The Fall of Fort Facian Options

[darkynd]

This is the first part of a short story that I wrote, I'm interested in what you all think.

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Stors Ceville, loyal soldier of the Imperial Legion, leaned up against the walls of Fort Facian, swilling away at a jug of Surilie Brothers' wine. It wasn't very good wine - a little sour in his opinion - but it was good enough to make a man drunk. And drunkenness was what Stors Ceville needed the most at the moment, seeing how their commander was an insane fool. Just the other day he had ordered Dans and Vilenas to go cut down a young sapling which had apparently given Captain Gurvain "the evil eye." The day before that, he had chased Claudias Durmania from his office at sword point... directly after ordering him to pick up a scroll that the captain had dropped.

And of course, who could forget the time when Commander Gurvain had skewered Lieutenant Boheld through the stomach? Adurous, the resident Mage, had barely been able to save the young officer. A few days later Boheld had deserted, and Fort Facian had been without a second-in-command since. Yes, things were not going well at all in Stors' mind, and his attitude was reflected by every other Legionnaire in the Fort. The only person that seemed perfectly content was Gurvain himself, and his disposition was known to swing wildy.

With all that, morale was extremely low. The troops no longer cleaned their armor regularly, nor did they scrub down the barracks. No one stood straight any longer, or carried their weapons with the pride befitting of a Legionnaire. Oftentimes men slacked off or took a nap even while on guard duty. There had been some talk among them to send word off to the Imperial City, but Fort Facian was small enough - and Gurvain noble enough - that they would likely be ignored, so it had been decided against.

So all that Stors did nowadays was drink wine and avoid Gurvain, dream of women and wish that his term with the Legion would expire already. He didn't even understand why they needed a fort in the middle of Cyrodiil; wasn't it the center of the Empire? Wasn't it the safest place on the whole of Tamriel? What in the name of Akatosh did they need a bloody fort for!?!

Shaking his head to clear out the thoughts - which were already muzzled enough from the wine - Stors decided that he would go to his cot... and to Oblivion with his guard duty! It was the middle of the day anyways, what would happen?

Stumbling slightly from the intoxicating influence of the drink, Stors set off through the stone archway into the courtyard, which was overgrown with weeds and grasses. There were a few half-hearted cries of greeting from the soldiers lounging around, sunning themselves, but Stors only acknowledged them with a lazy wave. Taking another long drought from his jug, Stors scrabbled for the iron handle with one hand while propping the jug up in the air with the other.

After managing to finally prize his way into the interior of Facian, he was disappointed to discover that he had drank all the wine. Grunting with dissatisfaction, Stors dropped the clay container to the stone floor, where it shattered from the impact. Grabbing a torch off its sconce on the wall, he started down the dim corridor, grumbling...

Oddly enough - perhaps because of the wine - it had escaped Stors' attention that he had been the only guard that remained on duty so early in the day, when it was only a half hour after noon. With his departure, there was no one to watch the entrance to Fort Facian.

This post has been edited by darkynd: Aug 3 2007, 11:39 PM

[darkynd]

The second part... obviously. There are four in total, by the way.

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"Damnable scum!"

Adurous Mentain, Imperial Mage, flinched at Captain Gurvain's shout, and flinched harder when the officer brought his fist down onto the oak desk before him.

"I tell you Adurous," said Gurvain, pacing around his office, "these men have no spine. They have no discipline. They just sit around on their bloody asses all day swilling down ale!"

Thinking that it was best not to say anything - lest he become the object of Gurvain's rage - Adurous merely grimaced and nodded his head in agreement. The captain gave him a sharp look, but continued on with his rantings, "And the worst of it is that they have no respect for me. They fear me as their commander, but they do not respect me as a man."

The mage only frowned harder, but internally he knew that Gurvain's constant attacks on his subordinates had a large part to do with the lack of respect. But the commander would never listen to that, oh no; he never listened to anybody, save for himself.

Adurous often wondered if Gurvain was genuinely out of touch with reality. He knew that most of the troops were already of that opinion, but Adurous was a Mage, and therefore rarely jumped to conclusions. He knew for a fact that Gurvain was unstable, but whether or not he was actually insane was still in question. There were a number of things that seemed to indicate that it was so, but none of them were more worrisome in Adurous' mind than the skull that Gurvain kept on his desk.

It was a plain white skull, not particularly menacing, but the captain was always looking at it and touching it... caressing it, almost. There were times when Adurous could swear that Gurvain was speaking to it under his breath, but the Mage did not have good enough hearing to be sure. It was strange, and troublesome, but Adurous had no idea what to make of it.

He was distracted from his inner thoughts by the commander, who had started to mumble to himself and thumb the hilt of his sword. Straightening up a little, Adurous checked to ensure that the path to the door was still clear; he remembered Boheld's stabbing. But Gurvain had apparently forgotten about him, wandering back to his desk and stroking the skull, his eyes clouded over.

Adurous began to edge towards the door, his nature of self-preservation getting the best of his curiosity, when a faint sound reached his ears. It was sharp and high-pitched - or would have been were it not for the stone walls - and it was quickly followed by more. Suddenly, there was another cry, this one strident in its desperation. Ever so faintly, Adurous could make out the words. "To arms! Invaders! Intruders! To arms!"

Spinning around, he shouted a warning to Gurvain, "Sir! An attack!"

Gurvain simply stood there though, muttering and caressing the milky white cranium of the skull. Adurous tried again, a hint of panic worming its way into his voice, "Captain Gurvain, we are under attack! You must command your men!"

The captain stood motionless. Shaking his head, Adurous ran to the door and pulled it open, determined to do what he could. Running through the stone corridors, he raised the cry, "To arms! To arms!"