The Dawncaster Chronicles [Mages, Arcane University], Have you ever thought about taking the dark and thorny path? Options

[seerauna]

*gasp* You can't leave us with this cliffie! You must update it! Please?

No other comment other than that was pretty suspenseful. Keep up the good work!

[Illydoor]

Ok then seerauna, I won't leave you waiting much longer .

[Illydoor]

Okay, the next part will be up tomorrow I promise, but in the meantime, I've got an exam to prepare for .

[Illydoor]

Okay then, here it is, the last part is unedited, so as always crit is welcome:

Chapter VIII: A Narrow Escape

Nathaniel was paralyzed to the spot, every muscle rigid, abject fear jolting through his veins as his mind raced and his heart pounded against his ribs, so loud he almost raised a hand to stop it beating lest it cause anymore noise. The gloom-veiled corridor was eerily silent, permeated only by the regulated, timid breath of Nathaniel, quickening with each second.

He stared wide-eyed at the motionless figure of the Warden, his features obscured by the concealing shadow, drab and undistinguished like cold stone amidst the darkness.

Had the Warden seen him? What would he do if he had? Questions raced through Nathaniel’s mind. If the Warden had indeed seen Nathaniel he gave no sign of acknowledging him.

Maybe he was just watching, waiting until Nathaniel acted, at which point he would spring from the gloominess and capture him. The prospect sent a stab of fear into Nathaniel’s chest.

Nathaniel was at disbelief as to how he had missed him, so engrossed in finding the right door he must have completely overlooked the warden, sitting statuesquely in the dark corner, shrouded in shadow.

Consciously, he cursed himself for his lack of concentration.

The warden still hadn’t moved. A flicker of denial – and hope – crossed Nathaniel’s mind. Perhaps, just like the warden, Nathaniel too was cloaked in the all-consuming shadow of the corridor and thus the reason why they had not spotted each other as of yet.

Jolts of adrenaline rushed through Nathaniel, leaving an electrifying tingle his skin. It was a sort of exhilarating, thrilling fear that he found himself craving despite the danger of his situation. Nathaniel realised all too fast that the success of his mission was on a knife-edge.

Silently, breath caught in his lungs, Nathaniel leant forward towards the Warden, into the small patch of light that occupied the middle-ground of the passageway.

A quiet, whispery rasp emitted from the Warden’s direction, like an intake of air being breathed in and out – so faint it was barely audible – punctuated every moment or so by a soft ululation of air.

Snoring. The warden was asleep!

Relief washed over Nathaniel like a bucket of icy water, though the adrenaline in his blood didn’t fade as easily, leaving him practically shuddering with excitement. He was safe!

Nathaniel knew that if he had set out but a moment earlier, the warden could have been awake and he would have been captured before he even left his room. The realisation of how much influence luck and chance had over things frightened Nathaniel to the very core.

Waving a wary hand under the Warden’s nose to check that the he wasn’t just feigning sleep as a clever ruse, Nathaniel sighed with a certain measure of relaxation. Satisfied that the coast was at last clear again, he returned his attention to his original goal, the door to the room of Damyond Modroggle.

Placing a wary hand on the cool brass doorknob for support, Nathaniel put his ear to the ingrained surface of the door in an attempt to discern the lock’s difficulty.

He was about to test the lock but yelped as suddenly the tension in the handle slacked and he felt it twisting beneath the weight of his hand, and too late, he realised to his folly that the door wasn’t locked at all. The side of his face still pressed to the surface, the door swung violently into the room on its own accord, dragging Nathaniel with it.

By some otherworldly miracle he’d managed to keep his hand firmly on the door handle as it had burst inwards, preventing him from falling onto the floor and creating any unwanted noise. Grunting quietly with effort, he hauled his legs up to a more comfortable couching position, quite impressed with himself for his little stunt.

He almost let out a nervous laugh at his own misfortune, but composed himself quickly and stopped himself. The Warden was still outside, and could wake up at any moment. He couldn’t afford to go by on luck alone; Nathaniel knew that more than anyone.

He closed the door silently on the sleeping warden and the gloomy corridor, and what little of the waxen, shallow light that spilled in through the gap diminished into shadow, leaving the only source of light for Nathaniel to go by a single tallow candle flickering in the darkness by Damyond’s window.

Taking a cautious step forward, Nathaniel finally had chance to examine the spacious interior of the Redguard associate’s room.

It was true what the other students had said, it seemed Damyond was truly and utterly devoted to alchemy. There was not an inch in his room that wasn’t occupied by some kind of alchemical equipment. Peculiar phials, tubes and flasks filled every flat space available in the room along with a myriad of oblong-looking glass containers, the colourful, viscous liquids inside reflecting the wan moonlight and the sallow glow of the candle, glimmering like a thousand coins in the darkness.

Nathaniel wondered how he was ever going to find the right potion amongst all those; it would take him hours to sift through each and every bottle. With some apprehension of his task to come, He took another step into the dark room, admiring the rows upon rows of potion bottles while they twinkled like a backdrop of stars in the silvery moonlight, as if there were no walls at all and they were in the open-air under a night-sky.

Regaining focus, Nathaniel glanced down, and noted with a small measure of contentment that it wasn’t only his room that was cluttered and disorganised. Various paraphernalia littered Damyond’s floor in careless abandon, mortars and pestles and retorts, strange calcinators and curved alembics, and many more twisted, bizarre tools that Nathaniel knew would have names he wouldn’t be able to pronounce properly.

All sorts of different ingredients lay in dusty casks around the floor, and Nathaniel tread with a wary step around them, making sure not to disturb anything. Even on the bed, where Damyond slept in peace, snoring gently, there lay discarded and crumpled pieces of paper, recipes and notes and lists of ingredients.

Nathaniel crept forward silently, as above him in the various alcoves of the shelves, the potion bottles still glimmered and pulled at his eyes with a rapturous delight.

Cautious talking and skirting persuasion with Damyond Modroggle the day beforehand had revealed that the Redguard kept his best, most potent potions in the wooden cabinet by his bedside table, so Nathaniel decided to start his search there. With a careful eye on the floor, he made a pathway to the bed, towards the slightly askew cupboard beside it, all the time watching the sleeping Damyond as well as feet.

After a few tentative steps Nathaniel had reached the cabinet, only having to stop once to allow Damyond to snort, lie still for a suspenseful, heart-stopping moment, then to Nathaniel’s relief shift to a more comfortable position and settle into sleep once more. After Nathaniel had checked that there was indeed no chance of Damyond waking, he proceeded in his attempts to open the worn cabinet. To his surprise he found it again unlocked, though its rusted hinges and badly-fitted door meant it took Nathaniel a good few heaves to get it to open.

To Nathaniel’s annoyance the age-old hinges squeaked noisily as the brittle wooden door flung open, and he took a quick glance at the slumbering Damyond to ensure he hadn’t been disturbed. Luckily, the noise hadn’t seemed to waken him from his calm sleep, so Nathaniel relaxed, returning his attention to what lay inside of the cabinet. It contained only two shelves, each packed with at least a dozen potions each, of varying size, colour and shape. Ragged, shorn pieces of parchment had been attached to the surfaces to serve as labels, some in ominous, capital lettering, others in minute, secretive notes barely visible.

The candle flickered by the window, its yellow glow merging almost invisibly with the silver light of the moon as Nathaniel began to search for the right concoction, replacing each potion with exacting care in its previous position as to not arouse suspicion. Every moment or so he drew his hands out of the dark interior of the cabinet, wiping off the sweat that had accumulated on his palms before resuming his search with renewed vigour. Several tense seconds passed by before Nathaniel’s hand closed around the last bottle, no taller than his finger and no wider than his fist. He withdrew it with care, wincing at the clinking sound as it made contact with the other phials within the cabinet.

Judging by the weight, the bottle was full, and Nathaniel could feel the liquid sloshing around behind the glass in his hands. Hoping fervently that this was the potion he’d came for, he turned its label towards the faded moonlight that filtered through the window, where – scrawled hastily in thin ink – it read ‘Potion of Chameleon’.

Inwardly, Nathaniel grinned with satisfaction. His efforts and narrow escape had paid off, he had what he’d came fore, and now he was one step closer to gaining his revenge. Nathaniel only needed one more item…

***

Pocketing the small bottle of invisibility potion, Nathaniel realised he could waste no more time skulking around in the dormitories. He whispered a short and polite thank you to the peacefully sleeping Damyond for his services, closing the cupboard door and exiting the room without another sound, leaving not a thing out of place. The room was identical to as it was when Nathaniel had first entered, minus the missing potion from Damyond’s bedside cupboard.

Outside in the sparsely lit corridor, the warden still slumbered quietly in the shadows, oblivious as a young mage apprentice stole away right under his nose down the passageway, suppressing a mischievous grin all the while. The unknowing warden would never know he’d even been there, the only trace of his existence the rapidly diminishing whispers of his footsteps on the floor as Nathaniel sped away, heading for the common room.

Skulking amongst the darkness, Nathaniel descended the curved staircase to the living room at a wary pace, taking great care to avoid those steps that creaked or groaned when you stepped on them, having already made note of them during his secretive researching only days before.

He took the last steps two at a time, not daring to risk moving on the floorboards which were so warped and bent from overuse even the slightest of touches would make them moan loudly in protest. Using the spiralling banister, he swung himself down onto the rug with a deft leap, landing in complete silence, the fall of his jump muffled by the carpet’s fur skin.

A warden sat, completely oblivious to Nathaniel’s presence, by the still-crackling hearth fire that glowed warmly across the lounge, shading the midnight darkness of the room in a golden tinge. The flames had long since died out, leaving only the smouldering coals to burn and hot and spitting in the inglenook’s frame, glowing balefully like angry, red eyes.

Not wasting any time, Nathaniel crept underneath the shadow of the armchair’s towering backrest where the Warden reclined languidly, using the crackles and hisses of the waning fire to hide the sound of his movements. He could see what he needed on a small, rounded table, directly beside the bulky armrest of the huge sofa, where the greying sleeve of the Warden’s robe spilled over them like an ashen waterfall.

As he edged ever closer, the Warden’s gnarled fingers – wrinkled and somewhat shrivelled by the overexertion of spellcasting for many a year – came into view, tapping lazily on the lip of the armrest like some contented spider. Nathaniel’s heart-rate suddenly increased tenfold.

Nathaniel reached out with a tentative hand, holding his breath and wishing dearly for the luck that had been with him so far during this eventful evening to hold out for just a few more seconds. His hand was inches away from the Warden’s arm, but Nathaniel continued onward, placing his confidence that as long as the Warden’s eyes were fixed by the fire his intrusion would go unnoticed.

Almost directly under the Warden’s nose, Nathaniel reached towards the circular wooden table, silently plucking a dull brass key from its surface. He withdrew the weighty item with a quick motion of his arm, glad to be safe and unnoticed – until he knocked the edge of the table with his enclosed hand.

It clunked immediately, rocking to and forth on the floor beside the armchair on its three wooden legs. Nathaniel thought to fire out a steadying hand to stop its motion, but thought better of it. The warden had already noticed, his eyes immediately averting the rocking table at his side.

His heart hammering against his chest, Nathaniel curled up against the backrest of the armchair, trying to make himself as small and as unnoticeable as possible. He clutched the key in his hands with all his might, feeling its blunted blade edge dig into the skin of his palm in contrast to the smoothness of ring-shaped bow. For a few, stomach-quailing seconds, Nathaniel shut his eyes, waiting for something, anything to happen.

Nathaniel dared to open one eyelid, letting a small slit of vision appear in his focus, a rift of light in the blackness. He heard the chair creaking audibly as the Warden stood up, and a grey hook-nosed face suddenly peered over the lip of the chair, with sunken eyes redder than the coals in the fireplace. Nathaniel shrank even more into its darkness. One, quick glance down and it would all be over.

However, fortune seemed to smile upon Nathaniel; the Warden’s focus seemed intent on the staircase rather than anywhere else. Nathaniel watched the calculating eyes of the Dark Elf do a sweep of the room, before he muttered something in a harsh tongue, finally settling back into his armchair. He hadn’t seemed to notice at all that the one key to the dormitories had gone missing, right under his very nose.

Nathaniel relaxed his cramped muscles, suppressing a sigh of relief. Once again, he’d escaped by the skin of his teeth. It seemed luck was with him this night no matter what he did, however, he wasn’t about to stay any longer to test that theory.

Key in hand, he made his way noiselessly towards the front door, inserting it into the lock with a precise movement. Without a sound, Nathaniel turned the bow, feeling it click as the door opened, and soon he was outside under the crisp, midnight sky, the stars winking like tiny pinpricks of silver paint amidst the blue-black darkness as he made way for the towering building of the Mystic Archives…

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Jun 10 2009, 08:10 PM

[Olen]

Good couple of updates, his revenge is certainly a good hook, I want to know what he's planning which draws the reader into the story.

A couple of rough bits of writing there though,

Nathaniel realised he could waste no more time dallying around in the dormitories - this jarred because he hadn't really been dallying

After a few tentative steps Nathaniel had reached the cabinet in no time - something went wrong there.

Good update, I'm interested to see where this goes.

[Illydoor]

Thanks Olen, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I agree with you wholeheartedly on those two things, I'll go change em' straight away.

[Illydoor]

Okay, sorry about the wait guys, exams and crap have occupied my last week so the next update should be up soon .

[Illydoor]

I'm sorry about the wait guys, with all the end-of-term turmoil I suffered a temporary lapse in interest. You'll be pleased to hear it's back though. Here's the next part:

Chapter IX: The Corkscrew Staircase

Silvery moonlight danced amongst the paved promenade, lustrous and glittering as Nathaniel slinked through the University walkways. It panned off the drab grey stone and bejewelled the cobbles underneath until they appeared more like unhewn diamonds than coarse, worn rock. The midnight air was calm and still, cooling on Nathaniel’s sweat-misted forehead as he traversed the courtyards, sticking to the edges of the pathways and using what little scrub and shrubbery that presided in the dark garden alleyways to conceal himself.

Everything was eerily silent under the ebon skies; no noise disturbed the tranquil serenity of the University grounds except the soft murmur of Nathaniel’s own footsteps, padding gently through the undergrowth, his over-gown trailing behind him. He had twice thought about taking the unruly garment off, but decided against it after realising he neither had the time or patience to find a suitable place to hide it where he could find it again.

He moved noiselessly but at a swift pace across the promenade, avoiding the revealing yellow glows of any sconces hung upon the building walls and using the shadow to cover his movement. The claustrophobic fear that had possessed him inside the dormitories to look round every corner and passage had lessened now he was outside in the open, not constricted to the cramp confines of the corridors. The danger of being caught had pretty much passed over, he’d escaped from the two Wardens inside – albeit narrowly, but as far as Nathaniel was concerned the hard bit was over. However, he still kept a wary eye ahead of him just in case.

A faint musical clangour of ringing bells suddenly sounded across the University, permeating the midnight silence. It had been roughly one hour since he had woke up in his bedroom and set his plan for revenge into motion, Nathaniel speculated. He was making good progress. All that was left now was to get the last, final ingredient, and the plan would be set. It was so close now he could almost taste it.

The tolling of the bells soon faded away into quietness as Nathaniel continued to slink in the shadows of the night, the Mystic Archives, his destination, nearing with every passing second. He was about to round the final corner when all of a sudden, a new sound began to echo across the promenade. At first Nathaniel took it for the ringing bells again, but discarded the notion as he realised all too quickly that they only sounded every hour, and it was way too soon for them to be tolling again.

What in Zenithar’s name could be in the University at this hour? Nathaniel hissed under his breath. All the Wardens should be inside by now.

He quickly receded further into the relative darkness of the bushes, seeking to lose himself in the knotted leaves and branches of the vegetation, all the while listening to the noise as it steadily got nearer and nearer. It wasn’t long before the sound was more distinct, and Nathaniel could discern what it was. They were footsteps – but not the soft whisper of shoes on the ground, they were much heavier, a clinking and clanging sound like metal upon metal or steel striking stone.

Those weren’t the footsteps of normal Wardens. They were armoured.

Nathaniel gulped, feeling the trepidation blossom in the pit of his stomach as he reached forward and pried open a small viewing hole in the mess of twigs and brambles that served as his camouflage, eyeing the promenade with growing apprehension.

The noise drew ever nearer, soon followed by a pair of fully-armoured Imperial Battlemages rounding the corner and coming into view. They were resplendent in silver-steel plate armour, carapace-like cuirasses polished to a glimmering sheen that, even in the midnight darkness, shimmered like mirrors in the luminous moonlight. Long, blue-coloured hoods concealed their faces, while each carried a huge, menacing sword sheathed at their hip; the blade almost as long as Nathaniel was tall.

They patrolled the courtyards in grim silence, hooked steel-capped boots clattering on the cobblestones and playing out a staccato rhythm as they marched in unison, hands firmly grasping the wire-wrapped hilt of their weapons as if ready for any action.

What by Greymane's whiskers were they doing here, in the University? Nathaniel wondered, somewhat bemused. He hadn’t even expected a single warden to be out patrolling the grounds at this hour, let alone two, armed Battlemages. It looked like he’d certainly picked the right night to exact his revenge, Nathaniel joked ruefully.

The pair of Battlemages passed Nathaniel in seconds, oblivious to his presence, their noisome march fading to a distant echo that disturbed the silence of the night as they continued their patrol.

Nathaniel took a few, hesitant moments until they were out of sight, and checked the coast was clear again before setting off and resuming his surreptitious journey across the courtyards, fervently hoping that they weren’t any more Battlemages up ahead. Sneaking past the two wardens in the dorms was hard enough; he had no wish to go through the whole terrifying ordeal again.

Constantly on the path at all times, Nathaniel kept to the edge of the cobblestone promenade where the shadows were deepest and darkest whenever he could to avoid any chances of being seen. He was as stealthy as an assassin in the night, using the shrouding darkness as hidden passageways to his target.

So concentrated on staying invisible and unseen, Nathaniel failed to realise how quickly he had covered the distance, and in surprise, soon found himself standing in the shadow of a huge, foreboding building, at least four storeys tall and a testament to the might of Imperial Architecture. Its sheer, intimidating face was wrought in cold grey stone, painted with the silver hue of the moonlight, where illuminated by a single flaming lamp hung above a solid, iron-banded door there read – in clear black paint: ‘The Mystic Archives.’

Without hesitation, Nathaniel grasped the iron-cold handle of the door before any further doubt could cloud his mind and swung it inwards, slipping into the gloomy shadows within that were more than willing to embrace him in their veiling depths …

***

Having entered the Mystic Archives, Nathaniel found himself in peculiar-looking room filled with all-sorts of strange furniture and amenities. It appeared to be a long, rectangular shaped room, made cramped and small due to the furnishings arranged inside it. Tall, lengthy bookshelves lined the two walls like fortress barricades, crammed with different books of varying size, colour and language, each tome thicker and older than the last. Fixed in the far corner of the room was a semi-circular desk, sat alongside an assortment of various-shaped cabinets, cupboards and drawers, tall and short, that Nathaniel presumed were full to the brim with even more books. A spiral staircase, wrought in grim iron, spun round a stone pillar in the other corner of the room and disappeared above into the ceiling and an unknown darkness, like a stairway into the abyss. By the desk and littered on the floor piles of scrolls wafted gently in the breeze, lisping quietly in time with each breath of wind, their surfaces scribed with symbols and letters that Nathaniel had no hope of comprehending.

The room was eerily dark and the air strangely chill – suffused with a heavy, musty scent of age-old parchment and melted tallow. Expecting to be back inside the relative warmth of a heated room after traversing the Universities courtyards under the breezy midnight skies, Nathaniel was surprised to suddenly find himself in a deathly, bitter cold. The Mystic Archives’ walls apparently provided no protection at all from the night time chill and to Nathaniel, it seemed the temperature hadn’t changed at all; in fact it felt like he had become even colder since he’d entered the murky room.

How that was possible he didn’t know, but Nathaniel continued regardless, rubbing his arms under his sleeves and pleased with himself for having the foresight to bring his over-gown out with him. Suppressing a shudder, he walked through the unnervingly quiet library room, examining the hall from head to toe with wary, observant eyes.

Mirroring the tomb-like silence that choked the room around him, Nathaniel too was as quiet as a mouse as he walked, not wanting to disturb the unbroken stillness of his surroundings. He made his way noiselessly across the freezing stone floor, pulling on the collar of his gown to wrap it closer around his shivering body, whilst above him; the stuffed heads of different woodland animals hung upon wooden braces stared at him intently with blank, glassy eyes. Stags and boars and even wolves watched him in silence as he crossed the room, appearing strangely animate and aware despite their motionless state. Frightened, Nathaniel was quickly forced to avert his gaze somewhere else before an uneasy feeling of discomfort made his stomach quail.

Once he reached the rear of room Nathaniel noticed that there were three huge arches cut out of the grey stone of the back wall, that moments before he had thought to have been just windows. The three archways were big enough to be doors, and let a gentle breeze waft through the open niches and into the room, explaining why it was so cold in the Archives. Through the vista that was framed in the hollow Nathaniel could discern the stars against the midnight sky outside, sparkling like dewdrops upon black glass.

Casting a quick glance down, Nathaniel precariously reached over the large, curved desk beneath him, careful not to disturb the pile of manuscripts and empty inkpots scattered upon its smooth wooden surface. Breathing in to stretch his arm out to the longest possible distance, Nathaniel then plucked a small candle from the sill of the archway, and putting a hand to its tiny, flickering flame to protect it from the breeze, returned to the tall, imposing bookcases to begin his exploration.

Checking that nobody was around in the dark, gloomy room of the Mystic Archives, he began scanning the surface of the ceiling-high bookshelves, running a finger along the spines of the tomes as he read off the titles in the dim report of the candle, searching for his desired item in the weak yellow light it provided. He worked his away along the many rows and columns of books as quick as his eyes would allow him, stretching on his tip-toes as he inspected the uppermost rows and bending over double like a withered old man to check those on the bottom.

Despite his concentrated demeanour while he hunted, he found himself thinking hard about what he was about to do and whether it was worth it or not. If he got caught, he couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of punishment could be inflicted on him. Whenever he felt his resolve fail or his focus wane however, he only had to think of the harsh words of Miss Harpfeather and the leering face of Arch-Mage Greymane, and his resolve would return with renewed vigour.

Determined as he was, several minutes of frantic searching had passed but with no such success. Before long he had completely scoured the first wall of books, and it became annoyingly apparent to Nathaniel that whatever he wanted was not going to be on the first floor of the Mystic Archives. All the books and scrolls here provided no use to him whatsoever, what he needed was obviously more valuable to be put in the bookcases on the ground floor. He accepted the naked truth of the fact though; he wouldn’t have needed to steal Damyond’s chameleon potion if he thought it was going to be that easy.

It’s never that easy, Nathaniel mused ruefully, chuckling to himself before retaining his indomitable grimace.

To get the last component, the final item Nathaniel needed on his treacherous quest for revenge; he would have to go where no other student had ever gone.

Up the twisting, spiralling iron staircase, past the locked door and into the chamber where the Mystic Archives kept their most precious and important documents, barred to all but the curator and the most trusted scions of the University. Not even some of the teachers were permitted to set foot there; such was the significance of its purpose.

The highest, very topmost level of the building. The Restricted Library.

Nathaniel gulped as he accepted this ominous realisation. It was by far the most difficult part of his plan, mainly because unlike the corridor and the dormitories, Nathaniel had no clue what was up there on the secretive top floor, except strong warnings from the professors about what would happen if a pupil was caught up there. It was completely unknown what was kept on the highest level of the Archives, except that it contained the most valuable – and dangerous – items in the entire University. For all Nathaniel knew, there could be magical wards and all sorts of traps to deter unwanted thieves and invaders, let alone an associate student who was not even an apprentice yet, and could barely cast any spells above a novice level.

Nathaniel realised with a great degree of fear that when he broke into the Restricted Library, it was the point where he turned from just a revenge-fuelled student prankster into a true, genuine criminal.
There’s so many things that could go wrong, so many things that are uncertain, Nathaniel thought, and shook his head. It was a dangerous all right, there was no doubting that, but the question was whether Nathaniel would have the courage to do it.

Did he really want revenge that badly?

Heart beating loudly, Nathaniel set down the flickering candle back on the desk, where the flame wavered for a moment before diminishing. He walked over to the winding, iron staircase and placed a hand onto its thin rail. The metal was so cold it immediately sapped all the warmth from his bones. Cautiously, he peered upwards, blood hot in his ears and his heart pounding.

He could see nothing, only the warped ironwork of the stairs disappearing into the thin darkness above, consumed by a maw of shadow. Nathaniel gulped. Whatever was up there on the top floor, he would have to meet it head on.

Here goes. Nathaniel whispered to himself, setting a foot on the first rung of the staircase. The cold iron clanged loudly as he did so, echoing around the room and up the stairway. He waited for the clamour to die down before climbing the twisting flight of steps in the darkness, using the curved railing as a guide as he made his way to the awaiting chamber of the Restricted Library…

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Aug 6 2009, 12:04 AM

[Illydoor]

It has been edited .

[Olen]

I remain fascinated to discover what this plot for revenge is, and whether it will be successful. It's a good update, I sense the Battlemages may be more relivant than Nathaniel knows...

their noisome march fading - did you mean noisome? http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/noisome you might have, but it's a fairly odd use of the word (not that I have anything against odd uses of words).

[LadyTaurucis]

Ooh. I just read through this whole thing, and it's very intriguing so far. I like how well you describe things, from quick glances at an area to the intricate detailing of something small.

-curls up in the corner and waits for the next chapter-

[Colonel Mustard]

Another very enjoyable, and very tense part, Illy. I'm looking forward to seeing what nasty surprises could be in store for our (anti?)hero. There could be some pretty nasty ones there, I imagine.

[seerauna]

Agreed Colonel. I'm sure getting caught is probably not the most of it either.

[Illydoor]

their noisome march fading - did you mean noisome? http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/noisome you might have, but it's a fairly odd use of the word (not that I have anything against odd uses of words).

Oops. Always thought 'noisome' meant noisy . I'll go change it.

Thanks for the comments guys, I've been to Athens for a couple a' weeks so sorry for the absence, but now I'm back the next chapter will be up soon .

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Aug 5 2009, 08:20 PM

[Illydoor]

Here's Chapter 10:

Chapter X: A Locked Door

Nathaniel ascended the winding, creaking corkscrew staircase for what seemed like an age in the eerie darkness. The rusted iron frame groaned like a restless ghost in protest as he climbed, threatening to collapse under his weight, the haunting echoes that wailed from the old metal chilling Nathaniel to the very core. He had no idea how high he had climbed or for how long, time and space seemed to be nonexistent in the pitch blackness that enveloped him and the stairs in an inky opaqueness and obscurity. There was nothing to do but hold onto the cold, twisted rail of the staircase and keep climbing, into the enveloping gloom and the insidious unknown.

It was so dark Nathaniel could barely see his hands an inch from his own face - he had twice tripped on the rungs in the blackness, barking his shins painfully on the sharp metal edge of the stairs. The perpetual darkness seemed to make his every fear and nightmare thrive, and any second Nathaniel expected a step to fall away and he would plunge into the empty gloom, or a ghostly hand to brush against the bare skin of his neck.

His heart hammered in his chest and his thighs burned and throbbed from fatigue, but he knew he had to continue. There was no going back now.

I can do this, Nathaniel whispered, gritting his teeth and thinking of happy thoughts, trying to ebb away the fear that the darkness fed into his terrified conscience. He gripped the rail ever tighter, and continued his treacherous climb into the abyssal blackness ahead, one, wary, cautious step after the next…

***

Finally, after what felt like an age of traversing the winding steps in the unfamiliar gloom, Nathaniel arrived at the summit of the corkscrew stairway, panting with effort as his lungs burned and his mind raced. His gown was soaked in sweat and where he had scraped his shins, a crimson stain had seeped through the fabric from the painful wound like a dark blot of red ink. Every muscle in his body was aching from being rigid with apprehension; his breathing tearing out in harried rasps.

It was only after Nathaniel had taken a moment to compose himself and restore some of his strength that he could eventually take in his surroundings. He had little go by however; the landing he had arrived on was only meagrely lit by the waning glow of small oil lamp, resting in bract set into the stone beside him. Wishing it could have been brighter and wishing even more that he knew the correct incantation for a luminosity spell; Nathaniel reached toward the miniscule lamp and carefully took it out of the sconce’s protective wire bracket, holding it in front of him to ward off the encroaching shadows.

By the yellow globe of light that emanated from the candle, Nathaniel made his way forward, eyes constantly ahead of him and his tread wary. It wasn’t long before he came across an obstacle at the end of the small room atop the stairway, barring his path. Sweeping the lamplight across Nathaniel found himself standing before an ancient, decaying doorway, its whorled surface coated with a thick layer of dust and by the weak light of the flame, revealed to be succumbing to years of dry rot.

Despite the door’s condition, Nathaniel had no doubt that the thick, iron-reinforced wood could withstand all but the strongest of onslaughts. He moved the lamp down towards the handle, which was encrusted with dull red rust and tarnished with blackened scorch-marks. Nathaniel could only wonder who or indeed what could have made such marks trying to gain access to the Library. It only made his fears worse.
He lifted the candle-flame upwards again, inspecting every inch of the grained wooden surface. When the fading report of the lamp touched the top of the door, his attention was suddenly drawn as something caught the light and a glimmer flashed past Nathaniel’s eyes. There, hammered into the rotting lintel of the door with crude nails, was a wooden sign reading the ‘The Restricted Library’, the words ‘NO ENTRY’ painted under it in bold, capital letters.

A small grin escaped his mouth as he realised he had found it. The locked door. All that remained now was to unlock it…

***

Careful not to spill the oils that were pooled in the brass dish around the flame, Nathaniel set the small lamp in his hand on the hard stone floor beside him, where it burned quietly beneath him as he moved to examine the lock on the door. By its feeble light, Nathaniel placed two hands onto the deeply whorled surface of the door, and pressed his ear to the panel near the lock, just as he had done to Damyond’s door.

He turned the handle experimentally and listened carefully as it clicked and whirred beneath the wooden surface, like some kind of restive insect contained within. Nathaniel had picked a lock many a time during his years at the University, and was experienced enough to deduce from the various sounds that despite the aged appearance of the door, this lock in particular was of a very good quality. No surprise there. Out of all the doors in the University, Nathaniel doubted there was a lock more difficult than this one, and Nathaniel had lived in the school since he was born. There wasn’t a single nook, cranny, chest or container in the student’s section of the University that hadn’t been searched or unopened by Nathaniel.

At least it’s a challenge, Nathaniel sighed, flexing his hands and wrists. He’d gotten this far, what use was their wasting the opportunity. This was just another obstacle on his path to revenge, and he would reach that goal, no matter what. He would keep his promise.

Enlivened by this new measure of determination, Nathaniel cracked his knuckles and from within his pocket, procured a brass lock-pick, about as long as his middle finger and wire-thin. Whispering a short prayer to whatever divinities he could name, Nathaniel held the pick between his forefinger and thumb and by the light of the candle beneath him, inserted it carefully into the keyhole.

After a few seconds of manoeuvring the wire pick experimentally around, Nathaniel found one of the tumblers, and used the hooked head of the lockpick to raise it with a deft flick. There was a slight winding sound as the spring compressed and then relaxed, returning the tumbler to its original position. Breathing coolly, he flicked tumbler up again, and quickly pressed the catch in. He heard a clink and snapping noise as the thin metal wire of the lock-pick broke. He cursed under his breath, he had pressed the lock in too fast, and the pick had broken under the pressure. He pulled the useless pick out of the pad-lock and stuffed it into his other pocket.

Wiping his palms of the sweat on his jumper, he shook out his wrists in an attempt to calm his nerves. He had only seven of these lock-picks, so he couldn’t afford to rush things. His mission would be compromised before it had even started if he couldn’t even get in to the restricted library area.

Concentrating hard, he pulled out a pick and slotted it once more into the lock. Another chinking sound and Nathaniel withdrew a second, broken lock-pick. In his cautiousness not to repeat the first error he’d made, he’d pressed the latch in too slow this time and the tumbler had already fallen back into place. He cursed again, this time louder, and the sound echoed discordantly in the darkness.

Below him, the candle flickered, threatening to snuff out. He took out another lock-pick.

A moment later and Nathaniel growled as he stuffed the two halves of a third snapped pick into his pocket. He was beginning to panic, beads of sweat forming beneath his brow and anxiety gripping his guts tightly. He broke a fourth, and then a fifth, and finally a sixth. Frustrated and fearful at the same time, Nathaniel could feel nervousness and panic beginning to cloud his harrowed mind.

He tried to block them out, for he knew that the more agitated he got, the less he would concentrate and the more chance there was of making a mistake. Sweat now flowed freely from his forehead, following the edge of his sideburn and trickling down the side of his head. He wiped it off with his sleeve in annoyance.

Come on Nathaniel. You can do this.He said to himself quietly, gritting his teeth in determination and balling his fists. He procured the seventh and final lockpick from his pocket, stared at it hard as if willing it to be unbreakable, and then inserted it into the rust-rimmed keyhole.

He closed his eyes and wriggled the lockpick deeper and deeper to the various meticulous clicks and whirrs of the catch, the bolts rattling in Nathaniel’s ears as he fought to discern the different noises.

Even though his heart hammered heavily in his chest and his breath came out in short, shaking rasps, Nathaniel heard the last tumbler lock into place and without a moment’s hesitation, instantly pressed in the catch. Then, heart in mouth, Nathaniel heard a sudden clack, accompanied by a squeal of brass scraping against brass and finally, the catch slid smoothly back. His whole body slackened as relief passed over him like a wave, and he soaked in every ounce of it.

He was in.

***

The ancient door swung open silently on its corroded hinges despite their defective appearance, and a rush of chilling air swept over Nathaniel, cooling the perspiration on his misted forehead and spreading goosebumps across his the bare skin of his forearms. Gulping nervously and rather too loudly than he would’ve liked, Nathaniel picked up the still glowing candle at his feet, breathing on it gently to keep the dying flame alive. If he was going to enter this mysterious library, he’d prefer to see what he was doing, and more importantly, what everything else was doing.

He bit his lip with fearful excitement and stepped into the room, silent as a ghoul, eyes wide and attentive even though every fibre of his body wanted to turn and run back, down the winding stairs and back safe to his bedroom. He fought the urge.

Willing his hesitant legs to move, one terrified step at a time, the dark corridor he had entered suddenly widened and gave way into an enormous, grand vestibule, its shrouded interior promising unknown secrets of old and forgotten terrors. The forbidden library of the University.

Huge, colossal bookcases, six times the height of Nathaniel and towering towards the ceiling like castle walls were arranged in neat rows across the entire breadth and length of the room, creating a maze of aisles and corridors that was almost unfathomable. Books from what seemed like the entirety of Tamriel filled each shelf, some huge, bronze-clad leather tomes the size of flagstones and other miniscule books that could barely fit on Nathaniel’s palm. Books with golden-laced spines and jewel-encrusted binding, intricate titles and beautifully grotesque pictures, whilst others wrapped in ancient, rotting scraps of yellowing parchment millennia-old and delicate to the point of disintegration at a mere touch. Books that were as thick as Nathaniel’s torso and so lengthy they just looked like cubes of paper. Books with runes, with puzzles and pictures, written in blood, ink or sweat, some with text so small Nathaniel could barely read off the titles whilst other books with nothing in them at all. Dictionaries and encyclopaedias, codices and catechisms, atlases, hymnals, missals, ledgers and logbooks, albums, abstracts and almanacs, journals and grimoires, every type of script you could name, it was there.

Nathanial was awed by the sheer amount of literature contained with the Library. Surely nobody could ever read all this, not even the greatest mage with all the time in the world. There were at least several thousands of books to each case, and there were twenty book cases in the entire room. Nathaniel had never been good at arithmancy, but he didn’t have to be to know that the number was very, very large indeed.

How could he ever hope to find his item of revenge amongst the tens of thousands of different books?

The answer escaped him. He would just have to get lucky. Problem was luck wasn’t really Nathaniel’s best fortitude.

Worried by this ominous new prospect, Nathaniel continued regardless, eager to explore the rest of the Restricted Library. Remembering his need for stealth, he crouched into the shadow and sneaked forward, cupping a hand around the candle’s flame to obscure its light. He suddenly found himself entering into a wide, spacious aisle, a passageway directly in the centre of the antechamber where the colossal bookshelves ended and created a sort of gorge amidst the library.

The carpeted pathway was wreathed in an azure-silver light, which tinted the shadowy hall in a moon-coloured shimmer. Pools of the hallowed, pallid brightness culminated in glittering pools on the red-rugged floor of the bookcase valley, dappling the surface and providing enough light for Nathaniel to forego the candle. He kept it anyway, just to be safe.

The blue-white light gave everything in the vestibule a bluish tinge of silver, making every object caught in its beam appear cold and unforgiving, like dull crystal. The stone walls seemed more drab and lifeless than ever, even Nathaniel’s own arm, when he dared stretch it out into one of the rays, appeared statuesque, frozen in the cold blue luminosity. Walking forward Nathaniel discovered that the source of the ethereal illumination were the magnificent arched stained-glass windows that were placed at each interval of the bookcases, spilling the light in through the patterned panes, each depicting a different divinity.

The aisle through which he sneaked was littered with allsorts of different desks and display cases placed at the ends of the bookshelves, each flaunting a considerable variety of different treasures, oddities, artefacts and other of the Restricted Library’s most valuable items on their tabletops. Hewn jewels the size of his fists caught Nathaniel’s eyes, along with various amulets and talismans and rings that sparkled with magical energy almost palpable through the cold, tension-choked air. Skulls and bones, stone tablets and even, to his great surprise, a fork, a worn paint-stained apron and even a pair of seemingly ordinary scales were included amongst the display. Nathaniel knew better than to open the cases and take any of the items. He was afraid of getting caught with them, but not nearly as much as he was frightened of what the objects would do to him – Nathaniel knew not all enchanted things were for the benefit of the user. He would have to search for a less dangerous and risky mode of vengeance if he didn't want to end up being a murderer, or worse, dead himself.

At the back of the chamber and at the end of the long passageway, he spied more bookshelves, smaller than the rest, almost concealed by the shadow. However, even with the encroaching darkness Nathaniel could see that the books and items contained on those shelves were far more interesting looking and unique than the previous ones.

Nathaniel grinned. He would start his search there.

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Aug 6 2009, 12:04 AM

[Colonel Mustard]

Well about time!

Another enjoyable part here Illy, and you're still not letting anything slip about Nathaniel's vengeance. And I love the mention of the all the daedric artefacts (the fork of Horriplation and the Scales of Merciless Justice by any chance?).

[Illydoor]

Yes sorry bout' the wait. You'd think I wouldn't be busy with it being the summer hols and all .

And you are correct, sir, I thought I'd add a couple of easter eggs here and there.

[Olen]

Good update, do we get any more soon?

hadn’t been searched or unopened by Nathaniel. Unopened makes a strange double negative thingy.

[Illydoor]

Has been a long time, but I've had renewed inspiration and here, ladels and jellyspoons, is the eleventh chapter, sorry for the wait:

Chapter XI: Mazes and Mysteries

Nathaniel began his search hastily, not needing to hear the tolling bells of the Imperial tower to realise that dawn was soon approaching across Cyrodiil. In but a few hours time he would see the first golden beams of the morning sunlight stream through the stained glass windows, and the entire University would wake to its warming rays. With luck, however, by that time Nathaniel would be long gone from this forsaken library and prepared to put his plan for revenge into action.

He would have to work fast though. Creating some space on the shelf in front of him, he set the flickering candle on the dusty ledge, its weak flame a beacon in the cold darkness of the library. Silence gripped Nathaniel as he began to search, an icy feeling of vulnerability making his every sense aware and heightened to a frightening level. Every single sound made his hair stand on end, every touch making his skin ripple. It was an odd, thrilling sensation that Nathaniel would never have liked to experience again, yet as it grew, so did his excitement.

His fingers traced shaking paths over the dusty spines of assorted books, occasionally stumbling over the odd item or two. He could barely read the titles in the gloom, despite the waxen light of the candle, though his eyes swam with the different texts that flashed past, curled runic symbols and strange words. The Black Arrow v1, Mystery of Talara, Mannimarco: The King of Worms, the Horrors of Castle Xyr, all were books that Nathaniel bore no recognition too, so ancient was their origin.

Some were written in entirely different languages, others, like the curiously one-paged Mysterium Xarxes, consisted only of runic language and symbolic the likes of which Nathaniel had never seen before. Many books were so old they just crumbled to dust in hands before he had a chance to open them, their pages ash. The most strange and weirdest book he came across was a tiny, pocket-sized tome, stained a filthy brownish colour, the writing scrawled across it reading 'Ohgma Infinium’. He found nothing of interest with it however, and subsequently threw it to the back of the shelf.

At this rate I’ll never find anything to use, Nathaniel cursed, wondering if he’d made a mistake and his preparations had been for nothing. He threw the last book back onto the shelf and went to the next bookcase, all the while conscious of the time as it slipped away. Something sparkled in the darkness, sitting on top of the bookshelf, draped in wispy cobwebs. His attention captured momentarily, he stood on his tip-toes and retrieved the item from the spiderweb latticework, bringing it to the candlelight.

It was a ring, Nathaniel discovered, black as night, though it shined glossily in the pale blue moonlight. An inscription ran across its surface, reading ‘Blackwood, Ring of Silence’, in fiery writing that glowed a brazen orange. Immediately crazy and peculiar ideas sprung into Nathaniel’s imagination as to what it could do. Would it stop the wearer from speaking? Or even better, grant the user the ability to silence anyone it touched? If so, it could be just the item he was looking for…

Nathaniel’s curiosity got the better of him, and he decided that the best way to find out would be to put the strange ring on. He scrutinised the ring and the inscription, with a careful eye in the sallow light of the candle, trying to decipher any other, more dangerous meaning it may have. Finding none, Nathaniel extended his fore-finger, his other hand holding the ring steady as he prepared to put on the dark piece of jewellery - it would be a perfect fit.

The ring was inches from the tip of his finger when a sudden noise made Nathaniel bolt. His fingers fumbled, and before he knew it the ring had slipped from his grasp tumbling to the floor. Before he could catch it again, it hit the cold ground beneath him, the distinct ‘clink’ of metal upon stone ringing out, shattering the choking pall of silence that had been so discomforting before.

Nathaniel winced as the sound echoed around the library, harsh and discordant, reverberating off the cold stone walls and rows upon rows of bookcases. The ring revolved on its axis like a spinning top before finally succumbing to gravity, and falling with a loud metallic ‘clunk’ which belied its small size and weight. Inwardly, Nathaniel spat every curse under the moon, wondering why on Tamriel such a tiny thing could make such a loud noise.

“Who goes there? Gerom, is th-that you?”

The voice – a woman’s – was clear and strident; though fringed with edges of fear. Nathaniel instantly recognised it Shoba Felldame, the University’s Librarian – Madame Felldame to Nathaniel. In the space of a second, Nathaniel’s heart rate increased tenfold. He pressed his body into the bookcase, seeking concealment in its shadow, hiding himself as best as he could.

“Yes, it is, Shoba. I’m over here.” A man’s voice this time, dark and grating – most probably the ‘Gerom’ that the frail, dithering Librarian was calling for. If Nathaniel’s memory served, it was Gerom Spellclaw, the conjuration teacher.

Footsteps, clapping on the cold stone floor of the library, getting steadily closer and closer.

Nathaniel ears pricked up instantly. Another few moments and she would pass his alleyway where he was hidden. He couldn’t be seen now, at his most vulnerable moment. The fear and dread of being caught gripped him like icy claws, refusing to let his mind think straight.

I won’t be caught now, Nathaniel promised. Not after coming this far.

The footsteps drawing closer, Nathaniel thrust a hand into his robe pocket, feeling something cold and smooth within its folds. He withdrew the miniscule potion vial he had stolen from Damyond’s cupboard, watching its glossy surface glint in the moonlight as the viscous liquid sloshed around inside.

There was no other reason for it, he’d intended to save the potion for later when the correct time and need arose, but considering the circumstances, he’d have to compromise. If he drank just a slight fraction of the liquid now, maybe he’d still have enough for later. Again, it seemed, Nathaniel’s fate was down to luck.

With no time for contemplation, Nathaniel peered into the colourless glass of the bottle for a hesitant moment, gauging its capacity, before pinching out the stopper and raising the rim of the vial to his lips.

Bottoms up, he thought as he sipped Damyond’s chameleon potion, fervently hoping that his trust in the Redguard’s alchemy skills was not misplaced.

The concoction was lumpy and cold as it ran down his throat, like porridge gone stale. He retched at the foul taste and texture of the potion, struggling to not make a gagging sound and fighting desperately against his urge to spit it out immediately. He fell to his knees on the stone floor, heaving and silently choking.

Iron-willed however, he forced himself to swallow the revolting mixture, feeling it slide down his gullet like mid-winter sludge.

At first, Nathaniel thought nothing had happened. His heart sank like a stone as he heard the footsteps of Madame Felldame draw closer, knowing at any moment she’d turn the corner and find him there, on his knees in the pale turquoise-tinted light of the moon. He lifted a hand to wipe away the glistening ropes of saliva that hung from his mouth, only to find, curiously, it wasn’t there.

Where his hand and wrist once was, there was only thin air. He could see straight through, as if his skin were glass.

“What the…” Nathaniel whispered, as he felt a tingling sensation crawl across the whole length of his body, surging through his veins and making his bones shiver, like being submerged in cold, icy water of the purest kind. Still looking through his now invisible palm, Nathaniel watched with incredulity as the transparency began to creep up his forearm, engulfing his wrist and elbow. Before he knew it, the effects of the chameleon potion had grown past his shoulder, and onto his torso, spreading across his chest and up his neck.

Inwardly, he thanked Damyond for his talent at alchemy, wishing he’d never doubted him as he observed with wonder the sensation that was now spreading down his legs, shins and ankles.

As Madame Felldame rounded the corner at long last, Nathaniel felt the effects reach the tips of his toes and vanish, leaving him completely invisible. And where the Librarian should have seen a startled, dark-haired boy in his dressing gown, she saw only thin air…

***

Nathaniel held his breath as she passed, but his hopes were confirmed. Damyond’s powerful concoction had rendered him completely indistinguishable to the naked eye, and Madame Felldame walked past Nathaniel’s position completely oblivious to his presence.

He made to breathe a sigh of relief, but stopped himself imminently. It was easy to forget that just because they couldn’t see him, did not mean they couldn’t hear him. He stood back onto his feet, realizing that dawn was fast approaching and he needed to continue on his mission. He’d sneak past the two teachers and further into the dark recesses of the Library – surely he would find his desired object there.

Wondering idly how long the effects of the chameleon potion lasted, Nathaniel took a first step out of the bookcase alley, and subsequently stumbled, off-balance. It seemed walking without knowing where your legs were was much harder than it looked. He’d just have to get the hang of it.

Half-crouching, Nathaniel crept – quite awkwardly – across the carpeted passageway that ran through the middle of the library, aiming for the very end of the Mystic Archives forbidden section. He soon passed Felldame and Gerom, who had found an aisle of themselves and were now murmuring amongst one another amidst the bookshelves in secrecy. Nathaniel crept past noiselessly, hearing a glimpse of their conversation.

“…these are turbulent times in Cyrodiil. People are scared, Shoba, the nation is restless it seems. There have been more accounts of thieveries and murders this past month than ever!” Professor Spellclaw whispered in harsh tones, too much gasping and gawping of the old dunmer librarian. Nathaniel could feel his hairs go rigid at the mention of thievery.

“Yes, definitely. Tis’ why I’ve had to lock the door now everytime I come in. There’s no telling who might be seeking some of the powerful artefacts contained within this library. Soon as Harpfeather finishes that anti-intruder seal, the better!” Madame Felldame bleated. "Even the Arch-Mage is concerned, having those big brutes parading the streets of the University at late hours. Something big’s about to happen, I tell you…”

“I’ve heard there are rumours of a powerful rogue mage rising in the west – foresters have been entering the mountains and not returning. Yes, there is definitely something foul afoot. Still, I think…”

Nathaniel tuned out at the moment; there was nothing of interest for him in the conversation. Thinking nothing of it, he left the two teachers to gossip amongst the towering bookshelves, invisibly making his way further and further into the never-ending maze that was the Restricted Library...

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Oct 29 2009, 10:59 PM

[Olen]

Good to see this is one the go again. A good update, your writing has improved, I think, since the first part. Nice bit of foreshaowing in the last section too.

so ancient was there origin -- trivial grammatical error, there should be their.

Otherwise nicely done, I particularly like the description of the potion, I'd never thought of how foul they would probably taste...