The Eight Bells Options

[Foster]

Part 1

The road was long and weary. Somehow it never seemed to end, because around the bend, just when it seemed it would run into one of the mountains, off it weaved down into a dell or round into a cleft, making each stop seem further. He'd been travelling nonstop now for five days, resting only for a few hours, tending to a campfire in the hope of keeping the wolves at bay. He could hear them, all around, howling in the peripheral gloom of the mountains, and he was suprised they hadn't made their move. He had no weapons that would have put up much of a fight; a rusty old shortsword, a bow with the strings torn and feathered. It was hardly a fair fight.

Shivering in his furs, he forced he continued to ride wearily on, his skin raw and his eyes narrow. The snow had nearly made him blind at the top of the pass, but now he was at least descending into the fertile basin of Cyrodiil, and that gave him a gleam of hope that maybe, just maybe, the worst of the journey was over.

He drew in a deep breath of the cold mountain air, and breathed out slowly to watch it spiral into the atmostphere of the morning. He'd only been walking two hours, and already he felt as though he would drop. Licking his lips, now a blistering mess thanks to the wind, Tor rubbed his arms against his sides and continued to draw his horse forward.

The sad part was leaving his home behind. It was now several months distant, and although he'd been foolish enough to select the path through Skyrim rather than Hammerfell - especially considering it was now into Frost Fall - he wasn't sure the path really mattered. Had he gone the other way, he'd have been complaining about searing heat that would parch his mouth. He smiled wearily. Either road, he still wished he could be at home, sitting with his eyes closed listening to the home fire cackle, or gazing casually as the ships sailed the seas outside of his window.

All of it was gone now. The house a ruin, the fire a mess of choking ash that had long since burnt out. The only fire in that wreak now was the glowing embers of the support beams, occasionally brought to life by the wind and the heat that resonated from the stones the night they had gutted his home.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the memory. One dark night, one pale moon that did not show their approach, and his entire family had been slain. He was the only one left. Tor Beldric, a boy that had been tempered to manhood amidst the destruction. He tightened his fist in hatred, memory of the oath, and memory of the task that lay before him. He stooped and reached into his saddle for some corn.

It all came down to the eight bells. His mother had known it, which is why her death had been ordered. His father and sister had little to do with it, except perhaps their natural gifts for defence. It was all due to the eight bells. He gently altered course along the pass, watching the hooves of his steed slip near the edge to send rocks scrambling down the side before the horse righted itself and pressed prints into the soft crunch of snow. He closed his eyes and recited the verse that his mother had taught him.

"Eight keys for eight locks, each one a bell,
Seven songs of fairness, one trembling death knell,
Open the Serpent, shift the wake, push forward to Bregale,
Slide the door as dark as night, do not heed the hail,
Eight bells to lift it high, eight to riches and glory,
Eight to purge the Blue Ring Tryst and end their dreadful story."

"Cute."

His eyes opened. On either side stood two warriors. On the left a vicious, snarling Dark Elf had a bow levelled at his heart, and a smaller man with an evil glint fingered a dagger. On the right stood two Nords, twins by the look of them. Dead centre were two more figures, one with sword, one with bow. He swallowed and tried to think. He didn't like where this was going.
"Please." he said, in an almost subdued fashion.
"Pleeeease." One of the men said, walking forward and flapping his arms in a mocking, laughing gesture. The others smirked. The leader turned to the man next to him. "Shamus, you know what to do."

The other bandit at the front pointed at Tor's purse.
"Money. Gold. Mullauh. Call it what you will, we're having it."
Tor swallowed, and shrugged. For all his will desired to drive the horse off the cliff rather than to submit, that wouldn't help his situation. He reached down and threw the purse at the bandits.
"Here." he said. One green bag with his entire lifes savings. Thirty Septims. Shamus gave it a look of scorn, and pocketed it, before looking up. His keen eyes caught something around the boy's neck.
"That necklace. Ours. Hand it over, now."

Tor looked at them with his ice blue eyes, trying feverishly to decide what to do. Beg? It wouldn't work. Defiance? He'd die. No matter. He couldn't surrender it.
"No." he said, simply. The bandits laughed. Shamus grinned, and made a motion to someone behind Tor.
"Mungo, if you please." he asked.

THUD. Pain, red, blinding bright neon, then nothing but darkness. Tor collasped, his head a bloody mess as he slid off the horse. From behind him, Mungo grinned, pleased that he'd had the oppotunity to hit something. Hard. Shamus walked forward, stooped, and grabbed at the neck of the traveller, ripping away the necklace.
"Mungo do good!"
Shamus looked up. "Yeah. He's still alive, but he's going to have one hell of a headache. Come on." he said, pausing only to look at the trinkets his fist now contained.

On the necklace were a few stones of little import, and eight minature bells. Shamus pursed his lips, looked around to make sure the others were more intrested in the paltry thirty septims, and pocketed it.

Eight minature bells. Strange, but he guessed it would fetch a good price.

[Foster]

Prt 2

Tor awoke, his view a strange shade of crimson. At first he thought it must have been sunset, but then he realised that he was inside, and there was no sunlight to be seen, only the flickering of a candle on a dresser. He winced, and reached up tenativly to touch his head. He could feel the sticky wetness of where his blood had congealed, and groaned. Everything was a groggy mess of pain and confusion. Then a voice came.

"Rest easy." The old man said. Tor's eyes widened, and he realised that he hadn't noticed him in the corner of the room before. He was well past his prime, and from the look of his wisened features was probably pushing eighty. His hair was receeding and thin, already a brilliant dash of white, and his eyes were slightly cloudy through age. He looked on at Tor with concern.
"Where?" Tor said, finding words difficult. His mouth was dry.
"You're in my cabin, up here in the Ferrall mountains. I found you at the roadside on Highcliff pass. You're safe, for the moment."
"Thank you." Tor tried to say, though his mouth was clogged with only a mumble that made words hard to form.
"You're welcome. In the morning I'll head down to a shrine not far from here. A friend of mine, a priest of Akatosh, stays there in hermetic seclusion. He'll be able to heal your wounds. For now..." the old man stood, stretching slightly, "for now, you need to sleep."
"Name..." Tor muttered, already slipping back into unconsciousness. The old man smiled, and walked over to press a gentle, if cold, hand on the boys wrist.
"Belwyn." he said, before the room grew dark.

---

"Tor!" The cry, like a peircing siren, caught him off guard, just long enough for his father to gently tap his ribs with the wooden sword. The boy winced, and turned to see who called him. It was his mother. He turned back to his father, smiling almost apologetically.
"Sorry father, I..."
"Became distracted." The old man nodded, understanding immediatly, before he walked over and grappled his son. "Never become distracted, Tor. If I were the enemy, you'd have your guts all over the floor by now, wouldn't you?"
Tor nodded and sighed. "Yes, father."
"Good. Lesson's over for today. Go find out what that mad cow wants."

With that, Tor took off across the plains outside their home, running across the freshly ploughed fields and past the breathtaking view of the coast, stretching straight as far as the eye could see, rising cliffs and rolling waves divided only by a thin line of rocky beaches or sand. The stiff Eastern breeze swept over High Rock, making the boy feel alive as he left his fathers regime. He didn't know why his father thought that an hour should be spent every day training, using wooden swords and shields, but he trusted enough not to question it. Part of him would have preferred to spend more time using magic, but he was too young to travel to Daggerfall to find assistance or someone that could train him. Reaching the house, he walked in.
"Tor." His mother said, her smile welcoming and homely. "Come over here, I want to show you something."

Obediently he followed, past the roaring fire and into the study, where all manner of books and scrolls were arrayed for study. He stopped at the desk and looked at the parchment his mother had lain out in front of him.
"This is it, Tor." She said, smiling and tapping his hand in excitement. "This is the clue I've been looking for. I bought this from a passing merchant and, by chance, it happens to mark the name I've been looking for all these years!" Tor paused and looked at his mother, suprised and pleased at the same time. His mouth somehow managed to sound out the name.
"Bregale?"
"Yes!" His mother cried, tapping him excitedly. "Bregale! From there the other clues will make sense! We're so close!"

Tor beamed, touching the eight bells that hung around his neck. They were more than just ornamental. They were the heirlooms of his family, passed down from firstborn son to firstborn son. Nobody had ever considered their meaning before, until his mother had married his father and decided that, should there be a treasure for the family, her son should have it. She'd always carried a natural intrest in cartography, and so her search for Bregale was little more than a sideline. The other lines of the poem bothered her more. Tor had seen her stooped at the fire, thinking on the phrases. The Blue Ring Tryst meant more to her than she was willing to say.

---

"Ahgh..." Tor groaned as a hand touched him, jarring him out of his uneasy sleep. Two men stood, one with his hands aglow of arcane power, pushing it over the boy's body.
"Easy, my boy..." the priest said, finishing the miraculous process. The wounds sealed, the flesh returned to its colour, the blood faded away. "You've had quite a scrap, havn't you?"
Tor nodded, sitting up in bed. "Bandits." he said. The two men looked at each other and nodded gravely. "Yes, I fear you're probably right. The Five Skulls. How much did they take from you?"
Tor's eyes suddenly widened with panic as his hands reached for his neck. The bells were gone. He looked up in desperation at Belwyn and the Priest.
"Everything." he sighed.

[Kiln]

A very interesting story, I was surprised by the return of the thieves, though I'm assuming that this takes place before they find their fate with the assassin, I wonder if the main character has anything to do with their deaths considering they've taken something very important to him...I suppose I'll have to wait and find out.

I like the descriptive elements and the level of realism you weave into your stories as well as the personalities you give to your characters, I shall very much look forward to future updates.

[Foster]

Prt 3

"Why are you helping me?" Tor asked, slipping into his battered and tarnished furs. Belwyn looked at him, his kindly face arching with the wrinkles of time.
"Why shouldn't I? You look like you need help." Belwyn replied.

Tor smiled. For the past four days he'd stayed at Belwyn's cabin, eating well on the chewy bear meat that the old man provided, drinking heartily at night to get his strength up. His host was a strange one. He never asked a single question about Tor, or elaborated on why he was out in the mountains, in a lonely cabin days from any other form of civilisation. He just fed the boy and offered him the hospitality of his home.
"Nobody gives something for nothing." Tor said, showing an already jaded view of the world. It was one of the gifts his father had passed on. As much as the man had a habit of cursing and calling his mother an old cow (usually to her face, and always with a warmth of affection), he also occasionally came out with a gem of truth. Belwyn laughed.
"Yes, I suppose that's true." he admitted, patting Tor on the back. "Well, seeing as you have nothing, and I have given you something, obviously I have to make a deal with you, don't I?" The old man rubbed his palms, clearly taking glee in his jest. Finally, he snapped his fingers, as though he had it. Tor watched, amazed that the mans arthritis didn't flare up. "How about this. What I want from you, Tor, is the most valuable thing you can give me; your friendship. Deal?"
Tor laughed. "Deal." he said, shaking the old mans hand, and smiling with mirth for the first time since his home had been destroyed.

For the first few miles he followed Belwyn, who seemed to be more agile and spritely outside than in. Although he'd lost his horse, Tor hadn't given it much thought. For one thing he seemed to be travelling at the same pace on the mountains anyway, given the footfalls and balance requirements, and secondly his mind was preoccupied with the bells. He had to get them back, and all he had was the name: Five Skulls. It wasn't much of a lead to go on.

It was probably midday before Belwyn stopped, pausing for a moment to look at the youth. "You know," he began, "I've never been one for walking too far from my home. You were lucky I was returning from business in Bruma. Here is where I found you, and so I would imagine that your bandits are, one would assume, somewhere around here. I'd try heading East. About three miles down the pass there is a track that leads off, through some rocks. Small, and hard to find unless you're looking for it. Follow that up maybe five miles and you'll find an old fort, built in the second era to keep travellers safe. Fort... ah... Keller? It's the only place around here that bandits would hole up. The Five Skulls used to be up at Maidenhole Mine, but that was cleaned out by a group of adventurers not a week ago, so if they got out - and it seems they did - they'll be looking for a new place. My guess is that they've moved to Keller and they're just setting up shop." The old man paused, a wieght on his mind. He had another, very good reason to believe that the bandits were new to the area, though he wasn't prepared to divulge it. He knew the boy would go regardless. Better to keep him ill-informed.

"Thank you." Tor said, nodding and smiling once more. For an old hermit, Belwyn seemed to know everything that went on around the area. He didn't want to ask questions. "I'd better go. Thank you."

The old man grabbed his hand.

"Here," he said, "take this." From his scabbard he pulled out a gleaming silver sword. "You know how to wield it, I trust? Use it well. Served me in the past, it has, though I've little use for it now. I hunt by bow, and no thief has tried to steal from me for twenty years, I doubt they'll start now."
"I can't..." Tor began, only to find the weapon thrust into his hand.
"Poppycock. You can, and you will. You'll need it, too. "
Tor nodded, and waved goodbye, beginning his walk up to the Fort.
"Oh! Tor!" Belwyn called out, causing him to turn.
"Yes?"
"Whatever you do, don't go any deeper than the entryway to the Fort. Get your necklace, and leave!"

Tor nodded, turning back to the road ahead of him and the task that awaited.

[jack cloudy]

Ah nice. First I though that Tor turns out to be that assassin from guard duty sucks. Now however, I think he'll arrive after the assassin. Please continue.

[Foster]

Prt 4

Tor stepped uneasily through the dark, his eyes narrowing to try and peirce through the gloom and discover what was happening. His nerves were already frayed and on edge; only ten metres inside the doors, which had sealed behind him in a creaking, heavy oak fashion, he had come across one of the worst things he'd ever seen. A body, flat on the stairs, already with the beginnings of maggots and other detritivores beginning their feast. He'd almost stepped on it, but fortunatly he'd somehow managed to stop his foot landing. Instead he'd edged past, noting the grim arrow through the neck.

The worst part of the journey down was the sounds. He could hear his heart beat, he could hear his footsteps, but beyond that there was nothing. Nothing but a slow moan every now and then, emitted by something below. His mouth was dry and his footfalls uneasy.

Back home, there was a dungeon not too far away. A Goblin hole, as the Fighters Guild had termed it. Granted, the Fighters Guild was nowhere near as popular as the Mages Guild in High Rock, but they'd still made a neat niche cleaning it out every few years, making the surrounding hillside safe from the foul little green beasts. Of course it was still full of less-than-friendly Orcs, a few loose trolls and some ogres, but otherwise it was pleasant enough for walks, as long as the walk made sure you were back home at sunset. He'd often been tempted to help clean it out. Then again, he'd been tempted to do a lot of things, yet this was the first time he'd been away from home. Or underground in a ruined Fort full of who knows what.

Suddenly the small corridor gave way to a larger expanse, and he nervously crept to the centre. There was a fire, unkindled or loved, or rather a place where a fire had been. It was surrounded by crates, candles still burning, bedrolls unused and a thin layer of crimson upon the tiles. He drew his sword and moved forward, then suddenly to the side.

There were no bodies. He didn't like it. Something made him want to turn back, forget the bells, forget everything. Pretend that his family hadn't been brutally slain, pretend that his life hadn't been spared.

Spared? Who was he kidding? It was this emotion that had saved his life, cursed him with this fate. The emotion of fear. The need to leave the house, forget that his family was in danger, fail to help fight with his father and sister and instead run, crying, fearful, to the barn. It was this emotion that made him watch as the men had ransacked the house, cut his father down in a few merciless strokes on the porch, drawn a sword through his mother, caved in his sisters body with a warhammer, tossing her broken shell casually into the house as they threw torches to ignite it all. It was fear that had made him watch. He wasn't going to let it make him retreat now.

Footsteps again resounded. Many footprints, too many to count. He paused and tried to listen in the darkness. From down below, through a door he could barely make out, he watched as the strange procession marched forth. The slowly decomposing remains of five men and women, once human, now little more than mindless zombies. Their flesh wasn't yet rotting, but their grevous wounds and lumbering movement revealed their true nature. And amongst them all, leading as a puppetmaster would, a man dressed solely in black, a keen evil in his eyes. Tor spat. A Necromancer.

He knew from the dress and the zombies. He knew from the conversations he'd overheard from Mages that he'd followed around town, hoping to gain some kind of arcane insight from their banter. He knew instinctivly from the foul evil the man emitted. The zombies were also recognisable. Five of the Five Skulls. The dead man on the step made six. Where the seventh was, he did not know. He also had no idea where the necklace was, or even if he should face them.

The choice was not his. A zombie caught his scent and came lumbering towards him. Tor closed his eyes, prayed silently, and charged.

Hack and slash, hack and slash, duck, parry and weave. He couldn't see what he was doing in the light, or know where the foul creatures came from. He saw bolts of firey blue ice shoot past him, causing a glow in the caverns, he heard screams and the sound of metal sinking into flesh and bone, he felt his sword bite deep and true. Then he felt another bolt, only this time it hit him. The cold took over his nervous system, a tangling mass of ice and pain. It felt like the time He'd jumped into the nearby lake in the middle of winter, naked as the day he was born. It felt like the pain of the icy water, multiplied by a thousand. It was as though the pain was inside him, spreading shards through his nervous system. He fell to the floor and looked up.

All but two were dead by his hand. Only one zombie, a tall, lumbering giant with a plain expression and an arrow through it's neck, and the necromancer remained. Tor swallowed and looked up.
"Fool." The necromancer said, his voice level and sickening. "Four perfectly good creations wasted. Only fitting, I think, to have your blood as a replacement."
"Urrrgh..." The zombie echoed. Tor's colour melted to pale as the mage brought up one hand to cast the final strike...

An arrow thudded into him, causing his body to collapse forward. The zombie looked at it's master for a moment, before staggering around, unsure of itself. Then another arrow struck it, though for some reason it didn't die. Nor did it attack. It just...didn't do anything.

Tor rose to his feet to see what had happened, edging warily pass the zombie. It didn't move towards him; it didn't move at all. It just looked blankly, as though it wasn't really sure what it was supposed to do. He edged across to find his saviour. In the corner, huddled up in a bloody mess, everywhere blood-soaked cotton binding wounds, a sole bowman looked back. Tor bent down to look at him. The bowman dropped his bow, half from fatigue, half from relief.
"Dead?"
"I think so."
"Good. Don't worry about the last zombie, he won't hurt you."
"How do you know?" Tor asked. The bowman managed a thin smile.
"He's too stupid. Too stupid in real life, too stupid in death. Probably has no idea what to do."
"Thank you for..." Tor began, only to pause. It was one of the bandits. It was one of the bandits that had robbed him! Why was he thanking him? What was going through his mind?
"Screw it, kid. That man made my friends into monsters. Monsters you...urgh...dispatched with a certain flair, innit?"
Tor recoiled back, unsure what he was supposed to say. Or do. Rightfully the man deserved to die, and yet...yet he had just saved his life. His mind was a mixture of thoughts. They flooded him with enough anger to decide. With lightning speed he had his sword in hand, at the throat of the bandit, his eyes with a keen intent.
"Where's my necklace?" He demanded. The bandit looked at him, before reaching up and swatting the sword away.
"I know you..." he muttered. "Kid on the road, a few days back. Before this. Well, you're too late." Suddenly he began to laugh, a distorted noise combined with hacks and coughs. "That...mage... might have got everyone else, but me, Jonas and Mungo? We was done by some adventurer. Probably headed into town to sell his loot before returning here to explore further. Take the Fort in stages. I doubt he ever reached the point where the others were... turned."
"What?"
The bandit laughed again. "Kid, I ain't got your necklace. My guess? It's either being worn by some bow wielding dandy, or...ahhh, jeez that hurts... it's been sold. S'what I would do."
Tor lowered his sword. He wasn't in the mood for killing. The bandit smiled. "Kid, I ain't in the mood for this. I can't move on my own, but that necromancer? I bet he's got a healing potion or something. Give me a swig and I'll help you get your necklace back. Call it compensation." he grinned, a marred, rotten smile. Tor rose to his feet, backing away from the bloody heap.
"What if I think you deserve to die?"
"Then I'd agree with you." The bandit said. "And that adventurer did for me sure. Been a few days now, and I'm through the worst, but I ain't able to get aid on my own. Barely managed to crawl to this corner before that mage found Mungo's body and turned him into...that thing over there." the bandit motioned to the tall, lumbering zombie. Again he winced. Tor was at a loss for words.
"What....makes me trust you?"
"Nothing. Except... well, you came down here, right? Seven on one you thought, and you still came. Makes me think you've got nothing to lose."

Tor sighed. As much as he hated it, he had a feeling the bandit was right.
"Fine. I'm Tor." he said, moving towards the necromancer.
"Shamus. Pleased to meet...urgh...you." the bandit replied.

[Foster]

Prt 5

It was about half a mile down the road that Tor gave in, and turned to look at it in frustration.
"ARrrgh!" he shouted, flapping his arms and gesturing madly. Shamus, wincing still despite the curative effects of the healing potion, looked on in jaded amusement, scratching his stubble and rotating his arm, trying to get some circulation back. Laid out on a floor in pain for a day or so really didn't do well for his muscles, and most of them were in spasm. Tor turned to him, exasperated. "Why doesn't it go? Why? Why is it following us?"
Shamus looked back and mused. "Dunno. Never seen one do this before. Can't say I'm an expert though. Generally I stay away from places that 'av the underdead."
"That's really helpful." Tor said, wondering about his strange situation. Shamus shrugged.
"My guess... he's following me. Wants to know what to do."
"Can you make it go away? It's beginning to rot in the sunlight!"
"I can try..." Shamus mused, stepping forward.

Turning, he walked up to the rotting, zombiefied corpse that had been lumbering after them since they'd left the fort. When they stopped, it stopped. When they started to move, it moved. All the while, the dumb expression across its face was never removed. Shamus sighed. He'd quite like to fire a few arrows into it's flesh, but it was a friend. Well, more like a minion, but it was still no reason to desecrate the remains.
"Mungo. Go home." he shouted. The zombie looked at him, twisting its neck in a sickening crunch.
"Urrgghhruuughh?"
"Mungo, you stupid lummox of an ox-born slapper! Go Home."
"Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
"MUNGO! HOME!"
"Urbugbgubguhghrrrh?"

The bandit bowman shrugged. "Guess he wants to stay." he said.

They reached sight of Bruma at dusk, and quickly decided, mainly on Shamus' advice, to stay put for the night, less they got picked off by something on the road down. As far as Tor could tell, through the occasional mispronounced words and gruff commentary, there were two other bandit groups in the area, rivals to what had once been the Five Skulls, and there was no way he'd advocate heading down to town at night. If that was true, Tor pondered, was it really safe to light a campfire and rest? Probably, was the answer. Mungo, as the decomposing zombie seemed to be called, was on guard duty. It seemed to obey every instruction Shamus shouted at it, usually after about three or four reaffirming insults, which meant that it did have it's uses. Of course there were the negatives. Standing downwind of it was one, and somehow he wasn't confident the town guard would let it stroll into Bruma with them. Shamus and Mungo would have to wait outside, under a tree or a shady copse, and he'd have to find the necklace himself.

That wasn't the only thing that Shamus had taken, but it seemed to be the only thing he was going to get back. The question of his other possessions had come up earlier in the day.
"What about my gold?"
"What about it?" Shamus asked, non-chalantly.
"Where is it?"
"Spent it. Hard liqour."
"How? You were in the mountains!"
"Kid, you wern't the only person we tried to rob. But even we ain't going to move on ten soldiers of the Imperial Legion, off on some kind of errand. So we just pretended we was huntsmen, and traded our money - your money - for booze. Which is now in my belly."
"What about my horse?"
"That, too, is now in my belly."
"You ate my horse?"
"Yeah. Nice, too. A little...chewy...but nice enough."
"How could you..."
"Easily. Cut, chop, roast, chew. In that order, otherwise it doesn't work."
Tor remembered just...staring at Shamus in amazement.
"What?" Shamus asked. "Guess you've never had to eat what you can in the mountains, huh?"

Tor shook his head. Not that it mattered anymore. With his strange companions, he had to head into Bruma tomorrow, and there, with luck, he'd find the bells.

This post has been edited by Foster: Mar 29 2006, 01:41 PM

[Foster]

Prt 6

Tor glanced up at the beaten woodne sign, swinging freely outside of the store door. It was a small shop, tucked away from the main drag and certainly not the kind that would feature in any sort of map of the place, or some artists recreation of the mountain town. Bruma was a fascinating place for Tor; a bizarre mix of Nord and Imperial. The chapel was pure Cyrodiil, but the wooden houses and their ornate, sculptured pillars, each displaying fantastic craftsmanship in the creation of wards or decoration, were straight from Skyrim. It was a melting pot of two cultures.

As tempting as it was to go to the inn and rest, he knew that Shamus and his...friend... were waiting not too far away. He'd promised to pick up some more potions of healing (Shamus had actually paid him, which made him suspect that he wasn't being completly honest regarding the fate of his stolen septims), but first he had to find the necklace. Everything he had set out to do depended upon it.

The shop he entered, sealing the wooden door behind him and brushing off the snow from his furs, was the third one today. Third, and last. Although a smiths, and not a general store, it was a last grasp hope: there was nowhere else to sell it in Bruma. If it wasn't here, then he'd never find it. Whoever had looted it from Shamus' unconcsious and near-dead body obviously had decided to keep it. Little good it would do them. He finished the thought and stamped his feet in an effort to get some circulation back into his toes.

"Welcome! Can I help you?" Came a call from behind. He spun around to see the smith, a tall and strong women with muscles rippling under her garb. Although she was standing upright and seemed to be fine, his keen nostrils could detect a potent whiff of alcohol on her breath and clothes. It made him wonder if she hadn't been keeping herself warm with a little too much of a tot; it also made him think that she'd probably not been near the forge for many a day. If she had, chances are she'd have caught fire in a blue flame.
"Yes," he said, looking around the room to see if anyone else was present, "I'm hoping that you can. You see, a week ago I was attacked on the pass from Skyrim and..."
"Oh my dear...that's awful. You need some new weapons? Armour? Did you survive? Of course you survived, that's a stupid.." she paused and burped a little, "question, but... uhm... if you were attacked do you have any gold?"

Tor's eyes moved around slightly, and his eyebrows furrowed. Too many questions in too short a time. He was expecting to have to explain the situation, rather than have someone who was perhaps a little away with the fairies pre-empting him. He coughed.
"Well, no..." he admitted, trying to continue. The smith just flopped a hand, giving up all pretense of service.
"Then waaauseareya?" she asked, falling back onto a carefully positioned stool. "If you're nat a custston...mer... then get out."
Tor blinked, completly taken aback. "Uh, well..." he too, gave up being polite. "I had something stolen. Something private and personal. A necklace with eight bells. I was wondering if you'd seen it."
"Get out! No gold, no service!"
"Please..." Tor emplored. The smith just looked at him with derision.

"She has seen it. We've got it in the back room." Came a voice. Quiet at first, coming from behind a wooden beam. Tor turned, suddenly witnessing as a boy emerged. He was slightly younger than Tor, but his muscles were far more developed, and he seemed to at least be sober. His eyes kept flicking nervously, as though he regretted his outburst.
"Wellin, be quiet!" The Smith said, almost falling off her stool. Wellin didn't make eye contact. Instead he just stood his ground, looking at the floor.
"No. It's not right. This man has had something stolen and he should get it back. We don't deal in stolen goods, that's..." he bit his lip, deciding it was best not to talk about things he should have known nothing about. "that's not what we do."
"You have it?" Tor said, his hopes suddenly snatched up. Wellin nodded, stepping forward to ignore his boss.
"In the backroom. An adventurer came by the other day, sold a few things. A claymore, a dagger, a few peices of armour, and your necklace."
Tor beamed. The smith scowled.
"Wellin! Shut up! I'll...I'll..."
Wellin looked at the drunken mess, suddenly fed up, finding new feet. "You'll what? Fire me? Don't bother, I quit. All I do is work. Work all day, for you, doing your job. For what? Food and board! I don't even get a monthly allowance! No more. You can earn your own mead money!"
"Wellin... I..."
Wellin turned away, waving off the threats angrily. He walked past the smith, leaving Tor's sight for a moment. When he returned, he was bearing the necklace.

Tor smiled, taking it and fastening it around his neck. It was as though the world had suddenly filled up with hope again.
"I don't know how to repay you..." he said, gushing out praise on the young blacksmith. Wellin smiled back.
"Well, I don't suppose you know anywhere that needs a smith, do you?"

[Kiln]

Once again, great updates. You add content quickly and I find it somewhat hard to keep up. I found it quite amusing that the bandit had eaten Tor's horse and spent his gold on liquor, and also that mungo follows his friend, even in death. Quite well written and very interesting, please update soon.

Edit: haha, you added another part as I was writing this...

This post has been edited by Kiln: Mar 29 2006, 06:49 PM

[jack cloudy]

Kiln said it all. Does this mean that you're going to add all your characters together? It sounds like fun.

[Kiln]

Yeah, I noticed that nearly all of the characters from the short stories have made an appearance in this story, it has been quite interesting thus far.

[minque]

Once again, great updates.  You add content quickly and I find it somewhat hard to keep up.  I found it quite amusing that the bandit had eaten Tor's horse and spent his gold on liquor, and also that mungo follows his friend, even in death.  Quite well written and very interesting, please update soon.

Edit: haha, you added another part as I was writing this...

Kiln said it all. Does this mean that you're going to add all your characters together? It sounds like fun.

Yes yes......I second both of you!

have a milanius..cheers!

[Foster]

Prt 7

The problem with walking, any distance at all, ignoring all of the blisters and callouses and soreness and aches and sprains and trips and falls and occasional toilet breaks in thorn bushes and thistles, ignoring all of that, was that eventually you have to stop.

Tor and Wellin had to stop. They were too tired to go on. Shamus probably could have managed a few more miles, having a leaner stomach from missing meals and living from the land. Wellin, for all his youth, seemed to eat more and sleep more than both Tor and Shamus, but that was because of his history in the smithy, working as near slave labour. Mungo didn't need to stop, but then Mungo was dead, and nobody was really suprised.

Tor was pleased he had the smith in his party, especially as he seemed more than willing to go on the quest. The first thing that he'd explained to Wellin back in Bruma was that he was looking for something, and that it was dangerous. He hadn't mentioned exactly what, but the particulars also hadn't been told to Shamus. He didn't tell Wellin because he wanted him to come. He didn't tell Shamus because he didn't trust him. Wellin seemed perfectly content with the thin details. As best Tor could tell, the boy didn't care where he was going, or why. He could have said he was marching off to Summerset Isle to join a Deadra suicide pact and the smith may well have followed.

Wellin coming along, mainly at Tor's assistance, had stirred Shamus up the wrong way. He'd seemed to extend his habit of cursing at Mungo to throwing combined insults at Wellin, too. Usually together without a seperate breath. 'Wellin, why don't you move your blister-boiled backside and keep up, you're lumbering almost as badly as Mungo, and he's decomposing!' was a particular favorite. It didn't preterb the young smith; it seemed as though nothing would, given the abuse he'd taken at the hands of his former master.

"Rest? Here? We're exposed, here! It's not safe!"
"This entire road is exposed, as far as the fork to the Orange road, at least." Wellin said, contesting the point. Shamus' arms flapped.
"So, you ditherbrained metalworking mothers boy, we need to find an inn."
"There's a problem with that..." Tor said, chipping into the arguement, half to stop the bickering, half to point out the obvious. "We don't have any money."

Shamus suddenly paused, realising that it was true. He furrowed his brow. He didn't want the others to know, but he still had about ten gold pieces, though that was hardly enough for a room, more like enough for a few drinks once the others had gone to bed. The drinking was, for him, the main lure of the inn. He couldn't care less about exposure.
"So we get some, then." he said, simply.
"Ruugghghghh!"
"Right, Mungo. We do it old school. Bow and bash. Works like a charm."
"We can't do that!" Tor protested, suddenly on his feet.
"Oh? Why not?"
"Principle." Tor said, firmly.
"I'm with him. I'm no bandit." Wellin agreed. Shamus looked in disgust, and made a disgruntled whistle.
"Right. You two, stay there. I'm going to get us some money."
"How?" Tor asked.
"Not by robbing." Shamus reassured, shaking his head, before tapping Mungo and walking off, wiping his hand where his palm had sunk a little into Mungo's flesh.

It took him three hours to come back. By that time Tor and Wellin knew pretty much everything there was about each other; not that Wellin had much to say. Both of them didn't trust Shamus, but neither knew quite how to shake him. It was with mixed feelings, then, when the bandit cast down a purse of two hundred septims.
"Gold. Nice, lovely, spendy, gold. So lets get going." Shamus said, beaming with pleasure. He didn't mention that was only 70% of what he'd taken. It was going to be more than enough to get accomodation on their journey, whereever that may be. He didn't know why Tor hadn't told him, but the bells had more than sentimental value. There was money in this, and he wasn't going to go short. Tor looked at the purse.
"Where did you..." he began to ask, slowly. Shamus looked at him, level and straight.
"I didn't steal it, before you ask." he said, grabbing his travelling sack and kicking dirt into the fire the two boys had made. "So come on, let's go."
Tor wasn't convinced. "If you didn't steal it, then..."
"How did I get it?" Shamus asked, purse lipped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wellin draw a hammer, and turned to him, winking slightly. The hammer went back into the belt.
"Yes. How?"
Shamus laughed. "Honestly? Found it! Hahahahaah!" He laughed, loudly, with unremitant glee. Tor and Wellin looked at each other.
"You found...how much is that?" Wellin asked.
"Two hundred Septims. And yes, you hammer-handed backward brain booger, I found it. Not all of it at once. I found ten there, twenty there. It's easy to find if you know where to look." He laughed once more.
"I don't believe you." Wellin said, standing. If it were that easy, why did he take up banditry? Wasn't it easier to just go money hunting?
"Didn't ask you to." Shamus said, curtly, before beginning to walk off.

The other two looked at each other. They didn't believe him, but what option did they have? They needed the money, and an inn, a real bed, was longed for by both. Reluctantly, they picked up their belongings and headed off.

The ironic thing was that, in Shamus' mind, he'd told the truth. It was amazing, he mused, as he led the way down the road, how easy it was to find money. When Mungo was standing on the road, people generally dropped whatever they had, money belts and belongings, and ran away as fast as they could. All he'd had to do was walk up and collect the lost property. It made him wonder why he'd spent the first twenty eight years of his life without a zombie companion...

[Foster]

Prt 8

Wellin lay in the bed, resting far better than he thought he had any right to. He was asleep, it was true, and yet somehow he could think. He had no idea how that worked, but then again he didn't want to either. He should keep thinking to a minimum. He'd just quit his job, left Bruma, the only home he'd ever known, and taken up with a Breton, a bandit, and a zombie. He needed a mage to examine his head.

Still, the dream was pleasing enough, lying as he was on the comfortable straw matress and the feathered pillow. The others were about, too. Mungo was tethered to a tree by a rope a few hundred metres away from the inn, out of sight of the road. Tor was probably in the bed across the way, and Shamus probably still downstairs drinking with the other patrons of the pub. There wern't many. The inn was isolated, and there were few travellers on the road, especially at this time of year. The only other occupants of the inn were the odd merchant, and a noblewoman, who seemed to be wearing some kind of turban, and was flanked by two impressivly armoured personal guards, bearing her family crest across their chests.

He allowed his mind to drift away from it. He allowed it to even drift away from Bruma, because he didn't want to think about the idea of making a mistake. Now the boss was probably sobering up, hunting to find someone else to actually work the forge and produce goods that bore her stamp. SOme other stooge. Had he made a mistake? He doubted it. It was funny, even in the dream he could smell the smoke rise from the forge, feel the heat of the furnace...

His eyes snapped open. The entire room was clouded in smoke, choking black curls flooding the room, obscuring his vision. At first he didn't know what to do, if it was another level of dream, but then it filled his lungs and began to strangle him with it's vapours, and he caught sight of the violent flames leaping across the wooden beams above. He was out of bed immediatly, grasping his clothes and throwing them on as he staggered out of the room. Tor wasn't inside; nor was Shamus. Somehow he was able to feel his way along the corridor, keeping low to avoid the crackling fire raging around him, and to keep his nostrils out of the clouds. The heat seared every breath, as though he was sucking in hot mugs of soup, and that, combined with his fright at the sound of creaking timbers giving way, made him decide on a desperate action. Running straight, he charged out of the first floor window.

He flew for what seemed an age, before he landed, hard, on the ground. The shock of the impact and the pain of his arm, crushed under his jump, was nothing compared to his startled fright. He ignored the cuts of the glass shards to spiral around and look. The inn was gutted; it was nothing but a blazing inferno where a building had once been. Around him there was nothing but sound. Horses in the stable braying, cries of pain and angish, scrabbling crawls of desperation, shouts of worry. He turned and rose from the ground, witnessing the sight in front of him.

Tor was there, slumped against a tree stump, collapsed in exhaustion, flat on his back, his sword resting upright from where he had somehow managed to fork an assassin. The other figure, dressed all in a cloaked blue, was decidedly dead from the wound Tor had delivered. He wasn't the only one. The noblewoman was glarind around in upset desperation, her eyes welling though not overflowing with tears as she knelt over the bodies of her two guards, both dead on the verge. And through it all, staggering with a nasty cut on his forehead, still with a lingering taint of alcohol, was Shamus.

He crept over to help Tor up, before suddenly pausing. Wellin watched as Shamus caught sight of the dead assassin. He looked at the clothes, the robe, the symbol on the back, marred with blood and the sword. Then he rose and straightened up, drawing his bow with all his might and levelling an arrow straight at Tor's head, any effort of concern vanishing instantly. His eyes gleamed with anger; burning, annoyed anger. His bow string trembled.
"What," he spat with little more than pure anger, "in the name of all the Nine, does the Blue Ring Tryst want with you?"

[Kiln]

I really like the humor that Shamus and Mungo add to the story, it keeps each part fresh and entertaining. Also the way that the plot has now begun to thicken a bit, with the seemingly infamous group of assassins attacking. Anyways I really like this story, its well written and interesting. Continue when you can, as I enjoy it very much.

[Foster]

Prt 9

"Who are the Blue Ring Tryst?" Wellin asked, looking at the strange scene in front of him, the effects of his fall finally taking hold and causing parts of his body to ache. Next to him, the noblewoman had stopped her tears, and had begun to look at the group. Tor didn't move. Wellin could make out beads of sweat silhuetted against the fires still raging in the inn.
"Who are the..." Shamus began, turning his head slightly but never taking his eyes from Tor, or his bow from it's ready position. "I'll tell you, my little hammer-beating anvil monkey, who they are. The Blue Ring Tryst are the kind of people that you don't want to cross. They're legends. They're not even supposed to exist, you know? Kind of that cross between myth and reality, those knives in the night that you tell kids to keep 'em scared in tucked firmly in their beds. They're nightmares. That's who they are." He finished his rant and turned back to Tor, pointing his arrow and raising his voice. "Well? What do they want? Answer me!"

Tor shook slightly, the colour again drained from his face. His eyes looked to the sword, but it was too far away. Shamus could kill him in an instant, and from the uncompromising look in his eyes, he was perfectly willing to do so.
"Bregale." Tor said, finally. "I know where Bregale is."

Shamus loosed an arrow. It flew through the air with sweeping venom, before twanging violently into the tree stump. The bandit threw down his bow in anger.
"Bregale! That's what this is about!" He screamed, lunging forward, his arms raised. Suddenly he'd grabbed Tor up, and was shaking him violently, as though he were a helpless manniquin. "This is where we're going? To the village of the damned!"
"Wha..." Tor began, before suddenly finding himself on the floor again, in a crumpled heap. "I...don't know. I don't know what's there, it's..."
"Of course you don't know!" Shamus screamed, his arms flapping. "Or you'd never have set out! Bregale has been lost for two hundred years, and good riddence if it keeps THEM off your back!"

The air was full of tension. Shamus paced violently, shaking his head, unsure what he should do. Tor lay and watched in amazement. He too, didn't know what to say. He knew nothing about why he was going, just that it seemed to be his family right. Then Wellin spoke, a quiet voice of reason.
"What's this about?" he asked. Shamus turned, and looked at him, a snarl on his lips.
"It's about a blood feud, that's what. Two hundred years ago there was a count called Olaf Grunweld. This guy decided it was in the best intrests of his community to mine the silver nearby, and found out that the largest deposits were on the land of his neighbour, Lord Dorian. Legend goes, and how you never heard this one it escapes me, considering it's told up and down Cyrodiil, that the site of the deposite was on the village of Bregale, which was hidden somewhere, how nobody knows. Grunweld found it somehow, formed a group, the Blue Ring Tryst, to force the inhabitants out. They succeeded, mainly by butchering the residents. Dorian tried to stop them, but Grunweld had made sure the deed to Bregale, the rights to the land, had gone missing, and he used a few well placed bribes to make the land his. With the loss of Bregale, the Dorians swore revenge. They stormed Castle Leetcher, the seat of the Grunweld's, and butchered the entire family. Unfortunatly, Lord Dorian died during the storming, and only he outside the village knew where Bregale was."
"So...Grunweld crossed Dorian, Dorian killed Grunweld to avenge the loss of the lives of his villagers?" Tor asked. Shamus looked at him once more.
"Basically. Thing is, that left the Blue Ring Tryst with nothing to do. A group who had sworn allegiance to their liege now didn't have one - what they had was the location of the Bregale silver mine. Now legend says they kill anyone who threatens their riches, and have sworn to extinguish the entire Dorian line from existance. What I can't understand," Shamus said, "was what this has to do with you."

Tor stood up, and showed him the necklace once more.
"Eight keys for eight locks, each one a bell,
Seven songs of fairness, one trembling death knell,
Open the Serpent, shift the wake, push forward to Bregale,
Slide the door as dark as night, do not heed the hail,
Eight bells to lift it high, eight to riches and glory,
Eight to purge the Blue Ring Tryst and end their dreadful story."

Shamus looked at him. "Ahh." he said.
"What?"
"That's the other bit of the legend, isn't it? That the deed to Bregale wasn't lost at all, but it was hidden by one of the villagers somewhere. The Dorian's put a bounty on the location of Bregale, as you would if you'd lost a silver mine, of fifty thousand septims - Fifty thousand! That's enough to buy a fully furnished house in Chorrol, or one of the more...snooty...towns. " The bandit's eyes gleamed, his anger diminishing as he thought of the gold. "And you have the location, do you?"
"I saw a map." Tor admitted. "So roughly."
"Where?"
Tor paused. "I...won't say."
Shamus' eyes narrowed, but then, tilting his head, he backed away. "Alright then. You keep your secrets." he said, his voice strangely calm considering the taste of gold on his lips.

Wellin walked over. "So, we know the location of a silver mine, guarded by a group of psychotic assassins?" he asked. Shamus nodded.
"It seems that way. I never knew." Tor said, wistfully. Suddenly it all made sense. He was a descendant of one of Bregale's villagers, and he alone held the key to the deed.
"I... don't get it." Wellin said.
"Don't get what? The chance for gold?" Shamus snapped.
"No... why they didn't just kill your family earlier. I mean, if they knew where you were, and from what you've told me it sounds likely, then why not move sooner, take your necklace?"
"We only just found the location of Bregale." Tor said, realising the awful events that had caused the deaths of his loved ones. "They didn't need to move on us - why draw attention? So they just waited, in case we did find out something. Then we forced their hand."

Slowly, a tear formed. If it hadn't been for his mother's intrest in an old family legend, then it would never have happened. They'd all be alive still, enjoying life on the coast of High Rock. He'd rather have them back than fifty thousand septims.

"Uh..." Wellin coughed, once more.
"What?" Shamus asked, snapping at him.
"One more thing. How did the...the Blue Ring Tryst? How did they know we were here?" he asked.

"They didn't." Came a voice from behind. Sweet and feminine, with a strong, determined quality. They all turned to look at the noblewoman, her young face pale, her eyes deep and mournful. "They were here to kill me. I am Kiera Dorian."

This post has been edited by Foster: Mar 30 2006, 04:40 PM

[Magefire]

"Monsters you...urgh...dispatched with a certain flair, innit?"
____________

LOL!!! This bandit, he's a little bit - wurrrr - a little bit - woooah - yeah?

We ain't seen him, right?

[Kiln]

LOL!!! This bandit, he's a little bit - wurrrr - a little bit - woooah - yeah?

We ain't seen him, right?

Not exactly sure what you mean by that but the bandit is awesome.

Anyways great update Foster, the twist near the end was very unexpected and I can't wait to see how this story further plays out, as I've said this story is very interesting so please continue soon.

[Foster]

Prt 10

"So, what do we do?" Wellin asked, to nobody in particular. The sun had already risen on the smouldering remains of the inn, and, despite Shamus' insistance that they really should get going, they'd stayed to at least make an attempt at burying the dead - or at least, they had managed to instruct Mungo to do so, though he'd had a distasteful nibble at the remains. As much as it was detestable to him, Tor knew the road was dangerous, and had helped himself to the armour of Lady Dorian's bodyguards. It had taken Wellin only a few moments to reshape it so that it would fit comfortably, and he was reassured at least that he now wasn't completely vulnerable in his furs.

By the time the sun had risen, painting the sky in a gloriously gleaming mix of brilliant yellow and gold, they were far away. Already Tor could see that Shamus was getting fed up of the female company. Obviously used to getting things her way, she had already begun to make demands on how the rest of them should behave, which had ended with him telling her frankly exactly what she could do with her breeding. Tor and Wellin remained an appreciable distance back to let the fireworks flow.

"And another thing," Kiera began, "you shouldn't chew with your mouth open. I watched you all through breakfast. It's disgusting."
"Well, I couldn't care less what you think, her-who-wipes-her-buttocks-with-silk."
"I'm hardly unfamiliar with discomfort! I spent three days in the Imperial dungeon once!"
"What for? Noise pollution? The rate you whinge I'm suprised they didn't muzzle you as well."
"Urrrgh."
"You said it, Mungo." Shamus said, nodding at his zombie.
"And must you keep that...abomination with you?"
"Mungo, I think she wants a hug."
"Aaarrgh! Get it off me! Get it off me!"
"Hahahahaha. Oh, but he likes you!"

By mid-afternoon, when they had decided once more to stop again under the shelter of a sprawling oak, Tor and Wellin were getting a little tired of it. They hadn't ceased. In fact, they were both amazed that their voices wern't hoarse.
"Don't make groin movements at me. It's vile."
"I was sitting on a mushroom, I just shifted forward! No way I'd make groin...what's a groin?"
"Your, ugh, I refuse to lose my dignity over this conversation."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Be quiet."
"Why are you wearing a turban?"
"Why is that any of your concern?"
"Take it off."
"How dare you command me!"
"Take it off or Mungo will."
"Leave her alone." Tor interuptted. Shamus looked at him.
"I just think, seeing as how she's basically nominated herself to come with us, especially considering that she seems to be the reason we were attacked last night, that she should be completely honest with us. Reveal any little secrets she's hiding. That's all, ay?" Shamus said, pulling out a knife from somewhere, and using it to give himself a rough shave.
"I'd like to know too." Wellins said, his voice slightly muted. Tor, as much has he wanted to resist the urge, was also curious. It wasn't often you saw a lady, especially a young and not unattrative one, wearing a turban. Kiera looked at them all for a moment, a fierce definance in her eyes. Then she bowed to peer pressure and removed it.

Shamus and Wellin burst out laughing. Only Tor remained quiet, although he was curious as to why exactly she had green hair.
"I did it for a very good reason." She said firmly, before turning to eat her dinner, at all times keeping her pinky extended and fingers in a dainty, lady-like position. As much as she was a rebel, some things had been taught that they came instinctivly. And she was regretting the whole hair debacle, especially given the company she was now forced to keep.

[jack cloudy]

WHAHAHA! That was just funny. Getting hugged by a zombie! Loved the update, please keep them coming.