The Nightblade Chronicles, A Journey Begins Options

[Malpense the Dark]

Well it would appear I've got enough posts under my belt to start posting my own stories in this forum. Yay for me! Anyhow you'll note that my character and this chronicles are called Nightblade- my character is not a Nightblade. He has some assassin skills, but he's more a Jack of all trades in magic, stealth and fighting. If anyone is curious, the narration takes place the just after the evens of Oblivion. The story itself takes place 3E 427.

Phew, that was long wasn't it? Without further longwinded backstory may I present- The Nightblade Chronicles- The Journey Begins

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Prologue

A fierce sea storm lashed Cyrodiil’s small stretch of coastline, the grey waves tearing at the shore like clawed hands. The port city of Anvil was at the heart of the storm, as the power of Kynareth was pitted against the city. The walls of the harbour disappeared into the sea for moments at a time, to reappear again briefly and to be devoured again by the ocean. The ships in the harbour pulled and bucked away from their oarings, with the occasional ship being ripped apart and pulled down into the sea.

Because of the storm the waterfront was devoid of residents, sailors, citizens and guards all having sought shelter in either The Flowing Bowl, or in the case of the lonelier sailor The Fo’e’s’le. The few guards stationed in the watch tower were unable to see the harbour, hidden as it was by the dark curtain of rain. As such not a soul saw the great black ship that slid into the harbour, seemingly ignoring the terrible weather.

The ship was tall and stern, its masts reaching high into the sky, its prow sharp as an arrow. It was a war galley to be sure but it had a sense of elegance and might that made it seem all the prouder than a common galley. For such a huge ship it approached the harbour gracefully, gently landing at the end of one of the many stone quays. The ship was quickly tied up by half a dozen sailors, Redguards in appearance and manner who made no sound as they roped the ship to the jetty. Following the sailors was the captain of the ship a lean man, also a Redguard, who had a long scar running along his left side. Following behind him was an unknown figure, rapped tightly in a long black cloak, the hood concealing the owner’s face.

“I appreciate your hospitality captain” The hooded figure said, in an obviously male voice. “Few would have tolerated my presence on such short notice.”

“The gold you promised for the trip changed my mind” The captain growled, glaring at the figure suspiciously as if worried he would not pay up. Quite to the contrary, the figure pulled a large sack of coins out from inside his cloak.

“I believe this will cover you services.” He said, tossing the pouch to the captain who pocketed it quickly. “Again my thanks for your help.”

“The pleasure was mine.” The captain said, grinning now that his gold was safely in his pocket. He had withdrawn a coin from inside the pouch, just to make sure it was indeed gold. It was. He couldn’t make that much from sailing between Cyrodiil and High Rock a dozen times over. He smiled again at the cloaked man. “Few of my passengers even know not to throw up into the wind, let alone how to help man a ship. You’ve done this before I take it?”

The man was quiet for a moment. “In another life.” He said finally, staring out over the frenzied ocean. He seemed to shake himself slightly and turned to the captain. “But I am afraid this is not the time for long stories, for I have kept you over long. May Zenithar guide you to prosperity and wealth.”
The figure bowed slightly to the captain turned to leave. The ships captain watched the man as he walked away, but finally he blinked and the figure was gone.

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As the rain was becoming increasingly unpleasant, the cloaked man was eager to find some accommodation. He glanced along the waterfront, considering The Fo’e’s’le but decided against it. The Flowing Bowl was also out of the question, as the man was looking for some peace and quiet, rather than being pestered by slobbering drunks. The only other option was to head into the city and find a nice quiet inn. The man shook himself like a dog and ran through into the city itself, his cloak pulled tightly around him.

The Flowing Bowl was typical of the many middle-class inns in Cyrodiil, though of course it was built in the style that was popular in Anvil. It was constructed out of the same small grey blocks of stone that were typical in Anvil structures, which went along splendidly with the thundering sky. It was a two story building, with an elaborate balcony supported by two carved stone pillars which framed the entrance to the inn. A small set of steps led up the inn’s main door which was green, a common colour for doors in Anvil, the cloaked man thought as he went through. The interior of the inn was like any other, several oak tables were scattered through the tap room along with the odd assortment of chairs. The man immediately deposited himself at a table in the furthest corner of the room, near the fire, and examined the clientele of the tavern. There were few customers in the place, which suited his purpose just fine. A couple of Elves sat in the corner, ignoring his presence completely as they continued their conversation. A man and a woman, locals by the look of them, were sitting closest to him and had only given him a curious glance when he’d entered but had soon gone back to their drinks. The only other people in the inn were the barman, who stood behind the bar washing a glass and the serving wench, a blonde beauty of a woman, probably about twenty or so. She was tall for a woman, her green dress matching her mischievous eyes and her hair falling down her back like a waterfall. She sidled up to the cloaked man, sitting down next to him and focusing him with a playful look.

“Hey there stranger” she said lightly. “You after anything in particular? Ale, mead, wine we’ve got it all. If you want we’ve got rooms for rent, or you can bunk at my place. The nights are pretty long around here, and they can get pretty lonely. It’s always good to have a little company.”

“I’ll take you up on the ale.” The man said humorously “I’ll have to decline on the rest of it.”

“Suit yourself.” She said, getting up to leave. She leaned over to the figure man and whispered to him “But you’re missing out on a great time.”
She sauntered away, her hips moving seductively from side to side. The man watched her go for a moment, before pulling a wooden pipe from his pocket and filling it with some tobacco from a pouch on his belt. He picked up a nearby candle and dipped it into the tobacco the flames immediately catching in the dry plant. He placed the candle back on the table, leaned back in his chair, took a deep mouthful of smoke and exhaled slowly. He sat quietly, smoking, thinking, his mind in another place and time. He probably would have dozed off (not advisable when one had a lit pipe) if not for the serving girl who returned with his mug of ale. He shook himself awake and accepted the mug. He stared at the girl as she sat down again, giving him a determined glance.

“Listen, love, I am not interested”

“I’m not after that” she said tartly, cutting across his words. “But I didn’t lie when I said the nights can get lonely around here. Can’t we just enjoy some conversation?”

The man said nothing and did not move. He continued to stare at her; at least she assumed that’s what he was doing.

She pouted at him “Please?”

The man sighed and flicked his hand dismissively. “Whatever pleases you.”

“Well first things first then.” She said smiling at him. “Lose the hood. I’d like to see who I’m drinking with.”
The man decided he might as well, considering he was going to need to take the hood off to enjoy his ale anyway. He grabbed hold of the back of the hood and pulled it down, revealing his face for the first time. It was difficult to tell what race he was; he seemed to be a mixture of Nord, Redguard and even had some Elven qualities in his appearance. He had shoulder length hair, as black as night which was arranged casually to keep out of his face. His nose and jaw were sharp and his cheeks hollowed. Rough stubble covered the lower half of his face, which made his appear older than he was but his eyes betrayed his youth; sparkling blue eyes that seemed like brilliant sapphires. Yet when one went deeper into his eyes one could see the bloody life he had led, the lives he had taken etched upon his soul.

The woman had looked at him briefly, a puzzled look on her face as old memories returned to her. She recoiled briefly, surprise at seeing this man; a man she had seen before.

“You” she said in shock “I know you. I’ve seen you before, years ago in the Imperial Arena. You were in the Arena, before the Grey Prince’s run. You’re-”

“Nightblade.” The man said quietly, sighing to himself. Apparently the fame he’d gained in his brief stint in the arena had not entirely faded away.

“But- but what happened to you?” She whispered, moving in closer to him. “You were the greatest fighter I’d ever seen. Everyone was saying you’d become Arena champion, and you’d only been there for a month. And then you just… disappeared. There were all kinds of stories; people said you’d been kidnapped or assassinated, there were even rumours that the arena administration had killed you off-”

“All of which are untrue” The man known to her as Nightblade said. “Although they all do add to my reputation.”

“But what really happened?” The woman asked earnestly. “What happened to you?”
Nightblade looked at her for a moment before asking: “What’s your name?”

“Sarah” the woman said quietly

“Well then Sarah, if you’ve got till morning I suppose I could tell you the story. If you keep my mug filled and my pipe lit I’ll take you on a tale of adventure and mystery…”

This post has been edited by Malpense the Dark: Jan 31 2007, 07:35 AM

[Malpense the Dark]

Yeah, couldn't resist the Star Wars line , seemed to fit nicley. Anyway, onto the next chapter of this bloody and corrupt tale!

Chapter Four

The shadows loomed around the small boy’s bedroom, making it seem to him that his bed was the only thing in a giant black ocean. He was afraid, too afraid to light the candle on his bedside table, which he knew was within reach. He stayed with the covers pulled over his head, hoping that the monsters would go away. A small creak of a footstep on the floor told him that they had not gone. Trembling with fear he pulled down the covers too see what was standing next to him.

It was a man, nothing more. The small boy was taken aback that it was not vampires or werewolves or the other things that lurked under the bed. The man simply stood there, staring at him. The boy perceived that he was crying.

“Sir, why do you cry?” He asked the man in concern

“May Akatosh forgive me” The man said hoarsely, pulling something out of his belt. The boy could not see what it was.

“I’m sure he will sir.” The boy said simply, smiling at the man. “He’s supposed to do that a lot, or so mother says.”

With a strangled sob, the man placed his hand over the boy’s mouth and brought his hand high into the air. In one swift motion he drove the dagger he was holding into the boy’s heart, killing him instantly.

“I am so sorry.” The man whispered into the dead boy’s ear. He withdrew the dagger with a sickly crunching noise, staring at his hands. They were drenched in blood. He dropped the dagger and ran to the window before jumping out. He was crying all the while.

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Nightblade bolted up out of his hammock, trembling with fear and remorse. He had been asleep for, he guessed about two hours, judging by the light steaming through the hatch that led to the ship’s deck. And still the dreams had come.

He wandered up on the deck of the cargo ship they had bought passage on. It was a heavy merchant ship called The Lady’s Luck, which was heading toward Wayrest in the Imperial province of High Rock. They had moored for the night in a secluded cove along the coast of Hammerfell, and there were few people about apart from the look out in the crow’s nest.

He has sat at the prow for a few hours, ignoring everything and everyone, before they raised the anchor and cast off. After a few moments of watching the sailors do their duties, his fingers began to itch in anticipation. He had never been one to sit and watch others work, and the pounding of the waves had made him restless but not in the going-berserk-and-killing-everyone-in-the-vicinity restless which was what he was used to. The great blue ocean seemed to calm some of the anger and torment in is soul, but he wanted to be busy. He quickly went to find the captain.

Within 20 minutes he was scaling the masts, throwing ropes to the other sailors, learning to anticipate the gusts of wind and manipulating the sails so as to speed them through the sea. He felt like he had not felt for a long time.

On the deck below Nightblade, Mitillades watched silently, a knowing smile on his face.

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The Lucky Lady made port in Wayrest, High Rock’s largest and richest trading centre. The city was large, as large as any of the major cities in Cyrodiil like Kavatch or Bruma. The buildings were all predominantly wood and very few reached over two stories in height. The Imperial buildings stood out plainly, being the only things full constructed of stone in the entire city. Cyrodiil Legions patrolled the streets in force, in bunches of threes and fours. The atmosphere was tense and wary, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. Nightblade could tell that rebellion was brewing.

Not that Nightblade cared particularly. Bloody rebellion over the rule of Uriel Septim; couldn’t happen to a nicer person a far as he was concerned. Still he didn’t particularly fancy being in the middle of it when the whole thing exploded. Hopefully they could get their business done quickly and then get out again.

The pair of them headed to the merchant section of town, Nightblade following Mitillades as he searched for the right house. They found it eventually, scouted the area and went in through the back entrance.

The house itself was simply furnished, and had the look of a barracks rather than someone’s home. Nightblade suspected that the place was used a lot by travelling Blades.

As the pair entered the back door, Mitillades pulled Nightblade aside.

“Just as a warning the guy who owns the place is the Guildmaster of the High Rock Blades.” Mitillades whispered to him. “He’s fiercely loyal to the Blades and the Emperor and punches like a mountain ogre. And he really doesn’t like you.”

“What a surprise” Nightblade muttered as he moved after Mitillades.

“Mitillades!” A man roared from inside the living room. He was a towering Nord; old by the look of him, with greying hair and bear, but his muscles bulged from his arms. He grabbed Mitillades in a large bear hug, almost squeezing the life out of him. He let go off Mitillades and looked at Nightblade. His expression went from puzzlement to surprise and then disgust.

“You!” He barked at Nightblade, letting go of Mitillades and marching toward him. Nightblade readied himself for a fight. “Heard you went berserk and tried to kill your friends. Would have thought you’d be bashing your brains out against a wall by now.”

“What can I say?” Nightblade said sardonically. “I got better.”

“Uh-hu.” Without warning he drew his fist back and punched Nightblade directly in the nose.

Nightblade’s head jerked back slightly, but he kept his footing, determined not to show any weakness. He casually felt his nose and cracked it back into place, not letting the pain show. “That was a little excessive, don’t you think?”

“Just a friendly warning.” The Nord growled at him. “I don’t like crazies under my roof.”

“Which is odd coming from a Nord” Nightblade mocked. He received a blow to the stomach for that one. No matter- he’d had far worse in the Arena. He knew this type of man. All he had to do was keep his cool, keep delivering the insults and not show any weakness.

“I also don’t take lip from trash like you.” The Nord rumbled at him.

“Which is lucky” Nightblade coughed out, glaring at the Nord “because you weren’t having my lip. I like my lip, I’m rather attached to my-”

He received a punch to the jaw.

“-lip.” He finished, glaring at the Nord. Now he was getting seriously annoyed. Keeping his cool be damned! If the old Guildmaster tried anything again, he’d have at it. Sure enough he drew his arm back for another go. Nightblade was ready for him. He caught the man’s arm in a grip of steel, bringing his blow to a halt. With one swift motion he drove his fist into the face of the angry old Nord. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain, which urged him on.

Things probably would have gotten bloody if Mitillades hadn’t interfered. With surprising strength he pulled the two of each other.

“That is enough!” He hissed of the two of them. “We don’t have time for this. Nightblade!” he rounded on him, using his preferred name for the first time. “Curb your tounge or I’ll have it ripped out! And you Eirikur” he said angrily to the hulking Nord. “Control yourself! You are supposed to be Guildmaster in High Rock! Start acting like it.”

Nightblade was amazed at the power that came from his old friend’s voice. Even more surprised when he saw Eirikur back down because of it. Nightblade was amazed. Why would a Guildmaster back down on Mitillades command? Had he gained a high rank in Nightblade’s absence?

“That’s better.” Mitillades said, drawing Nightblade away from his questions. “Now we’ve been sent to bring some stability to the area. I’ve been told that the situation in Wayrest is approaching boiling point.”

Eirikur glared at Nightblade for a moment before regaining his seat. “Not sure what you boys think you can do about it to be honest.” He said, inviting Mitillades to sit down. Nightblade received no invitation but sat down anyway. “The Emperor is loosing his grip on the provinces, it’s been happening for years. Morrowind and Black Marsh are on the verge of open rebellion and it’s only a matter of time before things boil over here. The Emperor will be able to put it down of course- this time. But there’ll be a lot of blood in the streets before that happens.”

“Not that I want to agree with hits-a-lot over there” Nightblade said. Eirikur glowered at him. “But I think he’s right. I saw how tense things are out there. Sooner or later, things are going to boil over.”

“And it will be sooner rather than latter.” Eirikur growled. “There’s a few hot-head Bretons who are fanning the flames on this one. They’ll whip this thing into an inferno if they’re not stopped soon.”

“So I was told.” Mitillades said quietly. “That’s what our mission is here, or at least my mission.”

“Goody for you commander” Nightblade said sardonically. “Care to tell me what my mission is?”

“Could we have a moment alone, Eirikur?” Mitillades requested politely

Eirikur gave him a piercing look, but got up anyway. “Of course, Mitillades. I’ll fetch us some ale.”

He stomped away into the kitchen, making enough noise to Mitillades at ease of his eavesdropping. He leaned closer to Nightblade, his voice hushed.

“This is where things get nasty” He whispered. “For you and for me. What you’re going to have to do is incredibly dangerous.”

“Why don’t you actually tell me what I need to do?” Nightblade whispered back.

“There is a group here in Wayrest calling themselves the Liberator of High Rock. For the most part they’re all the young men who don’t have enough to do but they’ve began stirring up resentment against the Empire. It has come at exactly the wrong moment. They will be the trigger for this uprising, if they are not dealt with soon.”

“Surely this should be handled by Imperial Soldiers?”

“No, we can’t be seen doing anything.” Mitillades answered. “If Imperial soldiers tried to detain this group, it would only help strengthen their resolve- and their hold over the people. It would start a war.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Nightblade asked. He had a feeling his part would be coming up any minute now.

“The driving force behind this order is their founder and leader, Travis Torven. He’s the son of the King of Wayrest, and as such he’s got a lot of power in this area. Take him out, and the rest will lose heart.”

“And you want me to take him out I suppose?” Nightblade asked. “How do you want it done? Assassination? I’ll make it look like a painful accident.”

“If it were that easy, I would do myself.” Mitillades replied moodily. “No the palace is a, well, fortress for want of a better word. The King and his people are highly suspicious and have got the place locked down tighter than a merchant’s safe. We can’t get assassins in to the castle.”

“Well how am I supposed to take out this guy?” Nightblade hissed, a little tired of all the cryptic

“For a Breton, Travis is an incredible fighter.” Mitillades told him. “He’s also a racist pig. Imperial law still holds enough sway so he doesn’t start killing foreigners in the street, so he vents his frustrations elsewhere.”

“You have got to be kidding me” Nightblade muttered, realizing what he was going to have to do.

“That’s right. You’re going to have to fight in the Arena, here in Wayrest. And I have a feeling things are going to get messy.”

“Thanks for the moral boost, Captain Optimist” Nightblade grumbled sarcastically.

This post has been edited by Malpense the Dark: Feb 2 2007, 06:01 AM