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 9

"Who are the Blue Ring Tryst?" Wellin asked, looking at the strange scene in front of him, the effects of his fall finally taking hold and causing parts of his body to ache. Next to him, the noblewoman had stopped her tears, and had begun to look at the group. Tor didn't move. Wellin could make out beads of sweat silhuetted against the fires still raging in the inn.
"Who are the..." Shamus began, turning his head slightly but never taking his eyes from Tor, or his bow from it's ready position. "I'll tell you, my little hammer-beating anvil monkey, who they are. The Blue Ring Tryst are the kind of people that you don't want to cross. They're legends. They're not even supposed to exist, you know? Kind of that cross between myth and reality, those knives in the night that you tell kids to keep 'em scared in tucked firmly in their beds. They're nightmares. That's who they are." He finished his rant and turned back to Tor, pointing his arrow and raising his voice. "Well? What do they want? Answer me!"

Tor shook slightly, the colour again drained from his face. His eyes looked to the sword, but it was too far away. Shamus could kill him in an instant, and from the uncompromising look in his eyes, he was perfectly willing to do so.
"Bregale." Tor said, finally. "I know where Bregale is."

Shamus loosed an arrow. It flew through the air with sweeping venom, before twanging violently into the tree stump. The bandit threw down his bow in anger.
"Bregale! That's what this is about!" He screamed, lunging forward, his arms raised. Suddenly he'd grabbed Tor up, and was shaking him violently, as though he were a helpless manniquin. "This is where we're going? To the village of the damned!"
"Wha..." Tor began, before suddenly finding himself on the floor again, in a crumpled heap. "I...don't know. I don't know what's there, it's..."
"Of course you don't know!" Shamus screamed, his arms flapping. "Or you'd never have set out! Bregale has been lost for two hundred years, and good riddence if it keeps THEM off your back!"

The air was full of tension. Shamus paced violently, shaking his head, unsure what he should do. Tor lay and watched in amazement. He too, didn't know what to say. He knew nothing about why he was going, just that it seemed to be his family right. Then Wellin spoke, a quiet voice of reason.
"What's this about?" he asked. Shamus turned, and looked at him, a snarl on his lips.
"It's about a blood feud, that's what. Two hundred years ago there was a count called Olaf Grunweld. This guy decided it was in the best intrests of his community to mine the silver nearby, and found out that the largest deposits were on the land of his neighbour, Lord Dorian. Legend goes, and how you never heard this one it escapes me, considering it's told up and down Cyrodiil, that the site of the deposite was on the village of Bregale, which was hidden somewhere, how nobody knows. Grunweld found it somehow, formed a group, the Blue Ring Tryst, to force the inhabitants out. They succeeded, mainly by butchering the residents. Dorian tried to stop them, but Grunweld had made sure the deed to Bregale, the rights to the land, had gone missing, and he used a few well placed bribes to make the land his. With the loss of Bregale, the Dorians swore revenge. They stormed Castle Leetcher, the seat of the Grunweld's, and butchered the entire family. Unfortunatly, Lord Dorian died during the storming, and only he outside the village knew where Bregale was."
"So...Grunweld crossed Dorian, Dorian killed Grunweld to avenge the loss of the lives of his villagers?" Tor asked. Shamus looked at him once more.
"Basically. Thing is, that left the Blue Ring Tryst with nothing to do. A group who had sworn allegiance to their liege now didn't have one - what they had was the location of the Bregale silver mine. Now legend says they kill anyone who threatens their riches, and have sworn to extinguish the entire Dorian line from existance. What I can't understand," Shamus said, "was what this has to do with you."

Tor stood up, and showed him the necklace once more.
"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."

Shamus looked at him. "Ahh." he said.
"What?"
"That's the other bit of the legend, isn't it? That the deed to Bregale wasn't lost at all, but it was hidden by one of the villagers somewhere. The Dorian's put a bounty on the location of Bregale, as you would if you'd lost a silver mine, of fifty thousand septims - Fifty thousand! That's enough to buy a fully furnished house in Chorrol, or one of the more...snooty...towns. " The bandit's eyes gleamed, his anger diminishing as he thought of the gold. "And you have the location, do you?"
"I saw a map." Tor admitted. "So roughly."
"Where?"
Tor paused. "I...won't say."
Shamus' eyes narrowed, but then, tilting his head, he backed away. "Alright then. You keep your secrets." he said, his voice strangely calm considering the taste of gold on his lips.

Wellin walked over. "So, we know the location of a silver mine, guarded by a group of psychotic assassins?" he asked. Shamus nodded.
"It seems that way. I never knew." Tor said, wistfully. Suddenly it all made sense. He was a descendant of one of Bregale's villagers, and he alone held the key to the deed.
"I... don't get it." Wellin said.
"Don't get what? The chance for gold?" Shamus snapped.
"No... why they didn't just kill your family earlier. I mean, if they knew where you were, and from what you've told me it sounds likely, then why not move sooner, take your necklace?"
"We only just found the location of Bregale." Tor said, realising the awful events that had caused the deaths of his loved ones. "They didn't need to move on us - why draw attention? So they just waited, in case we did find out something. Then we forced their hand."

Slowly, a tear formed. If it hadn't been for his mother's intrest in an old family legend, then it would never have happened. They'd all be alive still, enjoying life on the coast of High Rock. He'd rather have them back than fifty thousand septims.

"Uh..." Wellin coughed, once more.
"What?" Shamus asked, snapping at him.
"One more thing. How did the...the Blue Ring Tryst? How did they know we were here?" he asked.

"They didn't." Came a voice from behind. Sweet and feminine, with a strong, determined quality. They all turned to look at the noblewoman, her young face pale, her eyes deep and mournful. "They were here to kill me. I am Kiera Dorian."

This post has been edited by Foster: Mar 30 2006, 04:40 PM