The Eight Bells Options

[Foster]

Part 1

The road was long and weary. Somehow it never seemed to end, because around the bend, just when it seemed it would run into one of the mountains, off it weaved down into a dell or round into a cleft, making each stop seem further. He'd been travelling nonstop now for five days, resting only for a few hours, tending to a campfire in the hope of keeping the wolves at bay. He could hear them, all around, howling in the peripheral gloom of the mountains, and he was suprised they hadn't made their move. He had no weapons that would have put up much of a fight; a rusty old shortsword, a bow with the strings torn and feathered. It was hardly a fair fight.

Shivering in his furs, he forced he continued to ride wearily on, his skin raw and his eyes narrow. The snow had nearly made him blind at the top of the pass, but now he was at least descending into the fertile basin of Cyrodiil, and that gave him a gleam of hope that maybe, just maybe, the worst of the journey was over.

He drew in a deep breath of the cold mountain air, and breathed out slowly to watch it spiral into the atmostphere of the morning. He'd only been walking two hours, and already he felt as though he would drop. Licking his lips, now a blistering mess thanks to the wind, Tor rubbed his arms against his sides and continued to draw his horse forward.

The sad part was leaving his home behind. It was now several months distant, and although he'd been foolish enough to select the path through Skyrim rather than Hammerfell - especially considering it was now into Frost Fall - he wasn't sure the path really mattered. Had he gone the other way, he'd have been complaining about searing heat that would parch his mouth. He smiled wearily. Either road, he still wished he could be at home, sitting with his eyes closed listening to the home fire cackle, or gazing casually as the ships sailed the seas outside of his window.

All of it was gone now. The house a ruin, the fire a mess of choking ash that had long since burnt out. The only fire in that wreak now was the glowing embers of the support beams, occasionally brought to life by the wind and the heat that resonated from the stones the night they had gutted his home.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the memory. One dark night, one pale moon that did not show their approach, and his entire family had been slain. He was the only one left. Tor Beldric, a boy that had been tempered to manhood amidst the destruction. He tightened his fist in hatred, memory of the oath, and memory of the task that lay before him. He stooped and reached into his saddle for some corn.

It all came down to the eight bells. His mother had known it, which is why her death had been ordered. His father and sister had little to do with it, except perhaps their natural gifts for defence. It was all due to the eight bells. He gently altered course along the pass, watching the hooves of his steed slip near the edge to send rocks scrambling down the side before the horse righted itself and pressed prints into the soft crunch of snow. He closed his eyes and recited the verse that his mother had taught him.

"Eight keys for eight locks, each one a bell,
Seven songs of fairness, one trembling death knell,
Open the Serpent, shift the wake, push forward to Bregale,
Slide the door as dark as night, do not heed the hail,
Eight bells to lift it high, eight to riches and glory,
Eight to purge the Blue Ring Tryst and end their dreadful story."

"Cute."

His eyes opened. On either side stood two warriors. On the left a vicious, snarling Dark Elf had a bow levelled at his heart, and a smaller man with an evil glint fingered a dagger. On the right stood two Nords, twins by the look of them. Dead centre were two more figures, one with sword, one with bow. He swallowed and tried to think. He didn't like where this was going.
"Please." he said, in an almost subdued fashion.
"Pleeeease." One of the men said, walking forward and flapping his arms in a mocking, laughing gesture. The others smirked. The leader turned to the man next to him. "Shamus, you know what to do."

The other bandit at the front pointed at Tor's purse.
"Money. Gold. Mullauh. Call it what you will, we're having it."
Tor swallowed, and shrugged. For all his will desired to drive the horse off the cliff rather than to submit, that wouldn't help his situation. He reached down and threw the purse at the bandits.
"Here." he said. One green bag with his entire lifes savings. Thirty Septims. Shamus gave it a look of scorn, and pocketed it, before looking up. His keen eyes caught something around the boy's neck.
"That necklace. Ours. Hand it over, now."

Tor looked at them with his ice blue eyes, trying feverishly to decide what to do. Beg? It wouldn't work. Defiance? He'd die. No matter. He couldn't surrender it.
"No." he said, simply. The bandits laughed. Shamus grinned, and made a motion to someone behind Tor.
"Mungo, if you please." he asked.

THUD. Pain, red, blinding bright neon, then nothing but darkness. Tor collasped, his head a bloody mess as he slid off the horse. From behind him, Mungo grinned, pleased that he'd had the oppotunity to hit something. Hard. Shamus walked forward, stooped, and grabbed at the neck of the traveller, ripping away the necklace.
"Mungo do good!"
Shamus looked up. "Yeah. He's still alive, but he's going to have one hell of a headache. Come on." he said, pausing only to look at the trinkets his fist now contained.

On the necklace were a few stones of little import, and eight minature bells. Shamus pursed his lips, looked around to make sure the others were more intrested in the paltry thirty septims, and pocketed it.

Eight minature bells. Strange, but he guessed it would fetch a good price.

[Foster]

Prt 2

Tor awoke, his view a strange shade of crimson. At first he thought it must have been sunset, but then he realised that he was inside, and there was no sunlight to be seen, only the flickering of a candle on a dresser. He winced, and reached up tenativly to touch his head. He could feel the sticky wetness of where his blood had congealed, and groaned. Everything was a groggy mess of pain and confusion. Then a voice came.

"Rest easy." The old man said. Tor's eyes widened, and he realised that he hadn't noticed him in the corner of the room before. He was well past his prime, and from the look of his wisened features was probably pushing eighty. His hair was receeding and thin, already a brilliant dash of white, and his eyes were slightly cloudy through age. He looked on at Tor with concern.
"Where?" Tor said, finding words difficult. His mouth was dry.
"You're in my cabin, up here in the Ferrall mountains. I found you at the roadside on Highcliff pass. You're safe, for the moment."
"Thank you." Tor tried to say, though his mouth was clogged with only a mumble that made words hard to form.
"You're welcome. In the morning I'll head down to a shrine not far from here. A friend of mine, a priest of Akatosh, stays there in hermetic seclusion. He'll be able to heal your wounds. For now..." the old man stood, stretching slightly, "for now, you need to sleep."
"Name..." Tor muttered, already slipping back into unconsciousness. The old man smiled, and walked over to press a gentle, if cold, hand on the boys wrist.
"Belwyn." he said, before the room grew dark.

---

"Tor!" The cry, like a peircing siren, caught him off guard, just long enough for his father to gently tap his ribs with the wooden sword. The boy winced, and turned to see who called him. It was his mother. He turned back to his father, smiling almost apologetically.
"Sorry father, I..."
"Became distracted." The old man nodded, understanding immediatly, before he walked over and grappled his son. "Never become distracted, Tor. If I were the enemy, you'd have your guts all over the floor by now, wouldn't you?"
Tor nodded and sighed. "Yes, father."
"Good. Lesson's over for today. Go find out what that mad cow wants."

With that, Tor took off across the plains outside their home, running across the freshly ploughed fields and past the breathtaking view of the coast, stretching straight as far as the eye could see, rising cliffs and rolling waves divided only by a thin line of rocky beaches or sand. The stiff Eastern breeze swept over High Rock, making the boy feel alive as he left his fathers regime. He didn't know why his father thought that an hour should be spent every day training, using wooden swords and shields, but he trusted enough not to question it. Part of him would have preferred to spend more time using magic, but he was too young to travel to Daggerfall to find assistance or someone that could train him. Reaching the house, he walked in.
"Tor." His mother said, her smile welcoming and homely. "Come over here, I want to show you something."

Obediently he followed, past the roaring fire and into the study, where all manner of books and scrolls were arrayed for study. He stopped at the desk and looked at the parchment his mother had lain out in front of him.
"This is it, Tor." She said, smiling and tapping his hand in excitement. "This is the clue I've been looking for. I bought this from a passing merchant and, by chance, it happens to mark the name I've been looking for all these years!" Tor paused and looked at his mother, suprised and pleased at the same time. His mouth somehow managed to sound out the name.
"Bregale?"
"Yes!" His mother cried, tapping him excitedly. "Bregale! From there the other clues will make sense! We're so close!"

Tor beamed, touching the eight bells that hung around his neck. They were more than just ornamental. They were the heirlooms of his family, passed down from firstborn son to firstborn son. Nobody had ever considered their meaning before, until his mother had married his father and decided that, should there be a treasure for the family, her son should have it. She'd always carried a natural intrest in cartography, and so her search for Bregale was little more than a sideline. The other lines of the poem bothered her more. Tor had seen her stooped at the fire, thinking on the phrases. The Blue Ring Tryst meant more to her than she was willing to say.

---

"Ahgh..." Tor groaned as a hand touched him, jarring him out of his uneasy sleep. Two men stood, one with his hands aglow of arcane power, pushing it over the boy's body.
"Easy, my boy..." the priest said, finishing the miraculous process. The wounds sealed, the flesh returned to its colour, the blood faded away. "You've had quite a scrap, havn't you?"
Tor nodded, sitting up in bed. "Bandits." he said. The two men looked at each other and nodded gravely. "Yes, I fear you're probably right. The Five Skulls. How much did they take from you?"
Tor's eyes suddenly widened with panic as his hands reached for his neck. The bells were gone. He looked up in desperation at Belwyn and the Priest.
"Everything." he sighed.