni or you’re nothing.” She’d often say that, and she was right. While technically a part of the town, the Imperial section is still set apart from the rest, as if they don’t want to risk angering the Telvanni by getting too close. A wise move in a town where they could offend the entire Council at once. So it was Telvanni guards who maintained order, while the Imperials, which in Sadrith Mora meant the same as Outlander for the most part, stayed in their fort, save those whose business couldn’t flourish under such conditions.

My training in magic began early, my mother wanted me to make the best possible impression when joining House Telvanni, and she covered a little of everything. I had no trouble for the most part, but for some reason I was no good with the Restoration school of magic. It was no problem really, since House Telvanni doesn’t put much stock in it, preferring to pursue the other schools of magic and rely on alchemical potions instead. So I went before the Council, or to be more precise, before the Mouths of the Councillors, who handled their day-to-day business in Sadrith Mora, and petitioned for membership. While I possessed sufficient magical talent to join, only Galos Mathendis, the Mouth of Master Aryon of Tel Vos, offered me a position. My mother was thrilled. She thought very highly of Master Aryon, as did many others, at least when those in the employ of the other Councillors were out of earshot. He was said to be the most forward-thinking of the Council, and those in his service were said to rise faster than most others. So I bade Sadrith Mora farewell and travelled to Tel Vos.

Upon arriving I was put through a series of tests, mental, magical, and physical by a Dunmer apparently known only as Mentor. From these he judged that I would best serve if trained as a Nightblade. He himself had been trained as one, and had spent more than two centuries solving problems discreetly, by whichever of the means at his disposal were most appropriate. He was cold and callous, was possessed of a knack for moving silently, and could transition from peaceful to lethal in the blink of an eye. But the most terrifying thing about him was the way that he moved. He flowed like water, flowing effortlessly from step to step, yet, like water, at need he could crash down upon you, or sweep you up in the wake of his passing like the current. I was fortunate to have such a skilled instructor.

He trained me in both stealthy and magical arts. He emphasised the use of the bow and destruction magic, thought he also gave me basic training with shorter blades. During the lessons with blades he’d often repeat one of his mantras “Better a blade than a bow in close quarters.”. He taught me to use the other schools of magic together with stealth, save for Restoration of course. The years passed. I trained, I learnt, and I served, until recently.

I received a letter, one that had come all the way from Cyrodiil. It had been sent to my mother, though it was meant for me, and she had forwarded it. It was from my father, and was the first that I had ever heard from him:

Severan.

Forgive me for not writing sooner. I know your mother will have spent years telling you that “In Sadrith Mora, you're either Telvanni or you're nothing.”, and she is right. Knowing that you would follow her into House Telvanni, and from what your mother told me while I was stationed in Vvardenfell, I thought it best not to present the question of split loyalties. But the time for worrying about such things is over now for me. By the time this letter reaches you, I will be dead.

I am sorry Severan that I did not, that I could not, come to know you, be a father to you. But if you would humour a dying man, allow me to give you a gift; a legacy, from father to son. I took a great deal back to Cyrodiil that I had learnt in Vvardenfell, and I built myself a Tower, the rival of any Telvanni's. It holds magics unknown to any, save perhaps Divayth Fyr, and will open only to you. I leave this Tower, Frostcrag Spire, to you my son. And that is but part of the gift. The greater part is that which I could not give you while I lived: A choice.

Overleaf you will find everything you need to know to reach the Spire, and how to restore it again. Much will have had to be stored following my death, so there will be costs to meet, I'm afraid. But they are a pittance when compared to the worth of Frostcrag Spire.

Goodbye, my son.

So I left Vvardenfell, after requesting permission to leave from Master Aryon, though he gave it grudgingly, to honour my father’s final request. But Master Aryon, it seems, decided to take the opportunity to teach me a lesson about loyalty. In his service I had carried out numerous acts against the Mages Guild in Vvardenfell, everything from monitoring their activities, to infiltration, theft, and in a couple of instances even assassination. And the full details of these acts were known to the Legionnaires who arrested me as soon as I arrived in the Imperial City. I had barely set foot on dry land before I was hauled to the Imperial City Prison.

Which is where, I suppose, my story begins.

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Sep 8 2015, 11:09 PM

[Callidus Thorn]

Heh, blame Severan for that ghastley, he insisted on what he considered a proper introduction And he has gotten out of prison, even if I've not caught up to him yet.


This next bit's probably got some typos and the like in there, but was starting to get the feeling that I'd be tinkering with it for the next week if I didn't post it soon.


Chapter 1, Part 2

The cell they threw me into was about as unpleasant a place to be as Malacath’s loincloth, and judging by the bones was just as fatal to any mortal who found themselves there. Not even the guards wanted to set foot in there, so at least I was spared their beatings. They barely opened the cell door enough to hand through pitchers of water and plates of what passed for food there. They did let me keep a torch burning, more for the smoke it gave off than the light it provided. The Dunmer in the cell opposite was a real loudmouth and a coward; he tried to intimidate me, taunting me by claiming that I was to be executed. But once you’ve had death threats screamed at you by a demented Telvanni Mistress, little things like that don’t bother you anymore. And I was under the impression that my crimes had earned me a death sentence anyway.

For three days I sat in my cell, passing the time by using what I knew of Oblivion to put together a list of whose realms would be a reprieve from this cell. Some of the nastier ones might have been watching me and taking notes for all I knew. I also took the time to try and use my manacles to put something resembling an edge on one of the broken bones in the cell. It was awkward work, and probably would not amount to anything much but it was better than simply waiting. The fourth day was when things got interesting. Throughout the day guards would come rushing down, whisper to their colleague, then rush back up the stairs. Their expressions grew grimmer throughout the day, long after the intrigue had faded and the show had become boring. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of fear on their faces, but mostly it was uncertainty that ruled their features. But in the evening, things got stranger still.

It began with the gaoler being called upstairs, but no-one came down to replace him. For a long time all was silent, as every prisoner wondered what was going on, then the sound of the heavy door above opening could be heard. Echoes of armoured footfalls echoed down the stairs, and the Dunmer across from me cackled triumphantly. “I told you they were coming for you kinsman!”, he crowed, but his words were nothing to me. Until two armoured figures stood before my cell door, the feeble light of the torch serving only to cast them as ominous shadows, clad in armour that flashed with dull red highlights among their shades. I backed away, snatching up my crude weapon and falling into a combat stance that Mentor swore by, slightly crouched, raised up on the balls of my feet, ready to fight or flee, to explode into motion or glide away from attacks. For the dozenth time I cursed the manacles that smothered my magic. With my spellbook taken I could manage no more than a simple flare, but even that would be better than nothing. I had been trained to fight armoured foes if need be, but with magic at my disposal and a proper weapon in hand. That shard of bone would’ve shattered if it struck armour, but would ruin someone’s day if I could find a soft spot to sink it into. “I’ll not go quietly to the gallows Imperial, and the first of you to lay a hand on me will regret doing so.” It was hollow bravado, and they likely knew it as well as I, but I’d rather die fighting than let myself be marched meekly to the gallows.

To my surprise, it was a female voice that responded. In the time I’d been imprisoned not one female guard or Legionnaire had been present at any point, so this served as notice that the strangeness of the day’s events was still escalating. “I’m a Breton actually, now shut up Dunmer and get back against the wall before I decide to simply kill you and be done with it.” More curious than anything, I moved away until my back touched the wall, hearing Mentor’s voice scolding me for doing so. For a warrior, an armoured fighter, a wall at your back is a comfort, an ally, of sorts. It protects your rear, and forces your foes to stand before you, limiting their avenues of attack. I could almost hear his voice echoing from the past, a lesson I received whenever I made that mistake. But for a Nightblade, freedom of movement is both a weapon and your protection. Putting your back to a wall gives you less freedom to move, less options when fighting, and against even a moderately skilled warrior will get you killed.

With my back to the wall and half hidden by the shadows, the cell door opened. The woman stepped through, followed by the second figure, a Redguard with a face defined by barely restrained rage. He stepped forward until he was maybe two strides from me, then drew his sword, the gently curved blade resting a hand’s span from my throat. His gaze flickered briefly to the pathetic weapon in my hand, and he sneered derisively before laughing, a cruel, mocking laugh that I couldn’t really blame him for. As the Breton moved over to one wall of the cell, the Redguard raised his blade to strike-

“Hold, Glenroy. Do not harm him.”

-But the stroke never fell. With a single fluid movement, the Redguard, apparently named Glenroy, slid his blade back into the scabbard at his belt. “Your will, Sire.” He replied, stepping back from me, revealing a figure that I’d not seen until now, hidden by shadows and the two armoured figures. He was an old man, dressed in extremely ornate robes and- and this is the part that terrified me- around his neck was the Amulet of Kings. I recognised it from a book I’d studied back in Tel Vos that had had a picture of it, a remarkably accurate one from what I could remember of it. I dropped to my knees and bowed my head, my crude weapon slipping from my grasp. “My thanks, Sire.” What else can you do when the Emperor himself spares your life?

Any reply the Emperor might have had was forgotten as he turned at the sound of steel on stone, preceding yet another armoured Redguard. Whatever he had been meaning to say was lost as he caught sight of me. “I thought this cell was supposed to be kept empty, what’s he doing here?”

“We don’t know and we don’t care Baurus. The guards made a mistake, and that’s all there is to it. Report.” There was no mistaking the irritation in her voice, and I almost laughed as I watched it stiffen Baurus’ spine. I had heard Mentor use a similar tone many times back in Vvardenfell, mostly directed at Tel Vos’ guards, but often used to accompany his more important lessons.

“The rearguard’s fighting on the bridge, but their numbers are too few. The gate to the Prison has been secured, but not everyone in Legion armour tonight is a Legionnaire, so I doubt that will remain closed for long. We have a few moments to breathe, but likely no more than that, Captain.”

“Then we have no time to lose.” The Captain slammed her fist against a nondescript stone in the rough wall of my cell, and with a tortured scream of ill-treated hinges and rusted metal, a section of the wall swung away, opening into a secret passage. “Glenroy, you lead, I’ll follow behind. Sire, stay close to me, Baurus, watch our backs.”

“What about the door?”

“We’ll close it behind us, Glenroy. They’re too close. I’d rather have a wall at my back than an enemy.”

“And what of the prisoner? He knows of the door. He may be able to open it.”

Maybe it was the way her head was turned, maybe it was the feeble torch, but before she spoke it seemed that a deep shadow fell across her face. “No witnesses Glenroy. There is too much at stake.” Glenroy stepped forward, hand moving to the sword at his waist, only to pull up short again.

“I have already ordered Glenroy to spare the prisoner, Captain Renault. Need I do so again?”

“Sire, the risk is too great. These assassins know too much of our plans. This is the last route open to us, the last secret that we can count on to protect you. We cannot let the enemy know of this passage.”

At the Captain’s words a thought struck me, an ice cold bludgeon of pure clarity. “What if it’s not a secret anymore Captain?”

Captain Renault snorted, seemingly somewhere between amusement and derision. “This passageway is one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Blades, known only to those serving in the Emperors Guard. We’ve fought our way across the Imperial City, never more than one step ahead of our attackers. Nearly a score of my comrades, men and women I’ve served with for years, gave their lives to get us here, or will fight to the last to buy us these moments you’re squandering. If they knew of this passage they would never have let us reach it.”

“Are you so sure of that Captain? In the streets they run the risk of not being able to finish their task before the Legion can come to your aid. But if they chase you, battle you through the streets, keeping you moving, fighting, too busy to think, too busy to plan, then what? Then you move as they want you to, and they can herd you to where they want you to go. You weren’t one step ahead of them Captain, you were two steps, five steps, ten steps behind them. If they knew your plans so completely as to leave only this route, then this is the route they want you to take, because they have prepared it to their advantage. This is not an escape route for you anymore Captain, it’s a trap that you have been herded into.”

Glenroy snorted, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. “And what would you know of such things prisoner?” I could hear the mocking laughter in his voice, and I couldn’t resist countering with a dark chuckle of my own. I shifted against the wall, making the best I could of the shadows cast by the torch.

“I was trained to create traps like this, Redguard. To employ stealth. To infiltrate. To assassinate. To deceive, distract, and disorient my target, either to rob them, eliminate them, or recruit them to my master’s cause. I have been on both ends of a trap like this one. I know how to create them, and I know how to escape them.”

That shut him up. Wiped the sneer off his face too, which I’ll admit I took a good deal of pleasure in. That was lost when I looked at the Emperor, his shoulders slumped, his face clouded with resignation, as if I’d confirmed something he’d already known. The Captain simply stared at me, nonplussed, confusion and surprise clear to see in her expression. “Who are you, prisoner? What are you doing in this cell, tonight of all nights?”

“I don’t think you have the time for me to tell my history Captain Renault. My name is Severan, and I am in this cell because it is where the guards put me after they arrested me upon my arrival in the Imperial City. Nothing more than chance, I suppose.”

“There you are wrong, Severan.” The Emperor had shaken off whatever despair had gripped him, and was now walking towards me. “You are here because this is where you are meant to be. There are forces at work this night for us as well as against. They placed you here, that you might warn us of the danger. Now we advance with eyes open, knowing that the greater threat lies ahead.” The Emperor now stood before me. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and drew me away from the wall, out of the shadows, looking into my eyes as if he could pierce them and see the thoughts racing through my mind. And as he studied me, I studied him. There was a strange dullness to his eyes, as if the life had already passed from them, and deep shadows beneath them. I wondered how long it had been since he had slept, and what manner of burden could have wearied him so. And behind the dullness, for just a moment, I could swear that I saw flames and death, with something vast and powerful moving in the background. He nodded, as if he had truly read my thoughts and knew what I had seen in the depths of his eyes.

This post has been edited by Callidus Thorn: Oct 8 2015, 08:23 PM