The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: City of Light, City of Magic Options

[OverrideB1]

The tower was deeply subdued this morning, people moving around on tiptoe as Kallin spoke to me while I broke my fast. “The assassin came in from the southeast,” she briefed me, adding bitterly, “we found a dead guard. He’d been dragged over the hill out of sight. We also found this, outside.”

She handed me a small silver and glass phial. There were only a few dregs of the potion it had contained left in the bottom, but the thick smell rising from the flask was enough to tell us both what it had contained. “Having levitated to your balcony, he used a pick to unlock the door, greasing the hinges so they’d make no noise. How do you intend to respond, Arch-Magister?”

“By tearing a few strips off Master Neloth’s hide,” I replied. “I want to see how much of that ample paunch I can remove before he dies of blood loss or shock. Yes Raissu,” I said, turning my head to address the fidgeting estate manager, “you have something to add?”

“It may be prudent to stay your wrath until you’ve spoken with Neloth’s Mouth,” she suggested. I indicated that she should explain. “I have little knowledge of the Guild of Assassins,” she continued, “nobody does. And those that do have knowledge keep very, very quiet. However, if Neloth had targeted you for assassination, wouldn’t they have had to issue a Black Writ?”

“Which we would have known about,” an exasperated Kallin said, dropping her head so her forehead banged on the table. “Raissu is right, Arch-Magister. The Morag Tong may be a bunch of murderous cut-throats, but they do stick to their rules.”

Kallin then explained to me what she knew of the workings of the Dunmeri assassins. How a Black Writ has to be issued for the ‘execution’ of a target and how the target is made aware of the existence of the Writ. It seemed an odd system to me but it had been that way, apparently, for hundreds of years.

“Everyone out,” I commanded as I stalked into the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora. “Not you Arara Uvulas,” I added as the Mouths started to leave. When she and I were the only ones left in the chamber, I spoke, “Last night there was an attempt on my life. Neloth has declared that he considers himself to be my enemy. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t end his life right now.”

Arara looked stricken, glancing about as though in search of aid. Finally, she swallowed and said, “My Master has not been in contact with me for days. In fact Sed, he hasn’t been out of Tel Naga since you became Arch-Magister. He… regrets certain comments he made to you and wishes he had not been so… hasty. I believe he fears that he may have made… an error of judgement.”

I snorted back laughter. Ignoring it, Arara continued, “As for arranging an assassination attempt? It is not something Neloth would do, for fear of precisely this situation.”

“In other words,” I said, “he’s a bully and a coward. Afraid that he’s made a mortal enemy of the Head of House.”

Arara hesitated, then gave a quick nod of the head ~ about as much confirmation that my words were true as I was likely to get from her. “Then if not Neloth,” I mused out loud, “who sent that assassin to my stronghold? Unlikely to be House Redoran, if they wanted me dead they’d do it themselves. House Hlaalu? They could certainly afford to equip an assassin in the armour…”

“Armour, Arch-Magister?” Arara interrupted my thoughts. “What sort of armour?”

“Black,” I replied. “Light-weight, high-quality black armour.”

“Then it was not the Morag Tong,” she said flatly. “Their assassins eschew armour, preferring simple robes. And if it was not the Morag Tong that tried to kill you, then it was not one of the Dunmeri factions that arranged it. Let me call one of the House Guards, they may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The nervous looking guard listened to my tale and spoke quickly when I’d finished. “Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood, Sed Vahl. If you have been targeted for assassination by them…” he let his comment trail off. I wondered where I could find this Brotherhood. “I don’t know,” he replied in response to my question, “but there is a new arrival in Ebonheart who may be able to assist you. An Imperial by the name of Apelles Matius.”

Delas Mrania was only too happy to sell me a spell to get me to Ebonheart when I spoke to her and, after learning it; I took myself from Ald’ruhn to the Imperial blandness of Ebonheart’s Fort.

“You’ll forgive me if I am sceptical Dark Elf,” Apelles Matius said, giving me a condescending smile when I’d told him my tale. “If you were truly marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar Matius,” I snapped. “You’d do well to remember your manners. Now, speak to me of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Well,” he said, quite taken aback. “If you’re telling the truth… which I have no doubt you are,” he added hastily as I smiled blandly at him and dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword, “then you need to travel to Mournhold. That is the only bastion of the Dark Brotherhood in this Province that I am aware of.

“The problem is, Vvardenfell is under quarantine because of the Blight. However, if you speak to Asciene Rane in the Council Hall, I’m sure she would be able to transport you there.”

[Wolfie]

Cool start to the new chapter Override

[minque]

aaaarghh I would say scaaaary......I know what she´s up to.....going to Mournhold.......... :paperbag:

[jonajosa]

Nice new chapter. Great details.
What is this chapter 7? Now i got more work to do. Great.

S.G.M.

[Alexander]

[quote=jonajosa]Nice new chapter. Great details.
What is this chapter 7? Now i got more work to do. Great.

S.G.M.[/quote]

heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5


I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always

[OverrideB1]

Asciene Rane turned out to be far more sympathetic than Apelles Matius. She listened to my story and then said, “Oh dear, I understand why you’d want to catch these people. But the Dark Brotherhood: very, very dangerous. I certainly wouldn’t want to tangle with them.

“Now,” she continued, after giving a little shudder, “I will certainly send you to Mournhold but there are things you should know. Almalexia doesn’t allow levitation inside the citadel’s limits, nor does she allow people inside Mournhold to travel outside the citadel, so you won’t be able to make any side trips to the main part of the city. And, because of the quarantine, you’ll have to speak to Effe-Tei in the Royal Palace to return to Vvardenfell and speak to me if you wish to go back. No Recall or translocation spells are allowed.”

I stood there; watching as the woman wove the spell, sparkles of light following her moving finger as she worked. With a suddenness that was shocking, everything went black for a moment, and then I found myself standing in a small room. In front of me stood an Argonian, clad in robes of a higher quality than any I’d seen on the island. I was more interested, for the moment, in my surroundings.

The floor was of some dark stone, grey in colour and flecked with black grains. The same stone formed the walls. Bands of dark green and gold decorated these walls, and the curved and elaborate ceiling was constructed of tiles, glazed the same green and bearing fine designs in gilt enamel. Richly decorated tapestries and rugs adorned the walls and floor and, in one corner, stood a tub in which grew a profusion of plants and flowers quite unknown to me. However, despite the greenery and the rich decorations, there was a gloom to the room that was unsettling.

“Help traveller. Effe-Tei. How?” the Argonian said as I approached it. I explained my problem and, after making a thin hissing sound, it said, “Guard. Royal. Problem should be addressed. Information, possible, that source.”

After clarifying that the Argonian Effe-Tei was suggesting that I speak to one of the Royal Guards, I looked around and saw a tall, armoured figure watching me. The armour was, like so many things I was to see here, of much better quality than any I’d seen before. The colour, the unsettling colour of dried blood, made me nervous as did the fact that the full helm made it impossible for me to see the wearer’s eyes. Still, this was the Royal Palace so the odds were good that the figure was a Royal Guard.

The guard was every bit as unfriendly as I’d feared and proved reluctant to speak to me. However, I turned on the charm and, before long, he grudgingly parted with information. “I’ve heard a rumour that the Dark Brotherhood have a base down in the old sewers beneath the Bazaar. You might want to try there.”

“Do you know where in the sewers?” I asked.

“Do I look like someone who’d go down into the sewers traveller?” he snapped. With that, he turned and stalked off. Very smooth Sudhendra, I thought to myself, very smooth.

A tall, well-dressed Cyrodiil in the courtyard of the Palace turned out to be very much more helpful. “I can’t help you with that my dear,” he said, “but I can direct you to the Bazaar and the sewers.” Which he promptly proceeded to do.

I left the Palace through the gate the Man had indicated and stopped dead in my tracks. He’d spoke in an off-hand way about the ‘Plaza Brindisi-Dorum’ when giving me directions: what he’d neglected to mention was the breath-taking beauty of the wide area I found myself in. Huge swathes of grass covered the area around the outside edge of the circular plaza and a profusion of trees and cultivated plants dotted the greenery. Many were of types I’d never seen before. Broad, well-maintained paths of smooth dark stone led through this park area to a gargantuan central pool. Carefully times plumes of water shot up from the water, creating a dancing effect as they went around the central statue in sequence. The statue, of an armoured woman battling Mehrunes Dagon, consisted of more fine white marble in one place than I’d ever seen.

As I followed the path towards the pool, I saw that the central statue was not the plaza’s only decoration. Off to my left there was a tall, slender spire of a pastel-hued green stone ~ hundreds of feet tall. Blinking at the magnificence of the surroundings, I drew close to the central pool. “Mournhold: City of Magic, City of Light,” one of the Royal Guards intoned as I went past. I had the feeling that this was some sort of greeting and I inclined my head politely.

Now here was an interesting thing: on the side of the statue where I was standing were three Royal Guards. On the other side were three other guards; these dressed in silvery armour that bore the ‘Moon and Star’ design of House Indoril. And, although all six guards were patrolling the area, neither set of guards crossed over into the area patrolled by the other. Filing this away for future reference, I followed the path and came, eventually, to the large wooden gate in the high walls that surrounded Plaza Brindisi Dorum. Passing through, I entered the Great Bazaar.

The Great Bazaar of Mournhold! After passing through the gate, I found myself on an elevated walkway above the Bazaar. Which was slightly bigger than a village back on the island. Throngs of people passed by below, chattering and laughing as vendors by the hundred called out to them to come and look at their wares. Nor were these booths and barrows the only retailers available: large stone buildings, their roofs only just reaching the level of the walkway, lined the side of the Bazaar. As I followed the walkway, more of the Great Bazaar was revealed. There, below, was what appeared to be a stage ~ complete with scenery and props.

The huge sweep of stone stairs that led down into the Bazaar beckoned and, sewers for the moment forgotten, I walked down them and joined the crowds below. The merchandise was plentiful and some of it, at least, quite affordable. My walk through the crowd was profitable, for I overheard many snippets of information. Like the conversation between the two women discussing the wizard that had been seen around Mournhold, showing off his powers. Or the information that a clock-maker had set up in a place called Godsreach.

Some time later, I emerged from the throng at the opposite side of the Great Bazaar and climbed the stairs that led back up to the walkway. Here, a deep, water-filed channel ran along the base of the high wall, entering from a huge metal grate and exiting through a similar grate at the far end of its course. Beside this, flush to the ground, was the trapdoor down into the sewers that I was seeking.

I expected someone to shout to tell me to stop as I lifted the heavy flap and manoeuvred around so I could set my feet on the uppermost rung of the ladder that led down into the darkness. But, even though several people saw me, nobody seemed to mind. With a mental shrug, I started down the ladder, leaving the trapdoor open to provide a little light for my descent.

Sewers, have I mentioned recently just how much I hate them? Dark, usually smelly, always dank ~ and these, despite their vast size, were little different than the sewers beneath Saint Delyn or Vehk’s palace. The spluttering torches set at regular intervals assured me that I was not going to run into a pocket of something lethal but did little to light these wide tunnels. And the rats, and worse, were pretty thick down here too. Not having much idea which way to go, I fetched a stub of chalk from my pack and, drawing an arrow heading into the gloom, I set off.

Many chalk-drawn arrows later, I came to a spot where the sewer-wall had collapsed. A tunnel, roughly hewn from the grey rock, led away from the spot. Drawing a final arrow, I headed down the tunnel to see what I could find.

Assassins: that’s what I found. I’d passed through several chambers hewn in the rock ~ spots where masonry from some older city thrust through the stone, or where finely tiled and mosaic-tiled floors showed through the dirt and gravel underfoot. In several places, there were intricately designed, slender pillars that rose from the rock bed and vanished into the rock of the roof of the tunnel. As I ventured further, I found more and more evidence of this buried city beneath the new. As I waded through a stretch of flooded tunnel there was an articulate shout from just ahead.

Cloak floating behind him, a black-armoured figure ran at me ~ light from the luminous moss glinting of the blade of a steel dagger. Either the fact he was a novice, or his overconfidence, caused his defeat. Of course, the fact that I was wielding an Ebony broadsword compared to his tiny little dagger might have played a part in it too. He lunged inward with the dagger, I slapped his arm away with the flat of the blade ~ his dagger splashing into the water as he lost his grip on it ~ and then reversed the direction of the cut and tore a huge rent in his armour.

He staggered backwards, his feet shooting from underneath him as he fell in the water with a huge splash. Before he could recover, I was standing astride him with the point of the sword pressed against his throat. “You and I,” I informed him, “are going to have words.

“Who sent you after a Dunmer named Sudhendra Vahl?” I asked, pressing down with the blade just enough to draw the faintest trickle of blood.

“Go to Oblivion scum,” he spat. Before I could respond, he arched his back and drove his throat up onto the sword. I cursed, leaping backwards as a spray of blood jetted upwards. Shaken, I stood there looking at his lifeless body, trying to process what had just happened. The assassin had taken his own life rather than talk to me and I was at a loss.

My plan had been to blast in here and acquire the information that would set me on the right path to who ever was behind the attempt on my life. I’d been willing to be as rough and ruthless as necessary to gain that information but had intended to spare the lives of those who told me what I needed. It was the person behind the Dark Brotherhood I wanted ~ with him I intended to be less than merciful. Okay, maybe not the greatest plan in the Grey Maybe, but it had seemed sensible enough. Now I needed a rethink.

As I crouched atop the rock, keeping out of the bloodied waters while I thought, something occurred to me. In these dark passages, one black-armoured figure would look very much like another. Provided they didn’t have any watchwords, I might, just might, be able to infiltrate the tunnels without further bloodshed. Removing the armour from the limp and lifeless Mer was no easy task, cleaning it of bloody water even less so. But, about half-an-hour after the idea had occurred to me, I stood in the tunnels clad in Dark Brotherhood armour.

The armour was about a size and a half too big for me but I hoped that the dim tunnels would disguise the worst of it. It was a wrench leaving my pack behind, but the small pouches around the armour took what I considered to be essential supplies and I made sure my pack was well hidden against chance discovery. I could do nothing about the rent in the front of the armour other than push the edges closed and wear something dark underneath. If I could find an assassin alone, I was resolved to replace the cuirass as quickly as possible. I got my chance much quicker than I would have liked.

“What are you doing away from your post Gadali?” the slender assassin asked as I rounded the bend in the tunnel. As gruffly as I could, I coughed and made a drinking motion. “Be quick about it then, otherwise…Urk!”

The crossbow bolt jutting from his eyeball cut short his warning, and his life. I grinned, dragging the body into a shallow recess and setting to work stripping it of armour. The Dunmer was much closer in size to me than the first fellow had been. As a bonus, his armour was not squelching wet and didn’t have a huge gash in the front. Clad in undamaged armour that was a much closer fit, although I couldn’t do anything about the helm since the smaller one was irreparably damaged, I reloaded the crossbow I’d taken from Berengeval’s corpse. Even though I only had a few bolts, in these corridors its power and effectiveness might prove a deciding factor.

My disguise proved to be marginally effective ~ it allowed me to wander past several of the patrolling assassins without comment. Always heading towards where the assassins were coming from, I quickly found myself at the end of the tunnel. Which opened into a huge cavern ~ along the bottom of which were several large buildings. Trying very hard to look as though I belonged there, I descended the ramps and headed towards the nearest building. The sign above the door identified it as Moril Manor and, feeling much emboldened by my success so far, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. That, of course, was when my luck ran out.

“Word of the Day?” the hulking black-clad assassin who stood just inside the door demanded.

“Bugger,” I suggested ~ not that I hoped that was the password, it was just a heartfelt response. He lifted himself up of his stool ~ by the Divines, I’d thought the behemoth was already standing.

“INTRUDER!” he yelled at the very top of his voice. Then, in a much smaller and higher voice, he screamed, “Arggggh!” Well, it had been such an enticing target, at just the right height, and I did have a loaded crossbow. Leaving the monster curled up in a little ball clutching his… essentials, I drew the Last Wish from beneath the cape as three more of the Brotherhood skidded into view.

Three crossbow bolts zipped through the air, one smashing itself against the table, one clanging of the oversized helm and the other neatly pinning my leg in almost poetic justice. Dropping their bows, the trio drew weapons and started towards me. In shock and a great deal of pain, a spell rose unbidden to my mind. I coughed, gagging on fricatives and alien syllables as I spoke harsh words I couldn’t possibly know.

“[b]Forn blao kula,” I spat out. The table beside me creaked alarmingly, and then collapsed in a shower of yellow light. Bits of metal twisted impossibly as thunderous chimes rang in my head. When my vision cleared, a Blade-Sphere Type II animalcule was already hammering seven shades out of one of the assassins while the others struck at it with their dagger and short sword. Grabbing the Wish from where it had fallen, I limped towards the fray and added my own skills to the mix.

A cleaving blow tore open one of the assassins’ armour down the back, alerting the three of them that I was there. Not that one of them was in much condition to do much about it ~ the gleaming metal spike extruded from the ‘arm’ of the animalcule was driven deep into his stomach and the device was making a determined effort to turn his head into mulch with its shield. Making a pretty decent job of it too.

I meanwhile, was battling valiantly despite my injury ~ fending off the two assassins’ shorter weapons with the axe and desperately trying to inflict injury. I was ably assisted in that by the animalcule, which, having decided there was no more fun to be had with the bleeding limp wreck it was currently toying with, turned and neatly skewered one of the remaining assassins from behind. While he was coming to terms with the sudden existence of several feet of Dwemer metal occupying some of the same space he was in, I quickly despatched the remaining assassin.

Some quick surgery with one of their daggers removed the bolt from my leg: with that done I could take a healing draught, or two. When I’d stopped bleeding and wincing in pain every time I put weight on my leg, I examined my surroundings more closely. Not that I was paying too much attention; I was more concerned about what I had wrought from the table. And about where those strange syllables had come from. All I could think of was that strange experience I’d had in Galom Daeus. And the thought that some millennia dead Dwemer ‘Mage’ could plant a spell in my mind, moreover a spell I couldn’t now seem to access, scared the spit right out of my mouth.

I had several more run ins with assassins as I explored Moril Manor, but I had learned my lesson. I was now fully stocked with bolts for my crossbow courtesy of the assassins and carried two ~ fully loaded and ready to go. I’d ditched the helm but kept the armour: it was light enough not to be a hindrance and its sombre colours might provide a slight advantage in these gloomy halls. Bare-foot, I padded down the halls as silent as one of the assassins I sought.

Where possible, I struck from a distance using the bows, finding these to be far easier to aim than a traditional longbow, as well as far more powerful and accurate. I found that one bolt was generally sufficient to take down an assassin: two was more than enough. Then, melting back into the shadows, I continued the silent but deadly game of stalking and killing. Where there was more than the one member of the Brotherhood, I would take one out with the bows and use magic, silent Telvanni-style casting, to deal with the others.

It was the last door that I opened that almost proved my undoing. Instead of the wide, gloomy corridors I expected to find I found instead a small ‘L’-shaped chamber. Standing in the middle, looking at the door in shock was a white-haired Mer.

“Vahl,” he breathed, taking a step back. With a quick gesture, he summoned a heavy-looking bow from thin air and quickly notched an arrow. I had had enough holes poked in my hide for one day and wasn’t looking for more. With a blood-curdling yell, I fired my crossbow at him, following up the speeding bolt with the crossbow itself. Even as it left my hand, I was grabbing for the Last Wish and running at him.

He was quick, I’ll give him that ~ he’d unleashed the arrow and was drawing a vicious looking curved glass blade even as the cry was leaving my mouth. The arrow passed close enough to part my hair and then our weapons locked together. He was far stronger than me, and his extra height gave him added leverage. But I was Telvanni, and I didn’t rely on blade and raw muscle. Allowing myself to collapse backwards, dragging him with me, I grabbed his wrist and hissed, “igneus manus.”

He screamed as the fire bit into his wrist, the skin blackening and crisping. Dropping his weapon, he rolled away from me and lashed out with his foot. The kick took me high on the shoulder, spinning me around. As I struggled to gain my feet, he was already part way up. My hand fell onto the Wish and, grabbing it, I threw it as hard as I could.

When I regained my feet, the Mer was sitting on a wooden bench, the colour draining from his face as he looked at the blade protruding from his stomach. I clearly heard him say, “I have failed my liege,” before he clapped his hand to his mouth. I was rushing towards him even as I heard the crunch of something small and fragile between his teeth.

Much, much too late. Even though no more than ten quick paces separated us, he was dead before I’d covered half the distance. I yanked the axe from the corpse, kicking the body in frustration so it toppled off the bench and landed untidily on the rough floor. Now I would never find out who had hired these killers. And that meant that I’d be unable to persuade him not to hire more.

More out of habit than anything, I searched the body. And I found a rolled-up piece of parchment. There, written in a bold hand was the following message:

CODE

The Bearer of this document, under special dispensation of the Night Mother, who has entered in a contract in perpetuity with H, is given special dispensation to execute Sudhendra Vahl, a Dark Elf recently residing on the island of Vvardenfell. In accordance with all laws and traditions, the afore-mentioned personage will be executed in the name of H in the most expedient manner possible. All services of the Dark Brotherhood are at the disposal of the Bearer of this binding and non-disputable document

Attached to the bottom of the parchment was a rather good charcoal drawing of me. That was worrying ~ somebody had been close enough to sketch me. Also worrying was the fact that the Dark Brother that I’d killed had obviously been preparing to come after me. Still, at least I now knew that ‘H’ was the mysterious person who wanted me dead. Now all I had to do was scour the world until I found everyone whose name began with that letter and ask him or her if they’d arranged to have me killed.

With a weary sigh, I dragged the dead body out of the chamber and warded the door. It was warm, relatively safe, and I was dead to the world in seconds.

[jonajosa]

[quote=Alexander]
heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5

I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always [/quote]

Looks like a gave away your plans alittle to soon Override... sorry. But there you go folks Override has more for you! And trust me after looking over all the work he has sent me... you'll like it.

Being a editor for the library has so many advantages.


Good next part

[minque]

[quote=jonajosa][quote=Alexander]
heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5

I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always [/quote]

Looks like a gave away your plans alittle to soon Override... sorry. But there you go folks Override has more for you! And trust me after looking over all the work he has sent me... you'll like it.

Being a editor for the library has so many advantages.


Good next part[/quote]

Do not brag too much Jona.......you´re no the only one with privileges

[Wolfie]

LOL. Note to self: Don't mess with Minque

[OverrideB1]

The slow dripping of water woke me this morning; from somewhere sewer water was trickling into the little cell I’d used overnight. Packing up was a quick business; I had very few possessions with me. The only things I took with me from that chamber which were not mine were the short glass-blade and the Writ with my name on it. My aim for today was to find a way back to the surface that didn’t involve too many one-on-one fights with assassins. I was not in the mood for much sneaking around.

After collecting my pack from its hiding place, I set off down the tunnels. The crossbows proved their worth again, allowing me to pick off the three would-be assassins that I encountered from a safe distance. But I had a different problem ~ somewhere along the way I’d taken a wrong turning. I didn’t recognise these tunnels at all.

I found what appeared to be a tunnel back into the sewers but it quickly became apparent that the way ahead was blocked. The tunnel was flooded and, when I dived down and swam through to the door to the sewers it was immovable. As I gasped a breath of air in the small air pocket above the doors, I caught a metallic glint under water. Diving down, I grabbed the object as I went passed and rose; spluttering and coughing, back in the tunnels clutching my prize.

And what a prize it was too. It was a helm, made of the same light metal as the dagger that Hrundi had given me. Adamantium that was what he’d called it. The helm was light but solid, with a round neck-protection at the back and a fixed visor that protected the eyes in battle. The thick padding inside was soaked through, but dried quite quickly. It proved to be surprisingly comfortable and, once I’d got used to the slightly restricted vision, very useful.

Deciding to press on in the direction I’d been heading originally (in the vague hope that I’d make my way back to something I recognised), I headed off. The huge, echoing cavern that I reached at the end of the tunnel was enough to convince me that I should turn back. But, before I did that, I would spend a little time exploring. That decision provided me with a puzzle that I’ve yet to solve. Deep under the water, below an overhanging ledge, I found the water-washed bones of a young Mer. Glancing upwards, I saw something fluttering on the edge of the ledge and, speaking the necessary words, I levitated up there.

I found several interesting things that only added to the puzzling presence of the bones below. There was a richly embroidered shirt, a perfect match to the remains of the clothing the skeleton was wearing; a small pile of golden coins, a pair of Adamantium boots, a pair of Adamantium bracers, and a hastily scribbled note. The note, addressed to someone called Shara, simply said:

CODE

My dearest love,

I have failed you. But how? I brought you sacks of Comberry, crates of fine clothes, and chests of gold. But still you spurn my affections. I killed the trader who robbed you and still you refuse me. I have sat by your house day after day, rain or sun, waiting for a hint of your affection, but to no avail. I grow weary of this life. Since you have not yet arrived here to meet me, I can only assume the worst - that I will never feel your soft arms around me or watch you sleep without having to fear the guards that now patrol your land.

Goodbye my darling. Think of me fondly and often. And without reaching for your knife.

So, there was the puzzle: were the bleached and scattered bones the body of the nameless Mer who’d scribed the note? Or were they the bones of this feckless Shara? Had some jealous lover killed the writer, or had he killed Shara in a fit of rage and fled in remorse? Over the centuries I’ve made various enquiries but have, to date, found out nothing that I didn’t learn that day. Oblivion, I don’t even know when the note was written.

Backtracking, I returned to the junction where I thought I’d taken the wrong turning. From there, I headed off in the opposite direction and quickly found, to my joy, a set of doors back into the sewers. The only problem was, they were not the section of the Bazaar sewers through which I’d entered the complex of tunnels and caves. With a sigh, I took my last piece of chalk from the pack and started to mark out my route. I had to climb some quite steep slopes and wade though several deep pools before I came to the uppermost levels of the sewers ~ the manor district must have been far more deeply buried than I’d thought.

It was in these tunnels that I met the distraught Dunmer woman. I was walking along, relaxed but alert, when I espied movement ahead. Gripping the glass short-blade, I advanced carefully. As I drew closer to the corner I’d seen the woman head around, I began to discern the soft sound of weeping. With soft feet, I walked around the corner and looked down the tunnel. I must have made some slight sound, for the Meric woman looked around in sheer terror and bolted.

“Halt, Halt!” I yelled, “I mean you no harm. In fact, I seek your help ~ how do I get out of these benighted sewers?”

My question brought the woman to a standstill and she eyed me nervously as I walked briskly towards her. Narisa Adus, for that was her name, gave me the information I sought. “You are quite close to the exit Muthsera,” she said. “If you go along here, you’ll come to a chamber with four exits. One is blocked, and two go up to the catchments systems under the Temple. You don’t want to go that way. Take the fourth exit and follow it, some three hundred paces along you’ll come to a ladder that will bring you up into the Bazaar catchments system. From there, simply follow your nose.”

“Thank you,” I said with relief. “I thought I was completely lost. But tell me, why should I avoid the Temple sewers?”

“The Black Dart Gang,” she said, as thought that should answer my question completely. Seeing my puzzled look, she explained. “They are a gang of bandits who dress like poor beggars. But they use deadly poisonous darts ~ one is enough to kill you. They… they… they killed my poor Variner.” With that, she broke down in tears.

Bit by patient bit, I dragged the story from Narisa. It seems that they used the sewers to meet but, during one of these trysts, they had run foul of this Black Dart Gang. Narisa had managed to escape, but a thrown dart had killed her lover. Now she claimed that the ghost of Variner was visiting her of a night, begging her to rescue him. She tries, her presence here in the sewers her latest attempt, but she is too afraid to go too deep or too far. She begged me to seek out her lover’s spirit and see if it had a message for her.

I wouldn’t commit myself to wandering these dank halls in search of Variner’s ghost but I did promise that, should I ever meet that specific shade, I would speak with it. It was wrong of me to so promise, since I had no intention of returning to the sewers unless it involved the death of this mysterious ‘H’.

Narisa’s directions proved to be excellent and I soon realised what she’d meant when she’d said I ‘should follow my nose’. Fresh, blessedly untainted air blew from one direction down the sewers. Turning my face to the breeze, I soon found myself scrambling through a grate and into the watercourse that ran into and out of the Great Bazaar. I found myself a bench and sat in the sunshine, warming myself as the sun dried me and the fresh breeze blew away the lingering stench of the sewers. While I sat there, I wondered what I should do next ~ perhaps one of the guards could help me find this ‘H’?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Sed,” the Ordinator said when I addressed him. I took the opportunity to covertly examine his armour. Even though it was silver, instead of the golden colour the Ordinators wore in Vivec City, it was of much higher quality. The helm, with its stern representation of male features was the same except for its colour. The rest of the armour was decorated with embossed patterns: the repeating image of House Indoril’s Moon-and-Star device featuring heavily. About the Ordinators waist hung a tabard, made of silver and white material that hung down around the ankles. At his waist hung a massive scimitar: silver and gold decorating the hilt and cross guard, the blade of gold-chased Ebony. “However, perhaps Sed Hler in the Temple can help. If anyone will know…”

“I am Ovis Velas,” a magically magnified voice boomed, cutting across what the Ordinator was saying. “I am the greatest Mage that ever lived.”

[Aki]

Heh, now this outta be interesting.... :paperbag:

The Velas bros. are gonna meet sudhendra...

[jonajosa]

[quote=minque]
Do not brag too much Jona.......you´re no the only one with privileges [/quote]

I should have that privilege if it is the only advantage i have... Only one :ashamed: Do not ruin this for me.

Good next part.

[OverrideB1]

I turned to see a figure step from a cloud of silvery-white smoke. He was a bald Mer with a long white beard. He was clad in a dark blue robe, arcane symbols around the sleeves and hem. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the crowd, many of whom were backing slowly away. “You,” he said, pointing at a young man, “prepare to defend yourself.”

This was too much for me. Stepping in front of the cowering youth, I snapped, “Try picking on someone who’s got some experience of magic.” For a second I thought I saw a flicker of something in the wizard’s eyes, and then he straightened and nodded.

“So be it,” he boomed. Then, extending a finger, he began to chant a complex sounding spell. With a grin, I reached out and grabbed the extended finger and rattled off a quick spell of my own, “igneus manus.”

The effect was stunning: screaming, the almighty Velas grabbed his arm and collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony. Suddenly he stiffened and groaned, then went completely limp. I bent to examine the wizard, only to find that it was a corpse that I was studying. I glanced up at the Ordinator; they tend to take a very dim view of that sort of thing. Fortunately, the guard was as nonplussed as I was. “That was certainly… odd,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been hearing tales of this great and powerful wizard Velas all week. Yet, when he appears, you end up killing him with a simple fire-bite spell. Well, that’s certainly one I’ll be telling the lads back at the barracks.”

“It was certainly different,” I said, straightening up. “There’s no way that that spell should have killed him.”

“Velas?” the Ordinator mused. “Hmmm, there’s a Velas Manor over in Godsreach.” With that, the Ordinator marched off about his business. Leaving me to ponder the unlikely demise of the ‘great and powerful’ wizard Velas and any possible links he might have to Velas Manor. I decided it couldn’t hurt to investigate. Godsreach was easy enough to find ~ it was on the opposite side of the Plaza Brindisi Dorum to the Great Bazaar.

Godsreach was impressive and imposing. Occupying roughly the same sort of area as the Bazaar, this district of Mournhold was filled with fine mansions. Built of the same dark stone that the rest of the citadel, these two and three story edifices screamed wealth and power. Velas Manor was pretty representative of the rest of the buildings: a large, two-storey building with arched windows and an engraved front door. A locked, engraved front door.

Glancing around to make sure I was unobserved, I withdrew a scroll from my pack and repeated the words written thereon. It’s fortunate that there were very few pedestrians in Godsreach ~ the flare of magic would have been easily visible to anyone who cared to look. As the lock clicked and fell open, I quickly pushed on the door and stepped inside. The interior of the manse was cool but well lit, and books lined the shelves that stood on both sides of the room. Over in one corner a set of stairs led down to a basement while, directly next to them, a set of stairs led to an upper floor. I could hear footsteps descending the stairs.

“Didn’t I just kill you?” I asked the bald Mer with the long white beard as he stepped into the room and glared at me. He was an exact duplicate of the Mer I’d just accidentally killed in the Great Bazaar.

“Ahh,” he said in a cultured voice that held the faint lingering hints of Imperial elocution, “you must have met my brother Ovis. I am Gavis Velas, and my brother was fond of passing himself off as me since we are identical twins. Or rather, were identical twins.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said with genuine feeling. “But…”

“Oh, I have no doubt that Ovis attacked you first,” Gavis said with a wave of the hand. “Exactly the sort of damn’ fool thing he would have done. You are, I take it, something of a Mage yourself?” I confirmed that this was so, and the wizard sighed. “Magic runs in our family you see,” he explained. “Unfortunately, I seem to have got Ovis’ share of the power as well as my own. He could never accept that…

“Still, the fact remains that you did kill my brother,” he stated. “And, for that Muthsera, I’m afraid you are going to have to die.” As he finished speaking, he raised his hands. A stiff wind blew up and the air above his head started to darken and swirl.

To be perfectly honest, I am a great judge of my own luck, or lack thereof, and had been expecting something like this since the Mer had descended the stairs. The loaded crossbow clicked and Gavis’ shoulder suddenly grew a short stub of feathered steel. He clutched his shoulder and then, with a grimace, pushed the bolt right the way through and pulled it out through the back. As he straightened from the contortions this manoeuvre had necessitated, blue sparks spun in a localised vortex around his shoulder, repairing the damage. That little trick was almost as impressive as the fact that, throughout the whole bolt-removal and healing-spell casting, he’d never once allowed the vortex above his head to collapse. I began to get the feeling that I might be in trouble here.

The vortex had, by now, taken on a stormy aspect, and tiny flickers of lightning were already visible in the gathering storm. I quickly reviewed my spells and decided that magic wasn’t the way to go. Any attempt I made to fight Gavis on a magical level was probably doomed to failure. That left the old scream and leap technique.

Of course, that only works when the blade of your sword doesn’t bounce off a hastily conjured mystic shield. Of course, this did have the advantage of keeping Gavis Velas trapped inside the shield ~ along with the very nasty storm he was brewing up. With a wicked grin, I began pounding on the shield, forcing the mage to keep it in place so I didn’t get a blow through. After I’d hit the shield enough times, there was also the possibility of it collapsing. Gavis realised this and, with a grimace, dismissed his portable storm clouds and started chanting something else. There was a subtle shifting in the air and I dived aside as the Summoned Golden Saint’s scythe hissed through the air where I’d been standing.

This was even better: levelling my gloved hand, I concentrated and let the power flow out. Cold and devoid of any feelings, the mind of the Golden Saint opened up to me and, with a faintly metallic creak, it turned and began pounding on the mage’s shield with the scythe. After a minute of this, it became obvious that it was down to a contest of will. Sweat was pouring down his face as he struggled to re-establish control over his Summoning and maintain the integrity of his defensive field. I, meanwhile, was struggling to keep my hold over the Dremora intact ~ between Gavis’ efforts to regain control and the Golden Saint’s natural resistance, I was almost on my knees with the effort of it.

I couldn’t say how long we’d been at it when two things happened at once. A particularly hard blow from the scythe caused the mystic shield to blink out of existence while, almost immediately afterwards, the Summoned’s allotted time on this plane ran out and it vanished in a puff of yellowish smoke. Gavis and I reeled backwards with the shock of it and it was only my quicker reflexes that allowed me to defeat the Mage. Screaming, ”Vomica cruor,” I launched my final spell at him ~ constantly regaining control over the Golden Saint had all but drained me.

The spell caught, and he shrieked in agony as he was consumed from the inside out by the vindictive power of the enchantment. Sagging, totally exhausted, I made my way through the rest of the manor building in search of unwelcome surprises. Finding none, I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

[Burnt Sierra]

In fact, its so good, I'm going to say so again here as well. I'm totally jealous of the way you describe these action scenes. I've pasted them all into a Word doc, to see if I can figure out how you do it. Hm, homework, been a long while since I had any.

[OverrideB1]

[quote=Alexander]
I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now [/quote]

Hmmmm, I wonder if I should admit that there are, to date, only a prologue and 4 chapters....

Currently, it runs:
Prologue
Chapter One: Last Seed
Chapter Two: Heart Fire
Chapter Three: Frost Fall
Chapter Four: Sun's Dusk

What I'm currently posting is part of Chapter 3 and I'm still writing Chapter 4

(edit: And complety writer's blocked on one section :< I will, however, think about it and try to put together a good riddle session (and, if you know the various quests well, that's a hint. If not ~ that's the best you're gonna get )

[OverrideB1]

Having spent those parts of yestere when I was not recuperating from my experiences with Gavis Velas and the Dark Brotherhood, in the profitable pastime of selling the daggers and blades I’d picked up in the sewers, I awoke this morning feeling much refreshed and relaxed. I had arranged an interview with Fedris Hler for later in the day and decided that I should get myself acquainted with the wonders of this citadel within a city. My first point of exploration was to be Godsreach itself.

My accommodation was one of many large manors that filled this area, perhaps one of the largest with its secure vaults downstairs and its large upper floor. Many of the other mansions were far more impressively appointed and several, I found, were built one above the other. There was also a large Inn, called ‘The Wing’d Guar’, which did a brisk trade in providing accommodation for those caught inside the Citadel when the curfew bell rang. There was also two massively imposing structures: ‘The Mournhold Museum’ being one, and ‘The Craftsman’s Hall’ being the other. Since museums hold little interest for me, I went into the Craftsman’s Hall.

This proved to be a collection of very exclusive shops (i.e. extremely expensive) brought together under one roof. There were, I learned, various living quarters and tradesmen upstairs as well as on the main floor. Two shops in particular caught my eye. Walking to the back of the hall, I entered the Blacksmith’s there.

“Watch where you’re going Dark Elf!” a young Imperial snapped, even though I was nowhere near him. “Name’s Ilnori Faustus,” he said arrogantly. “A name you’d do well to remember: for I intend to make sure it goes into the history books as the name of the greatest adventurer of all time. I’m ill suited for this… menial work and only pursue this trade until I can get away.” With that, he turned away and continued stacking plates of hammered steel onto the shelf. I was sore tempted to tell him that the life he sought was no easy one but why should I spoil all the surprises?

Bols Indalen was one of the two smiths that worked the forge, the other being a large Orc who was ~ it seemed ~ far too busy to speak to me. Bols, however, seemed to be open and friendly. “I makes armour, me” he said proudly. “Bestest damn’ armour in t’whole of Mournhold. You want something off t’shelf; I’m yer Mer. Want something a bit more custom-made, like? Bring us the raw materials an’ I’ll make yer t’bestest armour you’ve e’er seen.”

“Could you do something with these?” I asked, fetching the Adamantium boots from their straps under my pack. “They’re a bit too big you see.”

“Aye,” he said, running a practiced eye over the boots. Putting them down, he took a tape and took several measurements of my foot before asking me to step, one foot at a time, into trays of wet clay. “Let’s ‘ave us a look at the boots,” he said. “Cor, right fine these are. I bain’t seen workmanship like this in a Guar’s age. Reckon these are booty, like?”

I confirmed that I had found them, and then asked the question that had been amusing me ever since Bols had started speaking. “What’s with the accent?”

“I dunno what yer means lass,” he replied, “Always spoken like this, me.”

“Come off it,” I said with a chuckle. “The genius yokel from nowhere who’s a wizard with metalwork might convince the locals, not me. Besides, your accent keeps slipping.” Bols grinned.

Leaning close, he whispered in my ear, “The locals all know, it’s only something put on for travellers such as you.” Then, in a normal tone of voice and, mercifully, without the yokel accent, he said, “It’ll take a few days to resize the boots ma’am. And I’ll have to ask you for two hundred and fifty Septims for labour and materials.” I agreed that this was an acceptable price and, taking one of his price-lists, I left the boots with him.

Edern Albrege was a clockmaker, an occupation I’d never heard of before. He enthusiastically explained his Craft to me. As best as I could understand it, he constructed time-keeping devices which ~ using a complex arrangement of gears, cogs, and pendulums ~ could keep time almost as well as the much rarer Dwemer timepieces. Fascinated and intrigued, I asked if I could commission a piece.

“I would be delighted and honoured to create a time-piece for you My Lady,” he replied. “Regrettably, I can undertake no new commissions at this time. A consignment of vitally important parts from Cyrodiil is unfortunately overdue. I have barely enough parts to complete the commissions I have.”

“Perhaps I can help?” I said. Albrege thought about this for a moment, and then told me that the shipment was coming via Ebonheart in Vvardenfell. Promising to look into the matter for him, I left the Craftsman's Hall and made my way across Godsreach to the gate that led to the Temple complex. I thought that those parts of the Palace I’d seen were impressive: next to the magnificence of the Temple, they paled to insignificance. Vast, and built of a pale green stone, the Temple stood on a raised platform in the middle of the park that surrounded it.

Fedris Hler, a short and rotund Mer with a fringe of black hair surrounding an island of skin atop his head, peered up at me. “Vahl, eh? I’ve heard something of your exploits in Old Mournhold young lady. But I assure you,” he added, “that I know nothing of this ‘H’ of whom you speak and less still about the machinations of the Dark Brotherhood. I do, however, have a small job I’d like you to do, Sed Vahl.”

The sudden use of the honorific reminded me exactly whom it was I was speaking to. Here was a Mer high in the service of the Temple I professed to serve. “My Faith, My Life” I murmured, repeating the phrase that I’d used in the Puzzle Canal.

“An excellent approach Curate,” he said. “Now, the Goddess Almalexia has information that King Helseth is training Goblins to serve in his army. The Lady considers such creatures an abomination and is aghast that Helseth would even consider using them as foot soldiers. Of equal concern is her fear that Helseth will not be able to control these foul beasts and that they will break into Mournhold doing untold harm.

“It is The Lady’s wish that you locate and destroy the Goblin War-Chiefs and the two Altmeri that Helseth has engaged to train the Goblins. Unfortunately, we have not been able to determine where Helseth is training them. Do this, and Goddess will be most pleased.”

Bowing low, I took my leave of the Temple and only letting my feelings be known when I was safely outside. Well, at least I shouldn’t have too much trouble locating where they were ~ Goblins aren’t the cleanest or most discrete of creatures. Once I’d located them, I could consider what to do next ~ and exactly how far I could run in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me,” a thin, reedy voice accompanied the tug on my robe. Looking down, I looked into the face of a Bosmeri. “I will gladly pay you back on Tirdas for a loan of ten Septims today.”

Looking at the shabby state of the Wood Elf’s clothing, I figured that here was a down-on-his-luck pilgrim. A small donation, a show of charity, might get me a little better luck. “Here,” I said, tossing the Bosmer a 10-Septim coin.

“You are most kind Dark Elf,” he said. “Since we are on such good terms, perhaps you could lend me a hundred Septims today, I will gladly pay you back next Tirdas.”

I laughed, “That’s some approach you’ve got there friend. For the sheer cheek of it, here.” Digging in my purse, I found ten ten-Septim coins and gave them to the Bosmeri. He clutched them, beaming happily.

“We’re getting along famously, you and I,” he said. “I’m sure that you will lend me a thousand Septims today, and I will gladly pay you back next Tirdas.”

“Now you’re just being greedy,” I snapped, no longer seeing the humour. “No, I will not lend you a thousand Septims.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” he said, his broad face flushing. “You lend me a thousand Septims today. I pay you back next Tirdas. A very simple transaction.”

“Perhaps it’s you who misunderstand,” I replied. “Do you have some difficulty understanding the concept of ‘No’?”

“You’ll regret this Dark Elf,” he hissed in an icy voice. “Nobody says no to Gaenor, nobody.” He stalked off, muttering to himself. Shaking my head, I made my way towards the Brindisi Dorum Gate ~ reflecting as I did so that there are few odder creatures on this plane of existence than Bosmeri.

“Goblins? Not that I know of,” said the High Ordinator when I asked him the question. “Although, there have been some strange creatures seen in the sewers beneath Godsreach.” I thanked him and continued across Brindisi Dorum until I came to the massive wooden gates of the Royal Palace. Tienius Delitian was obviously expecting me; he’d sent a guard to escort me to him.

“Ahh, the esteemed Sudhendra Vahl,” the Cyrodiil said as I was led into the huge echoing chamber of the throne room. I took the opportunity to look at him as I walked closer. He had the usual arrogant bearing of a high-ranking Imperial and was clad in the same red and silver armour as the guards that lined the sides of the chamber ~ although he wasn’t wearing a helm. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending his hand in the western fashion. I glanced down at it and ignored it totally.

“Well,” he said, letting his hand drop to his side after a second or two, “I am sure that you can be…”

“What do you know about an assassination attempt?” I cut across whatever he was going to say. “More specifically, an attempt on my life?”

“There are more important matters to discuss,” he said smoothly. I knew, in that instant, that here was someone who knew about the Dark Brotherhood contract on me. However, it would seem that I had to play his game if I wished to gain more information.

“Such as,” he continued, “the source of the rumours about the death of King Llethan. His majesty, King Helseth, is quite concerned about the stories going around that Llethan’s death might not have been entirely natural. He would like you to go out, among the common people, and speak to them. He desires a report on what their feelings about the former King’s death are. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” I replied, shaking my arm free of the guard’s grip. Turning on my heel, I stalked from the Throne Room and down into the reception area. Somehow, by coming here, I have got myself caught between State and Church ~ each seeking to use me for their own ends in their fight for supremacy in Mournhold. Well, blow that for a game ~ I needed time to decide what, if anything, I was going to do about Helseth’s Goblins or the rumours about Llethan’s death.

Effie-Tai proved to be willing to return me to Ebonheart, so I left the intrigue behind for a while so I could get some time to think.

“Arch-Magister,” the Dunmeri woman said, sweeping in to stand beside me as I walked through the Grand Council Chamber. “You look troubled. How may I help you Sed?”

The woman turned out to be Galus Drenim, the Telvanni representative to Ebonheart. It was her job to make sure that House Hlaalu and House Redoran didn’t try to pull any sneaky tricks in the Council and to represent the House’s best interests. She quickly pointed out the Mer who represented Hlaalu and Redoran. I asked her if she’d heard anything about a shipment of clock parts. “Alas no Arch-Magister,” she replied. “We try not to get bogged down in the minutiae of everyday life in the Council. However, if you need information on shipments in and out of Ebonheart, you could do worse than starting at the East Empire Company offices down by the docks.”

Canctunian Ponius, another fat and smug Imperial official, was initially reluctant to help until I reminded him that it was his job to do so ~ without ‘sweeteners’ to grease the wheel. When he suggested I come back in five, or six, days I politely pointed out to him he was talking to the Arch-Magister of Great House Telvanni and that I didn’t intend to wait more than a few minutes for the information. “Well,” he said huffily, after scrabbling through various papers on his desk, “there was a consignment bound for Mournhold. It was loaded aboard ‘The Muzariah’: which sailed over a fortnight ago. I see no reason the shipment should have been delayed by Customs on the Mainland, so it should have arrived by now.”

Well, it obviously hadn’t arrived on the Mainland, and I was now nonplussed as to what to do next. If I returned to Mournhold, I wouldn’t be able to get out of the enclave to go down to the local warehouses to check and, because of the quarantine, I wouldn’t be able to get passage over to the nearest Mainland port to find out what had happened.

Lacking any obvious way to find out what had happened to the shipment, I translocated myself over to Ald’ruhn and spoke with Tuls Valen. “You have returned to us,” he said with a smile. “This is excellent, especially since word has come from the upper hierarchy that they want you to receive another promotion. Congratulations Disciple Vahl.

“Now,” he said. I was fast coming to hate that word when uttered by a member of the Temple, it invariably meant that I was about to be passed some hot Ash Yam that somebody wanted dealt with ~ quickly. This was no exception. “There are, we understand, some cultists in the caverns of Hassour. We want you to cleanse the caves and bring the Temple’s justice to the cultists.”

“How do I find this Hassour?” I asked.

“Firstly, you’ll need to go to Balmora. From there, head east past the Fort and into the Foyada Mamaea. If you follow this south, you will reach the caverns of Hassour.”

[Burnt Sierra]

Now, this is getting very interesting. Jumping back and forth from the mainland to Mournhold. If Sudhendra had thought she was escaping the unpleasant smell of politics from the great houses.... She might well be looking forward to rentering those sewers, at least they're straightforward.

Nice handling of Gaenor as well Something tells me we might see more of him.

[Aki]

Heh, Gaenor.

I can't wait for that fight. What with Gaenor's super-luck and inate reflection abilites...

[minque]

[quote=burntsierra]In fact, its so good, I'm going to say so again here as well. I'm totally jealous of the way you describe these action scenes. I've pasted them all into a Word doc, to see if I can figure out how you do it. Hm, homework, been a long while since I had any. [/quote]


Indeed it is....very good ..and besides from that I get encouraged to play after reading one of these Mournhold-parts I immediately fire up MW and go to Mournhold...just for the scary thing of it and see if I can do as Sudhendra does.....which I not always can..of course, but it´s really thrilling...

:goodjob:

[OverrideB1]

I didn’t stop long in Balmora after I’d returned there. I was still nervous of the Camonna Tong and didn’t wish to attract their attention by stopping in Hlaalu-controlled territory for too long. The Foyada was the usual bleak gully of rock, with no points of interest until I reached the very southernmost end. There, in the blank grey rock was set a plain wooden door. With a quiet prayer to anything that might be paying attention, I drew my axe and pushed open the door.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the gloom inside the caves was the smell. A mixture of rotting flesh and sulphur. The next things were the candles: dozens of them set on every possible surface. Small, squat, red candles ~ very much like those in Telasero. I hoped this was simply coincidental, but I feared very much that it wasn’t. Of course, if wishes were Septims, we’d all live like Emperors.

The first indication that I was facing the same cult that had infested Telasero was the naked Dunmer that raced out of a side tunnel, waving a chitin club. A few quick axe-strokes soon dealt with that problem. There were several more of these naked cultists in the tunnels, along with other creatures I’d not seen before. One, which I named an Ash-Slave, was a greatly disfigured Mer whose eyes were deeply sunken back in his head: this creature was slow but armed with fairly powerful magic. There was, however, worse to come.

Deep inside the tunnels of Hassour, I encountered a creature that seemed to have degenerated a stage further than the Ash-Slave. It was impossible to tell, from its appearance, whether the creature had been Man or Mer ~ its smooth, hairless skull gave no clue. The skin had gone totally grey, the pale colour of the ash wastes of the Molag Amur. However, despite it’s colour, the skin was smooth and lacked the flaky appearance of the other creatures I had encountered. What was most horrifying was the disfigurement of the face. The mouth had become little more than a lipless slit framing oddly discoloured teeth but that was the least of the changes. Where there should have been eyes and a nose was only a deep pit, the flesh inside blackened and covered in small lumps. In the centre of the hollow was a protrusion. Horrified that anyone would voluntarily undergo such appalling mutilation, I lashed out violently ~ hacking the creature down before it could even start weaving a spell.

It was deep inside Hassour, behind an ancient wooden door, that I found the ultimate horror of this dark cult ~ or so I thought. The door creaked open and a rush of fetid air rushed out. In the middle of the chamber was another of those dark metal shrines these cultists raise to whatever infernal god they worship. As in Telasero, there was a triangular plinth, the recesses of which were filled with a number of those grotesque statuettes. A larger, but no less hideous, version of the statue stood in the centre of the raised dais. Nearby was a single stone trough. Dominating the shrine was a robed and hooded figure, making some obscene obsequience to the red and black banner raised above the shrine.

I crept closer, axe raised. Some small fragment of stone must have moved under my foot for the hooded figure stiffened and turned quickly. Like the creature I had named an Ash-Zombie, this mutilated creature had undergone similar transmogrification. However, where there had been a slight protuberance, now grew a single thick tentacle of the same ash tones as the rest of the figure. Quick as a snake, it raised its hands and a flash of lightning lit the chamber.

I screamed as the bolt tore into me, my whole body jerking at the power of it. Even as I started to recover, there was another bolt heading towards me. Proving that I was no slouch in the ‘moving quickly’ department, I dove behind the trough (thankfully not filled with stinking meat as it had been in Telasero). As the bolt detonated harmlessly against the stone floor, I unshipped one of the crossbows and struggled to load it. When the bolt was in place and the string had snapped into the ratchet, I took a deep breath.

As another thunderous explosion shook the massive trough, I shot to my knees, aimed, and fired before ducking back behind cover as quickly as I could. The expected retaliatory thunderbolt failed to materialise, and I took the opportunity to recock and reload the crossbow. As I prepared to fire again, I realised I could hear a faint noise ~ like someone struggling to breath.

I risked a quick glance over the lip of the stone trough, steeling myself against any incoming magic. The hooded figure was flat on its back, arms and legs threshing wildly. Leaping to my feet and keeping the crossbow trained on it, I moved cautiously forwards. My hastily aimed bolt had taken the thing high in the chest, roughly where you’d expect a lung to be. Thick, black ichors oozed from the wound, staining the grey robe. With a moue of disgust, I pressed my foot to the creature’s chest ~ pushing it onto its back and pinning it in place. Aiming the ‘bow, I lowered it to a fraction of an inch from the creature’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

I leapt back to avoid the jet of thick, stinking fluid that spurted up as the creature’s head was slammed back against the rough stone. Then, avoiding stepping in the spreading pool of black liquid, I approached the banner the thing had been praying to. Made of some deep red fabric, it featured an insectoid device that I was sure I’d seen before. As I studied it, I realised that it was exactly the same as the handle of the dagger I’d taken from the Dunmer murderess. With a shiver, I grabbed the edge of the brocade and brought the shape of the Firebite spell to mind. I hade no idea if what I was attempting would work, and I was gratified to see the edge of the fabric charring as I poured power into the cantrip. By the time I was finished, there were rapidly spreading areas of blackening fabric as the device burned.

After despoiling the alter ~ smashing that evilly leering statue and scattering the smaller statuettes ~ I grabbed what seemed useful from the trough before hurling a fireball into the spreading flames and making a hasty exit. As I closed the door on that ill-fated chamber, I could see the flames eagerly consuming the monstrosity that had prayed there. Ashes to ashes, I thought, giggling a trifle hysterically.

Sobering quickly, I realised that there were unexplored areas of Hassour and that Tuls Valen had been very specific ~ cleanse the caves in the name of ALMSIVI had been his instructions. I took that to mean that I should leave no trace of this foul and depraved cult. There were few possessions to be seen in the mean cells hollowed out of the living rock at the end of the warren of tunnels under Hassour but the bedrolls burned with an eager flame ~ igniting everything that would burn nearby. So, axe in hand and leaving a trail of flame behind me, I shrived Hassour.

“So, you killed Dagoth Favon?” asked the man who’d stepped from the back of the last chamber I’d come to. “Pity, there’s so much more I could have taught him, and he me. Still, it is oft said that the best laid plans of Man and Mer…”

With a gesture, he caused a fine reddish mist to curl up around him. “Danio Brythwch,” he commanded. The mist writhed and thickened, becoming a swirling cloud of flame that leapt at me with startling speed. I threw myself out of the way, dropping the Wish as the flames scoured the spot where I’d been standing. When they faded, the very rock itself was glowing red-hot. Snapping to the side, I launched a fireball at him, watching in horror as the sphere of flames washed over him and left him completely unmarked. I dived for cover as a fireball roughly the size of a large Kagouti screamed down the narrow passageway. The sound of its passing was like thunder and it burned bright as the sun as it exploded against the far wall.

What manner of sorcerer was he? The spells he was casting were not any I’d heard of, couched as they were in the local language. And the sheer power of them was terrifying. I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover, chanting, “Obscurum successio,” as I did so. He screamed, the fireball he’d been in the process of creating spinning wildly out of control as the spell clouded his vision.

“This won’t stop me,” he screamed in fury, his fingers already weaving the mystic fluxes into the shape of a new spell. It didn’t need to stop him; it just needed to give me a second or two of clear aiming time. The crossbow twanged, launching its lethal load at his head. The sound was just what he’d been waiting for but his heightened senses proved to be his undoing. As he turned to face me, the bolt punctured his left eye with a gristly sound that was audible even from here. Without a sound, he fell like a log.

Having made sure that there was nothing left living anywhere in Hassour, I translocated to Balmora and locked myself into the former home of Dura gra-Bol’s.