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> Shades of Ending, set after the oblivion MQ
Olen
post Aug 2 2011, 10:53 PM
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Well it’s been a while, a long while, since I posted anything. I have been writing, some stuff which was non-TES, a false start which I spent too long fighting… There’s also another ~80k piece which I’ve left on a hard drive in Scotland so I’m taking a hiatus. Anyway I decided I fancied posting something.

This is unplanned and unfinished. I prefer to write all of something with a lot of planning and then post, but this time I thought I’d just let it flow and see what comes. Hopefully it won’t be too unpolished and I intend to make it more episodic so if I do lose interest for a bit it shouldn’t matter so much. The plan is to post one section while I write another, that way any criticisms can be addressed as I go.

Anyway without any more waffle a short intro.

Shades of Ending



1.1 Questioning

The prisoner met Verus’s eye across the scarred table. The watchman swallowed. “It does not look good for you,” his voice was quiet. He knew he should feel disgust, hatred even for what the man had done. But it was tempered. Perhaps it was because the man had more brain than most of the scum they dragged into the Cheydinhal prison. Or perhaps it was because he understood why, though he’d never admit it. Or it could just have been the passing resemblance to his son. Same dark hair and eyes, and not so different features.

Damn he hated this place, the sooner the investigation was over the sooner he could go and see the real thing back in the Imperial City. Not that distraction like this helped.

The prisoner looked back, “I’m fetched aren’t I?”

Verus winced at the tone and nodded. “Ferir,” he said the man’s name, gave him that much respect, “double murder of Imperial guards only leads to the gallows.”

“And it doesn’t matter that it was self defence, that they were trying to kill me? Had already killed my friends. We didn’t attack them.”

“It doesn’t matter. And even if it did you’re guilty of enough else to string you up. Possession with intent to supply – don’t tell me that much skooma was for personal use, our mage says you’re clean anyway. Bootlegging. Smuggling. As little as I like it you had it coming.”

Ferir nodded.

Verus could hardly believe it, they were always full of guar apples. Fake bravado to start with which slowly decayed into pleading. There was fear there certainly, he reeked of it, it was in the way he sat and moved. There was pain too, but mainly Verus thought it was resignation in the prisoner’s voice when he spoke. “Can you at least tell me who you killed?”

“I’m not meant to.” The gaze from the dark eyes flashed fierce like glowdust on a fire. It was the same spark which had cost the lives of two of the Imperial Legionaries who had raided the smugglers cavern, and it caught Verus off guard.

“You have a family.” It was a statement. “The people in that cave were as close to family as I’d found. You come and kill them, and within the next couple of days…” His gaze dipped to the scored boards of the table in the interrogation room. It slid uneasily round the manacles which held him. “I just want to know if any of them lived.”

“The patrol killed five. A two humans, a man and a woman, two khajit and a dunmer male.” If you had better luck you’d have been in that list. Verus didn’t add the thought, its truth was too bitter.

The eyes screwed closed. “The dunmer, what colour was his hair?”

“Red.” Verus watched Ferir deflate. His eyes shut and he thumped his wrists against the table, the chain which held them didn’t allow space for it to make more than a dull thud. He muttered something Verus didn’t catch, and decided not to press.

When Ferir finally opened his eyes again they were bloodshot. “Have you got what you want now?” There was anger in his voice, but also sadness, enough to suppress the flames, if not entirely quench them. “You know someone got away, you’ve got our contacts. I’m in pain, several of my closest friends are dead. Have you done enough?”

Verus frowned, it wasn’t something he was used to. Lines about choosing this fate when he chose crime seemed flimsy, paper props for the tragicomedy which passed as justice in this town. Ferir hadn’t lied about the pain either, the man was a mass of bruises. The legionaries had worked him over, and who could blame them? He wasn’t the only one to lose friends. Occasionally his hands would sneak towards the lower ribs on one side only to be rudely stopped by the chain.

Not that they’d waste healing on a condemned prisoner. You should have died in that cave. Verus shook his head, trying to dislodge the malaise which had built. He stood, this was too discomfiting. For a moment he struggled for words, then gave up and offered Ferir a single nod before leaving.


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haute ecole rider
post Aug 2 2011, 11:40 PM
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Yay, you're writing and posting again! biggrin.gif

So you're going to try a more organic way of writing? Already I'm intrigued by the scene you've set to want to see where you take us.

The despair of the prisoner was quite infectious. I've often thought about the bandits one encounters in the game - why are there so many of them? What is wrong with this society that it breeds bandits like bottleflies on a corpse? It seems to me that you are going to address at least some aspect of the seedier side of Cyrodiil. And in the power vacuum following the end of the Main Quest, I am really interested to see where this story leads you and us.


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SubRosa
post Aug 3 2011, 12:23 AM
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It is good to see you back and writing again Olen! This certainly looks like a dark, grim tale. Then again, it would seem strange to see you write characters who were shiny happy people! wink.gif

It is hard to really say much so early, but you certainly painted a gritty picture with the cop's interview of the prisoner. You captured Verus' sense of not so much apathy, but perhaps protective dissociation, gained by seeing so much of the worst people have to offer. On both sides of the law.

Ferir (I keep thinking Fenrir) seems an unusual sort, as Verus noted. He does not fit in with the ordinary class of criminal. It makes me wonder who he is, and how he ended up running skooma in a cave.

they were always full of guar apples.
Similar to road apples no doubt! wink.gif


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Acadian
post Aug 3 2011, 12:36 AM
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Welcome back to writing! And a fine start you have.

Great job of unobtrusively providing some of the 'who/what/when/where/why' in a very gentle manner. For example, this was a clever way of providing a description of Ferir:
'Or it could just have been the passing resemblance to his son. Same dark hair and eyes, and not so different features.'

I'm curious and that, after all, is what an introduction is about. smile.gif


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Destri Melarg
post Aug 3 2011, 04:57 AM
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Ah, Olen is posting again. This is a sure indicator that things are starting to normalize in Destri’s world! biggrin.gif

As usual your talent for atmosphere puts most to shame. Seeing Ferir through the prism of Veras’ perception gives us a clear picture of the prisoner, without tipping your hand too much. Remind me to steal borrow that technique sometime. As SubRosa said, I find myself wondering just how someone like Ferir winds up languishing in a cell in Cheydinhal.

I’m also eager to see how you like writing without a net. I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised with the minor characters that demand that their story be told. You will also run into connections between people, places, and events that even you never saw coming. The flip side is that there will be false starts and chapters that head nowhere. There will also be dry periods in which nothing at all seems to come of your labors. I can only implore you to stick with it. The muses may be fickle, but they do reward persistence.


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Olen
post Aug 4 2011, 09:25 PM
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Seeing as the last part was rather short, and got quite a few comments.

Haute - I suspect the seedier side of Cyrodiil will be involved, there really is very little plan, a few things I think I'll steer it towards, if nothing else comes up. Essentially I've just made a few characters and set them loose...

Subrosa - believe it or not the last piece was initially a comedy... but I agree, if I wrote about happy people it would end up boring and flat. I'm glad you find Ferir an interesting character, you'll be seeing a lot more of him.

Acadian - thanks, I hope some of the what and where is explained, and more added...

Destri - A comment from the legendary Melarg himself. If my posting makes things normal in your world it must be a mighty strange place. I'm glad using the different pov worked well, it's something I want to play with, indeed my main issue with first person is that you're stuck in one head. Does normal include an update in Interegnum?

1.2 Mirror to the past

Ferir went quietly when the two jailers came for him. They managed a few insults on the way back to his cell but he wasn’t paying attention. Even the stabs of pain from his ribs with every rough movement seemed distant, news from elsewhere. They were dead, all but three of the inhabitants of Sundew Cave. Two really because he didn’t count. He knew they hadn’t got Teemva, the argonian had been away cutting a deal down Leyawin way with a nord captain called Hulgar. It appeared Torvas had escaped, there were a few possibilities but Ferir couldn’t be sure how.

Arvyn hadn’t. They were dumping him onto the mouldy straw in the cell before he even thought it. He hardly noticed. The door clanged shut and he gazed at the wall without seeing. Neither did he hear the muttered conversation behind him. He didn’t care. He’d heard a dunmer shout in the cave, but not seen anything before a mace to the head put him out. But not hard enough. The thought was viciously grim, it hung from the ruins of the hope he’d half sheltered.

Even through the pain another thought lurked in the depths. It was ever present, waiting to bite. What now? It came with a peculiar edge of excitement, of meeting things unknown. He was cut free. It curdled in the pain like cream in vinegar. In that moment he hated that anticipation. He’d lost everything. Sundew Cave was his home, his family. Had been. What now?

Chains, pain and then death. He killed the curdled hope with savage satisfaction. There was no chancing from this one, no last ditch gamble. He couldn’t even run as he had before. He looked round the cell, seeing it now. The dirty secondhand light which filtered down from the high barred windows. The ingrained filth on the floor. It smelt of urine and worse. The next cell was separated by bars. Its occupant, a bear of a man, sat on a stool talking to one of the jailors and another guard in hushed tones. Ferir turned his glance away, their bearing suggested that overhearing would prove painful.

The remnants of the pallet chewed on his bruised back. The irony didn’t escape him; after a life which he’d lived every moment the last day would have no final crescendo. It was outshone by the past’s reflection, there was nothing even to rival the chance that he might dream. He felt the tug of religion, that some god might come and save him, lift him from this pit. He threw the thought aside with disgust, the gods were dead, or wantonly evil. Striking people at their weakest, infecting and spreading. He’d seen enough of the world not to want to have anything to do with any higher power. Certainly none that might save him. There at least he was under no illusion. He was guilty.

It had been easy to assume it wouldn’t be them who were caught. The guard only caught idiots, or those suffering form massive bad luck. It would be fine, a bit of bootlegging lead on to smuggling. And then the realisation that he was a good ‘cook’. Then they were hitting the big stuff. Hell it had been fun, and bad stuff happened to other people right?

So did that make him unlucky or an idiot he wondered.

Both. He thought of Arvyn and rolled to face the wall and shut his eyes.

Sleep took a while to come, but slowly he drifted away from the hushed voices by the next cell and, in spirit at least, escaped the gathering dark.


It was late afternoon, the sun washed red light over the hazy Jerall mountains. The blue peaks marched away to the west climbing towards Skyrim. One day Ferir would go there, but for just now Sundew Cave was home. He sat on a broken log and looked at the old track which away though the stunted birches. A little out of sight it dipped into the valley and past several villages towards Cheydinhal, and beyond that was the world. In the other direction it rapidly diminished, no one passed this way now. Whatever it had once served, drovers perhaps, or the scattered ruins which dotted the mountains, had passed into obscurity.

Ferir looked at the rising slope of the glen behind the cave and smiled. For all he knew it had always been a smugglers trail taking contraband over the obscure passes in better days. Days long gone now, but the birds still sang in the trees’ edge where they gave in to rock and grass. Cyrodiil was tucked away there, and beyond it Nirn, there was more beyond that if it came to it. This was his corner though, away from the law and the rent and the bills which caged society. Here he could up and leave anytime, go cut a deal in some backwater inn, or take a shipment of kitty oil to Kragenmoor. He was free to run.

And because of that he didn’t have to.

The smell of Hrissa’s skooma pipe drifted to his nose. He smiled, even now Ja’lar would be complaining, most likely with a moon cake in hand. She had a cat on her shoulder though, well two including Ja’lar. But supply was no issue with them so where was the problem? He always felt the loss of novelty would be disappointing though and stayed off the stuff in the main. It made it more fun when he did partake, and without care cooking it up all day was a recipe for a massive addiction.

The current batch would need the reflux turned down soon. He glanced out over the hills again and heard the door behind him. Only one person opened the door quite that way, not that he could have described it if asked. Perhaps the skooma could wait, he always said the trick was a long reflux, and he was one of he best ‘cooks’ in the business. Arvyn walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“How’s things?”

Ferir smiled, “Yea, good.”

“You’re not planning on leaving are you?” His rough voice held jest, but there was more there.

“Nah, I like it up here.”

“Good.” Ferir knew the elf would be smiling. “Your batch smells ready.” Arvyn turned to head back inside, Ferir shot one last glance down the track and then followed him in.


The dream wavered, somehow, like a drop of ink landed in its mirror surface. Darkness leached in from the corners, breathing like a monster in the shadow.

He was dreaming, good dreams just before waking on a good day. The first crash wove seamlessly into his reverie, but it became confused. There came another. Shouting. The reverie cracked. A scream.

It shattered. He woke disoriented.
What? Another scream, harsh, a dunmer? It was cut off.

“Guards,” a shout. Ja’lar probably. Ferir reached for his axe.

An instant later the curtain to his chamber was torn aside. He rolled up out of bed as an armoured behemoth crashed in. Ferir saw the blood spattered on its blade and armour with terrible clarity. The cold helmet regarded him with a cyclopean slit, the line as dark as death. It bellowed something. Ferir didn’t hear, his heart was pounding, the last webs of sleep burned away.

He threw out a hand and fire leapt from his fingers. It was instinctual, and it was powerful. The invader staggered back. Another scream rang through the halls. Ferir threw himself forward. The blow was wild, driven by surprise and panic, but it was powerful and the fire had done its work. The mail split under the long axe-head and this time he could see the screamer. The axe head pulled free in a torrent of blood and the guard fell. He rose it for a killing blow. Another shout echoed, closer this time. It was Ja’lar and maybe just outside his room.

The axe returned itself to guard without him thinking and he leapt the writhing legionary. Suddenly he was acutely aware that he wore only his bedclothes. There was no time, the fight was now.

The khajit was being pressed hard, he had his ridiculous oversized sword in hand but was otherwise naked. His opponent was taking full advantage, a lightning blow added another cut before the heavy sword could block it. Ferir brought his axe back sideways, it left him open, but he had the guard’s back and needed to break through the imperial armour.

His feet slapped the stone floor. The guard must have heard as he tried to circle round Ja’lar. The khajit took the opportunity to press his attack but it was the wrong move at the wrong time. The guard took it on his shield and turned the momentum driving his own sword through Ja’lar’s unprotected throat.

It was too late for the guard. Ferir realised he was screaming as he brought his axe round. A desperate attempt to block knocked it low so it bit into the armour over the stomach rather than higher on the side. But it was enough, the steel bent and split under the impact which knocked the man from his feet. Blood erupted round the wound and a moment later from his mouth and nostrils.

Then Ferir realised what had prompted Ja’lar’s desperate last move. The shape of another guard was advancing down a side corridor.

The axe was stuck. Ferir glanced at it, but it was no help. When he looked back the guard was running, the mace in his hands held ready. Too late. It was in swing, maybe if he dodged right. He tensed and at the last instant moved with all the explosive force he could muster. Maybe it would miss and then-

Darkness.


This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 6 2011, 11:08 AM


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Look behind you and see an ever decreasing number of ghosts. Currently about 15.
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haute ecole rider
post Aug 4 2011, 10:51 PM
Post #7


Master
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Okay, let me get a couple of nits out of the way first:

QUOTE
The remnants of the palette chewed on his bruised back.
Did you mean pallet? Palette refers to the flat piece of wood or acrylic used by artists to mix paints, or the range of colors in a scene. On the other hand, pallet refers to the rough wooden construction commonly used to keep crates and other containers off the deck, or to a rough wooden bed that is low on comfort.

The other nit is:
QUOTE
It was late afternoon, the sun washed red light over the hazy Jerrel mountains.
Did you mean Jerall?

Okay, now the good stuff. I really liked the way you set up the depths of despair that Ferir (I'm with SubRosa, I keep reading Fenrir!) felt due to survivor's guilt. At first I thought Arvyn was a good friend, but now I'm beginning to wonder if there's more. Not that I care either way - they were very close, and he'd rather die than live without the other. That's what matters to me. That is the driving force behind Ferir's despair, and I can understand and accept that.

To go from the depths of despair in a dank prison to the heights of the Jeralls in such beautiful surroundings is quite a sudden transition, and it does well to explain further the reason for Ferir's guilt and depression. And to end with a bit of a flashback to how Ferir ended up in jail after killing two guards just makes this whole segment sing, albeit in a funereal dirge. Still, it's beautiful writing, and I for one, am so glad to see you back again.


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Black Hand
post Aug 4 2011, 10:58 PM
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From: Where the sun shines everyday in hell.



I like it! I like it! The intro shows us a criminal in his worst moment, and than this update shows us that he's had worse.

Hope you keep up with it. cool.gif
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SubRosa
post Aug 4 2011, 11:03 PM
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So it looks like Ferir was cooking up meth in the cave. Or skooma at least. It seems that just as you like grim tales, you cannot keep your characters away from the skooma either.

The dark and ugly fight at the end complements the dark and ugly scene in the cell at the beginning. Ferir's almost idyllic memories in between really do seem a like a dream, given the two bookends around it. I expect that he will not see times as happy again in this story, if ever.


nits:
but not seen anything before the a mace to the head put him out
I am not sure whether you want to keep the a or the the here.

the sun washed red light over the hazy Jerrel mountains
Those are the Jerall Mountains.

He rose it for a killing blow.
I believe you were looking for raised here.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 5 2011, 03:22 AM


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Acadian
post Aug 5 2011, 02:32 AM
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This followed smoothly on the heels of the previous episode and filled in many gaps, giving us a much better feel for what Ferir is all about and why he is where he is.

Some nice melancholy writing as Ferir expresses despair and provides us a feel for his surroundings. Same in the dream, with the addition of some up close bloodwork with axe and blade.


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Grits
post Aug 5 2011, 12:49 PM
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I liked seeing Ferir from Verus’s POV first. We get to see his grief and pain without having to immediately wallow in it. I especially enjoyed the glimpse of Cyrodiil law enforcement, with a mage doing toxicology screens.

Interesting that Ferir briefly thought about his loss as a possible beginning, it makes me think this is not his first trip through despair. That thought combined with his musing that he could stay at Sundew because he didn’t have to makes me think that he might love his freedom more than anything else. His grief over his unnamed hopes for Arvyn along with the thought that now he is cut free make me think there was some conflict in Ferir even before the legionary crashed in covered with his friends’ blood. But I might be overthinking this.

I should dismiss the skooma-cooking Ferir as a bad guy who is getting what he deserves, his actions have probably caused more pain to others than he is experiencing. Except now I’m hooked and rooting for him.




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King Coin
post Aug 5 2011, 03:40 PM
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Ferir was "fetched" as soon a the guards entered the cave. I'm certainly interested how this is going to turn out.


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treydog
post Aug 7 2011, 03:20 PM
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This is grim and dark and entirely engrossing. It is so great to see you back again and writing what looks to be quite a tale.

I almost hear echoes of "Owl Creek Bridge," but with LOTS more depth.

One quote I wanted to pull out as representative of your way with words:

"Even the stabs of pain from his ribs with every rough movement seemed distant, news from elsewhere."

Welcome back to the Arena, my friend!


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Olen
post Aug 8 2011, 10:50 PM
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HER - Nits fixed, as ever my utter reliance on spellcheck rears its head. I'm glad the flashback worked, I'm generally not a fan but opening with the raid wouldn't have set to tone I wanted. Survivor's guilt was the term I was looking for, I think you've hit the nail on the head there.

Blackie - glad you like it. There's certainly a good few parts to go yet and it's still flowing.

Subrosa - skooma does seem to appear doesn't it. It makes a good tension point, I also seem to have a knack for living in areas with that sort of thing, probably something to do with looking for the cheapest places. I'm glad you got the dream like feeling of the good memory, apparently I can still write. Fixed all but using 'rose' as the past tense of 'raise', 'raised' sounds odd to me.

Acadian - thanks. Hopefully filling in gaps in Ferir will continue.

Grits - I'm glad you like my version of Cyrodiil. I see the game as a sketch which is necessarily rough on which to add obvious uses for magic. You seem to have worked out quite a bit about Ferir, thanks for sharing, it lets me know I'm getting across what I meant to.

KC - He certainly was. As for where it's headed, well I'm really not sure.

Trey - can't say I've heard of 'Owl Creak Bridge' but I'm glad you're enjoying. And thanks for the welcome back. smile.gif

All - Thanks for all the comments. The next part, I've made a word change you will spot, I hope it's not too jarring but I couldn't think of another way round it.


1.3 The Shadow of Hope

Ferir felt the ground fly up and hit him. He woke with a start and lay curled over for a moment breathing. The sour taste of vomit clung to the back of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he’d flailed suddenly or not, certainly he felt like he’d just struck something. There was no reaction he could hear and the feeling the dream had left in its wake began to dissipate. He took a deep breath and winced at the stab from his ribs. A stamping boot had done it but he was fairly sure he could heal it, if he could cast a spell that was. He couldn’t manage so much as a flicker, probably it was the irons, but he couldn’t even feel any enchantment.

It didn’t matter. He glanced up at the high window and saw only darkness. With a grunt he rolled over and looked back across the dungeon. A lone torch guttered weakly in the corridor outside, it only served to make more shadows. The man in the next cell was a large dark blot in the gloom. He sat hunched near the door. His stool groaned slightly with every rock of his bulk like the ticking of an inverted pendulum.

Ferir stood. The action extracted a series of pops from his back and he half grinned. Enjoy the small things. They were all he had now. He felt a bit cheated, there should be some sort of marker to make the best of things he’d never know again. Last smile three days gone. Enjoy tomorrow’s walk. He shook the thought away.

Frek. It was heartfelt. It was the only word. He wanted to be angry, but who at? Who was to blame but himself? If only he’d known. Without a target he felt the flicker of rage moulder towards depression.

“Frek!” He shouted it this time and threw a punch at the wall. So what that it barked his knuckles? He didn’t need them. The pain sank in and fuelled the directionless anger. He raised his fist again.

He took a breath and lowered it. The force would have broken his hand and what was the point? He dropped back onto the bed.

What was the point? He could just do their job for them, the chains which dangled from the ceiling would make that easy enough. But he wouldn’t, perhaps the speculation wasn’t so idle but he wouldn’t do their job for them. That would be weak, and somehow it still mattered. Likewise the temptation to curl up in the corner and cry, he’d be damned if even a hint of the desire showed.

“I preferred you when you were asleep,” said the figure in the next cell.

“You won’t have to put up with me long.” Ferir gave a dry snort and felt his lip curl slightly.

The swaying stopped. “You’re right there.”

His tone was strange, not the flat darkness Ferir felt. Well not entirely, there was something else in it. Fear? Hope? Closer to some hideous amalgam of the pair Ferir decided. “What are you in for?”

“Couldn’t be much worse. Killed a guard.”

“I killed two.” The figure didn’t reply. “The guard seem awful friendly given you killed one of them.”

“I didn’t kill one of them,” there was venom in the man’s tone, “I am… was one. It was one of the bastards from the Imperial City I sixed.”

Too much emotion? Not quite, but too controlled. The man didn’t seem about to explode one way or another. Ferir thought he was right anyway, intuitions often were. The hushed conversation. The grotesque hope. “You don’t expect to die tomorrow do you?”

The rocking started again. Back and forth. Near and far. Ferir let it hang in the balance. For a while longer the man swayed. The pendulum’s creaks watched the time. “I don’t know,” he said at length. “You complicate things.”

“The three you were talking to, they might break you out?” The swaying stopped. Ferir continued, “Where would you go then? Out into the wilds? That’ll go well for you, a guard with the death of an Imperial agent on his head? You don’t look much like an outdoorsman.”

“Better chance than if I stay here.”

Ferir heard the fear. He knew how wild the backcountry could be, he knew it well. He paused, was this the time to try? Whoever the man was his accent couldn’t have been more Cheydinhal and he was a guard. Not the brightest one if he thought there was a shred of sanity in his plan. Still at least he had a plan. “You could have a better chance another way.”

The man turned and Ferir saw his silhouette. Short hair just reached cauliflower ears on a head which merged seamlessly into shoulders.

Ferir went on. “I’ve lived in the backcountry for years. I have a few contacts, I know enough of what to watch for.” He held up a hand to forestall any comment and realised that the man, whatever his name was, probably couldn’t see the gesture, “I’m perfect for your… friends too. They can lay the blame with me. It’ll be lost in the charges they’ve already hung on me.”

The rocking returned. Ferir hung on every movement, caustic hope etched through his conscious like rivulets of hot mercury. It filled his mind with the power to break his spirit. Hope like he’d never felt, it made him sick. This mattered. He cared how this went.

The rocking halted, so did Ferir’s breath. “Aye, they might like that. You’re a known mage right, they said they’d had to crack out the black irons.”

“Close enough.” Not exactly a lie, he dabbled, read books but he’d never been schooled in the arcane and it showed. He hardly understood how it worked. But that was a conversation for another time.

“The court will blame you. Since the crisis rogue mages have become the explanation of choice when we haven’t got a clue. The people lap it up.”

In the darkness Ferir smiled. That sounded like the law’s view on justice, and who was he to argue? They were the strong after all. The smile swept through the worry. Hope still clung like fungus. What if they wouldn’t help him? But if they did… If they did it would be him, his wits and strength pitted against the world again, and as far as Ferir was concerned there was no finer thing. Well not many.

“If we are going to disappear together I’d know your name.”

“Ruben. Ruben Sjorson. You?”

“Ferir.”

“You got no surname?”

“No.” He made sure his tone closed that avenue of conversation.


Time passed marked only by the slow death of the flame in its rusted iron bracket. No longer crawling towards the gallows, but the mingled hope choked the air and glittered like the eye of a spider. Their talk was fitful, mainly grunts. The atmosphere didn’t induce it. They were not well met in prison cells on the eve of rescue or death, and with pressing talk done silence crashed down. Ferir’s mind was stiller, he sat on the pallet, his half closed gaze flickered on the dance of the diminishing flame. The passing storm of the past few days had confused him, he had lost his centre. Perhaps a stiff drink would find it, but it wasn’t an option and he needed his wits.

The flame was little more than a blue glow when light tentatively shone down the corridor. Ferir blinked and returned to the present. Footsteps. More than one person but he couldn’t tell how many. His heart picked up a little. Let this go well, this has to go well. But it didn’t have to. He kept that thought ready, but he hoped it would.

Three men walked past his cell, all wore the knotwork surcoat of the Cheydinhal guard. One Ferir recognised as a jailor carried a bunch of keys.

“Evening Ruben,” said one of the other pair. He was as tall as the man he addressed but much thinner. In the torch light Ferir saw he had the same dirty blond hair.

“Gentlemen,” Ruben nodded back and stood. He said the word as if he’d heard it once and got the wrong idea.

“This is madness,” muttered the third guard, “Look Ruben I like you but it’s going to look damned suspicious for us.”

“It’ll look most suspicious for Arrand, and he’s clean right?”

“Yea we sent him off out the way, he’ll suspect but he wouldn’t tell.” Said the tall one.

“What about him?” the third guard, a dunmer, asked.

“He,” Ruben replied slowly, “Could be the solution to our problems, or your problems at least.”


This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 10 2011, 09:30 PM


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haute ecole rider
post Aug 8 2011, 11:22 PM
Post #15


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From: The place where the Witchhorses play



First the nit:
QUOTE
Since the crisis rouge mages have become the explanation of choice when we haven’t got a clue. The people lap it up.”
It looks like the 'u' switched places on Reuben. Rogue is the desired choice in this context - it means ruffians, good-for-nothings, scoundrels. Rouge wouldn't look good on a male Dunmer, let alone a male Nord. I doubt Reuben is a cross-dresser. wink.gif


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SubRosa
post Aug 8 2011, 11:58 PM
Post #16


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From: Between The Worlds



An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge is a classic piece of American literature. I first read it when I was in grade school, and loved it.

Ferir felt the ground fly up and hit him
You know, this is one of the reasons I stopped drinking alcohol... wink.gif If only Ferir were lucky enough to be having the problem for the same reason.

Frek.
I nice way of side-stepping the forum's swear filter. I have found that creating your own curse words works best, like Battlestar Galactica did. Yiddish is also a good source, which is why I have been using dreck lately.

Since the crisis rouge mages have become the explanation of choice when we haven’t got a clue
I thought this was a good post-crisis touch. Ever since the Ayleids, Imperials have not been fond of magic. I am sure the Mythic Dawn and Mehrunes Dagon were a huge reminder of why.

Well, it is not the Emperor and the Blades, but I am sure Ferir is not picky. It looks like Reuben is going to keep his word about breaking him out too. I just love the idea of using Ferir as the fall-guy. Every inside-job like this needs someone to blame, and it is true that he does fit the bill perfectly.


nits:
How was to blame but himself?
I think you wanted Who?

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Aug 10 2011, 01:46 AM


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Destri Melarg
post Aug 9 2011, 10:07 AM
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From: Rihad, Hammerfell



Well, I think there are probably more industrious and satisfying ways to break out of prison, but any port in a storm . . .

I think Frek works. Given the setting, almost anything would work if given in context. It’s funny that trey would bring up Owl Creek Bridge. Given your style you would be the perfect person to write an account of Ambrose Bierce’s last days. He went down to Mexico in 1913 to cover the revolution, hooked up with some rebel troops, and promptly disappeared without a trace. It remains one of the great mysteries of 20th century literature.

QUOTE
caustic hope etched through his consciousness like rivulets of hot mercury.

I’m not sure how well this fits into the setting, but I do like the simile.

S.G.M


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Acadian
post Aug 10 2011, 12:45 AM
Post #18


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So, Ferir has an uneasy and unlikely alliance! This story is off to a fine start and you have an interesting character. I wish Ferir well as he hopefully makes good on his escape. smile.gif

I will be backing off now. Beyond 'welcome aboard' or 'welcome back' comments, time constraints limit my reading selections to the concept of mutual support. Best wishes!



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Grits
post Aug 12 2011, 12:14 AM
Post #19


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Ferir made a good case for Ruben not choking him the minute they’re outside the city. It’s pretty exciting to know that the characters are in charge. The cauliflower-eared, no-neck Ruben sounds like he could be handy in a tussle. I’m looking forward to seeing where this goes, but mostly I think I will be savoring the journey.

I am also a fan of made-up swear words.


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Olen
post Aug 13 2011, 10:57 AM
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HER - nit fixed, silly letters and their orders...

Subrosa - occasionally trying to edit round swearing in the rough draft is impossible, I'm glad frek worked. I could have drawn form another language but it sort of begs the question what makes that okay if English isn't.
I'm glad my vision of post crisis Cyrodiil works for you.

Desri - There are other ways of escaping prison, but with the help of the guards seemed most feasible. I'm not following the game that closely and don't understand why they would provide prisonders with lockpicks blink.gif .
Mercury would fit the setting I'd say, it's been known since pre-history (a Chinese Emperor died after an eternal life potion of mercury and powdered jade turned out not to work so well).

Acadian - thanks for the best wishes, and I completely understand. There's lots of stories I'd love to have time to read here but don't have time for.

Grits - Ruben certainly shuld know how to handle himself. Glad you're enjoying.

1.4 Escape

An eyebrow rose.

Ruben gestured to Ferir and continued. “He’s a known mage.” The nord’s voice took on a mock story telling tone. “He magics the door open and lets me out because I know the castle and the city. We escape and the guard heaps it on him. Andel will take it like a sweetroll, he’s always wanting to blame rouge mages since Farwil got himself killed in that gate.”

“Aye and we lost enough bloody men trying to get him back.”

“Well then it’s time he saved one isn’t it.”

The dunmer nodded, “It’s less risky, if we play it right…” He looked hard at Ruben, “You know what he’s in for?”

He’s the bright one, decided Ferir. He took the chance to answer himself. “Yea, he knows fine,” he said, “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same in my place.”

“I’d never have been in that place,” the dunmer sounded like he’d stood in something unpleasant.

Ferir shrugged, “Perhaps not, but don’t you think a smuggler might be of use in the wilds? Assuming you mean for Ruben to survive.”

“And you’ll help us?” This from the jailor.

Ferir cocked an eyebrow at him. It was the dunmer who spoke, “He doesn’t have much choice.”

“Indeed,” said Ferir, “And running away isn’t exactly arduous.”

The guard frowned. “But there’ll have to be magic.” Ferir stood and walked to the bars of the cell next to the speaker. Their eyes followed him. Two of the guards stepped back, only the dunmer stood his ground. Ferir raised his wrist and brought the iron against the bar with a clack.

The jailor flinched slightly. Idiot, still a necessary one. “You’re the man with the keys. These things aren’t ornamental.”

The dunmer glanced at the jailor. “Jarl,” he addressed the tall man, “Go and grab some gear for them from the store.”

“An axe for me,” Ferir put in.

The dunmer glared a him and he tipped his head. Yes?

“Unlock them, if we’re going to do this I might as well see it done right.”

The jailor didn’t reply as he opened the door to Ruben’s cell and set to work with a finer key on the man’s wrist irons. The former guard was rubbing his wrists as the lock of Ferir’s cell clicked open. He presented his wrists.

The jailor shook his head. “You see a keyhole?” He asked with the cocky tone reserved exclusively for the dull witted when confronted by a mistake.

“Well I’m guessing you can get them off. Enchantment, if that’s what it is, is expensive.”

“Yea, they use magic, you’d need a mage. That way the scum in here can’t fiddle them and start a riot.”

Ferir closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them he looked at the dunmer who said. “I knew there was something. There’s a file somewhere as I recall, can give you that. We’ll have to do without magic.”

A noise.

The dunmer glanced back up the stairs. His flickering speed belied his nerves. It was the guard, Jarl.

He passed a sack to Ruben, “You should find most of what you need in there. Your sword is in evidence but there’s a similar one. We got the armour off a couple of corpses found on the road, it’s better than nowt.” Unceremoniously he ditched another bag in front of Ferir. “I can’t believe we’re giving you this. I’m not sure what you like but it’s going to do you.”

“Thanks,” muttered Ferir in a tone which didn’t reveal how much he meant it.

“Pull another pair of trousers on and get a cloak around you, we need to move now.” The dunmer glanced around again.

Ferir had barely pulled the cloak, a moth-eaten green thing which smelt of damp, on and they were leaving. The dunmer paused at the door to the barracks. “Jarl, check it out. If it’s fine go on patrol, I’ll see them out the city.” He turn his red gaze on the jailor, the look was like nails, “Set a fire. We need havoc to cover this and make it believable.”

“Where?”

The dunmer’s lips curled back, “Do I look like I give a damn? Just try not to get caught.” Jarl passed through the door and didn’t return. “Move,” the dunmer growled at them, “and for Vivec’s sake be quiet.”

The door led into a slumbering barracks. The detritus of a meal lay scattered on a table. Opposite a stair curved upward to a mezzanine. Rough snores drifted from it. The dunmer walked quickly and quietly across to the main door and pulled it open. Ferir followed. He barely dared to breathe, his complete concentration was focussed on not bumping anything, not tripping.

The air outside was cool. A soft breeze ran its cold nails over the bruises on his face. Ferir allowed himself the ghost of a smile. The moons hung high, the phrase brought an instant’s emotion which fell away like a weight. He wasn’t going to hang. Not this week at least. That was enough, next week was a foreign place.

“Stop.”

Ferir froze. The dunmer had spoken. Ferir followed his gaze and saw a pair of guards patrolling by the outer gate of the main keep.

“Come on, walk, don’t look suspicious. Not to fast or slow. It’s not invisibility but at this time of night in this city it’s as good as.”

The dunmer, Ferir wondered if he’d ever discover his saviour’s name, most likely not he thought, started down the slope which led away from the castle. Ferir relaxed, at first he had to force it but as the edges of calm seeped into his mind it spread like syrup stilling his worry and choking the frantic clockwork of fear.

Walk. Not to fast, not to slow. Don’t glance about. Don’t look like you’re doing this. The final was hardest, but a trained eye could spot someone pretending to be calm. You had to be calm. He could do it, had done it enough times before.

But this was different from the time he’d passed through an unexpected checkpoint with twenty pounds of black-tar moontreacle from Kvatch. That had been a thrill, an almost erotic mixture of adrenaline and calm, to be savoured afterward. This had him scared. He hurt, and anything more than a casual glace would reveal him. The city felt enfolding, a threatening maze of darkness. He glanced back at the dunmer who looked from side to side.

“Don’t look around so much. Trust me I’ve done this a lot.”

He didn’t need to see the dunmer frown. But the guard stopped glancing about like a spooked guar.

“We’d be safer cutting through the old town and out by the East gate,” said Ruben. “Who’s on?”

“Lerar and some new kid.”

“Lerar will be drunk and anyone new will go charging into the Newlands every time there’s a fight.”

“I’m wearing a guard uniform, we’d be noted if we pass through the old town.”

“Which is why you’ll go home now. You owed me one for taking that guy down, but I reckon you’ve paid it back now.”

The dunmer licked his dark lips. Ferir noticed. He also saw the guard’s throat bob as he swallowed. “Good luck. I doubt we’ll meet again on this side.”

“Aye,” Ruben replied, “until then.” He gave a quick nod.

“Whatever you find I hope it’s better.”

Ruben had already turned and started towards the tangled mat of alleys, hovels and squats which made up the old town. Ferir gave the nameless dunmer a nod in thanks and followed the other man.

This post has been edited by Olen: Aug 16 2011, 09:44 PM


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