Blackmoth Options

[Kell-Reevor]

Greetings everyone, I just joined this forum.
I have a story I have been planning for a long time (since I beat Morrowind). I hope you like if and by all means add it to the library mod if you feel it is worthy, thanks.

BTW, this was orignally a story I was working on for Adriens Chalice (sp?) It has undergone heavy changes since then.

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Soon after the Imperials conquered Morrowind, they built many forts to aid in keeping peace. Of these forts was a secretly kept ebony warehouse known as Blackmoth. This location was only too perfect for a short lived project involving the old Dwemer ruins it was built over. This project involved reverse engineering Dwemer technology and combining it with the endless power of magicka.

Three officers of the Imperial Legion were in charge, all of them were masters of a school of magicka. The first was a Cyrodiil, mastering the school of Alteration. The second was a Nord, secretly a master of Necromancy. The third was an Altmer, mastering Destruction.

Not much is known about the fate of Blackmoth. Upon realizing their report was over a week late, legionnaires were sent to investigate. Their fate is as well unknown, as they never returned. Time passed, and Blackmoth faded from the minds of the Legion.



Kell-Reevor lifted his seemingly heavy head to gaze upon the stone walls of Balmora. His trip from Seyda Neen was slow and tedious, as it had rained non stop. Even now, rain continued to pelt him. He opened his belt pouch… empty.

“It seems as if I’m destined to fail,” he moaned. Night had fallen, and he was without money and food, he could neither continue forward nor turn back. Dragging his first foot forward, then the other, he slowly drudged his way into town. The buildings here were of the same yellowish stone design as the wall that surrounded Balmora. A deep canal split the small town into halves. Rain water was pouring in, making the water rush into the nearby river. Across the canal was his destination, The Corner Club.

Approaching the canal, he could faintly hear a commotion over the rain smacking the stone ground and rooftops. It was coming from a building just to his left. Curious, he turned to the door and approached it. The rain pouring from the roof over the doorway only soaked him faster, but he paid no attention to it. Within the small structure he could hear a woman’s sobbing, as well as deep voices and laughter.

It was the shriek that did it. He swung the door open and beheld a terrible sight. The room was dark, humid, and stunk of alcohol. In the corner to the far right was a human woman, sobbing and doubled over. Strewn about the room were three Dunmer, their red eyes glazed from booze. This had to be the Council Club he had been warned about.

Kell was indeed an intimidating sight. Standing tall and bearing a black breastplate with a golden tree imprinted on the front. His sleeves and pants were black with gold trim, and from the base of his breastplate were long, wide strips of fabric, somewhat resembling a long skirt, of the same color. Over his shoulders was a black cape, fastened by a golden brooch. At his waist was a long, straight blade of red and black material. It was very clear he was from a wealthy family.

The dunmer men were clearly offended that a race they considered nothing more than slave labor would be dressed in such an exquisite garb.

“Mind yer own business ya filthy lizard,” one of the men slurred.

The average argonian would simply ignore such a remark, as they were well known as a patient people. Kell, however, had suffered a long and hard trip from his home in Cyrodiil. That paired with every stupid dirt farmer he crossed telling him to ‘spit it out or hit the road’ was too much for him. His tail became still, and he reached for the sword tucked under his belt.

He hesitated; he wouldn’t dare dishonor the good people who raised him by striking down a foe that was too drunk to know what he was doing. He could almost feel sympathetic for their situation. He would hate to see his homeland overrun with outsiders telling him how to live.

The woman looked up at him, teary eyed and dressed in simple brown robes. Her sandy brown hair was disheveled and matted. Her pleading look begged him to help her.

Without a moment’s notice, the nearest man lunged for the argonian. By reflex, he stepped to the side. As the dunmer stumbled by, Kell aided him forward by elbowing him in the back of his neck. With a thud, the drunk struck the wall. The second and third made their move, one drawing a silver dagger and the other an iron axe. Kell curled his clawed fingertips inward, making an elongated fist. With a left hook, he dropped the approaching man swinging his dagger, who now struggled to get back on his feet. The final man charged and swung his weapon directly for Kell’s snout. A clang echoed through the small room as Kell caught the blade in his right hand. Blood tricked down his wrist, and then speckled the walls as he jerked his arm aside and shoulder charged the attacker, sending the man down a staircase into the tavern below.

“What in Oblivion is going on up there?!” came a voice from downstairs.

It was time to leave. Now that the people downstairs knew the boys upstairs were no longer having their good time they would certainly want to investigate. Kell was no master of combat and would easily be overcome.

Spinning to the woman, he barely avoided a jab from the silver dagger. The second man was back up and taunting him.

“Im gonna shiv your boat!” he spat out, making another jab for Kell.

He was out of time; the others had already reached him. He hauled the woman into his arms and bolted for the door. He took a slash into his right arm, drawing more blood. Crashing through the ajar door, he threw off his cape and wrapped it around the woman. The poor woman was no longer sobbing, but struggling to match Kell’s speed as he jerked her along across the bridge spanning the babbling canal. It was dark and hard to see past the foggy rain, but running was better than sitting still to get your bearings in this type of predicament.

“Wait!” The woman tugged his arm. “My home is just up ahead, to the right!”

Upon reaching the small stone house, the woman quickly shoved the door open and they both darted inside. Kell quickly checked the tiny green window by the door, from what he could barely make out they weren’t followed. He turned his back to the window and slumped to the floor, curling his large tail around him.

The small place was warm, dry, and well lit. It seemed like a nice place to hide out for a bit, but he had no intention of overstaying his welcome in a stranger’s home. He looked to the human, who was studying a bloody patch on her robes.

“You’re bleeding.” Her concern quickly changed to confusion. “How did you catch an axe in your bare hand? It should have cleaved you past your wrist.”

He simply stared at her. She had some way of thanking someone for possibly saving her life. About to let out a sarcastic ‘YOUR WELCOME’ he stopped himself.

“I’ll admit that wasn’t the smartest thing I have ever done, but I have never fought more than two people at once, I simply panicked.”

That didn’t answer her question in the slightest, but instead of pressing the issue, she chose to see if she could help. She approached and sat down next to him.

“Open your hand and let me see.”

“Its fine, I’ll handle it,” now he was in trouble, how could he show a complete stranger?

She grabbed his arm. “Come on, it might be serious and I need to try to stop any bleeding.”

“Let go.” It was a simple statement, but his tone was cold and threatening.

She jerked up his sleeve…and stared in shock at the sight. The skin on his arm had been burned off and cut away in some places, revealing a black metal frame beneath. It appeared to be pure ebony. Just above a major burn, the cut he received from the dagger was trickling down to his elbow. He smacked her hand away and jerked his sleeve back over his arm.

He had risen to the door and prepared to open it.

“Good bye.” He swung the door open to find the rain had become much worse. Letting out a whispered curse, he stepped out.

“Wait!” the woman called. Kell turned his head to hear her out. “You don’t like the rain do you?”

He looked away for a moment, then turned back to face her. “No.”

She seemed a touch confused. “But, you’re an argonian, doesn’t it rain often in The Black Marsh?”

“What’s your name?” He nearly interrupted her.

She blinked, puzzled. “Amara”

“Well, Amara, to be frank, I have never been to The Black Marsh. I was born and raised among the humans in Cyrodiil.”

Amara stepped back into the house and out of the doorway. “Why don’t you come back in then? It’s pouring outside, and it’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”

He weighed his options. Either act out the role of a paying customer in The Corner Club until the rain stopped, or take shelter in a warm, cozy house. It didn’t seem right after she noticed his ebony arm, but chances were the folks at The Corner Club wouldn’t appreciate his company if they found out he had no money.

He would spend the night sitting in a corner facing the door, ready in case the Commona Tong found him. Amara had already retired to the room up stairs. Kell opened his palm and surveyed the damage. The bleeding had stopped, after all there was little left to bleed. The gash was long and wide, he would have to be careful not to let anyone else see it as the skin would never heal over.

Leaning his head back in thought, he recalled the last moments he saw of his family. The people that served his father were all very close to him, as they were all he had when his father was off fighting battles for The Imperial Legion, they were as much his family as his father and his long-deceased mother. Taking another long look at his arm, he could only wonder why he was like this.

[Kell-Reevor]

Here you go, the long awaited update. I think you might like this one.


There was very little worth making off with in the cave. Not to say there was nothing of value, of course, merely they weren’t worth being caught with. Within the crates was a wide assortment of moon sugar, skooma, ebony, dwemer artifacts… hell, if it was illegal, it was here. Thank the nine there were no slaves. There was no telling how that unstable Argonian would have handled that. All this watched over by four inept guards; Bryce wasn’t buying it.

It was on one of the four corpses that Bryce found the answer to their travel fees. A single diamond. He pocketed it before wrapping the four unfortunates in faded, dirty, brown blankets. He had no desire for Amara to see the carnage left by Kell. Either way, the diamond purchased them a meal at the Shenk’s Shovel, and they still had enough money to pay for the guild guide’s teleportation services. Bryce was just glad he was out of that cave. While he was outright deadly with that glass dagger at his hip, he was by no means cocky about it. It was a rule to him…NEVER underestimate an opponent. An opponent who had just found four of his comrades wrapped in shrouds stained a dark brown with blood would be a considerably powerful foe indeed.

But it was all behind them. The three sat now in the gloomy, dank pit known as Shenk’s Shovel. The name gave him chills. He expected to find it loaded with unsavory characters, glancing at the expensive weapons he and Kell carried, and making hideous grins to Amara with rotted teeth. Within, however, he found the place to be filled with adventurers, travelers, merchants, and even commoners; normal folk chatting, eating, and simply having a good time. Sure, the tavern was a nasty looking place on the outside, but within it was just a friendly establishment seeking to earn an honest day’s pay for the proprietor.

Their meal was nothing special, but it was the best thing they had in days. Salted hound meat topped with chopped saltrice with scrib jelly on the side. The scrib jelly seemed disgusting, but never to judge a book by its cover (as he had the tavern), Bryce sampled it. He was pleasantly surprised by its slightly sour taste. The hound meat was amazingly good as well. Way better than rat meat; always stringy and unpleasant no matter what you added to it.

He had no idea how hungry he really was. Back in the cave he had scrounged up very little. They were all near starving, but Kell was the one that fought the four smugglers, Kell was the one that was injured, and Kell was the one that had been unconscious for two days. Though in the end, Bryce was grateful when Kell chose to share with Amara. The girl may have stood maybe two feet taller then him; she was still like a little sister. It pained him to see her miserable. When she had spent those seemingly endless two days cursing Kell as he slept, he couldn’t help but feel her anger.

Finishing the last cube of his hound meat, Bryce was ready to suggest leaving. Before he could speak, a Nord slammed his hand on the table. One of the rowdier folk in the tavern. The fellow stunk of cheap Morrowind spirits, a truer stereotype Bryce has yet to see. He flashed a grin to Amara; the very grin Bryce feared as he say the old wooden sign dangling on rusty hinges with Shenk’s Shovel scrawled nearly illegibly on the surface. It was a grin filled with rotten teeth; it was a grin that suggested the unthinkable. Bryce reached for his dagger, but hesitated. It would be unwise to start a fight here; he needed to get the man outside before he started anything. If only Kell had thought that…

The man whispered something inaudible into Amara’s ear, merely an inch or so from her. She stiffened, clearly afraid to move. It was time to make his move. Bryce slowly rose out of his seat. With a ‘PLINK’ followed by a scream that rung throughout the tavern, Kell smashed his fork into the Nord’s hand, pinning it to the table. The scream was more out of shock than anything else, as the Nord was now struggling to get the fork out of the Argonian’s grip with wild eyes; eyes that sought blood.

‘Don’t let go of that fork,’ Bryce thought, ‘whatever you do don’t you dare let go of that damn fork.’

“I’m going to let you go, but next time I’m going to ram that hand down your throat,” Kell growled.

‘Great. Here it comes…’

Kell yanked the fork out of his hand. Blood coated it so thickly it formed crimson webs between its prongs. Immediately, the Nord swung for Kell’s muzzle. Kell easily swung the drunken swing, and then finished the confrontation by slamming his metal fist into the back of the Nord’s skull. Bryce was impressed. He had never seen an Argonian fight in the human martial arts style so well. Unfortunately, he let his guard down with his attacks, while he should have immediately followed through into a defensive position. A fine example of what this flaw could lead to would be the chair that smashed into the back of his head, sending him to the ground in a mess of rotten wood chips.

He pulled himself to his feet wincing in pain. Upon seeing his foe, his eyes widened with fear. Before him was an Orc, cracking his knuckles and beckoning Kell to fight. The poor fellow’s luck seemed so bad it could only have been a curse.

“Oh guar crap…” he muttered.

It wasn’t long before Bryce found himself in trouble as well. The whole tavern was alive with violence. The Breton suddenly remembered his previous doubts about this place. Amara was keeping behind Bryce; getting her somewhere safe was their priority. The Dunmer running at him with a broken bottle was going to have to be dealt with first. Bryce dropped to the splintered wooden floor, barely avoiding a swing from the bottle. Grabbing a chair leg left over from the object that more than likely cost Kell a couple of brain cells, he hopped to the top of a table in a fashion that could remind someone of a frog. Using his unusually small stature, he was able to easily avoid the drunken dark elf. Now it was time to end it. The man lunged forward with a stabbing motion. With a simply side-step, Bryce now had a clear view of his light blue forehead. With a quick jolt of his arm, he buried the chair leg into the man’s face. Of course it wasn’t deadly, but it did leave plenty of splinters and bruises; more than enough to knock the Dunmer back a few feet and keep him out of their way.

He pulled Amara with him to the door, avoiding as many stray fists and flying bottles as he could. He eased her through the exit.

Kell was in bad shape. No matter what blows he managed to land the Orc simply grinned back. In a panick, Kell took one to the face. It was simply a quick jab from the Orc’s left. Anyone watching could have mistaken it for a weak shot, until Kell leaned back and landed flat on his rump. His vision was spinning and all he could feel was pain. From the commotion and rumbling around him, he could barely make out a voice; bryce’s voice.

“Kell! We gotta’ get ‘outta here! Fun time’s over!”

That was when he saw it. His way out.

“Sorry pal,” he whispered. With what little strength he had left, he lifted his leg in a great kick. A kick that landed his clawed foot right into the Orc’s stones.

With a roar and bulging eyes, the Orc crumbled. Until now, Kell never thought it was possible for an Orc to shed tears, but here was proof they could. He scrambled to his feet and clumsily darted for the door. Sunlight, precious sunlight. It wasn’t the only thing waiting for him, unfortunately. Surrounding the exit, preparing to bust in to break up the brawl was a gathering of Imperial Guards; their shiny helmets gleaming in the sunlight, the very sunlight that seemed at first to signal freedom from that dank tavern.

This post has been edited by Kell-Reevor: Aug 5 2005, 02:14 AM