Rotten Tidings, Cyrodiil is in terrible danger... Options

[darkynd]

This story is the continuation of “The Fall of Fort Facian,” that I was talking about. Your thoughts on it are appreciated!

Chapter 1

The Newlands Lodge. A normal enough Cheydinhal inn, it usually bore a quiet, relaxed atmosphere. The locals came in every evening to partake of a drink and chat about topics of common interest. But now the air inside was always tense, and the only topic worth chatting about was the War of the Red Diamond. Speculation and rumors ran rampant, with half claiming that Cephorus or Magnus would smash the gates of the Imperial City in a fortnight, and the other half claiming that Potema and Uriel III had slain both of them in a glorious victory. But nobody really knew what was going on, and anxiety had reached a breaking point.

Well, too bad for them, thought Stors as he reached to the counter and picked up his drink, I come to get drunk and wash away my sorrows, so bugger on all of 'em. Belching loudly, he tipped his head back and poured the contents of the mug down his gullet, until every last drop of the mead was gone. Slamming the tankard back down onto the counter, he shouted for more.

The Dunmer publican gave him an odd glance, but grabbed his mug and moved to the cask nevertheless. Leaning back on the stool, Stors smiled ruefully at her retreating figure. It was ironic that he still drank, considering all the bad luck that had stemmed from it. But there was nothing else he could think of to keep his brain from thinking.

Grimacing at the barest hint of such introspection, Stors pounded on the counter, and screamed at the Dunmer publican, “Come ON elf! I won’t wait all bloody NIGHT for my drinks!”

A hand slapped down on the wooden bar top, gauntleted in mail. Startled by the sudden noise, Ceville gazed for an instant at the armored hand. Then his murky mind gently reminded him that there was probably more than just an arm attached to that hand, so his eyes traveled upwards to the face. As they traveled, he noticed that the rest of the arm, indeed, the whole rest of the torso, was also covered in thick chain mail armor. When his eyes finally took in this fellow’s face, Stors knew that he was a well-armored – and rather well-armed – warrior. The man’s face was leathery, crisscrossed with various scars, and set into such an expression of condescension that it nearly made Stors cringe. By his blue eyes and large jaw, he was a Nord. The man spoke. “What exactly is the trouble here, drunken wastrel?”

Taken aback at being addressed as “drunken wastrel,” Stors swiftly returned, “Bugger off, you bloody flytrap; you don’t look like you could even draw sword, let alone face a man such as me!”

Unexpectedly, the man merely raised his eyebrows at him, saying, “Ha! You are a drunken fellow, aren’t you; can’t even talk with some intelligence.”

Angered by the man’s words, Stors attempted to stand up from his stool and challenge this fellow. But his legs ignored his mind, and he suddenly found himself lurching forward, with his lower body all tangled up with the stool legs. He was thrown off-balance, and the stool tipped forward, spilling him onto the thin carpet thrown over hard flagstones. Groaning into the floor, he heard subdued chuckling from the other patrons, and then felt someone grasp him firmly by the collar and haul him to his feet. Slightly dazed from his fall, Ceville was still collected enough to see that it was the same Nord that had insulted him, now out and out glaring at Stors.

“Listen here,” the chain-mailed man began, “Dervera’s told me about your raucousness; you’ve been causing more trouble than your gold is worth. She wants you to leave.”

“What!?” cried Stors, but the rest of his protests were silenced by a back-handed slap from the man’s gauntleted hand.

Making a last, feeble effort, Stors swung at the man’s face, but his fist was blocked by a strong arm. With that, Ceville found himself being dragged roughly out of the Newlands Lodge and shoved onto the streets of Cheydinhal. Tripping over his own two feet, Stors yet again fell to the ground. His face flushed with the indignity of being ejected in such a manner, and he struggled to stand once again and go challenge that fellow. His body revolted though, for the second time, and his feet only scrabbled at the ground. Stors couldn’t even stand, he was so drunk.

Burying his face into the dirt to hide his face, Ceville screamed in anger. A wave of hatred swept over his body for this honoured user that cast him out, and for the umbrella seller of an innkeeper that let him do it, and for those that had laughed at him, and for everything else in Tamriel. Dirt was thrown over him, and several voices shouted, “Get out of here, drunkard!”

Almost crawling away, Stors shot continual looks of hatred back over his shoulder as he went.

Three years. It had been three, long, damnable years since the one event that sent Stors into this downward spiral. Three years of hating himself, of trying to drown out the memories of what he’d done. As Ceville stumbled down the dark roads of Cheydinhal, he started to sob. Would this personal hell of his never end? Maybe I should just kill myself and get it over with, he thought, it’s not such a bad idea. Sobbing, he touched one hand to the steel sword hanging at his hip. A sword that hadn’t been drawn in three years, as it were.

Too depressed and inebriated to carry on, Stors staggered into an alley between two houses. There were no guards out and about nowadays, what with the war draining all available manpower, so Ceville had no worries about being awakened when he dropped down on the grass and fell into a fitful sleep.

He was snapped back from dreams of midnight blue skulls and the walking dead by a loud clang. Casting about for the source of the sound, Stors found that his eyes could barely penetrate the thick darkness. Dimly – very dimly – he could make out the shape of what appeared to be a well, in the grassy space behind the houses. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he soon could see the shadowy outline of a person, who appeared to be emerging from the well. Assuming that his drunkenness had finally taken his sanity, Stors leaned back against the stone wall of the alley and watched the figure. Now fully out of the well, it picked up a grate from the ground and replaced it on the well. Ceville supposed that was what had made the clang.

Turning around, the figured stopped suddenly, facing Stors. Not moving for a few seconds, it then started moving towards Ceville at a good clip. Stors figured that this was normal for a hallucination. Coming closer, the figure reached into its robes and drew a dagger. Ceville was alarmed that his hallucination might try to kill him, but not too worried.

But now the figure was very close, its robes almost as dark as the night it ran through, dagger held to deliver a killing blow. In the last few steps between it and me, the figure hissed, “Evade us for so long, and now you come straight to our doorstep? DIE!”

Stors flinched away as the dagger flashed towards his throat, but the blade never touched him. Another figure had appeared out of thin air and grabbed the hallucination’s arm, twisting the weapon away from Stors. The attacker hissed and tried to twist away, but the newcomer’s grip must have been made of steel. In one swift movement the man had brought his other hand to the attacker’s head, and a bright white flash engulfed the robed figure’s cranium.

The hand holding the dagger went limp, and the figure slumped into the newcomer’s arms. Tossing the body aside, the apparition turned to Stors. For his part, Ceville was pretty sure that he was not hallucinating. That dagger had looked too sharp. But his savior now spoke to him, “You are Stors Ceville, correct?”

Stors could only nod. Then, he could only gasp as the newcomer put down his hood; it was Adurous, the mage that had saved his life.

“NO!” screamed Ceville, “YOU’RE DEAD! GET AWA-”

His words were cut off by the stun spell that hit him. Adurous picked Stors up bodily, heaving him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Grunting, the mage was thankful for the ring he wore which bolstered his strength considerably. Looking swiftly to make sure no one had seen him, Adurous dematerialized into the night.

[Dire Cheesecake]

Aww, Vilenas is mean, Stors' last act before fleeing was to save his life.