The Tale of Sudhendra Vahl: Vehk's Path Options

[Wolfie]

She's gonna go and destroy Cyrodil! MWAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!! :evil4:

[OverrideB1]

Since Endryn Llethan had said he had no more duties for me to perform at the moment, I decided that I should go to the Temple at the Ghostgate and see if there were any duties that needed performing there. The Temple is in the middle of the building, built in a circular chamber directly above the gated tunnel that leads into the Red Mountain area. The Proctor was a tall Dunmeri woman with long, almost copper-coloured hair. She carried herself in a haughty manner and coldly introduced herself as Uvoo Llaren.

“Do not think that your previous visit here was unnoticed Ser Vahl,” she said. “Ralyn was a good friend, and his loss is sorely grievous. Now, duties: there is an Ashlander who’s set up camp just south of the Ghostgate. He has petitioned for healing and you are to be the instrument of the Temple. Go to the Hansar Camp and cure him. I suppose, in all fairness, I should warn you,” she added, sounding very much as though she didn’t want to, “Ashlanders are often very aggressive, even when they are extremely ill.”

I didn’t think that any explanation I could give Uvoo Llaren about what had happened between me and Ralyn Othravel would suffice to make her any less unfriendly towards me so I just nodded my acceptance of the task and left the Temple. I had noticed the Ashlander camp when last I came here, to perform the Grace of Pride. I’ll admit, I hadn’t considered why such a camp would be set up.

“Peace and prosperity to you Muthsera,” I said, addressing the seated figure in the camp. The Ashlander looked up, sweat pouring down his face and a very unhealthy pallor to his skin.

“Greeting to you,” he replied, struggling to stand. I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and pushed him down onto the rock that served as a chair. He looked annoyed for a moment, and then started to cough weakly. Crouching beside him I examined his eyes and skin, finally deciding that he was afflicted with Droops.

“Muthsera,” I said, straightening up from my examination, “I would like your permission to cure you.”

He nodded and I stepped back. Hansar’s eyes widened as I concentrated and then spoke the words of a curative spell. Swirling motes of light enveloped the Ashlander and, when they cleared, the colour was already coming back to his cheeks and the filmy cast over his eyes was shrinking even as I watched.

“Thank you Outlander,” he said, rising to his feet and moving around. Looking at me, he narrowed his eyes and added, “You speak with a courtesy not common to the settled people. Tell me priest, have you had dealings with The People before?”

“I thought as much,” he said when I told him I’d had some dealings with the Zainab and the Ahemmusa. “It shows in your speech. A word of caution by way of repayment for your kind deed: it is unwise to lay hands on an Ashlander without his consent.”

Thanking him courteously for his words of wisdom, I left the Hansar Camp and returned to the Ghostgate Temple. Uvoo thanked me for curing the Ashlander and gave me two vials of cheap cure common disease potion, ‘just in case I’d contracted something nasty from that savage’ as she put it.

“While the Temple doesn’t promote a life of solitary contemplation,” she said as Nilvyn Drothan brought in a sack, “we do our best to provide for those that follow that path. One such hermit is Sendas Sathis and it is to him that we want you to deliver some supplies. Sathis can be found on Shuran Island, which is in the Sheogorad region near Dagon Fel. Here, let me show you on this map…” Uvoo pointed out Dagon Fel, and then tracked her hand down the island until she reached a point almost directly south. “Here is the Resdayni fort of Rotheran: Shuran Island is just west of the fort.”

Nilvyn handed me the sack, examination of the contents revealed several Kwama eggs, two flasks of Matze, a bundle of dried meat, and a stack of parchment. I wondered, idly, how frequently the hermit Sathis got deliveries. Either they came on a regular basis, or he was extremely frugal with his supplies. Taking a few steps back from Uvoo’s assistant, I concentrated and then said, “Ex hic absum, ut Dagon Fel”

There are very few Dunmer living in Dagon Fel, so I was intrigued to see one of them remonstrating with the caped Imperial guard. I wasn’t privy to their conversation, but it ended with a very emphatic “No” from the Cyrodiil. The woman looked most unhappy with the results and, out of curiosity, I approached her and asked what the problem was.

“See yonder tower,” she asked, pointing to the top of a Dwemer tower that rose above the steep cliffs to the east. I nodded, and she continued, “there’s a necromancer living in there. And we want him gone ~ his foul practices are a disgrace, and dishonour our ancestors.”

I knew that the Dunmer of Vvardenfell took a very dim view of the Blackest Art; it offended those that still worshipped their ancestors. In the West, necromancy is viewed slightly differently: not exactly benignly, but with a facade of tolerance. Personally, I found the whole concept repugnant and told the woman that I’d take a look at this Skorvild and see if I couldn’t persuade him to relocate elsewhere. Not that I thought I had much chance, but I was willing to give it a try.

The round metal door of the tower swung open under the slightest pressure and I stepped into the gloomy interior. The Man in Bonemold armour spotted me at exactly the same time as I spotted him. As he drew a heavy-looking mace and started to run towards the stairs, I withdrew the crescent-sword I’d taken from the fire elemental and dropped into a combat stance. He batted away my first strike and I had to sway to one side to avoid the crushing blow he aimed at me in retaliation. He wasn’t prepared for the speed with which I responded, the gleaming sword-blade crashing into the shoulder-joint of the Bonemold armour. His eyes glittered behind his helm and he backed off a step or two.

Unfortunately, this put him at a disadvantage since I was now standing much higher up the stairs than he was. In fact, the disparity was sufficient for me to bring the sword around at waist height and neatly separate his head from his torso. As blood gushed out of the slowly toppling body, I gave it a hefty kick. With a series of echoing crashes, it bounced to the base of the stairs. As I hoped, the resounding echoes attracted the attention of the others I suspected were in the tower.

From the right hand corridor appeared a female Summoner, her hands already weaving in the complex patterns of conjuration. From the opposite corridor, a lightly armoured Bosmeri appeared, scrabbling at his hip to unfasten the crossbow that was hanging there. As the pinkish malformed shape of a Scamp appeared in response to the woman’s spell, I extended my gloved hand and concentrated on the runes Aryon had incorporated into the fabric. There was a flicker in my mind and I felt myself connect to the buzzing, fizzing, ever so slightly insane, mind of the summoned Scamp.

With a ferocious snarl, the summoned creature leapt on the Bosmer, gnashing fangs scratching at the Chitin at the Wood Elf’s neck. With a wail, the Bosmer dropped his crossbow and grabbed at the spitting, snarling imp. While he made a spirited attempt to dash what brains the Scamp had out by banging it against the wall, I rounded on the dismayed Summoner.

The blade lashed out in a singing arc, cutting her from hip to shoulder. The back-slash opened a wound across her throat and, gurgling slightly, she sank to the floor. That just left me with the Bosmer ~ now free of the Scamp since its anchor to the Grey Maybe was currently bleeding out the last few drops of her life on the cold metal floor. As he stooped to pick up the crossbow, I put an end to the battle by stepping in close and driving the blade of the sword down and through the middle of his shoulder blades.

I looked at the sword when I’d worked it free from the Wood Elf. The edge of the blade was already dull and there were several nicks in it ~ even though it had only cut through Chitin and Bonemold. So, while the blade was capable of taking a phenomenally sharp edge and was incredibly light and well balanced, it wasn’t particularly sturdy. Since I had neither the tools nor skill to repair and sharpen it here, I slung it from the makeshift hoops I’d attached to my pack and withdrew the Last Wish from the top of my pack.

The lower level of the ruin, which consisted of a corridor running around a central chamber, was mercifully free of any more practitioners of the Blackest Art. The main chamber contained several deformed Dwemeri chairs and tables ~ and it was on one of these I made a remarkable discovery. A large, bulbous flask sat on the table nearest the ladder that led up to an iron trapdoor. It was made of dark clay, expertly and skilfully shaped. Strange designs in dark enamel decorated the surface. Reverently, I picked it up. I had seen Limeware before, in the museum in Cyrodiil City. And this was a finer example than any they had there. I wondered if I could carry this safely ~ there was no problem with the weight, heavy though it was. No, what concerned me was the possibility of smashing this valuable antique. Deciding that the risk was worth it, I carefully wrapped the flask in several layers of cloth (cut from the Summoner’s robe) and placed it in my pack.

The only access to the tower was the metal trapdoor that sat flush with the ceiling of the chamber. Climbing the ladder wouldn’t be problematical and a quick check showed that the trapdoor was unlocked and unwarded ~ so opening it wasn’t going to be a hindrance. No, the problem was that I could see no way of gaining access to the tower that wouldn’t expose me to whatever attack Skorvild wanted to launch. Actually, I might have a way around that… Digging in my pack, I found the little leather sack I use to keep various trinkets I’ve picked up. There, inside, was the strange amulet I’d taken from the camouflaged assassin on the road to Ald Velothi. Dropping the chain around my neck, I clasped the amulet and concentrated on it.

When I opened my eyes, it was as though a thin green veil had been drawn across them ~ the world gone misty and insubstantial. Holding out my hand, I started straight thought the pale and wavering outline at the rivet-studded wall. Clambering to the top of the ladder, I threw open the trapdoor with a crash and waited. And waited while the heavily bearded Man peered down into the lower chamber, calling, “Hlora?”

As he turned away and moved into the chamber at the top of the ladder, I scrambled up and in ~ quickly moving to stand against a wall. The Man stopped and looked around, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. I held my breath as he walked within a few inches of me, his head turning from side to side as he sought the source of whatever was disturbing him. Having stalked the length of the chamber, Skorvild returned to the table and reached inside a drawer. “Infitialis veneficus,“ he yelled, throwing a handful of fine powder into the air.

[OverrideB1]

The amulet pulsed warmly against my chest as the spell I’d woven using it collapsed. Even as the world wavered and returned to normal, I was pushing away from the wall and raising my sword. Skorvild was ready for me, he’d known from the moment that the trapdoor crashed open that someone was in his tower uninvited and his finely honed abilities had sensed the aura of the amulet’s power. “Adficio volo,” he yelled, extending a hand. The air in front of me thickened and hardened, making me feel as though I was rushing through a water-filled chamber. The necromancer was a blur as he drew a dagger from the folds of his robe and sped towards me.

“Brythwch hysbryd, alwa 'ch ata,” I managed to gasp. Metal ground on metal as my summoned creature span its material form from the very walls of the building. As Skorvild turned to deal with this new threat, I felt the world miss a beat and then everything returned to normal speed.

“Tempestas Tectum,” the necromancer screamed as huge bolts of raw energy formed between the Storm Atronach’s fists. A flickering bubble of light enclosed him, and the thunderous energy sloughed off it like water off a stone. Even as he raised his hands to call forth a new spell, I stepped forward and grasped his arm ~ the bubble of light not hindering me in the slightest.

“Vomica cruor,” I said in a commanding tone. The Man’s eyes widened, and then he screamed as the raw power of the spell ripped into him. He managed to gasp the opening syllables of a counter-spell; something designed to halt the fire that was eating him from the inside out. I put paid to that by driving the ebon blade of my Ebony broadsword into his chest. Blood gushed from his lips and, uttering a moan ~ the last sound he would ever make ~ he pitched forwards.

I stood there, shaken to the core. I had thought I was a puissant Mage, yet here was a timely reminder that there were others out there who were much more experienced in the arcane arts than I was. Not for the first time, I resolved that I should do something about that.

My exploration of Skorvild’s tower turned up a couple of interesting books, some of the more difficult to obtain and expensive alchemical ingredients, and the heavy Daedric dagger that he’d intended to use on me. I also found several scrolls and a large round box. Opening the lid, I looked down into the silvery, smiling face of a full-head helm. The power of the item screamed at me ~ a constant humming of atonal chords that denote an item of superior magic. The moustachioed face, with its wide eyes and smiling mouth struck me as vaguely familiar. As I reached down and lifted the helmet from its box, the features rippled and changed ~ transforming themselves into the smiling happy face of a Dunmeri female. That’s when I realised: the features it now wore were a fuller, more idealised version of my face! And the former features? Those had been of a much younger Skorvild.

I fetched a deep breath as I set the helm on the table and gazed into the face it now wore. There was only one item that had this sort of power: the legend of the Masque of Clavicus Vile was known throughout the Empire. The helm, or Masque as it was called, was reputed to make the wearer instantly likeable, wildly desirable, and fantastically popular. Someone who could tap into the power of the Masque could, it was said, command armies. But there was a dark side to this tale ~ those who couldn’t master the Masque of Clavicus Vile were driven insane by its power, even in their despair unable to remove it and condemned to forever be the object of worship of any who met them. Not that someone in those straights would last long ~ unable to remove the Masque, the wearer would soon starve to death.

Not wishing to test the veracity of the tales, I returned the Masque to its storage box: this I securely lashed to the bottom of my pack. The artefact was obviously of great value to a collector and ~ should I ever meet such a creature ~ I was certain to get a good price for the item. Somewhat burdened by the now heavy pack, I left the tower and continued on my way south. I hadn’t gone too far when I came to the entrance to the Senim Ancestral Tomb.

Inside the tomb I found the usual assortment of reanimated skeletons, none of which presented me with a problem. I also found the skeletal remains of someone who rejoiced in the name of Pop Jé when he was alive. Around the mummified neck hung a small ruby-coloured pendant, one of the withered hands bore a ring that sang a sweet note of power. There were a number of scrolls arranged around the corpse, making me think that this Pop Jé had been some sort of Mage. Of all of the scrolls, the apprentice scroll that taught the spell ‘Fire-Guard’ was the only one I took. Leaving the amulet around the corpse’s neck, I carefully removed the ring from the finger. The large purple stone that was set into the white gold of the ring was unknown to me, as was the meaning of the word ‘PHYNASTER’ that embellished the band of the ring. What I did know was that the ring was powerful, and careful probing revealed that it provided some measure of protection against spells, poison, and fire.

It would be nice, I thought as I battered away at another squawking vermin, if I could find a ring that provided some measure of protection against Cliff Racers. I had thought that my last visit to this region had thinned the ranks of these flapping rodents but, it seems, they had grown even more numerous. Having suffered the beaks and claws of outrageously frequent attacks, it was with some relief that I stumbled up the path to a Dwemer ruin. The runes on the door identified it as ‘NCHARDAHRK’ and, once I had cleared out the Spider-Demon Type I animalcules, it made a more than acceptable place to spend the night.

[jonajosa]

Another great addition. Keep it comin. :goodjob:

[Alexander]

I agree, as always excellet work here

[Wolfie]

Keep up the good work

[OverrideB1]

The ruins hadn’t proven to be the ideal resting place that I’d hoped. Throughout the night the thin groaning of ancient stone pressing down on ancient stone had repeatedly and frequently awoken me. Not exactly conductive to a good night’s sleep. There was one gleam of light to the day ~ the skies above were clear of Cliff Racers. Thick with heavy cloud, but no Cliff Racers.

After a hasty breakfast, I gathered my things and headed southwards once more. I had barely been travelling for an hour when the heavens above opened and the rain came down in torrents. Pulling up my hood, I bent under the weight of the pack and pressed on. It was a relief when I came to the mouth of a deep cave ~ according to the locator stone they were the Surirulk Caves. There were bandits in the cave but I soon dealt with them. Exploring the cavern revealed a veritable trove of treasures, I gathered them together and took them to the mouth of the cave so I could examine them.

I’d separated the items into two piles by the time the rains slowed and stopped, thin golden sunlight breaking through the dark clouds. One pile of items were the things I didn’t need ~ cheap Chitin daggers, common clothing, Skooma, that sort of thing. The other pile, much smaller, contained items I didn’t want to leave behind: a small jar of toxin, a shard bracer, some arrow-heads forged of silver, a pale teal Ioun stone, a magical Thread, and a small and beautifully cut Tourmaline. Packing these things into my increasingly difficult to carry pack, I headed out into the sunshine. The steep path led to the crest of a ridge and there, in the deep shadowed valley below, was the huge bulk of an ancient Fort.

Consulting my map, I determined that there was a small island just to the west, over the ridge by the Fort ress. Levitating over them and the small stretch of water, I soon arrived at the island. The crude wooden hut and small fire were clear indicators that the island was inhabited.

Sendas Sathis was delighted to see me, talking at a rapid clip as he escorted me to his fire. Gratefully accepting the sack I’d carried so far, he looked inside. “Hmmm,” he said, “Kwama eggs and Matze, no surprises there. Oh, and some Scrib-Jerky, just to add some variety.” Leaving him muttering into his beard, I spoke the words and returned to the Temple at Ghostgate.

I left the void and stepped right into the teeth of a terrific dust storm. Coughing and spitting, I rushed into the Tower of Dusk and slammed the door shut behind me. Uvoo was pleased that I’d delivered the food to Sathis and promoted me to the rank of Curate. My pleasure at this unexpected turn of events was quickly tempered by her words.

“Serjo Feril Salmyn hasn’t returned to us,” she said with a worried frown on her face. “He was due back almost a week ago. I want you to go and look for him.”
“Where should I start?” I asked.

“Salmyn was searching for a lost Resdayni Fort known as Kogoruhn,” she said. “He took with him a sacred relic of the Temple: the Hair-Shirt of Saint Aralor. It is important that you find him, dead or alive, and return the relic to us. If he’s still alive, you must persuade him to abandon his quest and return to us. If he’s dead, you must recover the relic and bring it back.”

“Do we have any idea where this Kogoruhn place is?” I asked.

She shook her head, “the only thing I know is that he spoke to the Inn-Keeper in the Tower of Dawn.”

The Innkeeper, Galore Salvi, remembered speaking to Feril Salmyn and told me the same as she’d told him. “I don’t know exactly where it is, Sed Vahl. However, as I told the Ordinator, I have heard that it is somewhere near Maar Gan.”

Since the storm was still howling outside and I didn’t fancy wandering around looking for some ancient Fort in such disgusting weather, I translocated to Balmora and sorted through the items in the house there, and the items in my pack. Having separated out the things I thought I’d need to carry on a regular basis from those I was just lugging about, I loaded several sacks and transferred the spare items to the Battle-Spire. It took several trips, and I was exhausted when I’d finished.

[Wolfie]

Cool. I like this story in case you havn't noticed yet

[minque]

oh dear...off to kogoruhn....is it now...Let´s hope things go in her direction


as always a thrilling addition...brrr.....it will certainly be:


S.G.M[u][/u]

[OverrideB1]

Yestere was extremely frustrating. I’d started the day with very high hopes by translocating to Ald’ruhn and accosting passers-by to ask them about Kogoruhn. After an hour of so of this it became apparent that nobody knew a single thing. That meant that I had to travel north to Maar Gan and start asking again.

It was a Redoran guard who told me what I wanted to know, namely that she’d heard of Kogoruhn and thought that it was somewhere in the ash-wastes northeast of the town. Making my way up into the Foyada Bani-Dad, I levitated up and over the Foyada’s eastern wall and set off in a roughly northern direction. Hours later, the end of the day saw me stumbling exhausted up the steps of a Resdayni Fort.

Unfortunately, this was the Fort of Falasmaryon and not Kogoruhn. Still, the strong walls of the Propylon Chamber made a safe enough place to rest over night. This morning I left Falasmaryon and headed west until I caught sight of some Daedric ruins. Not wishing to get too close, I turned southwards and pressed on.

It was late morning when I stumbled through the swirling ash to the top of a high rise that cut across the path I was following. There, on the other side, was the unmistakeable bulk of a Resdayni Fort. It looked as though the place had been left, untouched, as the years since the Nords had been driven from Vvardenfell wound slowly past. Huge drifts of compacted ash climbed the massive stone walls, in places overflowing onto the top of the structure.

Carefully descending the slope, I made my approach to the stronghold, for some reason made uneasy by the looming structure. Walking along the eastern wall, I came to the broad stone steps that led to the main body of the Fort. As with everywhere else, soft drifts of ash had built up and partially obscured the steps. I paused at the base, looking around this gods-forsaken hollow in the surrounding hills.

The hollow shells of several buildings stood south of the stairs, crumbling walls open to the sky. Huge growths of Trauma Bush, those spiky desert plants that seem to be able to survive anywhere in the Molag Amur, dotted the sides of the hills. I shivered; the evidence of life long abandoned making the way the desert was reclaiming the structure stand out starkly. Turning to face the structure, I started my slow and careful ascent of the stairs.

With every step I took, the palpable sense of wrongness increased. By the time I reached the raised ground at the top of the stairs, I fancied I could feel the evil in the air as a living, breathing thing. There was nothing that prompted this feeling, it just filled me and made me deeply uneasy. Almost instinctively I grasped the hilt of my sword as I stepped off the stairs.

I had felt the desolation of this place ever since I’d laid eyes on it and, right up to the moment the naked and screaming Dunmer attacked me, I would have been willing to swear that the Fort was lifeless. As the naked Mer leaked out the last of his life, the thick grey dust drinking greedily of the freely-flowing blood, I looked at the structures that lined the top of this Fort. For, unlike other Fort s I’d seen, Kogoruhn had several structures built atop the huge base. As I turned to examine each in turn, I caught a very familiar scent.

Coughing, holding my hand over my nose, I moved upwind of the corpse of the Ordinator I’d found behind one of the walls. Great rents in his armour revealed the extent of his wounds and his contorted face spoke of the agony he’d been in at the moment of his passing. His mace, broken in three, lay near the two parts of his shield. Next to them lay a small pack, the sort of thing that a traveller would carry.

The pack contained food and water for several days ~ the food long since gone over and stinking in the sun. The water, though tepid, was still potable but I forbore from doing more than wetting my lips for fear that there was some subtle taint I couldn’t detect. At the bottom of the pack, wrapped in fine silk, was the relic I sought: the Hair Shirt of Saint Aralor (Which, sacred relic or not, was exactly as gross as it sounded).

The sun was setting to the west and I desperately didn’t want to be at Kogoruhn when night fell. There was some foulness here, a contamination worse than any I’d felt at Druscashti or Maelkashishi. Since I’d descended the slope and approached the Fort, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched: some ancient regard, malevolent beyond comprehension, watching my every move with interest. Slipping the relic into my pack, I slipped the stronghold ring onto my finger and returned to Tel Vahl.

[minque]

I got the creepers from this one, I can just feel the evil of Kogoruhn...amazingly described....


*shivers*

S.G.M...

[Burnt Sierra]

[quote=minque]I got the creepers from this one, I can just feel the evil of Kogoruhn...amazingly described....


*shivers*

S.G.M...[/quote]


Definitely, "I shivered; the evidence of life long abandoned making the way the desert was reclaiming the structure stand out starkly" got my nerves jangling in anticipation of what was to come. No surprise though, your use of description, and your creation of atmosphere, has been excellent all the way through this story. A very appealing and honourable heroine as well, I find myself caring about what happens to her. As always, eagerly looking forward to the next installment. :lickinglips:

[OverrideB1]

Uvoo Llaren was delighted to have the sacred relic back, although she was saddened and tearful as I related the fate of Feril Salmyn. It was obvious, from the questions she asked, that she had some knowledge of Kogoruhn’s infamy but she was close-mouthed, saying only that it was a matter known to the Temple’s upper hierarchy.

“There is another relic that needs to be recovered Ser Vahl,” she said. “The Cleaver of Saint Felms was recently lost during an armed foray into Red Mountain. By dint of careful questioning of the survivors of that raid we have determined that the relic is in the Ash Vampire Citadel of Tureynulal.

“The Cleaver is a very important artefact,” she concluded, “and we need it to be returned to us before it becomes corrupted.”

I’d been listening to Uvoo with mounting horror and, as soon as she finished, I took my leave before she realised I hadn’t said that I would undertake the recovery of the relic. The thought of venturing into the Red Mountain reserve filled me with loathing and I could imagine no quicker way of committing suicide than venturing into a Vampire citadel ~ and I had a feeling that an ‘Ash Vampire’ wasn’t a foe that one contemplated lightly. While I had been fairly enthusiastic in my pursuit of power through the Temple, I was in no great hurry to die just to prove my piety.

Tuls Valen, in Ald’ruhn, said that he had various tasks that needed to be done but he was unwilling to send me until, and here I use his phrasing, ‘I was armoured with Faith’. That left me with the hope that Endryn Llethan had some suitable task for me ~ it was either that, undertake Uvoo’s suicide mission, or find some other route to power that didn’t involve the Temple.

Endryn was in a state of agitation when I arrived at the High Fane, pacing back and forth in his office. “Ser Vahl,” he said, rushing forward and grasping my arm, “thank ALMSIVI you’re here.” I sat and listened as he told me of the dream he’d had the previous night. “I dreamt I was in an ancient Daedric ruin, looking down at a pair of shoes. It was a while before I realised what I was looking at.

“About fifty years ago, some cultists broke into the High Fane and stole several relics. All but one of these has been recovered,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “I believe I was granted a vision of those missing relics: the Shoes of Saint Rilms. I recognise the ruins…”

“And you want me to go there and recover these shoes?” I asked, rather rhetorically.

“I would be extremely grateful if you could,” he said. “Look…” he spread a large map of Vivec City and it’s surroundings on one of the few clear spots on his desk. “Here is the ruin, Ald Sotha, just northeast of Vivec City.”

Great, just great. I escape venturing into the lair of some vampire only to be asked to venture into a Daedric shrine. Still, Maelkashishi hadn’t proved too onerous and I was improving in combat: both magical and mundane. Perhaps my chances of surviving this were slightly higher than I thought. Given the other options, I reluctantly agreed to see if I could recover the stolen relic.

Ald Sotha proved to be fairly close to Vivec City, just a little way northeast of the Telvanni Canton. The access to the shrine wasn’t too difficult to find and, offering up a quick prayer to gods I wasn’t sure I still believed in, I twisted the handle and let the stone door grind open. It was dark inside, but the ruined shrine seemed to lack the influence of the other Daedric shrines I’d been close to. Oh, the angles were still very odd, the corridors warped and twisted, the atmosphere oppressive: but that indefinable feeling of being… watched wasn’t present.

I made my way down the stairs until I came to a sort of landing. Another set of stairs, directly in front of me, led down to a weirdly-shaped door while two other sets of steps led, left and right, down to two separate chambers. Not wishing to leave anywhere unexplored, for fear of leaving undiscovered cultists behind me, I headed down one of the sets of stairs towards a side chamber. It was a fear that was well justified…

The female cultist screamed obscenities at me as I descended the stairs, daring me to face her and die. She was clad in the drab, utilitarian chainmail of the Imperial army, but it was her sword that attracted my attention. It was a long blade of gleaming metal, without a cutting edge but coming to a fine, sharp point. The handle was the unmistakable gilt-metal so often used by the Dwemer in their devices. She turned out to be a very enthusiastic opponent but only a mediocre swordsman.

Having cleared this upper level of the shrine and taken the rapier-like Dwemer weapon, I returned to the door at the bottom of the steps and carefully pushed it open. Beyond was another set of stairs, these led down to an identical landing, door, and chambers, arrangement. The occupant of this set of chambers was clad in blackened steel armour and she was a much better fighter than her opposite number upstairs.

We exchanged a number of blows, the heavy broadsword she was wielding clanging off the slender spike of the Dwemeric weapon. I found the Dwemer-blade to be a difficult but deadly weapon ~ the reach of the blade was impressive, yet it wasn’t as heavy as the shorter Ebony blade I had been using. What was causing me a problem was the lack of a cutting edge: although the hard, gleaming metal made for very effective blocking of incoming blows and, as I quickly discovered, a fairly efficient club.

Having beaten down my opponent (almost literally), I took a moment to recover my breath before investigating the woman’s corpse. The heavily embroidered glove that the woman wore on her right hand had attracted me, it was obviously some magical item and I was intrigued. When I’d tugged the glove off her hand, I almost dropped it. Embroidered on the back was the ornate rune signifying the Daedra Prince Sanguine. The glove was an almost perfect fit when, after probing it for harmful charms and finding it safe, I slipped it on. Other than an odd tingling in my fingers and wrist, I felt no effect. Nor was that the only item of interest the woman wore.

Around her neck hung a small golden amulet, formed in the shape of a shield. The decoration, a single perfect ruby cut into the same ornate rune as that which decorated the embroidered glove, left no doubt that this too was an item dedicated to Sanguine. As, it turned out, was the ring on her finger that I’d inadvertently uncovered when I’d removed the glove. Each of these items had a small, but constant, enchantment that I resolved to probe and verify as soon as I had the chance. A heavy chest at the back of the chamber yielded up three very powerful scrolls, a heavily enchanted hood, and some two hundred and fifty Septims.

Nor were those the only two screaming lunatics in the Ald Sotha shrine. Downstairs in the innermost chamber, was another. She didn’t hesitate to start launching spells at me the instant I opened the door and it wasn’t long before the air between us was thick with whizzing spells. Her abilities were far greater than mine and she seemed to have an almost bottomless pool of magicka to draw upon. I, on the other hand, was rapidly reaching the point where I was going to have to break off combating her and take a potion to replenish my reserves. I had enough power left for one deadly spell I’d not used before…

“Mugio Ego Suspicio,” I said commandingly, extending my hand towards her. A swirl of purple mist enveloped her and I heard her curse. While she struggled to concentrate, I drowned my depleted reserves with a potion and, even as my magical ability started to recover, I was rushing across the chamber ~ sword extended.

She screamed as the Dwemeric blade slid into her, puncturing her heart and solving my problem with her rapidly returning skills. Studiously ignoring the massive statue of Mehrunes Dagon that dominated the chamber, I searched the woman’s body. Like the woman upstairs, she bore items with the unmistakable runes of Sanguine: in this case three ornate rings. I also found a shard-slayer blade, five hundred and seventy-five Septims and the Shoes of Saint Rilms. Before returning to the High Fane, I took the time to examine the shard-blade.

I’d heard of shard weaponry and armour but the long, shimmering blade of blue-green crystal was the first that I’d seen. Many years ago, searching for a cheap alternative to Daedric weapons, Imperial Mages had created a crystalline substance that became known as shard. Weapons and armour made of this material proved to have a greater capacity to take enchantment than even the finest Ebony or Daedric weapons. Unfortunately, the material proved to be extremely frangible. Shard weapons are still much sought after for their enchantment capabilities but few would trust their lives to such a weapon.

As the Acolyte took the Shoes of Saint Rilms to whatever vault or strongbox the Temple intended to store them in, Endryn Llethan laid a friendly hand on my arm and said, “I have another task for you Ser Vahl. This one, I’m afraid, is very dangerous. I would send some Ordinators to deal with this, but they are currently involved in another matter.”

The moment he’d put his hand on my arm I’d known I wasn’t going to like what he said. And, as he continued to explain what my next mission was, I began to like it less and less. “We have had reports of a shrine that has been established right here in Vivec City,” he said. “Unbelievably, it has been raised in the sewers beneath the Saint Delyn Canton. Already the Temple there is reporting odd effects.”

He wouldn’t clarify what these ‘odd effects’ were but ignored my question and pressed on. “We believe that this is a new shrine, not an ancient one that has been re-established. From what we’ve been able to discover, the leader of the degenerates who worship there is a Nord by the name of Bjadmund. If you can… dispose of him, his followers will scatter. When the Ordinators have finished… what they’re doing, we can send some in to cleanse and shrive the place.”

I agreed, very reluctantly, to deal with this Bjadmund. From the Temple’s point of view, I could see why they wished the matter resolved, but I wasn’t very happy with the idea. So, it was in this fairly black mood that I took a room at the Black Shalk in the Foreign Quarter Canton (the Temple having no spare beds according to Endryn).

[OverrideB1]

There was an odd mood prevailing in the plaza of Saint Delyn when I arrived. Perhaps it’s a measure of my growing abilities and awareness that I noticed it: there seemed to be something forced about the small talk and smiles. Or perhaps it was just sensible Telvanni paranoia? Whichever it was, there seemed to be falseness in the air. When I made enquiries, all I got were variations on “Oh, there’s nothing wrong here Ser. Ha-ha-ha, whatever gives you that idea?”

More convinced than ever that there was something awry here, I stalked the plaza ~ eavesdropping on various conversations. It was while I was listening to the strained conversation between two merchants that there was a soft cough behind me. “Excuse me,” a voice said, “but are you a priest?”

I turned to address the speaker and got the shock of my life. Even though the voice had spoken from right behind me, there was no-one there. I narrowed my eyes and peered about, perhaps this was what was affecting the locals? “Oh,” an empty patch of air said from directly in front of me, “I forgot.”

While I was convincing my heart to keep pumping and trying to decide whether to hurl spells or imprecations at the fiend who was addressing me, a cup on a nearby vendor’s tray suddenly floated up into the air and made its way back towards me. “I’m Cassius Olcinius,” the cup said. Possibly for the very first time in my life I was completely at a loss for words.

“I’ve been cursed you see,” the cup complained. “A wizard by the name of Fevyn Ralen put this curse of invisibility on me and nothing seems to remove it. I’ve tried prayer, and potions, even a very expensive scroll, and I’m still see-through.” There was a tremble in the voice as it continued, as if the speaker was on the brink of tears. “I’m too embarrassed to speak to my father and I don’t want to go and speak to Ralen again ~ Mara knows what he might curse me with next. Please, can you help?”

Assuring the cup, erm, young Man that I’d look into the problem as soon as I could, I left the plaza and made my way down through Saint Delyn. The same mood of fake cheerfulness seemed to be even more pronounced in the lower levels of the Canton, and I was starting to recognise it. It was the same ‘If we ignore the problem, it’ll go away’ attitude my foster-father used to display when the farm’s yield was low, or the tax-man was coming and the household was short on funds because he’d drunk all the profits. Somehow I didn’t think that my newly acquired invisible friend could cause this much consternation.

The sewers beneath Saint Delyn were oddly quiet, only the soft lapping of the water making any sound. Where, I thought uneasily, were all the rats? As I explored the length of the water-channel I realised that rats weren’t the only thing lacking. There was a complete dearth of those little creepy-crawly creatures you always find in damp, dark places. It was almost as if they had been scared away by some… power. It was around then that I decided that Endryn hadn’t been exaggerating his concern about this shrine.

Having found nothing in the one sewer, I cut through the rounded tunnels and made my way to the secondary drainage system. The presence of a burly Nord was a sure clue that I was near Ihinipalit. “Here,” he said, blinking at me from behind the visor of his helm, “ye’re one o’ them priests ain’t you?”

It has often occurred to me that intelligence isn’t required for a guard; this hulking brute was a good example. I was about to answer when he suddenly realised that, yes I was a priest and no, I wasn’t supposed to be there. As he lunged forwards, I thought it was also a great pity that he had been thinking so hard he’d never noticed the Dwemer spike I was pointing at his chest. With a splash, the would be mental giant slid off the end of the blade and down into the sewer water below. I prepared for some more challenging combat, making sure the Last Wish was easily accessible, tucking a few scrolls into my belt. I didn’t expect that the other occupants of the shrine would be quite that stupid.

I entered the shrine of Ihinipalit in a storm of magic, the instant I opened the door I unleashed the power of the scroll I was holding. As the two occupants of the shrine screamed, bolts of lightning crashing down into them, I summoned a Storm Atronach and drew my axe. Endryn had said that he thought the other cultists would flee if their leader were killed ~ I’d decided that I wouldn’t take that risk.

As the one cultist tried to control his jittering limbs enough to deal with the demonic fiend that was ponderously making its way towards him, I vaulted over the edge of the shrine and hammered my axe into the unprotected chest of the Man there. There was a thick crunch as the blade bit home and, blood spraying in an arc from his wound, the Man reeled backwards. Pressing my advantage, I drove the handle of the Wish into his stomach.

As the breath whooshed out of his body, the Man doubled over ~ presenting me with the perfect target. Raising the axe, I brought it down in one smooth, hard blow. Beheaded, the Man collapsed as jets of blood pumped from his neck. As the head rolled away from the torso, I swear that I saw it blink, once.

The Atronach seemed to be having fun with the remaining cultist; it was unclear whether the Oblivion-fiend was fighting or torturing the Man. Whichever it was, I left them to their own devices and rounded on the Man who’d just stepped from the chamber at the back of the shrine. “Obscurum successio,” I shouted, extending a hand towards the cultist. With a curse, he dived out of the way, the spell dissipating harmlessly against the back wall. Still, it did give me time to draw my bow and notch an arrow.

As he stepped back into view, hands raised and lips already moving in some esoteric chant, I unleashed the arrow. Grinning in satisfaction as the Man grunted and looked down in surprise at the shaft that now protruded from his stomach, I dropped the bow and raced towards him ~ already constructing the spell in my mind. “Vomica cruor,” I said, gripping his arm. He jerked away from me, reaching for the glass dagger that hung from his belt. His eyes widened as the spell’s effects made themselves known.

Leaving him to thrash out his life on the floor, I turned to the shrine and checked the situation there. Of the Atronach, there was no sign. The third cultist wasn’t difficult to locate either. Blood pattered down into the small basin set into the wall, the waters already turning crimson. Following the sanguine rain upwards, I finally saw the third cultist ~ his body jammed into the impossibly tight space between the broad pillar and the wall just behind it. With a grimace, I turned from the grisly sight and searched the shrine.

Some madness came over me as I searched the shrine. I found my eyes drawn again and again to the golden statue of Sheogorath that stood on a raised plinth in the centre of the chamber. The feeling of being watched was almost unbearable. Finally, unable to endure it any longer, I stood in front of the statue and yelled, “Stop watching me!”

“[b][size=18]Brave little Mortal,

“[b][size=18]Remain still, for I shall not harm thee,

“[b][size=18]With this artefact, thou shall kill the giant Bull Netch that has its residence near my servant taken. Do this and I shall favour thee with a gift of great power. Fail, and thou and I shall speak again”

Fleeing the shrine, mad laughter echoing in my head, I was violently ill. When the spasms had stopped, I rested wearily against the cool stone of the sewer wall and thought about what I had experienced. Surely there were long rituals of summoning required to gain an audience with the Daedric Princes? I had vague recollections of reading that somewhere. It seemed impossible to me that they should just, well, answer like that. Shivering slightly, I made my way up into Saint Delyn and across to Saint Olms.

“I understand your husband has gone missing?” I said to the petite woman in the Brewers and Fishmonger’s Hall. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance in finding him?”

“Mayhap,” the woman said, tearfully. “But I fear he has come to harm. He and his cronies often take themselves down into the Underworks. There they indulge themselves in their addiction.” Careful questioning of the woman revealed that her husband was a Skooma addict and, according to her, she feared that he’d contracted some disease whilst wandering around in a drug-induced trance. I agreed that I would try and find Danar and cure him before sending him home.

Descending into the sewers, where I seemed to be spending an uncomfortable amount of time recently, I started to explore. The shambling wreck that lurched out of the side passage as I approached certainly was diseased but I feared, far beyond any aid I could provide. The Dunmer, his skin already splitting and bleeding from the effects of the disease, turned towards me, hands outstretched. The bulge of malformed skull that protruded from above his left eye confirmed my initial diagnosis. Danar, if indeed this was he, was far beyond any help but the final assistance one can render to a victim of Corprus.

With a deep sigh, I drew the Ebony blade from its scabbard and rendered that aid as quickly and dispassionately as I could. Hard it was, no less harrowing than the poor misshapen creature in Tel Mora. The glint of metal around one deformed finger drew my attention to the wedding-band there and, carefully removing it, I read the inscription that confirmed that this was, or had been, Danar Uvelas.

The servants of Malacath that served in the shrine of Assernerairan stood little chance. Like vengeance of old, a wolf in the fold, I descended upon them in a fury. The corruption of Danar, the words of the Mad One, all fuelled my anger and hate. Like a dervish, some whirling spirit of death out of a Redguard tale, I span among them ~ the hiss of the Wish and the kiss of magic the only sounds I brought with me as I brought them the long, final silence of the grave.

Gore-spattered and panting, I stood in the centre of the shrine, by equal measure appalled and exultant at the devastation I’d wrought. I had, this time, been in full control of my faculties and knew precisely what I done. Part of me was dismayed at the insouciant ease with which I had butchered, for there was no kinder word for it, the cultists of Malacath. The other part of me rejoiced at my own developing skill. It was not so long ago that a simple rogue, who’d never done anyone more harm that ‘borrowing’ some items they probably didn’t need, had stepped off the boat in Seyda Neen. Somewhere along the way I had become this fell-handed mage-warrior, seeped in the Telvanni mindset of power and authority. The question was: am I happy with that which I’ve become?

It was a question I was to ponder much over the next few days although I didn’t realise it as I gathered the shrine’s treasures and stuffed them into my pack.

[minque]

ahh....entertaining..as usual, oh the conversation with that statue was great!

hihi "Brave little Mortal!" Oh my.....how well I can picture that scene in my head...

ehhrr


S.G.M...please

[OverrideB1]

Vivec City was my first stop this morning. Yestere’s bout of introspection had cost me much of the night’s sleep but I was in a much more determined frame of mind today. I may have become closer to being the ‘Sudhendra Vahl the Slayer’ I feared, but I was still firmly in control of my own destiny and, providing that the Powers That Be would stop playing juggling-games with my fate, I would remain so. If that included gaining a reputation for being a little heavy-handed with sword and magic, then so be it.

My first port of call when I arrived was the Brewer’s and Fishmonger’s Hall where I had a very distasteful task to perform. To my surprise, Moroni Uvelas took the news of her husband’s death quite calmly, only blinking back her tears when I presented her with the slender silver band that was all that remained of their time together. Mastering her grief, she shakily thanked me for my help and asked me to accept some curative potions for bringing her the news.

It would have been churlish of me to refuse such a gift so, thanking her politely; I took them and made much of placing them safely in my pack before leaving the Hall. From there, I made my way outside and up various ramps to the plaza that sits atop Saint Olms. The Temple of Saint Olms was, thankfully, deserted at this early hour and I had free rein to search for the Propylon Index Folms Mirel had assured me was here. I finally found it in the gloom of a little visited storeroom, by the simple expedient of kicking the unseen sliver with my foot as I passed. Picking it up, I tucked it safely into my purse.

“Word has reached us of the cleansing of Ihinipalit,” Endryn gushed delightedly as soon as I stepped into his office in the High Fane. “Thanks to you, things are slowly returning to normal in Saint Delyn.”

I wondered if should I speak to this priest about the strange phenomenon I’d experienced in the shrine? How would such a holy Mer respond to the fact that I’d had a visitation from the Mad Prince? Deciding to play things carefully, I broached the subject. “What are the methods of summoning the Daedra Princes?” I asked. “For the cultists were performing some strange ritual and I feared they might be calling the Mad One from Oblivion.”

“There are tales Ser Vahl,” he confided quietly and uneasily, “that the Princes of Chaos are easier to summon here on Vvardenfell than is common on the mainland. It is not something we speak of, do you understand?”

I understood and was extremely glad I’d not just blurted out the words that Sheogorath had spoken to me. “Now,” Endryn continued, obviously glad to be changing the subject, “I have no other suitable duties for you. I do, however, have a little gift for you by way of our thanks for your actions at Ihinipalit.” With that, he presented me with a wooden staff. As soon as I gripped the wooden shaft, I could feel the staff’s power subtly amplifying my own abilities. Most Dunmer have the skill to call forth an ancestral spirit ~ in some the ability is undeveloped; others develop it to a high level of skill. The staff, an Ancestral Staff of Wisdom, augmented that ability in the bearer, allowing them to summon a more powerful spirit for much longer periods of time.

Once more finding myself at a loose end, I removed myself to Balmora and followed the road to Caldera. There I presented the Marandus Propylon Index to Folms Mirel, receiving the promised five hundred Septims in return. “I have,” he said, “managed to track down another of the Indexes. It seems that some ignorant pilgrim presented the Falasmaryon Index to the Temple in Maar Gan. They, not knowing what else to do with it, put it on display in the shrine there.”

I was uneasy at the thought of stealing from the Temple; sure that such an action would undo much of the rapprochement I’d accomplished in the past week. Not to mention the fact that, if caught, I’d probably be expelled from Holy Orders. With that thought in mind, I returned to Tel Vahl.

I stood on the balcony, high atop the Tel, surveying the scene below. The watchtower was now almost complete on the northern edge of my estate and the foundations of another had been laid on the southern border. Meanwhile, the barracks for the House guards was completed, the distinctly Hlaalu architecture looking oddly out of place in the desolate ash-lands. Some excavation work had been begun to the east and, intrigued, I summoned Raissu Asserbas to the lower chambers.

“A mine Sed Vahl,” she explained. “One of the guards found these on the slope of the hill and brought them to me. I authorised the shaft to see if there was a large deposit there. If I’ve overstepped my bounds…”

“No, not at all,” I replied quickly, eager to set her mind at rest. Nestling in her palm were three tiny slivers of brilliant green ‘glass’ ~ the tough volcanic crystal that makes such light and sturdy armour and weapons. “If there is a deposit there, we should know of it before the Empire comes sniffing around,” I commented. She smiled and, bowing deeply, prepared to take her leave. A thought struck me.

“Do we have some miners who can be trusted implicitly?” I asked.

“Everyone here has taken fearsome oaths of loyalty,” she replied.

Taking that as a ‘yes’, I told her what I wanted done. “Equip a small team of the most reliable miners and send them to West Gash,” I said, spreading my annotated map on the table between us. “In this small valley here they will find the Vassir-Didanat mines. Working only at night, and keeping out of sight during the day, they are to extract as much Ebony as they can in, let us say, a ten-day and bring it back here. Each miner may take one percent of the Ebony they mine as payment.”

“It shall be done,” she said, grinning wickedly. She, like me, knew that what we were undertaking was ~ by the lights of the Empire (and probably the Redorans and Hlaalu) ~ the theft of their property. As she left to arrange our little felony, I returned to the upper tower and ventured into the alchemical lab.

I was soon immersed in the business of chopping, measuring, and mixing ingredients together to create various potions. Fortunately, none of my mixtures went bang in any serious way and, with both eyebrows still intact, it was many hours later when I emerged to take a little supper.

I had grown accustomed to the soft tinkling of the Ashland chimes that hung in my bedchamber: it was the sudden cessation of their ‘song’ that probably woke me. I lay very still, concentrating on not disrupting my breathing and straining my senses to the limit. There was a stillness to the room that felt unnatural. Allowing my eyelids to part the tiniest fraction, I stared into the gloom.

There. A patch of darker shadow moving in the darkness. Moving as slowly as I dared, I slipped my hand under the pillow and grasped the handle of the short glass dagger that lay under there. I had had to search very hard, asking questions in dark alleys and disreputable inns, before I’d found the vile toxin that coated the blade. Easing the dagger from its scabbard, I gripped the hilt tightly.

The faintest hiss of steel on leather alerted me and, as the dagger my assailant held plunged down, I rolled out of the bed, simultaneously lashing out with my dagger. The fine glass blade shattered on the black metal of my opponent’s neck-brace, but the force of the blow caused him to stagger back.

“GUARDS!” I roared, scrambling to my feet and throwing myself across the room towards my weapons locker. With a curse, the assassin hurled himself after me. He grabbed my shoulder and threw me aside from my intended course ~ getting himself between my weapons and me. Not that that was a major problem, I’m a Telvanni and we are never unarmed and helpless.

Or perhaps we are. Somehow recognising the peril he was in, the black-clad figure spat out the phrase all Mages dread: “Narro haud veneficus.” Things would have gone ill with me then, but my yelling had attracted the required attention.

The assassin scrabbled at the short steel bolt protruding from his neck before collapsing in a welter of blood. “I wanted him alive!” I yelled in frustration, dropping to my knees beside the stricken Mer. He was beyond help, the bitter-sweet smell of some poison on his lips. Not that I could have helped, my healing spell ~ like any other cantrip ~ beyond my reach until the spell of silence wore off.

“Arch-Magister!” Kallin Basalius skidded to a halt, taking in the scene. “Are you uninjured?”

“Nothing hurt but my pride,” I soothed. Turning to the ashen-faced House guard, I clasped his upper arm. “Thank you,” I said with sincerity.

“I didn’t know you wanted him alive Sed Vahl, I just... I…” he stammered.

“No matter,” I assured him. “Rather he should be dead against my wishes than it be me laying there, eh? No, you did well. Kallin,” I called, distracting her from her examination of the body, “make sure this young Mer gets a promotion.”

Alone at last with the head of my guard, I asked her the most pressing questions on my mind. “How did this assassin get past my defences Kallin? And who paid him?” I had, I have to admit, my suspicions.

“I don’t know how he got in,” she said grimly, holding the mask that had covered the Meric assassin’s face. “Rest assured though, by the light of dawn I will know.

“As to who sent him,” she continued, looking at me, “that’s obvious. Who has had his power curtailed, his backing killed?”

She nodded as I spoke the name on both our minds, “Neloth. It can be no other,” she agreed. “Now, I have doubled the guard and placed guards on the balcony outside your chambers. Orders have been issued that no guard is to be alone and unwatched by at least another of the guards.”

While she stormed out to get answers to the question, I returned to bed. Not that I slept that much, flinching at every sound and shadow. I may have maintained a brave face in front of the others but inside I was terrified.

[b]Thus ends this part of the Tale of Sudhendra Vahl