Bloodlust - The Continuation, And the likely conclusion as well!!! Options

[The Metal Mallet]

Well, here's the link to the previous thread: Bloodlust - The Beginning

You can continue your praisings of my written words here. Expect an update next Saturday. I don't expect I'll get one out sooner. School starts again

[The Metal Mallet]

Here's a little bit of a shorter one today. I have projects to do this long weekend, so I figured I'd try to belt out a quick one. It still ends on a appropriate note though



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Taris had wasted no time in his preparation to leaving Cyrodiil. After being released from the barracks, he had immediately travelled to “The Flying Bosmer” to gather his things. After that, he paid off the inn owner and swiftly vacated the town of Kvatch.

Now, he stood off in the woods nearby the main road that led to Chorrol. Taris made sure that no one was nearby, taking heed of Savlian’s warning about the use of teleportation magic. Certain that the area was clear of prying eyes, Taris activated his recall spell.

A wave of awkwardness attacked Taris’ senses briefly; adding that to a sense of weightlessness before Taris found himself standing in his office within his villa. The place looked exactly how he left it. The shelves of books still resided in the northern corner of the room, his desk, placed in front of a large window for its use of natural light, still had the jar of ink and cliffracer quills placed upon it. Everything was dust free as well. It meant that Freda was still doing her job.

Taris examined himself and realised that his clothes were still bloodstained from the altercation in the alley with Simion. Taris had been in such a hurry to get going, he had forgotten about the blood. Well, he was going to remedy that.

Taris left his office and began to head to his room. Along the way, an older looking Dunmer female rounded the corner carrying a load of clothing. At the sight of Taris, the startled Dunmer dropped her load of clothing; a high pitch squeak gave voice to her fright. Taris stopped and raised his hands to chest level, showing that he was unarmed.

“It’s just me, Freda. And the blood isn’t mine,” Taris said in a calming manner.

Freda’s eyes took a moment to recognise the master of the villa she worked for. Once they did, her eyes narrowed.

“I consider it quite inappropriate to spook your servants like that, serjo Dren!” she said sternly as she bent down to pick up the clothing she dropped, “Now I’ll have to clean some of these all over again.”

Taris helped Freda with picking up the clothing. Placing the last article on top of the pile, Taris gave his servant a small embrace.

“I’m sorry to have scared you, Freda. It was not my intention, and I wasn’t exactly planning on arriving back so soon.”

Freda eyed the assassin suspiciously. “You’re not in trouble with the law are you? By that blood on you, it looks like you’ve visited a slaughterhouse,” she exclaimed, her expression turning worrisome.

“It’s not like that. Actually, I’m kinda working with the law this time. Still, the reason for me being here is serious all the same.”

“Well I best stay out of your way then,” Freda said, beginning to head off. Taris stopped her though.

“Freda, if you have the time, could you locate any of my father’s possessions that we’ve kept in the villa?” he asked.

Freda looked about to ask Taris something, but stopped. Instead she simply nodded before leaving.




Taris stood in Orvas Dren’s room, his eyes taking in every nook and cranny of the room. Taris had decided to leave the room virtually untouched after his father’s death; he didn’t wish to sleep in the room of one who willingly caused those beneath him intense suffering.

The bed, long left untouched, was still made neatly. A stand of shelves still contained bits of various armours that Orvas had prided himself in collecting. One of his most cherished pieces, a pair of Daedric greaves, had been sent with his body to the Dren Ancestral Tomb. Taris hoped that he would not have to travel there to find his answer. It would only take away from the time he required to travel back to Kvatch.

The creaking of floorboards signalled Freda’s arrival. She carried a small crate, which rattled as the contents within moved about. Freda dropped the crate upon the bed unceremoniously. Brushing the dust off her hands, she looked to Taris.

“Well, that’s all that’s left here. Hopefully you find what you’re looking for,” she said, her voice hinting at worry, “Just be careful though; some memories aren’t meant to be remembered.”

Taris thanked the old Dunmer for her assistance. As she walked off, Taris opened up the crate and examined its contents. Inside there contained a couple of books, many of them religious books from the basically defunct Temple, and off the “good” Daedra. It also contained some exquisite jewellery and also an intricate looking dagger.

The dagger itself caught Taris’ attention. He picked up the weapon and read its inscription: “Silverbrand”. The name of the weapon further piqued Taris’ interest. The weapon was closely named to the legendary longsword, “Goldbrand”, which had been blessed by the Daedric Lord, Boethiah. Could this perhaps be a weapon also blessed by Boethiah?

Taris could understand why he father would possess such a weapon, should his speculation be correct. As a devout homeland Dunmer, Orvas held strong belief in traditional Dunmer religious, particularly the worship of what the Dunmer considered were the “Good Daedra”: Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. Possessing anything blessed by those Daedra would be ample proof of Orvas’ devotion to tradition Dunmer values.

Taris placed the dagger aside and picked up one of the books. It happened to be about the Daedra, so he flipped to Boethiah’s page. What he read about the Daedric Lord got him thinking. Boethiah seemed to love violence, as if he revelled in the suffering of others. His attention returned to the dagger. It seemed more familiar now…

It was familiar! He had seen use it once before, in fact, he had seen Orvas drawing the blade across his forearm. Taris had peered into his father’s study, as he had thought he had heard a noise. Indeed the noise was the heavy breathing of Orvas, since he was cutting himself with the blade in some sort of ritualistic manner. The smell of burning flesh had been rank on his senses, but it was the crazed look in his father’s eyes that had scared him away. The same look that Simion has been using.

It looked like the answer was beginning to pull itself together.