Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 3 Options

[Florodine of Hlaalu]

Wow great addition. A little darker mood then the others i'd say. But it was still well written

[Soulseeker3.0]

wow, very good. I agree with Florodine, darker but just as good.

[Jonajosa]

Wow great addition. A little darker mood then the others i'd say. But it was still well written

As I have said before... It seems diffrent. Perhaps it is just the plot for the expansion.

[minque]

Oh but it´s natural to be in a darker mood when you´re in Mournhold.....and our Trey always wants to do the right thing, so even now A more sympathetic thief you can´t find that´s for sure...


More please , Sir???

[mplantinga]

Thanks again for another excellent installment. I am curious about the magic sword; I would certainly like to know what the unusual enchantment is. As always, I'll be looking forward to the next update.

[treydog]

I could feel that the time was fast approaching when I must resume my search for the lair of the Dark Brotherhood, but I did want to take a moment to examine the sword Sunel Hlas had presented to me. When I reached my room at the Winged Guar, I removed the wrapping and first examined the external appearance of the sword. It was a huge weapon, one that would require two hands and exceptional strength to wield. The blade was an odd design- one side was saw-toothed and the other was smooth and straight. I next extended my magical senses toward the blade. The aura of the sword was… peculiar. As my hands gripped the hilt, a rage took hold of me, as if all my enemies stood arrayed before me. Just as it seemed certain that the anger would consume me, my emotions underwent a dizzying change. Where I had felt anger, now I felt joy and peace, almost as though my mother had come back to life and called to me. With a convulsive shudder, I forced my hands free of the sword and simply stared at the weapon, sweat standing on my brow and my breath coming in great gasps. As I calmed myself, I thought I understood the strange purpose that had been forged into the blade- it would alternately enrage and calm an enemy who did not resist its enchantment. However, it also seemed to me that its unexpected changes in “personality” might very well drive the wielder insane. With regret, I muffled the artifact in heavy cloth and thrust it under the bed. Perhaps, if I survived my current quest, I would find an appropriate home for the unique sword. But now, it was time to resume the hunt.

However, before I rushed headlong back into the darkness beneath Mournhold, it seemed that it would be wise to develop a strategy. Although the expedient of rushing in and killing them all had the virtue of simplicity, it was perhaps not the best choice. My long struggle against the goblins had taught me more than the fact that I possessed an innate capacity for violence- I had also learned that the key to destroying an army was to remove the leadership. The “soldiers” of the Dark Brotherhood were only my enemies because they had been directed by their master to attack me. Though I had no love for the Dark Brotherhood, I preferred not to have still more blood on my hands. Another point in favor of a stealthy approach was the effect it would have upon the assassins themselves. Like all such organizations, they had come to believe somewhat in their own mythology. Therefore, if someone managed to slip unseen into their midst and kill their leader, that superstition would turn back upon them. They might even feel that it was a message of disfavor from the dark god they worshipped. In any event, the loss of their head man would throw them into disarray and leave me with fewer deaths on my conscience. The immediate problem that I faced was that my training in magic had been limited to alteration instead of illusion. That was a circumstance I would have cause to regret more than once in the years to come. To overcome that lack, I must depend on potions and my ability to move quietly through the shadows. And if all of those things failed, if the Dark Brotherhood sentinels were too alert- then they must needs pay the price, for I still had my skill with a blade. And I was forced to use that skill far sooner than I had planned.

My head filled with ideas for how I would invade the Dark Brotherhood’s lair unseen, I made my way to Great Bazaar, where I hoped to purchase potions or scrolls that would aid me in a stealthy approach. So preoccupied was I, that I was sent sprawling when a robed Dunmer suddenly appeared before me with a flash and a cloud of noxious smoke. The dark elf took no immediate notice of me, but instead proceeded to strut across the cobbles, declaiming in a loud voice and making theatrical gestures. His speech was as follows:

“Greetings, fair citizens of Mournhold! I am the great, renowned, respected, and feared wizard, Ovis Velas! In the coming weeks, you shall see more and more of me, as I bring this city to its knees! But for the moment, allow me to demonstrate my power on one of your hopeless countrymen!”

He then paused and scanned the crowd with eyes that betrayed no hint of sanity… or mercy. His fiery gaze fell upon me and he gestured at me.

“You there! Yes, you, you ugly Breton. Prepare yourself to feel my wrath.”

My initial surprise had passed and I began to doubt the scene that was playing out before me. Surely this was not real- it must be the prelude to one of the plays that were staged here in the city. No doubt this brief scene was a spectacular way to get the attention of the crowd and whet their appetite for more. Thus, rather than respond to the “wizard’s” insult, I simply got back to my feet and spread my hands. My body language was clear- I was inviting him to do his worst. Then I waited expectantly for the usual announcement of when the complete play would be performed. What I received was a magical assault.

The charlatan hurled a series of spells at me that had a number of disagreeable effects. First, he invoked a Grave Curse, which drained my own innate store of magicka. Next came a spell to make me more susceptible to disease. And last, he blasted me with a Damage Health cantrip. Oddly for one who claimed to be a powerful wizard, his spells seemed to have minimal effect upon me. At the time, I believed that was simply a result of my Breton heritage, which provided me with a natural resistance to hostile spells. Still, the spells did hurt, and Ovis showed no sign of stopping after his initial attack. He continued to hurl spell after spell at me, screaming “Die, Breton scum!” the whole time.

As the eldritch energies lashed me, I revised my opinion of what was happening. This was not some preliminary to a drama, but an actual attack. With an oath, I drew my sword and charged the foaming lunatic. His concept of defense against a physical attack was even worse than his offensive spells- my blade took him under the left arm as he raised it to cast a spell. With a groan, he fell dead at my feet. As the guards converged on the scene, a bystander spoke up quickly,

“I saw the whole thing. The dead Dunmer attacked this stranger without provocation. He was only defending himself.”

To me, he added.

“You handled the wizard easily. That was interesting. I expected with all the rumors about how powerful and evil he was, that he would be tougher than he appeared. He did say his name was Velas? You know, there’s a Velas Manor in Godsreach. Perhaps checking it out would clear this up.”

As I recovered from the minor damage Velas had inflicted and cleaned my sword, I wondered what was wrong with this city. Madness seemed to permeate the very stones and buildings. And that same madness then infected the populace. The irony was beyond belief- here I was, trying to acquire supplies that would allow me to avoid more killing, and this madman practically threw himself onto my blade. As to the suggestion that I investigate his house, that seemed like a daft idea. Wizards tended to protect their homes with any number of nasty surprises- and just because the wizard was dead didn’t mean that his traps would be safe. In fact, if he had summoned any dangerous creatures, they would be even more unpredictable now that his control was gone. No, I already was going to have to poke my nose into a place I would have preferred to avoid. There was no need at all for me to stir up still more trouble. Let some other fool risk life and sanity discovering whatever it was the “great” Ovis Velas had left behind.

[minque]

A weird sword that was!!! IfI was Trey..i´d just do exactly as he did....shove it under my bed!

Now that mage ......a horrible experience, our boy had to dispose of him, poor thing!

As always wonderfully described, emotional and sensitive...I can easily put myself in Trey´s place and sense what he´s feeling about things.....

So I want to thank you for updating and sharing your great work with us!

[Wolfie]

Sweet, more Trey
I never have managed to get the bipolar blade, one of these days i'll get round to it......maybe.....

[mplantinga]

I enjoyed your description of this most unusual blade. It does seem like Trey had the right idea in putting it under his bed; this blade sounds unpredictable at best. Your description of the encounter with the "wizard" was quite intriguing; I was surprised when Trey thought it was just a play, and I'm glad he managed to get out okay once he realized it was not in jest.

[Soulseeker3.0]

great update Trey please add more

[Kiln]

I was looking at this and I noticed that I hadn't commented on it yet.
I know it took me a long time but anyways...the best part about this part was, in my opinion the decision not to bother investigating the Velas manor though I wonder if his path will lead him back to it with time. I also like the way the character puts so much thought into what he does before he does it, keeps the human feel about him.

Good work mate, update soon.

[Taillus]

The stories of Trey. I must say that after reading your whole story that was posted on the main site it really drove me to want to tell the story of Taillus. I read it faithfully too. I took a solid day and read it from start to finish I couldn't stop until it was done. Same goes for this installment. The character is amazing, the stroytelling is so swift and smooth and like I said, a complete inspiration for me.
Keep it up Trey! As always good work!

[minque]

The stories of Trey. I must say that after reading your whole story that was posted on the main site it really drove me to want to tell the story of Taillus. I read it faithfully too. I took a solid day and read it from start to finish I couldn't stop until it was done. Same goes for this installment. The character is amazing, the stroytelling is so swift and smooth and like I said, a complete inspiration for me.
Keep it up Trey! As always good work!

Ahh so you got it too? Exactly this story made me write mine....it´s an amazing source of inspiration huh?

[Holosiren]

I have read every chapter of your series, Treydog, but I was not a member until recently, so I come late in disparando my gratitude. Yours is one finger on the hand I use to count worthy fanfictions on the internet. Every chapter is excellent, every character well translated. Good video-game writing is as rare as hens' teeth, but I guess I've found an exception. Bravissimo.

This post has been edited by Holosiren: Feb 16 2006, 09:33 PM

[Elidor]

What holosiren said

[treydog]

Firmly putting aside speculations upon the peculiarities of wizards, I entered the sewers. My previous explorations had convinced me that the Dark Brotherhood would be found somewhere beneath the Manor District- my rough map indicated a connection from the tunnels under the Bazaar and those of the residential area. Mindful that I would need to husband my magical resources, I avoided combat whenever possible as I sought the entry to the Dark Brotherhood’s hidden base. Wasting my magical energy, not to mention my blood, on wandering goblins or unquiet spirits would be of little use in the battle that I could feel was looming. When I reached a door in the northeast section of the Bazaar sewers, I knew that I was close. The seemingly random scratches on the doorframe were as plain as a tavern sign to one who knew how to read them. This was the gateway into that corner of Mournhold that the assassins had claimed as their own.

I prepared my spells and my weapons, then reluctantly opened the door and slipped through into a partially collapsed tunnel. A faint whiff of the incense that the Dark Brotherhood used in their arcane rituals confirmed my reading of the marks on the door. This was the place where I would find my answers or my ending- I would leave only when I knew who had set the assassins on my trail- or not at all. It did not take long for me to discover that my faith in my stealth and in chameleon potions had been overly optimistic. Though I held the Dark Brotherhood in contempt, I could not deny their skills- whether they detected my presence from the subtle changes in air currents from the opening and closing of the door or perhaps from my scent I do not know. However it was, they knew that an intruder was in their midst and they sought me with frightening skill and persistence. But if I had been naïve, they were arrogant- too certain of their reputation and the fear that they were used to striking into the hearts of their victims. So, though they hunted for me with great enthusiasm, they did so as individuals or in pairs. More, they shouted back and forth, giving away their locations and allowing me to avoid being trapped. The Dark Brotherhood had spent too much time striking at unsuspecting victims- they had lost the ability to stalk and take prey that had fangs to rend them in turn. So, while they swarmed and shouted, I slew them with arrows and sword. It did not all go my way- I suffered from their poisoned blades more than I care to recall.

As I evaded and ambushed the assassins in their tunnels, they reminded me of nothing so much as vermin- pestilent creatures feeding upon the poisonous vapors that seemed to seep through the city, causing madness and hatred. Even as they battened on that atmosphere of discord, they gnawed at the foundations of the city, weakening it as a parasite weakens its host. And like vermin, they were not the cause of the disease that gripped Mournhold, but merely a symptom. Their evil thrived because those in power had made a place for them, used them, nurtured them. They lived like vermin and I slew them like vermin- without remorse, because it was necessary. And even if I took no joy in the killing, there was a certain satisfaction. It was not a task I would have chosen if I had been left alone, but it was one that I would accomplish in as efficient a fashion as I could. Thus, even though I avoided the assassins that I could, by the time I reached the central chamber of their outer base, I had accounted for half-a-dozen of the black-clad murderers. Their poisons had also taken a toll on me- they were long-lasting as well as potent. Still, the fact that the Dark Brotherhood seemed to have an almost pathological attitude against using bows or thrown weapons worked to my advantage- and I was grateful for that small blessing. I suppose that restriction on weaponry came from their “traditions.” No doubt, they believed that it somehow increased their mystique to be able to approach an opponent unseen and slip a poisoned blade between his ribs. As far as I was concerned, if you had to kill someone, you did it as efficiently as possible, with as little risk to yourself as you could achieve. Dead was dead, and stylistic flourishes had no place in the serious business of making sure it was the other fellow whose life spilled out on the floor.

All too soon, the rough tunnels gave way to a gallery that still held the remnants of the old city. Amongst the ruined columns and broken slabs of stone, I came upon two doorways. Both doors were framed with archaic script that identified the ruined complex of buildings as “Moril Manor.” One doorway gave entrance to the east building, the other, to the north building. While I hesitated, trying to decide which one to choose, I also considered the fact that this was almost certainly the home of the senior members of the Dark Brotherhood. It would suit their vanity to take up residence in a ruined mansion, to pretend that they were members of the aristocracy. Of course, they would probably fail to see the irony of the fact that their “manor” was nothing but a ruin, a dead shell inside a dead city. On the other hand, they would be likely to employ more capable guards than the pitiful sentries I had defeated in the outer tunnels. Whoever awaited me beyond those doors would be more skilled, more dangerous. Of course, they might also have the answers I sought- most important, who had hired them. No flash of insight or feat of rational deduction came to aid me- my choice was random, or so I believe. In any event, I selected the north building as my starting point.

My fears regarding the presence and quality of my opponents were realized almost instantly, as two Dark Brotherhood door wardens attacked from the shadows flanking the door. Worse, they were soon joined by two giant rats that they had obviously trained to fight intruders. As had happened before, I was actually aided by the sheer number of enemies ranged before me. Where they had to maneuver around one another and interfered with each other’s attacks, I could strike freely and be sure of damaging an opponent. Even so, I had to resort to my potions to stay alive and had an interesting several minutes dodging poisoned blades and diseased rats. Even as I cut down the last of the assassins, I was aware that the shouts and the clash of blades must have been clearly audible throughout the building. Battered and bleeding, I prepared myself for the onslaught of the next wave of guards. While I waited, I felt a wave of despair wash over me. Although my restorative potions had saved me yet again, this last fight had been difficult. My armor and my sword were beginning to show the effects of near-constant combat and my limbs felt as though they were made of lead. How I longed to lean up against the wall and close my eyes for just a few brief moments. But I knew that if I relaxed for even a second, I would never rise again.

[Wolfie]

Great update Treydog!
Nice to no this story hasn't been neglected

[minque]

Heureka! Trey is back, still hunting those Darkies....ahh let´s wish him luck, he certainly needs it.

As always we can easily put ourselves in the pants of poor Trey, feel what he feels, see what he sees, due to the vivid descriptions of our favourite charachter

We are so happy to see this amazing story continued and we thank you treydog for sharing your talent with us!

[Soulseeker3.0]

Yes, another update, I like the closing remark because it is true. great update Trey and please continue

[treydog]

As the tense minutes of waiting stretched out and no attack was forthcoming, I realized that I was safe- at least so long as I did not move from the area of the entrance. Again, the Dark Brotherhood’s mindless adherence to their rules and their hierarchy had worked to my advantage. No more assassins rushed forward to attack me because their orders did not allow them to do so. All the other guards in this building had their own areas of responsibility- no doubt their leaders had told them,

“Guard this hall or doorway with your life. Do not let anyone pass.”

And so, even as they heard the sounds of a life-and-death struggle mere yards away, they remained in place, rooted to the spot by fear of the consequences if they disobeyed their orders and thought for themselves. That rigid discipline gave me the time I needed to complete my recovery and to prepare my spells and weapons for the next stage of my attack.

First, I cast my two favorite spells, Beggars Nose and Bound Longbow. I whispered the arcane syllables with satisfaction- the detection spell unerringly showed me the location of the remaining sentries by revealing their poisoned blades, rendering those weapons “two-edged swords” indeed. Finally, I used one of my precious Chameleon potions and melted into the shadows. The only indication that the hired killers had of my presence was the whisper of steel arrows that flashed out of the darkness to take them in the throat or the back. Those who had made their evil living stalking other men had no chance to consider the irony of their own deaths arriving unseen from the darkness. If the gods existed, if there was justice in this world or the next, those bloody-handed assassins would have all eternity to wonder at the vengeance that had harvested them. Where the previous deaths I had caused made me feel unclean, as if my soul was stained, I knew that the execution of these killers was an almost holy act, something that would bring peace to the unquiet spirits of their victims. As the last sentry collapsed in a shapeless heap, I felt my shoulders straighten, as if a huge weight had come off of them.

Exploring the now-empty corridors, I again found myself with a choice of two doors. One was a circular affair of corroded brass construction, green with age. The other was marked as giving onto the courtyard of the ruined manor complex. Again, I chose randomly, deciding to investigate the nondescript brass door before searching the wider environs of the manor. To this day, I cannot understand how it was that I did not receive some hint of the significance of my choice. In my innocence, I supposed that great evil should be palpable, should give some signal to the unwary. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking, or perhaps it was simply that the aura of the evil I was about to face was lost in the atmosphere of despair and darkness that permeated the entire place. And perhaps it was because Mournhold itself was in the grip of even greater evil. However it happened, when I quietly opened that door, I was surprised to see a Dunmer dressed like all the other Dark Brotherhood assassins, save that he did not wear the usual head covering that rendered them insect-like and anonymous. I had no time to recover from that surprise, for I was immediately subjected to a still greater shock as he cast a quick spell and a magical bow appeared in his hands. I had become so accustomed to the Dark Brotherhood’s disdain for bows that I never expected to see one of them use one of my spells to conjure a bow from thin air. My dismay lasted until a poisoned arrow punched into my left side and awakened me to the fact that I needed to either fight back or get out of sight.

It was one of the most peculiar fights in which I had ever engaged. The two of us stood some fifteen feet apart firing arrows at one another. More amazing still was the fact that the assassin made no move to protect himself. Even when my steel missiles pierced his torso, he did nothing except grunt as if annoyed and redouble his own efforts to kill me. I, on the other hand, was a veritable blur of motion as I vainly sought cover in the open hallway. Arrows hurt when they strike you, even more so when they are propelled by the magical energy of a conjured bow. I quickly realized that I was in a fight for my life- the other assassins had been bumbling fools compared to this fellow. Something about the eerie silence with which he went about the task of turning me into a human pin-cushion unnerved me. He showed no anger, no fear, just a business-like approach to the task at hand. He was simply a craftsman, going about his craft. In the end, what saved me was my potions. Except this time, it was their bulk rather than their magical powers. Anyone who has followed my story for any length of time has by now realized that when I went “adventuring,” I bore a strong resemblance to a mobile apothecary shop. Thus it was that while my arrows generally found a home in various fleshy parts of my opponent, his missiles were frequently deflected by the many vials and packets that I had distributed about my person. In effect, I was wearing a double layer of armor. At last, my silent adversary ran out of arrows and turned to draw his sword. Just as he did so, I sent a shaft which found a joint in his armor between his upper arm and his torso. The steel arrow punched straight through his body and actually pinned him to the wall. It was also clear that it had severed a major blood vessel- his already grayish face took on an even more ghastly pallor and his movements ceased. As his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke for the first and last time in my hearing. And his gasping final words sent a thrill of fear through me-

“No- tell my liege… I have failed him….”

Before I could begin to frame a question, he suddenly jerked spasmodically and then was still. Whatever answers he might have had for me were gone forever.

The dead Dunmer had graying hair, worn rather long, and a prominent nose and thin, sour mouth. Clenched between his teeth was a small vial, which gave off a pungent odor. That explained the last, violent shudder before he had died. Knowing that he was doomed, the assassin had taken his own life rather than risk giving up any information. As I searched the body, I learned that his name was Dandras Vules, and that he had been the leader of the Dark Brotherhood organization in Mournhold. Besides the usual armor and a powerful magical sword, that seemed to be it. Or at least so I believed until I noticed some rather interesting stitching on his left sleeve. To my experienced eye it looked like the outline of a secret pocket. Turning the sleeve inside out revealed a tightly rolled piece of parchment. When I unrolled the paper the words “Trey, a Breton” fairly leapt off the paper. I sat down rather abruptly and read the words over and over, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Though the original parchment is now gone, the contents are forever burned into my memory-

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

How many of us are privileged, if that is the word, to see our own death warrant? Having been treated to that signal honor, I can tell you that it was one I would have just as soon avoided.

How long I sat there, staring sightlessly into space, I cannot say. The words on the paper, combined with Vules’ dying declaration, left little doubt as to who had ordered my death. Still, my mind sought a way out. The “contract” referred to the client only by the letter “H.” There were any number of people whose names began with that letter. Except that, as a small voice in my head reminded me, only the very wealthy and very politically well-connected could hire the Dark Brotherhood. And except that Dandras Vules’ had referred to “my liege.” He might have meant the leader of his foul band, but I knew he had not. He was referring to a king, a king who was rumored to permanently remove “inconvenient” people, a king whose name was Helseth Hlaalu. A king who had ordered my death as casually as another man might order dinner.

Here Ends Chapter 3