The Whisper of Cold Options

[Darkwing]

The whisper of cold. The flutter of cloth. The flash of steel.
The shadows moved.



A mighty roar rang out into the streets from the well lit room. The clash of blade and sneers of malice filtered drunkenly through the damp fog. Then a joyous laugh from the barman silenced all as the combatants collapsed in a heap upon their fractured tables. Breathing heavily the two warriors nodded at each other and returned to their drinks, sheathing their worn knives.

The Stalwart Arms was normally a quiet tavern, but times have changed since the arrival of the Pilgrims. The citizens no longer wander the streets with confidence; fear has replaced this luxury. Many people have gone missing, and just as many have been found ravaged and torn asunder in the sewers and back alleys, where only the brave or foolish care to venture. It is said that the streets are haunted. By what, nobody seems to know, and those who find out… well, they are soon found in those sewers and back alleys. By day, there is a peace across the City, delicate but present, only to be shattered upon the sinking of the Sun. And when the Sun does finally disappear, then the Stalwart Arms soon fills with those seeking comfort and company.

The low slung beams of chipped and warped Oak line the ceiling of the tavern. Hung on each beam are an assortment of antiquities, ranging from hand woven willow bracelets to gnarled steel blades with intricate designs adorning their hilts and blade. The beams run into thickly cobbled walls after about thirty feet, where they seamlessly disappear into the grit and granite. Breaking up the walls are two windows on each wall, looking out into darkened alleyways and vibrant households. During the day, the Sun’s rays are broken and fractured by the poor workmanship on the glass, and the room is showered in a spectrum of colour. Now, those dark alleyways are borrowing this trait, but the light can only penetrate a short distance, dancing across the backs of the poor fools who face life in the damp, squalid conditions, before it is swallowed by the unholy darkness. The heavy door offers the tavern a sense of sanctuary unfound in the City, aside from the Garrison which is now over run with rats and disease, testament to the Empire’s corruption. The tavern is filled with jovial spirits and easy laughter as the ale flowed quickly and the entertainment warmed up. At this moment, it was hard to imagine the fear under the laughter, and the anxiety in the voices.

The lights started to dim. Candles were extinguished and the patrons were sent home, full of ale and drunken confidence for tomorrow. The smoke that had lazily drifted from the chimney finally gave in to the light breeze and died down. The shadowed streets were no longer peppered with fragments of light. The darkness hung heavy in the night. And the spirits of those who walked through it grew even heavier.

Gildanor arose from his table. The tavern was dark. He looked around and saw many people slumped on tables as he had done. Most of the others had gone home. It seemed the barman either did not have the strength, or heart, to throw these drunks into the streets. His thickly muscled arms bore the injuries from a few hours before. He was certain that had he lost that fight, he would not be here now, as the money gained had quickly gone to the barman and his fine drink.

Rising to his feet, he quickly grabbed for a chair as he felt his balance begin to wane. His head felt heavy and his vision was foggy. Gildanor reminded himself that next time he might take it a little easier, as he was now out of money and it was the dead of night. Not a good time to head home. Instead, he decided to sit back down, feeling comfortable among his fellow drunks, and let his head sink towards the table. Resting his head on his arms, he let his eyes drift together and glanced at the door one last time. His eyes flicked open in alarm as he saw the heavy door swing open slowly, a cold blast of night air rushed over his flushed cheeks. Something stirred in the street, but the moonlight did little to describe it. What little light there was seemed to sink into darkness as if a great mist had blanketed the City. Fear started to torrent through his body, begging him to move, but as he tried to rise, his body felt far too heavy. An unnatural weight brought him to his knees, then the floor. His eyes closed slowly, though he fought back, but the unnatural weariness he felt was dragging him into a deep sleep. The last thing he saw was the darkness crawl across the floor, ragged cloth fluttering lightly in the nights breeze, and then nothing.

The chill of cold. The feel of cloth. The pain of steel.
The shadows moved.

[Darkwing]

There are some things in this world that cannot be changed, cannot be avoided and ultimately cannot exist outside of the fabric of life.

The stone of Cyrodiil was one such thing. It was impervious to the fury of heat, the power of steel and the flare of magic. It remained as it should be, whole, undisturbed and strong.

So how did it come to this? The glow of the fires could be seen for many a mile, lighting the clouds with a pale orange, picking out each detail of each structure and throwing a menacing shadow skywards. The stars were swallowed completely, the moons were glazed with a black smoke that seemed to twist endlessly towards the heavens. Valleys were filled with the fearful and desperate screams of the living, and the lost. Nothing could survive this blanket of heat. The inferno raced from the city through the foothills and further into the darkened troughs, charring the ground and turning all that breathed to dust.

Cyrodiil was aflame.

Noone knew how this blaze had started and those that had an understanding of the withering heat had no idea how to stop it. The ground, wet or dry, shunned any attempts at dousing the fires, to the extend that wherever the water struck, a shower of sparks shot upwards, igniting all and sundry.

It was only until after the flames had subsided to reveal the twisted and blackened remains of the bodies and buildings that the shrieking howl was heard. A massive shadow cut through the haze and blocked the ugly orange glow from the gnarled stonework below. Smoke billowed downwards as the wings flashed towards the ground. A thickly muscled neck pushed through the opaque fog, tipped by a sharpened beak and piercing eyes. The fire wrapped around the torso making it almost impossible for the Dragon to fly low. The pain that shone through those stone eyes was clear; The City, the people she loved, the ground she had felt beneath her massive clawed feet, was utterly destroyed.

The Imperial garrison had held its ground however. Innumerable people stood or lay haphazardly around its fortifications. The pounding of the thick wood Oak door echoed endlessly through the valleys. People were dying. And Firebright could do nothing but watch as the armageddon crawled up the hillside towards them. She watched as the injured were bundled over the walls by families and friends on make shift ladders, only to have them cast back towards them. The garrison, although untouched by fire, was no sanctuary. The guards valued their lives over those they were protecting. Had these guards been more aware, they might have noticed the man standing silently on the very brim of the wildfire. They may well have noticed that he was clutching something to his chest, the flare of glinting gold casting a wonderous prism of light across the stained green walls. What they would not have seen was a figure emerge from the wall of fire and leap towards the silent man only to be followed by another three silhouettes.

Among the confusion, the flash of steel and the screams of pain were smothered by the roar of heat and the mixed wails of agony from the refugees. As quickly as they had come, the shadows faded back into the fire, leaving but one misty figure following the silent man as he crawled desperately towards a grill sunken low in the garrison walls.