mALX~ I guess its a good thing Wrothken had an empty stomach too! Thanks so much
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King Coin~ Oops! Thanks for catching that! Looks like I saw "eight" in the first sentence and got a little mixed up!
Grits~ When Wrothken loses his appetite, you better know its a serious situation!
SubRosa~ Nothing like a little kick from Haskill to get Wrothken's head on straight...er.
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With the release of Skyrim, Wrothken may be on vacation for a little bit. Of course we will be back, likely with even better ideas
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Chapter Thirty-Seven: Retaking the Fringe
Wrothken was surprised by how quickly sleep had come. What he wasn’t surprised by was his nightmare.
In his dream he was trapped in an ornate silver box with plush red velvet lining. Syl and Thadon were giants, standing over him as they filled the box with hearts of order. From each heart sprang a Knight. Wrothken was unarmed and could not do more than beat them with his fists. As they were mere husks, his blows did nothing and he was quickly overwhelmed. They were relentless with their swords. He was stabbed, sliced, and bleeding all over in mere seconds.
Then the knights started to sing. They sat in a circle around Wrothken’s mangled body and held hands, swaying with the lyrics.
“Obelisks in the Isles,
Bodies stacked in piles,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down!”
As Wrothken awoke, he found himself mumbling the song. He sat up slowly and cradled his face in his hands. By Alduin’s cursed wings, his hand hurt. Even the slightest movement sent it throbbing. It took him a good fifteen minutes of healing to get it to stop hurting.
He reached up to his face, feeling the scruff beginning to grow again. His first instinct was to shave it away, but then he remembered Thadon stroking his face, as he described skin as soft as a newborn fawn. He decided to let the scruff be for the moment.
Feeling somewhat better than he had last night, Wrothken took a calmer look around his room. He took a piece of parchment and a quill and made a list of things he needed removed: the mattress, the busts of Sheogorath, and the casks of alcohol to get rid of temptation just in case he went back to his misery. The last thing he wrote down was the door. Though Haskill’s words were comforting, it still stung to see Thadon. He handed the list to a Golden Saint on his way out.
“Yes, Your Grace?” He took a look at it. “What is this for?”
“Things I need replaced and removed from my room.”
She scanned it. “Are you certain? Most citizens are honored to sleep in your predecessor’s bed and to have Lord Sheogorath watching them as they sleep.”
Wrothken shook his head. “It’s a little too creepy for my taste.”
The Golden Saint nodded once. “As you wish, Sire.”
He knew she thought it was strange or crazy or blasphemous. He didn’t care. As long as he no longer had to scuttle away from harsh golden eyes, he was fine.
Sheogorath didn’t offer much information. Just wipe out Order. Save Passwall. At least the Knights weren’t people.
As he headed down the streets in Crucible, he realized that he no longer needed the room in Bernice’s Taphouse.
At least she’d be able to rent it out again, Wrothken thought. He sighed. He had to admit while it was no palace, it was far more comfortable and cozy there.
As he entered, he was taken by surprise by the looks he was getting. Normally, it was just glances followed by hurried whispers. This time, people actually looked somewhat upset.
Someone approached him. “I thought you favored us, your
Lordship.”
Wrothken pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have known. “It’s complicated.”
“Why?” He said, balling up his fists. “You lit the torch for us, didn’t you? So then why’d you go and choose
them? And now we’re without a duchess! We’ve got nothing, thanks to you!”
“Byron, you hush!” Bernice’s voice sounded from one of the tables. She set down her coffee pot and placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve got no idea what’s been going on, so be quiet! Just let him handle his business and things will get back to normal.”
Byron sneered. “Of course you’d say that.” He glanced at Wrothken before returning to his seat. “Gotta defend your boyfriend after all!”
The room erupted into a loud “Oooooooh!”
“Real mature,” Wrothken mumbled.
“Loud mouth,” Bernice said returning to the counter. “See if I give you anymore to drink! Sheogorath knows you’ve had quite enough!”
Wrothken took a seat in front of her. She poured him a cup of tea. “Since you’re here alive and well, I’ll assume it went well.”
“As well as you can expect,” he said. “Though I guess everyone knows about Syl.”
Bernice nodded. “I can’t say I’m surprised. She and Thadon had been on and off for years now. She loved him deeply,” Bernice placed her hand to her heart, sighing deeply. “It was her paranoia that got in the way. I hear once Thadon got too close for her liking, she assumed he was out to get her so she’d end it. Then once she cooled down, she’d go running back.”
“Hmmm,” Wrothken said. “That had to be hard on Wide Eye.”
“Who?” Bernice asked. “Oh, you mean that Argonian?” Bernice shook her head. “Well, that would never work out.” She leaned in close, whispering, “Could you imagine kissing an Argonian? They’ve got no lips!” She stood back up. “Then again, Thadon probably wouldn’t bother with kissing. He wouldn’t know tenderness if it beat him over the head!” She shook her head for a moment. “So, I take it you’ll be living up in the palace.” She frowned a little. “Just don’t forget about little old me.”
Wrothken patted her hand. “You know I could never do that. I think without you, I would have lost it long ago.”
After he changed into his armor, he remembered the pieces of ore he gathered for that set of madness armor Cutter crafted. The ache he felt over seeing her with Rheyna subsided. He realized that he wouldn’t want to get involved seriously with anyone from the Isles. Atrea drove him crazy enough.
He stopped. Thinking of her didn’t bring him any pain either. He gasped, a smile starting to spread. Relief swept over him like a wave. That meant he could return home…after he stopped the Greymarch, of course.
As soon as he entered Cutter’s store, she stared up at him. Her eyes glistened. “Do you enjoy it?” She demanded. “Cutting my heart?”
Wrothken’s eyes widened and he froze in his tracks. “What in Oblivion do you mean?”
“You know!” She said pointing at him. Her bony, white hand trembled. “Why visit that other smith?”
“What? What other…” Wrothken suddenly remembered Dumag in Bliss. He was only there once to get his armor repaired.
Cutter folded her arms. “His blades are dull and uninspired. Mine are sharp and exquisite.”
Wrothken sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I’m sorry.”
Cutter scowled at him. “Good. Otherwise I would have slit your throat! Now what do you want?”
Wrothken dumped the ore on the counter. “Remember the matrix I brought you? I want some of the armor.”
Madness Armor Cutter held up the ore with a smirk. “This will be a magnificent set. What do you want made? I assume the boots, since you have the matrix for it. What else?”
Wrothken looked at the examples. Since he had the boots, he figured he may as well start from the ground up. “The greaves and gauntlets.”
“Perfect.” She took some measuring tape. “Strip down and hold still. I’ll need to take your measurements.”
Cutter had to stand on a stool to reach past Wrothken’s shoulders. Each time she touched him, he felt like someone placed ice on him. He tried not to shiver, but when her hand brushed along her inner thigh, he couldn’t help jumping a little.
Cutter looked up at him with a questioning glance. “You’re not getting any ideas…. are you?”
Wrothken shook his head. Then again, it was hard not to get some sort of idea given where her head was placed. He willed himself not to poke her in the eye.
“Good.” Cutter said, standing up. “Then again…. I bet it hurts…” She bit the end of her quill as she wrote down the measurements.
He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but he couldn’t help it. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” she eyed him in a way that gave Wrothken goosebumps. And not the good kind. “You’re pretty big, even for a Nord. I’m guessing that’s true all over.” She twirled her short hair. “And just look at your hands.” She shuddered violently. “I bet you can choke someone real good if you put your mind to it.”
Wrothken didn’t quite know how to respond. He had indeed been hoping for something to happen with Reyna, bu Cutter? And all her talk of pain? Not something he was interested in, especially if she wanted to reciprocate. “What about Rheyna?” He managed to ask.
She shrugged. “She and I are,” she linked her fingers together. “Balance. I can give her what she likes and she does the same in return, but we are not exclusive.”
They stood in an uncomfortable silence. Cutter never broke her intense stare. She didn’t even blink.
“So… how much will it cost me?”
Cutter huffed and looked at her list of materials. “For what you’ve requested...” She wrote him up a bill and handed it over.
Wrothken felt like someone had punched him. What good was being a duke when it didn’t get him a single septim? Where could he get that much money? He glanced around the room and noticed the sword he sold her from Xedilian still propped up on the wall. Maybe he could find more weapons to sell. He remembered the bow from Syl. “Alright,” he nodded. “If you hold on to those for me, I’ll get you the septims.”
Cutter looked away with a chilling smile. “Or I can come up with some other arrangements…”
“No, no,” Wrothken said, quickly picking up his armor. “I insist!” He quickly slipped out the door before she could respond.
Wrothken arrived at The Fringe by nightfall. In the dark sky, the stars were a beautiful pink. There were so many that Wrothken found it easy to see without the aid of a torch. Everything was bathed in a soft fuchsia glow.
The sky Looking around, Wrothken could see that obelisks had risen everywhere, even inside some of the buildings. Passwall was no longer the busy little town he recalled upon first entering. It was as still as a cemetery. The only sounds in the village were the metallic clanking of the Golden Saints’ boots. His heart sank, though he didn’t know the people of the town. He wondered just how many of them had died, or if once he killed the Gatekeeper if everyone snuck further into the Isles and escaped.
A small army of Golden Saints stood in a small cluster. Wrothken noticed that they were all men with the exception of one soldier.
Male armor It was strange. It was a huge emergency in the Isles, so why weren’t there any Mazken around? Surely they could have set their differences aside just for a moment to ensure the survival of the realm.
Wrothken assumed the female was in charge due to the way she was barking orders at the others. She was taller than all of them. Her armor was badly cut and scratched and her sword was still in her hand. She didn’t wear a helmet, revealing light blond hair tied back in a Breton braid. She stood in the middle of a pile of knights of Order.
"Your Grace,” she said as soon as she saw him. How did he know he was the Duke? He shrugged it off as a Golden Saint thing. There was no use trying to make sense of very much. “I am Aurig Desha, lead officer of this post. A dark time has been thrust upon us. Passwall is under attack. We are outmatched and outnumbered. At first light, the spire at the center of town became active. Immediately, the area around it began to crystallize and change. Soon after that, the sky darkened and the knights came."
“A Spire? Right in the center of town?” He closed his eyes, trying to remember if he had noticed it before. “Why was that allowed to just sit there?”
“It was believed to be a monument from times past but its true purpose appears to be more sinister. It appears to be a source of power for these invaders. A... portal, or some sort of gate. I don't know. If we cannot disable or destroy it somehow, I do not think that we can stop this invasion. This town has stood on the edge of the Shivering Isles since they were borne from the mists of time. For our purposes, it serves as a defensible outpost.” She paused, clenching her teeth. “That is, against typical enemies who can know fear, intimidation, and hopelessness."
“I know how to get rid of them.” Wrothken felt a surge of usefulness. “What you do is place three of their hearts into the obelisk. Only thing is, it spawns more of them every time you do it.”
Desha clenched her jaw. “I've been losing Aureals with each attack, and I'm down to nothing but
men.” She paused, looking Wrothken up and down. “No offense, Lord. We are pinned down here. If we lose, the Gates of Madness will fall. If the gates fall, the enemy will flood into the Isles. We will be helpless to stop them. But now that you've arrived, perhaps we can slow them down.”
“Alright, what’s your plan?”
She hesitated. “Even though I have served with these Aureals for centuries, as the Duke of Mania, it is your right to command the troops. Command them if you will, or leave it to me. Either way, make haste. Our time is short.” She pointed to the obelisk, which was starting to spark. “That means there are more coming.”
Wrothken looked from her to the other Saints. He was a decent brawler, but he wasn’t one for complex strategizing. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
Desha smiled. Wrothken had to admit it was a beautiful sight, especially when compared to the ever present scowl he had grown accustomed to. Maybe the Golden Saints weren’t so bad after all.
“I thank you for your trust. In your name and for the sake of the Shivering Isles, I shall not disappoint you.”
Wrothken gave her a nod and walked around what was left of Passwall. He hadn’t been there since he had first entered the Isles. Still, he felt a sort of attachment to it. Seeing the obelisks and a few of the bodies of villagers sent a numbing sensation down his legs.
He paused by the inn and looked in the window. It was in shambles. Dishes and food were everywhere. The bust of Sheogorath lay in pieces scattered across the floor. People who were unable to escape the Knights were strewn all over the place. Blood wasn’t splattered everywhere, like he had expected. Instead it just formed a thick pool on the floor. There was one slice in each person. Each kill was planned in a way that people in the Isles would have no way of fighting against.
This was the fate of the Isles, if the Greymarch wasn’t stopped. Suddenly he realized exactly what he was going to be fighting for.
“Aurig Desha,” he said, approaching the commanding Saint. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s get rid of these Knights once and for all.”
She smiled at him. “Good.” She called to the other Saints. “Form up!” They all came to her and stood at attention. “By the Staff, we will not allow this town to fall!” She turned to Wrothken. “Are you prepared for battle, Your Grace?”
He nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Because here they come!”
This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 08:22 AM