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]

And here's the conclusion. This short story was originally meant as a prequel to a larger story that I might someday get around to writing, so its ending might seem rather... abrupt.

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Shut up in his office, Gurvain had heard the turmoil consuming Fort Facian. But he didn’t care, insofar as it didn’t interfere with his final experiment. Indeed, he actually wanted the battle to continue, as it would provide more fodder for his research. Gurvain knew that he was regarded as insane by those who had been close to him for his obsession, but he also knew that they were idiots. With his skull in hand, the captain lit the circle of candles he was standing at the exact center of. It had taken him years of research to create and perfect this ritual, but today it would all come to fruition. He would finally have the power that he so deeply desired. With a smile on his lips, Gurvain began the incantation, and the skull began to glow a midnight blue…

****

The vaults of Fort Facian. If the rest of the fort was dark, dirty and downright gloomy, then it was a paradise in relation to the vaults. Rats and spiders infested the place and no one even really remembered what the vaults were for, except that a few of the men stored their contraband in its nooks and crannies. They certainly were large, but there was only one way in or out. They were cold as well, but it was bearable to Stors, whose recent exploits had made his skin burn as if he were bathing in the sun. Everyone else seemed rather chilled however, what with them being dressed in steel armor.

Adurous seemed more nervous than cold; the Mage was sitting on a stool facing the doors leading to the fort proper, biting his fingernails and furrowing his brow. Vilenas had recovered well, and was sitting with his back against the stone walls nibbling at a hunk of cheese. All the rest were nearby, in varying states of faux relaxation or blowing on their hands to find a little warmth. Even with all this discomfort and posturing, Stors was able to tell that everyone was nervy, not just Adurous. Stors himself admitted that he more than a little edgy, especially after being trapped down here for two hours and the bandits had already tried to batter down the door four times. It had never worked, but everyone, Stors included, had been on their feet, waiting for the hinges to pop off and hordes of Khajiit to swarm over them.

And they had all felt a little foolish when the pounding stopped, leaving the vaults silent except for a ringing in their ears. But Stors knew that they were still afraid, still wondering about what they could do. The situation seemed hopeless; they were trapped beneath the earth, with no exits except for the one leading to death, they had little food, and the cold was penetrating. They had no hope, except that relief might somehow show up at their doorstep. In a very literal sense.

With these depressing musings running through Stors’ mind, the sudden resumption of the battering on the doorway gave him a jolt. He leapt to his feet – legs buckling a little – and drew his sword. Everyone else was up too, except for Adurous, with their weapons at the ready. But Stors noticed something about the battering. It sounded less like an attempt to gain entry and more like… scrabbling almost. Straining his ears, Stors tried to hear more. And hear more he did; a scream of pain, or rage, reverberated through the door, and the scrabbling at the door raised in volume, but was now accompanied by desperate pleading, "By S’rendarr, allow these ones entry!" "You cannot leave us out here to this fate!"

Stors looked around, perplexed, and he could see that his fellows were similarly confused; why would the Khajiit want in? Didn’t they realize that would only lead them to more enemies? Just then, a screech of laughter rose above the bandits’ clamor, and a man screamed, "Die cat-beasts! Feed me! Make my power grow!"

Standing up suddenly, Adurous finally spoke, "That’s Gurvain! The bloody whelp is still alive!"

Stors saw Adurous raise his hand to point at the door, and tried to warn him, "Wait, Adu-!"

But he was cut off by the fireball that exploded from the Mage’s hand and blasted the door apart. Fragments of burning wood and red-hot metal sliced through the Khajiiti on the other side, and Adurous ran towards the door, yelling, "With me men! Kill them all!"

The others issued a collective roar of agreement before charging after him, shields held out front and swords unsheathed, thirsty for blood. Reluctantly, Stors ran after, steeling himself for the battle ahead. Running through the doorway, he found himself in the small chamber they had passed through to enter the vaults, which was now filled with figures locked in a brutal melee. They were at such close quarters that Stors couldn’t swing his weapon and not hurt one of his own comrades, so he brought his arm back for a thrusting motion. The smell of death hung heavy in the air. Unusually heavy, even for such a fight. The din was incredible, and there was more screaming than Stors had ever heard in his life. And they weren’t screams of pain; to Stors, they sounded more like screams of terror, like when a child comes face to face with a nightmare monster.

A Khajiit was suddenly before him, its eyes wide and its fright apparent. Not even seeing Stors, the bandit shoved by and ran into the vault, casting terrified glances over its shoulder. Now even more confused, Stors turned back to the fray. And saw Gurvain. The commander had changed, that much was certain. In one hand, he held the skull that Stors had once seen on his desk, but it was emanating a blue color so dark that it was closer to black. Gurvain’s eyes were also issuing forth this deep hue, and he was grinning in a crooked, toothy way. Another shout of horror came to Stors, but this time the voice that followed it was Vilenas'. "My gods… It’s Dans! But I saw him die!"

Unbelieving, Stors cast about for his friend. And when he saw him, he understood. Vilenas was on the ground, looking as if he had tripped over a corpse, but his eyes were glued to the figure standing over him. It was Dans. But Dans should not have been alive, telling by the three arrows sticking from his chest, and one more protruding from his eye. And then it all clicked into place for Stors; the skull, Gurvain’s insanity, and the ominous emanations. Dans wasn’t alive. He was undead, and Gurvain was his master.

Realizing this, Stors could think of only one solution. Sprinting to Vilenas, he sliced open the throat of that which had formerly been the man, Dans, and screamed to the world in general, "UNDEAD! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"

The former-Dans stumbled backwards, blood oozing from the new wound, and Stors sliced at it again. But that was only to clear the way, and before he knew it, Stors was running. Running away from the horrors that Gurvain had unleashed. It seemed to him that the mad, cackling laughter of his former commander followed after him, inspiring his legs to pump faster. The fear gave him wings, and before he was even truly aware of it Stors was out of the fort’s interior, and sprinting through the courtyard. As he ran by, he could see that there were no bodies where the bloodstains were.

But the courtyard was gone in an instant, and Stors found himself in the forest. Amidst the trees and the bright sun – which was just now beginning to hide behind the hills – Stors’ exhaustion caught up with him. He fell face down into the dirt, where he lay with his mind in utter chaos. Shame, relief and terror all battled for control, but as Stors Ceville descended into the darkness of a sleep born from sheer fatigue, one thought rose above all the other; he was alive. No matter what else, he was alive.