Sudhendra Vahl, the first chapter Options

[minque]

This is the first chapter of the amazing story by OverrideB1, which has been posted in the ES-forums

So you want to know a little more about me, where I come from, how I got to be where I am? That seems a reasonable request and we should have plenty of time for me to tell my tale.
I go by the name of Sudhendra Vahl. That’s not my real name of course, but you’ll soon understand why. I’ll start at the beginning ~ I was raised in a small village about fifty miles west of Rihad, and I was born in the year 401 of the Third Era. What’s that?
Well, that is uncommonly kind of you to say so, although your flattery will gain you nothing. I come from a long-lived species and certain events (which I will relate) have conspired to provide me with a much longer life than is normal ~ even for one of my kind. Now, let me tell you my tale…

The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl :Prologue
I never knew my parents: my mother died giving birth to me and my father, from what I can discover, was an itinerant adventurer passing through on his way to somewhere adventurous from somewhere less adventurous. My mother, Gods rest her soul, caught his eye and there was a brief dalliance. Nine months later, along I came ~ a very short time after that, my mother departed this vale of tears. I have little, or no, recollection of what happened after that ~ although I have expended considerable resources over the years finding out.

Shortly after my mother’s death, I was taken in by the Stendarr temple and, from there, sent to foster parents to be raised. My foster-parents were Stendarrites, although the milk of his mercy ran thinly in their veins. I was just a source of income from the Temple for them and, when that ran out shortly after my tenth birthday, I became cheap labour for them around the farm. Well, I say cheap ~ unpaid would be a much better description. True, I had food and a bed: the food left over after they’d finished eating and a pile of straw atop the storage shed. It was a brief and unhappy childhood; not helped by the fact I was the only Dark Elf in the village.

I grew up being handy with my fists and feet and wasn’t above using my teeth if push came to shove. And when half-a-dozen jeering children, all of whom are better fed and stronger than you, surround you; shove comes surprisingly quickly. I quickly garnered a reputation as a surly and aggressive child among the villagers. Not that I had much of a problem with that: my foster-parents did, however and I was regularly beaten for “starting another fight”. Any attempt to explain that I’d been set upon by six or seven older, stronger children was conveniently ignored.

However, just so you don’t think that it was completely bad, I did have a wonderful forest near the house and, when my foster-parents were away at temple, I could wander through them to my hearts content. It was about this time that I developed quite the interest in the properties of various flora. I soon found a root, common in the woods, the juice of which alleviated the sting of my frequent bruises. I never made much of the interest other than secretly trading useful bits of root and flower to passing traders in exchange for coin or, more frequently, a tattered old book. I took great care not to be seen with the books as I struggled to learn my letters ~ I knew that they’d end up on the fire and I’d end up being punished again if I was caught.

It was probably around my twelfth year that my Talent appeared. I began to notice strange auras around certain things and the feeling that I almost knew what they were for. As the days passed, I began to notice more of these quicksilver flashes and occasionally, when a Noble or Knight rode through the village, a strange tugging sensation if they passed close to me. Obviously not something I could discuss with my foster-parents, I chose to discuss it with a wandering peddler I’d dealt with before. In exchange for some plants and one of my miserly horded golden Drakes, he explained that I was born under the sign of the Apprentice and that what I was seeing was a manifestation of that astrological sign’s influence on my life.

Over the next three years, my friend the peddler would come visit. In return for my identifying magical items, he taught me a couple of useful cantrips. A fire-touch spell, a spell that allowed me to walk on water, and (my personal favourite) a spirit I could summon that would act as a guardian. In secret, I began marking the fifteenth of Sun’s Height as my birthday.

I said that it was a short and bitter childhood, and the truth of that became apparent shortly after my fifteenth “birthday”. My foster-mother was away visiting her mother ~ a woman I’d never met, but who was reputed to be insanely rich and insanely eccentric. One night, deep in his cups, my foster-father came up into the loft of the storage shed and attempted to… well, I probably don’t need to draw you a diagram, do I? Needless to say, he got a fist in the face that broke his nose and a shovel across that back of the head that turned out his lights for a while. Gathering my few tattered clothes and the meagre stash of Drakes I’d accumulated, I took a sack-full of provender from the larder, the best horse from the yard and, bidding a farewell to my hidden books, I set off in the general direction of away.

I figured that everyone would think I’d headed towards Rihad so that was the last direction I wanted. North lay Taneth and, beyond that, the wilds of Hammerfell. East lay the border with Cyrodiil, as it would if I headed south. Cyrodiil it was then and, angling roughly southeast, I rode off into the night. A few days later, hungry and dusty, I crossed into Sutch. There it became obvious that the supply of coin I had wouldn’t last too long and so, with some reluctance, I sold my steed and blended into the crowds.
Over the course of the next ten years I drifted from town to town, never staying in one spot for long, making a passable living identifying useful plants or identifying ensorcelled items. Naturally, I picked up a few useful skills along the way: my years of chopping wood proved to be handy as I found I could wield a pretty mean axe and I taught myself the rudiments of fighting with a long-blade. I won’t say I led a blameless existence, but I was no more of a thief, cutpurse, or mugger than anyone else of my station. Truth be told, I tried to avoid stealing things except when needs must: often I was the only Dark Elf in the town and knew that suspicion would fall on me pretty quickly.

So I drifted along, wandering from town to town with nary a care in the world. However, it was in one town that I happened to overhear a couple of Legion types asking about a Dark Elf named “Mishkin” who was wanted for assault and theft in Hammerfell. Heart pounding, I ran back to my hideout, collected my sparse belongings and got out of town pretty damn’ sharply, I can tell you. In a panic, I made the cardinal mistake – isolating myself with no options. I hit Anvil running, and booked myself passage on the first ship to very far away from here. It virtually emptied my purse, but I got passage on a vessel sailing to a port near Rimmen. I knew nothing about the place except that it was in Elsweyr and it was very far away from Hammerfell. Sounded perfect.

The journey took a couple of months, and I was more than happy to step off the boat in the bustling port and blend once more into the crowds. Of course, I’d forgotten how quickly bad news could spread, how persistent the Empire is in punishing wrongdoers, and the spitefulness of my foster-parents. I’d travelled under the name of “Vahl” and used the first name “Sudhendra” if I had to ~ it was a name I’d read in a book at sometime and it struck me as being a pretty name, certainly better than Mishkin. There I was, in a foreign place, with no money and a false identity. That’s when I made cardinal mistake number two.

My only excuse is that I was exhausted. I’d been running around trying to gather up some much needed coin and had pushed myself over the limit. I purchased a little bread and meat and sat in a pretty little park to eat my meal. Next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake by a burly guard who was being watched with some amusement by his three equally burly compatriots.

“You can’t sleep here,” he said. “What’s your name?”

I told you I was tired, I automatically answered “Mishkin Dark-Skin”.

“Says here you’re Sudhendra Vahl and, wait, did you say Mishkin Dark-Skin?”

The four of them fell on me like a landslide, hitting me with their short wooden clubs before dragging me, battered and bruised, to the local lockup. Where I spend a very uncomfortable night before being hauled before the local Imperial magistrate. The charges were ridiculous, to say the least: “Assault on a village Elder”, “Theft of three hundred Drakes”, “Theft of a prize stallion”, “Assuming a false Identity”, “Vagrancy”. Oh, and my personal favourite, “Resisting arrest”.

I might just have talked my way out of the first five charges but that resisting arrest one? That one was the clinching offence: the whole trial took under thirty minutes, I wasn’t given a single chance to refute the charges or make a defence and found myself sentenced to ten years in the Imperial prison at Alabaster.

I’d been in prison for a year when things took a turn for the very strange. During my sentence, I’d been a good girl; following orders, staying out of trouble, that sort of thing. Unlikely though it was, there was a very remote chance I might get a reprieve if I showed that I was a model citizen. So, I bowed and scraped, cleaned out the latrines, washed, cooked, and did all the usual stuff they make you do in jail. In addition, I kept in shape as best as I could. Then, one night, the door to my cell slammed open and I was grabbed and dragged out into the courtyard. A cloaked and hooded figure looked at me from the dark recess of his hood and muttered something to the commandant. Next thing I knew I was being hustled into a coach and driven out of the prison. We stopped but once, and I was made to stand there while my original abductors drove off in the coach and another, plainer coach was brought in. The hooded figure turned to me and said something that sounded like “Somnus” and a sudden blackness descended.

[minque]

With a rusty creaking noise, the wooden door swung open. Beyond it, a short flight of stairs descended to a small area lit by a flickering light. As I got closer, I could see that there were two lamps set into the wall, one on either side of the door. It was puzzling, from the state of the door I would guess it had been a very long time since anyone had been down here ~ yet here were these two lamps, burning away merrily. They were comprised of a cylinder of a black tarry substance wrapped around a simple metal hook. Try as hard as I might, there didn't appear to be a way to extinguish them. Chalking this up as another one of those esoteric mysteries I’m unlikely to ever solve, I pushed open the door in front of me.

Well, either “Samarys” or “Card’ruhn” meant “Tomb” and, since the pottery urns on the dais nearest me were labelled up “Velendron Samarys” and “Tovale Samarys”, my money was on Card’ruhn meaning tomb. Carefully, I lifted the top of the canoptic jar, peering inside. There was very little inside to indicate that this was the final resting place of one “Tovale Samarys”, the urn being empty of everything except a small quantity of greyish-coloured powder.
Opening my satchel, I looked inside at the supplies I had. Amongst them were a number of small phials with securely fastened lids ~ all empty of course. Working carefully, I scooped up the powder (which I recognised as Grave-Dust), and poured it into one of the vials. This done, I proceeded to check the contents of the other urns in this small part of the tomb. Most of them were empty, although I did find a small bone in one jar, and a small quantity of a greenish powder that I didn’t immediately recognise. I took it anyway, knowing that many alchemists will pay quite high prices for any form of necrotic ingredient for their potions.

I got quite the shock as I rounded the corner into the next part of the tomb. A flickering spectre that I immediately knew was a Guardian Ancestor noticed me and, skeletal hands awash with ethereal fire, it launched itself at me. Quickly drawing the sword I’d taken from the idiotic Tarhiel, I slashed at it frantically. There was an odd, tugging sensation as the blade passed right through the vorpal fiend. There was a smell of ozone, and a small but perfectly formed cloud sprang into being as twin bolts of arcane lightning lashed into the form of the ghost. Again and again I struck out at the spirit, determined to keep it as far away from me as possible. Most of the swings were wild ~ five years in an Imperial Prison doesn’t give you the time to maintain your skills at their peak ~ but enough connected that I was holding my own. After one particularly vicious blow, there was a smell of putrefaction and, in a sparkle of dust motes, the ghost simply… ceased to be.

Panting heavily, I muttered to myself that being attacked like that was one stupid way to discover what the enchantment on a sword was. Quite handy though, I thought as I returned it to my belt. It is, at this juncture, that I should point out that I’m not much of a swords-woman, much preferring to use the axe as my primary weapon. I’d done a little sword-work over the past few years but I was anything but proficient with a long-bladed weapon. For the record, I have also used a bow ~ although I’m about as good with that as I am with a sword.

Anyway, a search of the area revealed nothing much of great value other than a scroll written in the local script. Careful translation revealed that it called on various arcane forces from the Realm of Ignis to incinerate whatever target the incantation was aimed at. Such a useful spell, so I decided that it would make a fine addition to my growing collection of items. If this kept up, I’d certainly need a scroll case and more alchemy collection equipment ~ not to mention a scabbard, quiver, and straps for an axe. It was becoming increasingly clear that adventuring wasn’t a particularly cheap pastime. Perhaps I should have picked some other occupation to give to Socucius Ergalla, he might have aimed me at a steady, profitable occupation somewhere safe. Still, as I was about to discover, adventuring did have its rewards.

The final door yielded itself to my touch, opening into a small chamber at the end of which stood a single urn on a dais, alongside which was a rough wooden chest. The chest turned out to be locked. I don’t know what prompted me to make the sign of the Serpent and mutter, “Ostendo Sum” near the urn, but I’m mightily glad I did. The revelation spell caused the outside of the canoptic urn to crawl with flickering ghost-fire ~ an indicia of the trap that was ensorcelled into it. I had a probe with me, courtesy of those kind folk over at the Customs and Excise Offices, and I carefully used it to examine the jar. The focus of the trap seemed to be the inscribed metal band that joined lid to urn and it took me quite a while to disarm the bedevilled thing.
Popping off the top, I tipped the urn towards me to examine the contents. I laughed as I saw the jar was partially filled with flaky black ash. Resignedly, I started to return the jar to its upright position when a clump of ash shifted, revealing a glint of silver. Lifting the heavy jar down onto the floor, I plunged my arm inside and started to dig around in the ashes. It wasn’t long before I had withdrawn the two items that had been hidden therein. The first was a brass key with a strangle design cut into the circular part at the top – something like a “B”. This exactly matched the symbol cut into the cap of the lock on the chest. The other item was a ring, made of a silver metal that most definitely wasn’t silver, set with a large purple-coloured stone. Engraved around the stone were the words “ Scientia, Sapientia, Dominatus” or, if you prefer, “Knowledge, Wisdom, Mastery”. So this, then, was The Mentor’s Ring. With trembling fingers, I slipped the artefact onto my hand, gasping as strange purple light flared before my eyes. I could feel my reserves of magicka swelling as the constant effect enchantment took hold.

With renewed enthusiasm, I used the key to open the chest ~ only to find that whatever contents it had borne had long since rotted to mulch. With a heartfelt sigh, I grabbed my new belongings and, swinging the satchel over my shoulder, I stepped back outside into the salt laden air with a jaunty step. Before entering the tomb I had been hopelessly lost, now a quick glance at my map showed me an obvious solution. All I needed to do was follow the coastline around to the east and I would eventually fetch up in Seyda Neen.

It wasn’t long before I could see the squat huts and buildings of Seyda Neen, but I discovered something else before I got there. It was the smell that caught my attention first, a smell I was familiar with ~ that of rotting flesh. Sure enough, sprawled between some large rocks, was a dead body. A couple of sleek and well-fed rats were in attendance, and I made sure to kill the damn’ things before I investigated further. It was, as far as I could tell without getting too close and actually handling the body, a well-dressed Cyrodiilic male. Near the corpse (and thankfully upwind of it) lay an ornately decorated satchel. Dragging this away from the body, I squatted and examined the contents. The satchel contained a tightly rolled and official looking document that, on closer examination, turned out to be a tax-record for the inhabitants of Seyda Neen. It also contained a heavy purse that contained two hundred Septims in gold coin. I wasn’t sure, but I’d be fairly willing to bet that this was Processus Vitellius, the missing tax collector.

And that was a worry, for two reasons. The first reason was that it hadn’t been rats that had done for Vitellius, unless you mean the two-legged variety. Even the most cursory examination indicated that his throat had been cut. And, whoever had done the cutting, hadn’t been even vaguely interested in the large sum of money the tax-gatherer had gathered. Meaning it was a crime of revenge rather than one of robbery.

My other big problem was this: I hadn’t been on the island for a day yet and I had two corpses on my hands. The first one, Tarhiel, I could pass off since his journal clearly showed what an idiot he was. This one, however, was a barbcat of a different stripe. Guards tend to be remarkably unimaginative, and would assume that dead body, plus a woman with money in her hands, equals murderess. It also hinted at the sheer lethality of this place, and gave me grave concerns about my own longevity.

I made my way back across the rickety bridge into Seyda Neen. There I very nervously reported my gruesome discovery to one of the guards, but he seemed supremely uninterested. He did, however, condescend to advise me to report it to Socucius Ergalla. I would do that fairly soon, but first I had a rendezvous atop the lighthouse. As I walked down the path towards it, a trader named Foryn Holyoak, who was selling backpacks, approached me. They were well made, and shimmered with the unmistakable sheen of a glamour: probably a feather-spell. Although such a thing would be very useful, I couldn’t afford such a luxury at the moment.

Arielle had something much more useful, a spell called ‘Hearth Heal’. Although I’d survived my various encounters to date, I hadn’t come away unscathed. And a spell that could heal your injuries, that had to be the top of my shopping list for the moment. I cast the spell right there and then, sighing in contentment as the healing sparks settled into my skin ~ easing the cuts and bruises I’d accumulated.

It was quite pleasant atop the lighthouse ~ oddly, the lighthouse keeper didn’t seem to object to me walking in and heading upstairs ~ what with the cool breeze blowing off the ocean and dissipating the smell of rotting vegetation. I passed the time playing with the Dwemeri device I’d picked up ~ the one Arrille had called a “time-piece”. It didn’t take me long to discover that I could get the device to speak the Hour of the day to me. It would also speak the Phases of Masser and Secundus, and it had a handy little light that I could turn on and off.

I waited, and waited, then ~ for a change ~ I waited some more.

Finally, at the Twentieth Hour, I spotted the little Bosmer creeping around the “square” of the village, clutching a lit torch. He pottered about for a while; presumably making sure that nobody was spying on him, before sneaking towards the lighthouse. Having convinced himself that he was unobserved, he made a beeline for a pool close to the rude huts along the water’s edge. There he waded in and spent a while doing something at a tree stump that jutted from the pond. I guess that is where he hides his treasures.

Making sure I didn’t get between him and the beacon atop the lighthouse, I made my way down to the ground and calmly walked over to the pond. Shucking off the blue robe and my boots, I rolled up the legs of my trousers before wading out there. The stump appeared, even on close examination, to be solid but I soon found the hollowed out hiding place, artfully hidden beneath the solitary branch. The soft leather pouch contained a lock pick, the same engraved ring I’d given him that very morn, and some three hundred Septims in cash. I was almost tempted to keep it all, but resolved that I would give Hrisskar his due on the morrow.

Having resumed an outward appearance of decency, I made my way back into the Customs and Excise offices where I spoke to Socucius Ergalla.

“Murdered you say?” he asked, eyes shining brightly as he stood looking at me. “Tell me, citizen, did he have anything on him when you found him? Paperwork, or anything?”

“He had what I assume are the local tax records,” I said, setting the scroll down on his desk. Setting the purse down beside it, I added “he also had this purse, containing two hundred Septims.”

“Interesting,” he muttered. “Murdered and yet not robbed. Not a usual occurrence, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose not,” I replied.

“You are to be commended on your honesty,” he said, looking up from the scroll. “There is a bounty of five hundred Septims on anyone who kills an Imperial officer. If you can find out who was responsible, bring them to justice and I’ll pay you the bounty.”

I agreed to try and find the guilty party and asked for the records to assist in my investigation. He parted with them readily enough, and I left his office, shutting the door behind me. I had a good reason for this as, instead of heading outside, I made my way into the downstairs storage area and curled up on the pallet to get some sleep.