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]

Really? I've never played Bloodmoon before (for shame, I know). Oh well. The third part, one away from completion.

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"Stors! Stors! Wake up, you bloody drunk!"

The voice seemed to be yelling at Stors from a great distance and had an echo to it, as if Stors was standing at the bottom of a deep chasm and someone was calling down to him. But as he slowly opened his eyes, Ceville realized that the someone was in fact only a foot from his face, screaming at the top of his lungs. The echoes were coming from inside his own head, which felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The shouting man - whom Stors finally recognized as Vilenas - saw that he was awake.

"About bloody time," he said urgently, although it sounded like he was talking through a pillow, "take this Stors, there's no time to put on your armor."

A heavy weight was suddenly put on his chest, and Stors looked down to see his sword laying across his body. Looking slowly back to Vilenas, he asked in a patient sort of voice, "What do I need my sword for?"

"What?" asked Vilenas sharply, "by the gods Stors, you really are drunk; you're just babbling nonsense."

Confused, Stors grabbed the hilt of his sword clumsily and sat up, thinking hard on what he had just said. After a few seconds of very deep thought, he realized that the words that had actually left his mouth were "Waddu unid meswofo?"'

"Come on Ceville, there's no time!" yelled Vilenas, although the effect was once again lost on the inebriate.

Even so, Stors managed to push himself up. He stumbled for a second, but remained steady enough to follow Vilenas out of the barracks and into the main corridor. As they moved along, Vilenas explained what had happened between his cries for haste.

"Bandits, Stors, bandits. Mostly Khajiit, but a few Bretons as well, I think. Hurry up now! They attacked so fast, no one had a chance to react. If it weren't for Claudias and Adurous, we'd all be dead right now. Faster, Stors!"

Ceville listened, but did not really comprehend; the only thoughts running through his mind were how heavy his sword was and how much his stomach disliked the up and down motion of jogging. They came to a branch of the corridor, and Vilenas turned left, muttering something too low for Stors to hear. As soon as they went down the left side however, a high-pitched yell came from behind them, sounding almost like a cat's hiss.

"Damn, they're inside this far already!" said Vilenas, spinning on his heel and preparing for battle.

Stors about-faced as well, nearly tripping over his own feet, but still bringing his sword up into a position vaguely reminiscent of a combat stance. In front of him he now saw two Khajiits, a few dozen paces away, clad in leather armor. One carried an axe, while the other bore a short sword, but both were moving towards Vilenas and him at the frightening pace that only Khajiits could master. It was just about then that Stors realized that he was only dressed in his woolen shirt and pants, armed with a sword and without shoes, whereas Vilenas had full armor, including a shield and a pair of very fine boots. It wasn't a fair deal, in Stors' admittedly muddled mind.

But he had no time for complaints, as suddenly the Khajiits were upon them. Stors found himself facing the one with a sword, its fangs bared and face twisted into a ferocious snarl. The clang as their two blades connected sounded tinny to Stors, but the jarring impact reminded him of defeat's dire consequences. The cat leapt away, almost too fast for Stors to follow, and then struck again with lightning speed, its blade darting here and there. In his current state, Stors was only able to parry the fatal blows, and he soon found himself victim to innumerable nicks and cuts. To top it off, his head was spinning and his stomach roiled in protest. He knew that he wouldn't live long at this rate; he was operating off of luck, and Stors was all too aware of the fact that luck was a fickle mistress.

Deciding that he wouldn't test luck any further, Stors deflected another of the Khajiit's blows, and then launched himself at the fiend, abandoning defense. Amazingly, he caught the bandit off guard and off balance; his sword slid into its stomach with the sickening sound of metal cutting meat. The Khajiit was too stunned for words, its surprise evident from the wide-eyed countenance it portrayed. It was at that point when Stors realized that this was not an adult he was fighting, maybe not even a young adult. Pulling his sword out of the cat's body, the legionnaire looked at the crimson blade, saddened that a youth had died by his hand. He barely heard the sound of the Khajiit falling to the ground, for all intents and purposes deceased.

A hiss of rage. Stors' eyes snapped upwards, and he saw the other Khajiit standing over Vilenas' unmoving body. Its eyes were narrowed at him, its face contorted into one of such inhuman rage that it nearly made Stors stumble.

"This one has killed my son," was all it said, although it was so low that Stors could barely make it out.

But Stors certainly understood, and rather than feel pity for the creature, he felt only anger. Anger at how a father could bring his son into battle at such a young age. It was a hot rage, and it burned the cotton out from between his ears and brought back his lucidity, "Then maybe you shouldn't have brought your son into war, fool. Of course, you beasts were never much for thinking."

Snarling, the Khajiit began to walk towards him, its axe held high. Stors knew that he was weak from the combined effects of blood loss and drunkenness, and he knew that he didn't have much left to fight with. So brought his sword up, steeled his body for a final charge, and stepped forward, opening his mouth for a bloodcurdling war cry....

...but instead his long rebellious stomach siezed the opportunity, and Stors found himself doubled over, emptying out his stomach's contents onto the dank flagstones of Fort Facian. Bloody hell, he thought, I can't even make a glorious last stand. After nearly half a minute, feeling a bit lighter and slightly less sick, Stors was able to straighten up somewhat. The Khajiit had stopped, staring at him with mingled contempt and hatred, and possibly a tinge of amusement. In an instant though, it had resumed its slow approach, axe held high once again, saying, "And now, this one will die."

Stors had no strength left; he could only sink to his knees and await death. Sighing, he wondered why he had taken up drinking in the first place, as it really was a nasty habit, and got you into trouble like this. Now the cat was standing over him, ready to deliver the final blow. But a sudden clatter of footsteps from its rear distracted the Khajiit, who spun around to face whatever was coming. This proved to be a mediocre choice, as it only gave the beast a brief glance at the fireball that ended his life. The bandit was thrown into the air by the force of the magic, and its skin was seared from its bones.

Delighted at this turn of events, Stors blinked away the temporary blindness that the blazing fireball had caused, to see Adurous and a half dozen more Legionnaires running up to him. The Mage turned to Vilenas first, but two of the Legionnaires came to Stors and propped him up, allowing him to use them as human crutches.

"You two are lucky," said Adurous, pouring a vial down Vilenas' throat, "most of the fort is overrun; we might be the last ones left alive."

Even with this news, Stors was happy that he could suddenly hear so clearly. So he tested his voice to see if he was understandable now, "So what are we going to do?"

Slapping Vilenas a little to wake him up, Adurous shook his head. "The only thing that we can do; get into the vaults and wait for help. All the exits are blocked off by the bandits."

Standing up, Adurous pointed to two of the other men, "You there, pick this man up, we can't wait for him to recover. We need to move before we're found!"

And with that, they were off.