Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[treydog]

Here is the link to: Treydog's Other Stories

Prologue

“But sir, if you would only give me a little more time, I am certain you would be interested in my proposition.”

“The answer is still ‘No’, Mr. Beauchamp. I have no desire to listen to anything you have to say. You may leave now.”

“If I gave offense by my earlier remarks, I apologize. It is simply that one sometimes hears things…. I know that financial remuneration is not important to you, but I thought that perhaps the spirit of adventure might be enough to entice you.”

“Mr. Beauchamp, I have everything I need right here. My family is here, my home is here, my life is here. I have no interest in the ‘spirit of adventure’. I have found that ‘adventure’ is simply another way of saying ‘a desperate attempt to survive the situation in which one has stupidly placed oneself’. You will leave now. That is not a request.”

I heard the front door open and close with a finality that punctuated those last words. Then another voice spoke up:

“Weren’t you perhaps a bit hard on him, dear?”

The response was a growl:

“You heard what he said as well as I did- ‘…your well-known talent for getting into and out of tight places….’ He called me a thief, is what he did.”

“Well, yes, but after all, you were a thief, you know. And he did come to you directly, not lurking behind some intermediary.”

“Perhaps I used to be a thief, but I hoped I had put all that behind me. And besides, he came to me arrogantly and rudely, just as if he were a bloody Imperial, instead of a fellow Breton."


“ ’A bloody Imperial?’ ” I could envision the raised eyebrow that accompanied that innocent question.

The voices moved away to another part of the house, and I could not make out the muttered words that I was sure were an apology. But that wasn’t important; I had already heard everything I needed to know. I had a name now and a goal. Louis Beauchamp- and Solstheim!

Leaving home is rarely easy, or at least so I have heard. But I felt as if I had to, as if I was slowly smothering. If I was going to do the things I wanted to do, I must get away. There were places I wanted to explore- places he had never been. How typical of him to disparage the idea of adventure- after he had lived the kind of life others only dreamed of! And then to just…stop. As if he could pretend that none of it had ever happened if he did not speak of it. But others spoke of it- oh yes. Louis Beauchamp certainly had that right- one did “hear things”. It was easy enough to tell others that the meat was no good when you had eaten your fill. But I had tasted nothing but the scraps of someone else’s greatness for my whole life and I could stand it no longer. I would leave that very night- but not for Solstheim, at least not yet. It would not do to arrive in that far place as a penniless beggar. Although we were comfortable, and never wanted for the necessities, money was not given to me in any quantity. And though I knew the location of the family treasury well enough, I would not steal. I would not be named a thief, no matter who my father was.

Once the house had quieted, I gathered a small pack of clothing, the few coins that were my own, and a well-worn quarterstaff. How I longed for a bright blade to hang at my side! How could a ready fellow such as I set off on a grand adventure without a trusty sword? But of course I had never been trained in the use of swords, and I recalled the answer when I asked:

“Violence is the result of a mistake. If you avoid mistakes, you can avoid fights. A good walking stick will serve you better. Anything that cannot be dealt with by a sharp rap on the snout is best avoided.”

As if I had never seen the scars that marked his body, never heard the stories that everyone knew by heart, never gazed at the virtual armory hidden throughout the house.
Most of the hidden weapons appeared to be no more than well-used examples of the crafter’s art…. But some of them seemed to… whisper among themselves and to move of their own volition. I know it sounds foolish, the overheated imagining of a child, but I swear it is true. He had never gotten those swords or those scars sitting in front of the fire, reading books. And yet, when he went to the corner club for a solitary drink, and the other men related their exploits, he said nothing. Instead, he simply sat in the shadows with a glass of wine. Even so, if ever a stranger came through and became too loud or boastful, someone would nod toward the quiet figure in the corner and whisper a few words. And then the braggart would fall silent, perhaps even turn a bit pale.

All of these thoughts and more tumbled through my head as I waited in the pre-dawn darkness for the silt-strider to arrive. Perhaps it was foolish to use such a public means of transport, but I wanted distance. And going to Balmora first would help throw off any pursuit. In any event, I doubted that there would be much concern, at least not for several days. When the strider driver saw me waiting, he grinned and said,

“Going on a trip are ye, young sir? I’ll have you in Balmora before you know it. Just sit back and relax.”

He waved away my offered fare with a jovial snort.

“Oh, no charge for you, young sir. Get yourself on up and we’ll be on our way.”

I took his generosity with bad grace, because I knew that it was not for my own sake that I did not have to pay my passage. I was nobody, nothing- just another who stood in the great man’s shadow. He was the hero of the age- everyone said so. Books and ballads had been written about him. And why not? After all, he was Trey of High Rock, Nerevar Reborn, savior of Vvardenfell. And I was his son.

This post has been edited by Burnt Sierra: Jan 4 2009, 07:10 PM

[treydog]

Yes, my father could do anything- or so it seemed. But as I grew older, doubt began to creep in. It appeared that he actually did… nothing. Other parents were warriors or priests, explorers or councilors. They sailed the seas or traveled to distant lands. My father mostly stayed at home, only venturing as far as Ald’ruhn or perhaps Balmora. When each of my sisters was born, he disappeared for several days, gone to Tel Fyr, so my mother said. When I was small, it was a blessing that he was always there to read to me or to call for my assistance with his alchemy. But he didn’t seem to do anything, except read books or scratch away in his journal. Even the alchemy became tiresome after a time, for he simply gave the resultant potions away- often to visiting Ashlanders. We had many visitors, who greeted Father with respect and often affection. Many of them were clearly warriors or perhaps even rogues- their faces were maps of adventure. They would stay for an hour or a day and then disappear back into the wider world, leaving me with a colored stone or a carving or a mechanical toy of a sort never seen before in Vvardenfell. And Father would wish them well and return to his books. Although we had many visitors, strangers were not welcome at Indarys Manor. In fact, on more than one occasion, I saw my father’s hand reach for a sword that no longer hung at his side. He never said anything to me about those moments, but would go into a dark silence that might last for days at a time. He would look off toward the southeast at something only he could see. Mother’s quiet words generally brought him around, but sometimes it took a visit from Serene or Uncle Athyn to restore Father’s good humor.

As fascinating as those memories were, they brought me no closer to my purpose. Therefore, I cleared my head of those melancholy thoughts and made my way out of Seyda Neen, going north along the coast. Not far from town, I came upon a curious sight, one that made me wonder. A monument in the Imperial style had been erected on a lonely spit of land that was otherwise indistinguishable from the rest of the Bitter Coast. Unfortunately, it had been vandalized to the point that it was impossible to tell what hero or event it commemorated. I could only make out the words “Processus” and “…gave his life….” The monument and even the vandalism appeared to be at least ten or a dozen years old; but it was clear that at least one person still cared- fresh coda flowers adorned the stone.

The neglected memorial preoccupied me, but not so much that I passed up the opportunity to bash a few mudcrabs and extract the meat. When raw, it has an unpleasant taste, but it can be cooked with draggle-tail or bittergreen to make a tasty stew. I took care to stay out of the water, for I frequently saw the razor-sharp fins and sinuous bodies of slaughter fish in the shallows. Fortunately, no larger beasts appeared, and I soon saw the shape of a Velothi arch that indicated the presence of a tomb. Part of my schooling had included a study of Aldmeris, and so I was able to determine that this was the Samarys burial. The name itself meant nothing to me- if the family had once been prominent, they had since disappeared into the mists of time. And, to be honest, I was indifferent to their status. What interested me was a chance to test my skills against the guardian spirits and perhaps acquire some saleable items. I did take note that there were no footprints of either men or elves in the mud around the entry, and that was encouraging. Although I was willing to confront smugglers or other outlaws, I would prefer to avoid them, at least until I had better training and equipment.
I looked at the tomb entry uncertainly. Beyond the mudcrabs and a few kwama foragers, I had never actually fought anything before. Certainly not anything that had real potential to harm me. I dried my damp palms on my shirt and grasped the staff firmly, then opened the door. All I saw was a hallway sloping downward to a second, dimly-lighted door. I drew a shaky breath and moved down the passage. As I neared the door, I seemed to hear the sound of bone scraping across the stone floor and perhaps some sort of labored breathing. That was silly- undead creatures had no lungs, nor any need to breathe. The asthmatic wheezing sound was probably just the movement of air around an ill-fitting door. Probably. The hair on the back of my neck bristled and I suddenly wished that my birth sign had been the Ritual instead of the Lady. Having the power to drive undead away would have been rather... comforting. But that would probably have required something else I lacked- faith in the gods. Better far to trust in my wits, my weapons, and the strength of my muscles than the chancy attention of indifferent deities. With my scorn for the gods as a shield, I pushed open the door.

A spectral figure appeared at the far end of the burial chamber, bearing the aspect of a skeletal being in tattered funeral vestments. At the same moment that it sensed my presence, I recognized it as an ancestor ghost. I was glad of the silver staff I held, for ordinary weapons would have passed harmlessly through the insubstantial ghost. A quick thrust, followed by a backward step, blunted the spirit’s initial rush, and I braced for the counter attack. Clawed hands reached for my throat and I swatted away one- but not the other. A terrible chill wracked my body as the claws scored my neck. I swept the staff back and forth in front of me as if I was batting away spider webs. The resultant blows were weak, but the silver seemed to burn the ghost and it recoiled. After a few more thrusts and overhand smashes, the ghost dissolved into a pile of dust. As I rested from the fight, I surveyed the chamber. A few burial urns stood on funeral plinths, and a scroll that glittered with enchantment lay upon the floor. The only other items of interest were a few alchemy ingredients. I collected those and the scroll, which I decided to examine later, in safer surroundings. The passage made a turn, leading to another small chamber, complete with a shrine to St. Veloth, more urns and a second magical scroll. There was also a door leading deeper into the tomb.

Despite my worries, no more ghosts waited beyond the door. I did find a rather weak Fortify Health potion and more urns, including one that actually carried an inscription. The markings indicated that the remains were those of one “Lord Brinne,” but, true to my values, I left them undisturbed. That decision was made somewhat easier by the fact that I detected a magical trap on the container. Of more interest to me was a rough wooden chest, which bore similar markings to the urn. The fact that the chest was locked further convinced me that it probably contained the valuable goods of the deceased lord. I had no qualms about looting the chest, but I also had no hope of being able to force the lock. However, I had anticipated such a need and had therefore purchased a scroll with Ondusi’s Unhinging from the tradehouse in Seyda Neen. The scroll worked as advertised- the lock opened with a satisfying “click” and I opened the lid to find- dust and cobwebs. My frustration quite overcame any pleasure I had taken in defeating the ghost- I had spent nearly 80 septims on that scroll and had nothing to show for it. So far, my money-making scheme was not going well at all. I had used one scroll in order to gain two, plus a cheap potion that I could have concocted myself. As I left the tomb in a foul humor, I seemed to hear an all-too-familiar voice going on and on about the “realities of being a free adventurer.”