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 10

"So, what do we do?" Wellin asked, to nobody in particular. The sun had already risen on the smouldering remains of the inn, and, despite Shamus' insistance that they really should get going, they'd stayed to at least make an attempt at burying the dead - or at least, they had managed to instruct Mungo to do so, though he'd had a distasteful nibble at the remains. As much as it was detestable to him, Tor knew the road was dangerous, and had helped himself to the armour of Lady Dorian's bodyguards. It had taken Wellin only a few moments to reshape it so that it would fit comfortably, and he was reassured at least that he now wasn't completely vulnerable in his furs.

By the time the sun had risen, painting the sky in a gloriously gleaming mix of brilliant yellow and gold, they were far away. Already Tor could see that Shamus was getting fed up of the female company. Obviously used to getting things her way, she had already begun to make demands on how the rest of them should behave, which had ended with him telling her frankly exactly what she could do with her breeding. Tor and Wellin remained an appreciable distance back to let the fireworks flow.

"And another thing," Kiera began, "you shouldn't chew with your mouth open. I watched you all through breakfast. It's disgusting."
"Well, I couldn't care less what you think, her-who-wipes-her-buttocks-with-silk."
"I'm hardly unfamiliar with discomfort! I spent three days in the Imperial dungeon once!"
"What for? Noise pollution? The rate you whinge I'm suprised they didn't muzzle you as well."
"Urrrgh."
"You said it, Mungo." Shamus said, nodding at his zombie.
"And must you keep that...abomination with you?"
"Mungo, I think she wants a hug."
"Aaarrgh! Get it off me! Get it off me!"
"Hahahahaha. Oh, but he likes you!"

By mid-afternoon, when they had decided once more to stop again under the shelter of a sprawling oak, Tor and Wellin were getting a little tired of it. They hadn't ceased. In fact, they were both amazed that their voices wern't hoarse.
"Don't make groin movements at me. It's vile."
"I was sitting on a mushroom, I just shifted forward! No way I'd make groin...what's a groin?"
"Your, ugh, I refuse to lose my dignity over this conversation."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Be quiet."
"Why are you wearing a turban?"
"Why is that any of your concern?"
"Take it off."
"How dare you command me!"
"Take it off or Mungo will."
"Leave her alone." Tor interuptted. Shamus looked at him.
"I just think, seeing as how she's basically nominated herself to come with us, especially considering that she seems to be the reason we were attacked last night, that she should be completely honest with us. Reveal any little secrets she's hiding. That's all, ay?" Shamus said, pulling out a knife from somewhere, and using it to give himself a rough shave.
"I'd like to know too." Wellins said, his voice slightly muted. Tor, as much has he wanted to resist the urge, was also curious. It wasn't often you saw a lady, especially a young and not unattrative one, wearing a turban. Kiera looked at them all for a moment, a fierce definance in her eyes. Then she bowed to peer pressure and removed it.

Shamus and Wellin burst out laughing. Only Tor remained quiet, although he was curious as to why exactly she had green hair.
"I did it for a very good reason." She said firmly, before turning to eat her dinner, at all times keeping her pinky extended and fingers in a dainty, lady-like position. As much as she was a rebel, some things had been taught that they came instinctivly. And she was regretting the whole hair debacle, especially given the company she was now forced to keep.