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]

Well readers, this might be my last post for a day or two, gotta go away and do some work. Hope you enjoy this little update!

Chapter Five

It seemed so strange, Nightblade thought to himself. Only days ago he had wished to go back to the Arena and now his wish had come true. Getting in to the place had been easy- Travis had been fighting in the Arena for some time now and was one short of one hundred kills. Apparently that was significant in Wayrest, particularly when you’re the King’s son. For this particular fight, the king wanted something special for his adorable son. Mitillades had posed as a slaver own, stopped by to the local bloodworks and struck up an easy deal; 5000 gold septimes for the legendary Nightblade. At the time Nightblade had been a trifle offended at the price, but had put it out of his mind. When the king had heard of his entrance into the Arena, Nightblade had been informed that he would be fighting Travis that night.

Things were far different in the Wayrest arena, as compared to the fighting Nightblade was used to. The fight took place in three parts, the first part was to be hand-to-hand, the second would be fought with weapons and the third with magic. Each rounds end would be decided upon by the King of Wayrest, sounded by a gong. Nightblade had no doubt that each round would be decided upon in favour of Travis. He also had no doubt that if he managed to kill Travis (an unlikely event, judging by his reputation) he would undoubtable be killed by his father and the guards. It would appear he was in a lose-lose situation. He really had no plan to get out- he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to get out. Still he had felt more alive in the past few days than he had for the last year. Did he really want to let all that go? It was a decision he was going to have to make soon. He just hoped that the situation he was in wouldn’t make it impossible for him to make it.

Nightblade was thrust out into the Arena; bring his thoughts back to the present issue at hand. He also noted that he was wearing nothing but a ragged pair of sack cloth pants. Mitillades was right- things were going to get bloody. For him or his opponent.

The crowd screamed and booed at him, throwing curses and various fruits and vegetables at him. He didn’t particularly care much, just ran over strategy in his head. He would probably loose a hand-to-hand fight that was his greatest weakness. All he had to do was make that weakness work for him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” A magically magnified voice cried out around the stadium. Nightblade looked up into the stands to find the speaker, who appeared to be none other than the king himself.
“In celebration of my son’s imminent 100th kill, a special event has been brought before you! We have spared no expense in my son’s filthy opponent, one who has been transported all the way from the Imperial City. May I present one who will perhaps provide my son with some small challenge, the gladiator- Nightblade!”

A renewed chorus of boos and hisses broke out, although there was an underlying noise of chatter and excitement. Apparently Nightblade’s reputation had extended even here. He turned away from the king who had resumed his place and eyed up his opponent. He was amazed that for someone so youthful, and a Breton besides, could appear so intimidating. He was Nightblade’s own hight and his body rippled with muscles. He was well tanned, and had a face not unlike Nightblade’s own. He recognized a similar soul- he had seen it a million times in the Arena. He also didn’t carry himself with the air of an arrogant prince. Nightblade began to suspect that while Mitillades had been honest about Travis’s actions, he had not been honest about the character of the man. He had chosen the life of a gladiator, had chosen to make mass slaughter. But Nightblade reminded himself that he too had chosen that life. Perhaps Travis himself had had a similar life.

Nightblade had no time to ponder this influences on the man, for a massive gong sounded across the stadium, and Travis was on him in no time. He fell back against the barrage of punches, giving the appearance that he was weaker than he seemed. In fact he defended most of the blows, but exaggerated the ones that took him. He would occasional throw a kick or a punch when the opportunity present itself, but all in all continued to fall back. The crowd was screaming its support for Travis and booing Nightblade’s poor performance.

Nightblade was taken of guard, when Travis smashed him in the nose. Dazed and confused, he didn’t notice as Travis span around on the ground and swept his legs out from under him. He landed hard on the ground.

“Good show, Nightblade.” He muttered to himself. He realized dimly that the gong had been sounded for the second time. That meant that it was time for the weapons round. Sure enough he noticed Travis looming over him, dagger in hand. He looked sad almost as he raised the dagger higher…

Nightblade didn’t give him the chance to bring the dagger down. He swiftly kicked upwards, knocking the dagger out of his hand. He got to his feet, quickly punched Travis in the nose and looked for the dagger. It had disappeared.

Figures, Nightblade thought to himself. The dagger had been summoned and had disappeared once out of Travis’s hands. He noted however than an Imperial Shortsword had been dropped into the pit. Nightblade made a run for it, picked it up with a flourish and faced his opponent- who was aiming for him with an incredibly lethal looking bow.

What followed was a series of leaps and jumps, as Nightblade cautiously moved toward the bow wielding prince. He was almost within striking distance when his acrobatics failed him. He was caught directly in his uncovered shoulder, and fell to his knees.

The crowd screamed in anticipation, and Nightblade was close enough to hear another arrow knocked into the bow. He closed his eyes and it was here he made his choice…”