Shades of Ending, set after the oblivion MQ Options

[SubRosa]

I forgot you asked. Lifespans depend on the game. Bethesda changes it every time, mainly to make the elves live shorter and shorter lifespans. Barenziah is 500 years old and this is how she looked in Daggerfall. Doesn't look a day over 30. A game later and she suddenly became a Methuselah. By Oblivion all the elves in the game (though not necessarily in the lore) have the same 60-70 years as an ordinary human. Varel Morvayn says as much when you talk to him. "Been here thirty years, and I expect I'll last another ten or so." So it seems like he expects to be a working adult for 40 years, and then die of old age. When you look at the elves in the game, you will see the same basic spread of young, middle-aged, and old as you do with the round-ears. Where if they lived for centuries, they ought to almost all look like they are 20 or 30. I imagine in Skyrim elves live maybe a decade or two at the most. By Elder Scrolls 6 they will have to age backwards somehow.

So basically as usual Bethesda cannot make up their minds. So make them as long-lived as you want them to be. I tend to go with an average lifespan of at least 300 years for most elves living an active, but somewhat strenuous life. Working on a farm, etc... I tack on another century or so for someone living an easy life with good nutrition, like a noble, scribe, mages guild member, etc... And another century for Altmer, who are infamous for their eugenics.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Nov 20 2011, 03:14 AM

[haute ecole rider]

What a delight to meet Ruben and Ferir again. I really enjoyed this bit, especially as they were talking about magic and the aftereffects of the crisis on the empire.

One thing I noticed: you mentioned puss in relation to Ferir's wound. Puss (two 'esses') refers to a kitty cat. Pus refers to the disgusting foul fluid produced by certain infections. I believe you meant the latter, not that a little purr-motor was residing in Ferir's chest causing him trouble.

[Olen]

SubRosa - Magic is likely to play a big part in this. I see it as having greater potential than waving your hands and something happening, but with more complex things becoming very rapidly more difficult. It should keep things more balanced while allowing me a bit more freedom. For lifespans that was about what I was working on. The lore is completely jumbled with dunmer lifespans covering two orders of magnitude (70 years for Morvayn and 4000 for Divayth Fyr).

Nit's are picked and one bath coming right up...

McBadgere - Glad you enjoyed. This will continue... slowly.

Grits - It's good to have so many readers still interested. The magic idea is a nice one, it fits with the Telvanni mages living for so long too so I might well hijack it to some extent.

Haute - I see the crisis having lasting effects well beyond he immediate. Houses are relatively simple to rebuild but something that large is going to leave a mark on the way a society thinks which won't fade for decades and probably never completely, especially as there is unlikely to be anyone particularly encouraging reconciliation.

Nit fixed... if English spelling was systematic my life would be easier...

All - In the last part Ferir managed to escape his black irons and so could do magic again. Some more of their past emerged. He healed and they continued east. This next part is the final instalment of the first chapter.


1.8 Fresh Water

The waters of the Reed River were quick and cool, fresh from their mountain headwaters. Ferir lay back against the rush and watched as the sun crept over the high peaks of the Valus mountains. New mountains, at least if the books were to be believed, they were sharp with spires untamed by the grinding wheel of time. He relished the tight chill of the water and half shivered. Repeated healing sessions the previous night had more or less mended his wounds. There was still the achy hangover which only time, or a fabulous talent far beyond his, could shift, but the water helped there.

He’d known people who thought the streams and forests of Cyrodiil were alive. Aedra, nymphs, spirits - the names varied but as he immersed his head in the soothing roar he could half believe them. Not that it mattered. Who cared? It might be fun to see one, in much the same way it was nice to watch the deer lek in the autumn, but people seemed to get so obsessive about them.

His feet curled for purchase on the smooth stones as he stood and splashed water in his face. He cupped another handful and drank it. That was one of the best things about it up here, the water was potable. At least it was upstream of where he’d washed. The sun broke through the trees and a ray reached down over his back to the shore. The eastern shore, would they be followed this far? Maybe, but not found. The area was huge and inhospitable, particularly to the law.

He stood naked in the blue morning sun, a stronger shiver ran though him. A towel would be nice. The packs lacked certain things. Damn it, while I’m at wishing a hackle-lo, mug of klah and flask of Mímisbrunnr would be nice. Or at least a beer.

For all that the packs contained what was necessary to survive they lacked what was needed to live. Instead they were weighed down with rubbish - who needed tent poles? Certainly they were useful, but for the weight a tree would do.

“You going to sun yourself all day like a lizard?”

Ferir stretched up extracting a crunch from somewhere in his back and turned. “We’re east of the Reed, this is real back country. Do you know who’s in control here?”

“Cheydinhal county ends there,” Ruben grunted as he sat stiffly up, his blanket still pulled around him, and pointed at the opposite shore “So any guard, or fighter’s guild member gods preserve us.”

Ferir gave him a half smile. “Really, I’d have been more inclined to say no one.” He walked back towards his pack and regarded the clothes there with distaste. He hadn’t been the first person to be issued the prison ones, and the standard issue guard kit smelt as bad as it looked. Ruben groaned as he stood. He’d struggled at the end of the previous day. Ferir had let him, not because he particularly disliked the man but when energy ran out pride could carry someone further than sympathy. As he’d guessed Ruben’s had been sufficient. “Should be easier today,” he said.

“Thank the nine for that. Why?”

“We’ve been going a couple of days,” Ferir shrugged, “unless you’ve got blisters it gets easier. And it’s not such a long day, we need supplies, and I want to be fresh in case dreck goes down when we buy them.”

“There’s no towns out here though…”

“Heard of Carbo? He was a legend, people still come and go through his camp.”

"I've heard of a Carbo, near legend in the legion. Served out in Vvardenfell in the blight."

"Not him. A smuggler turned bandit turned kingpin. He's dead but his camp isn't."

“Outlaws?”

“So are we,” Ferir pointed out.

Ruben frowned.

They set off soon after. Ferir was tempted to stay by the river for a little longer but a breakfast of hardtack was as well eaten on the move. They stayed close to the river anyway, it was months since he’d been there but he could remember the area well enough. Verdant forest sprawled to the waterside. There were trout in the river, if you could be bothered fishing, or knew a particularly powerful lightning spell. He’d only seen that done once, most mages powerful enough either had servants to buy fish for them or lived in remote castles, usually ruined and always with a tower. In spite of what they claimed Ferir had a feeling there was only so much boiling quicksilver that could still be considered healthy.

It was one of the reasons he’d never learnt more, that and the guild and it’s damned rules. Gone were the days where it controlled all trade in magic, and hence almost all mages. The weakened Empire helped, it was easier to set up a black market when there were few patrols but the real cause had been internal. It had bent under pressure and outlawed necromancy.

Ferir didn’t really see the problem, yes it was an interesting area no doubt, but there were others. If you’d spent your life pursuing it then you would be annoyed, but if you’d spent your life cutting up corpses and making them walk then you were crazy. Perhaps their definition was too broad but that begged more questions. Why necromancy? He’d only met two, both buying supplies fortunately, but they smelt weird, lived alone and in his opinion needed a stiff drink and a better hobby. And possibly a night out in Bravil.

It was the conjurers and daedra fanciers who posed the threat. It was they who had caused the crisis, and who had a force to unite them. They also practised in every guildhall in Tamriel as far as he knew. It was suspicious, but then so was so much when seen as an outsider. Presumably those who lived with it were just too close, like trying to look at your own eyelashes.

The walk along the river passed that way. He was lost in his thoughts, what should he do next? The first couple of times it stung, but he swept that away, it was a valid question. Save grieving for when there was time, and at the cave. That loomed on the horizon. He could learn more magic, or alchemy anyway. Though there was the axe, or maybe a bow. The idea appealed but from his limited experience it was best left. Too unreliable unless you were very good, and what could one do that a fireball couldn’t?

Tributaries joined the river as they went south. It grew, but the hilly country remained untamed and soon they walked by a crashing torrent. Ferir knew that it slowed as the hills ended, this was more a section of rapid than anything, but the roaring sound was like a physical presence within his head. The cold spray smelt slightly peaty and the churning white sinew of the water left its glory undimmed. It crashed down a steep section, not a waterfall, but close, and at the bottom stood the soom drukpa, three granite ovoids. Two were a good twenty feet across with the third lying under them a little longer. The waters surged against them.

There were all sorts of stories told about the soom drukpa, or the tres angeli, or three sisters, depending on who you asked. He always used the eastern name for no better reason than it was the first he’d heard. To the Argonians, who’d once lived even this far into Cyrodiil, they were the eggs of dragons. If they laid eggs like that Ferir was glad they were extinct, if they’d ever been real. Other legends spoke of gods, or aedra. The only credible one was that Sheogorath was behind them. The resemblance certain people, mainly imperials with too much of a fixation with the nine, or those in need of a good night in Bravil, saw supported the involvement of the god of madness.

Whatever they were was unimportant, they were the landmark he found Carbo’s Camp by. Turn away from the river, breast the ridge and it was in a deep gouge in the landscape which dwarfed the small stream which ran through the camp. He turned away from the river and started inland. Ruben followed, and glanced around uneasily. Ferir carried on into the bush ignoring Ruben’s confusion.

Why? The question came unbidden, though not wholly unexpected. Ruben was a bit of an oaf, but was he really? A few badly placed comments, but plenty of people were like that. He had been a guard, and Ferir was willing to bet that whatever went down was worse than they done him for. But he’d known enough criminals. Was it because he owed Ruben one, a large one? But he was paying, had paid probably.

“We’re headed for Carbo’s Camp.”

The former lawman stopped. He mouthed in shock for a moment before he managed to speak. “But that’s a bandit place, outlaws, smugglers, vagabonds… I didn't realise you were serious.”

“We need supplies, and to hear what the word on the wind is.”

“But they’re bandits.”

Ferir nodded, his upper lip rising a little. “Can’t say I like it, but we haven’t got much choice. Survival comes first. Always.” He paused then resumed walking. Ruben followed behind. “You’ll want to be careful there,” he said, “they won’t like guards. Don’t want you sneaking around, if anyone asks you’re my uncle, enough there will know me, though they might not welcome me…” Not after that last deal… this could be fun.

This post has been edited by Olen: Nov 27 2011, 09:42 PM

[SubRosa]

First off, the title has me thinking of this song.

untamed by the grinding wheel of time.
This was a wonderful description!

and flask of Mímisbrunnr
He may be an outlaw, but Pappy agrees with him on this!

I liked the little discussion of the two Carbos. It shows the backgrounds of each men so well.

if you’d spent your life cutting up corpses and making them walk then you were crazy
Indeed. Like Ferir thought, there are much better hobbies. Like bathing, and women. Well, the living ones at least.

and what could one do that a fireball couldn’t?
Build a lean-to, or a house? Or chop up corpses that you can animate later!

Not after that last deal… this could be fun.
Uh oh. This was a delicious tease, promising all sorts of danger ahead!



nits:
most mages powerful enough either had {a} servant to buy fish for them or lived in remote castles
I think you either wanted an {a} where I inserted it above, or a plural servants.

Ruben was a bit a an oaf
I am sure you wanted of there.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Nov 27 2011, 07:24 PM

[Grits]

I love every word of this update, even the parts after Ferir puts his clothes on. I keep coming back to read it again.




...more, please?

[mALX]

GAAAAH, you have changed your writing style! As always, your descriptions and attention to detail are exceptional, that goes without saying. Great Write (!!!) - that also goes without saying.

The premise of your story is fascinating, and your characters (as I've come to expect from you) are earthy, interesting, natural, believable. Your writing (as always) is excellent.

The surprising change from your usual writing style just has me stymied, that's all. I meant to reread it from the beginning (again) to get used to this new change, and instead found myself re-reading "Burning Today." (I also re-read "A Final Embrace" while I was over there).

I love your writing, I just came into reading this with expectations for it to be one way and it was another - that is my fault.

[Olen]

Sorry all, another delay after an unusually crazy week.

SubRosa - when I was writing hmi wanting some whisky made me think of Mímisbrunnr, so I decided to steal borrow it.

Grits - I'm glad you liked it, and I'm sure there'll be more streams, though not in this chapter I'm afraid (at least not ones you'd want to wash in).

mALX - Yes I changed to third person. There's pros and cons, it's much easier to head hop between sections in third person than first which works better for the group based piece I have in mind here. Equally Ferir is definitely the main and we'll be seeing most of it from his head. I'm glad the characters work for you as they're the point of this piece.

All - In the last part Ferir and Ruben reached the deep backcountry and started towards Carbo's Camp to get supplies. Ferir has misgivings however.



2.1 Carbo's Camp

Carbo’s camp sat like a rotting fruit in the bowl valley. They approached up the stream which ran through it. Ruben noted the grey sludge which lay in its bed and the foul smell and wondered what you could catch from the mingled bandits, smugglers and vagabond scum which had used it. The Cheydinhal guard knew about the place, and could have found it easily enough. There was no point though, the occupants would scatter and men would be lost. Better to keep it out here, the wilds were already dangerous. The guard had better things to deal with.

Except he wasn’t one, not any more. But I’ve always been a guard. The fact was simple, they’d thrown him out, and he’d never be welcome back. Would he be welcome in Cheydinhal again? He shook his head hard in the hopes the thought would leave him alone. He had friends, they’d gotten him out but he doubted even they would want to see him again. Ever. His mind probed the thought like a tongue in a broken tooth.

The beginnings of a path had developed. He forced his attention to the present. Ferir was nervous, he’d even tried to smarten up though Ruben doubted the man would agree. He certainly wouldn’t admit how tense he was, but it was in his movements, years as a guard had taught Ruben to see that. They had also taught caution and the nerves were contagious.

Him, entering Carbo’s fetching Camp. He’d have laughed a week before. Ferir had remained silent on questioning, more so than Ruben had come to expect. Something rattled him, that bothered Ruben.

“They’re watching us,” Ferir said it quietly without turning. “See that tree ahead? Don’t do anything rash. Archers.”

Dreck. Ruben followed in silence and tried not to let his seething mind show.

Ferir was correct. As they approached the clearing, far from natural judging by the rotten stumps, a bosmer stepped out from behind a large beech. He wore a velvet smoking jacket which had seen better days and a hat with an outlandish feather wedged in the brim. Ruben might have laughed but the nord and orc who flanked him left any humour crying behind the nearest tree. They towered over the tree-hugger, each had bodies which looked like a construction team may have been involved. Or at least a damned good alchemist, thought Ruben.

It was a moment before Ferir spoke. He sounded surprised. “Squire Aengoth, a good day.”

“That, Ferir, is for me to decide." The bosmer had the whiny voice of his kind. "There’s been wholly too many stories and too little contact from you.”

“I doubt Relthas would let you decide. Things have happened.”

“We had a deal,” the nord stepped forward threateningly at Aengoth’s words. Ruben cursed inwardly but noticed Ferir didn’t seem bothered.

He nodded, “We did. Things change. I don’t like repeating myself so why don’t you take us to Relthas, let the gentlemen sort this out.” The bosmer had turned an unhealthy colour. Ruben wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam when Ferir gave him a smile.

“When I was in Vvardenfell-“

“Spare me. If you want a drink I’ll be in Tashba’s later, but it appears you want to talk business. Poor show I must say.”

Ruben noticed the mockery of the bosmer’s tone but doubted Aengoth did. Surely it was deliberate. Either way it had the desired effect, the bosmer nodded. “Fine, follow me.”

They did. The trees on the far side of the clearing were just thick enough to obscure the camp, an expanse of tented structures which all looked like they had been temporary long ago with the occasional hut or cabin which looked a little more solid. They were arranged in a hodgepodge of colours, mainly faded and dirtied to shades of brown, and shapes which clustered around cooking fires or the stream. In the centre there was a peculiar building which looked like the lovechild of a privy, grown beyond any sane proportion, and a marquee, with a ship’s rigging thrown in for good measure. It was towards this they headed.

Their path through the mingled dwellings was a tortuous and often olfactory experience. Ruben wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything quite like it. A pocket of what he assumed to be whores stood smoking outside one tent while the smell of skooma drifted from the next. A dozen musics mingled though the canvas - guitars, drums, lutes and dunmer singing. Unless someone was skinning a cat and had forgotten to kill it first. The effect was similar. Just as suddenly they were passing some scarred and armed men, still wearing battered armour, sharing out clothes and jewellery.

His lawman’s eye, developed by years on the beat, was overwhelmed in a deluge of crime. Drunk and disorderly vied with dealing and in at least two places soliciting. He thought a few counts of conspiring to corrupt public morals wouldn’t go amiss either. But this was Carbo’s Camp, this was where the criminals, the bandits, the nutters and the pushers mixed. The down and out rubbed shoulders with those running, and if the rumours were true no one much cared what from. But the rumours hadn’t held a hundredth part of what he saw. How much pain spread like an infection from this place? How far did it’s groping lines of malignancy reach like mould from a festering peach?

They never got to the central structure, the peculiar bosmer instead led them to a low wooden house. He nodded to the orc who threw the door open with a flourish. The nord stepped in and Aengoth followed.

“Serjo Relthas, I have brought Ferir and his escort.” He swept his hat off and bowed in a clatter of gold chain.

Ruben followed Ferir in and looked around the plain interior. Cheap wall hangings, a few chests and a thick rug by the fire. He could see a large bed through a crooked door opposite. A dunmer, the room’s only occupant, sat in an easy chair in the light of the window smoking a calabash pipe sized like a small incinerator. Otherwise he seemed normal, for the camp and particularly next to Aengoth. He could pass as a minor noble easily.

He surveyed them for a moment and raised an eyebrow, “I should hope not.”

Ferir shook his head. The eyebrow returned to its accustomed position.

“Well done Aegnoth. I have some hot gems I’ve cut a good deal for with the black bows, but I want them checked.”

“My pleasure. Have my shoes come back from the cobbler?” Only then did Ruben notice that the bosmer was barefoot.

“No, I believe the gilt parts are proving tricky. Now I must speak with my guests,” Relthas turned his attention firmly away from Aengoth.

He looked at Ferir for a time, Ruben suppressed the urge to shuffle. The place made him uneasy, and he didn’t know what was going on. Not enough. Then the gaze turned on him. The red eyes were unusually intense, almost penetrating. He held them, but was glad then the dunmer looked back to Ferir.

“I’ve heard disturbing rumours.”

“About?”

“Raj’arn’s company have vanished, I’m not sure what yet. Might be trading with the Commona, or the Altmer. I assume that’s why you didn’t deliver the goods.”

“Supply was part of it.”

“We’ll need compensation obviously." Relthas gave a half shrug, "But I know you well enough that I'd be willing to negotiate another deal.”

“You won’t get either.”

“Really?” Ruben didn’t like the mixture of curiosity and threat in the dunmer’s voice.

“You haven’t heard the latest.”

Relthas made a circle motion with his hand.

“We were shut down. Imperial agents stormed Sundew.”

Supirse flickered over the dunmer’s face. Ruben had the idea that it wasn't often found there. “Damn..." He paused, "I didn't know. What’s the damage?”

“That I know? Total. Except Teemva and maybe Torvas they’re all dead. The cave will be scoured. I’m double murder and jailbreak high on the wanted list. It’s done. We’re done, gone.” It came out in a torrent of words like bile the morning after.

Relthas was silent for a moment, he blinked and put the pipe down. It fell over spilling the smouldering contents, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Arvyn?”

Ferir opened his mouth then shut it and shook his head once. His eyes flickered to the floor.

“Sorry." The dunmer was quiet for a moment. "Look, don’t worry about us troubling you.” He stood and walked over to a chest and pulled out a sack. “I don’t mean to be insensitive but I know you need it. For old times if you must.” Ferir caught it with a clink. “That offer of a job still stands...”

"Cooking for you? The answer's still no, sorry."

Relthas frowned but didn't look surprised. "Think of the cash as an advance then, let me know if you start elsewhere or need a hand. I might be able to help. Anything else you need?"

“Just a drink.”

“You going to Tashba’s?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let Senril know.”

“Thanks. And thanks for this,” Ferir held up the bag, “and well… everything.”

“That’s fine, if you ever need work you know where I am, oblivion, if you need a chat even. Now if you’ll excuse me a certain khajit needs dealt with.”

This post has been edited by Olen: Dec 11 2011, 07:23 PM

[McBadgere]

Helloo!!...*Waves*...

I like your story...Most excellent...Flows brilliantly...

Ruben might have laughed but the nord and orc who flanked him left any humour crying behind the nearest tree

Lol... ...

Loving it...*Applauds*...

Nice one... ...

Ooooh...One nit towards the end...

Now if you’ll excuse me a certain khajit needs dealt with.

It makes my eyes ache... ...Should that be "dealing with"?...Or "to be dealt with"?...

[SubRosa]

Carbo’s camp sat like a rotting fruit in the bowl valley.
Well now, isn't that nice?

The showdown with the trio at the edge of the camp was interesting. As the last episode promised, Ferir clearly has unfinished business with some of the denizens. The camp itself - as befitting of one of your stories - is fetid sore upon the hide of Nirn.

I see Ferir obviously has a lot of history with Relthas as well. This time of the better kind. They seem to have been quite close, considering how quick the Dunmer was to give Ferir that traveling money. Not to mention what seemed like genuine sympathy over the death of Arvyn. Not the kind of things one normally associates with ruthless drug lords.

So next it looks like we are going to the bar, which I imagine is that big dreckhouse in the middle of the camp. And probably a showdown with the Bosmer Basil Rathbone.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Dec 11 2011, 07:01 PM

[haute ecole rider]

And so we enter the squalor that is Carbo's Camp.

But where is Carbo?

Loved the confrontation with the barefoot Bosmer in the dandy's outfit.

One nit (really, the same thing multiple times): It's its when possessive, and it's when contracted from it is.

I really enjoyed seeing this from Ruben's standpoint. It's nice for a change to see a different POV. That's the problem with first-person POV stories.

[Olen]

McBadgere - Thanks for reading, glad you're enjoying it. The nit - I agree the grammar is wrong but as it was in dialogue and I think it's closer to how people talk (here at least) I've left it. Thanks for making me try to remember why I left that though.

SubRosa - Aegnoth was a throw away character really. He appeared in Morrowind but comes across as out if his depth, I just imagined that things got too hot for him and he ran. He might reappear later, or not. And yes there is history with Relthas.

HER - Nit is fixed, it's probably a typo as its/it's is grammar which I can do, it's spelling which bothers me. Glad the PoV hopping is working, that's the reason why I abandoned 1st person for this piece, as good as it is for immediacy and focus it makes it harder to build other characters. Back to Ferir for this bit though.

All - A longer part this time, but there wasn't a convenient place to cut it.

The last part saw them enter Carbo's Camp to a not wholly friendly welcome. Ferir had enough history with the man he owed to smooth it over and shift blame elsewhere though.

2.2 Tashba's

Ferir stepped out of Relthas’s house and looked around. Carbo’s camp was the same as ever. People came and went, shelters were dismantled and rebuilt. But between the few old stalwarts, like Relthas, nothing ever really changed. You could get anything here. Anything. If it wasn’t available someone could source it, or knew who could. In many ways he liked it, it was freedom, but in others it bothered him. Much in the way Relthas had always bothered him. The dunmer was unpredictable. He would be true to his word and would put a hit out on Raj’arn, he’d had enough killed, but it could have been them. Ferir supposed you didn’t get to his position any other way.

Where would he buy the hit? Ferir didn’t much care, but there were some things he thought money shouldn’t buy. All of them were available in the camp, and if you went digging there was plenty he hadn’t imagined no doubt.

“What was that all about?” Ruben stepped alongside him. The former guard’s gaze hopped around like a strung-out khajit.

He might have seen near everything as a guard, and done enough most likely. But he looks green here, thought Ferir. “Stop looking around so much, you’ll attract attention you don’t want.” Ruben’s gaze slowed, but he continued waiting. Ferir filled the silence. “We... go back I suppose, but things change. People age, well some do. More recently he was our main buyer. We had a big deal with him but our supplier vanished, I suspect to the commona.”

“Not the guard? We catch some people you know.”

Ferir winced and glanced around. It was early evening and quiet, here at least. “Make that slip up again and you might not survive,” he said it plainly. If Ruben was too stupid to hide who he’d been he’d get what was coming. “And no, I asked someone who knows what goes on in the guard and it wasn’t them. He wanted his first payment back but he's being okay, and as I said we go back a fair way.”

“He deals in death happily enough.”

Ferir nodded, “He does. I didn’t say he was nice and I wouldn’t get on his bad side. But he also gave us some money which we desperately need.”

Ruben opened his mouth then closed it for which Ferir was glad. The former guard frowned then said, “Alright, what’s the plan?”

“I’m going for a drink with some acquaintances-"

“That crazy bark biter?”

Ferir snorted, “No.”

“You told him where you were going.”

“And Ulgaf, his guard, overheard. He’s got the brain of a tree but he’ll let his sister know.”

“Ah.” Ruben nodded in a way Ferir couldn’t be bothered to correct.

He dug into the coin bag and pulled out a couple of handfuls. “I need a strong drink, and to find out what’s going on. In that order.” He passed the coins to Ruben. “Go do whatever you do and try not to get killed.”

The man looked taken aback. The surprise made a scar which ran across his right cheek stand out like a plough track. “Oh… right.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to have fun. Just remember two things, don’t let anyone know what you were, no one here will ask much anyway, and don’t frek with Jerine.”

“Jerine?”

Ferir shook his head. “She only runs the place. See the big house in the middle? It’s hers. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

“But where are we staying?”

Ferir gave a shrug and wandered off into the labyrinthine streets.

***

Tashba’s was one of the few constants in Carbo’s ever-changing camp in much the same way as a bone in a maggot filled corpse. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but compared to some of the other bits there it was fantastic. Ferir hurried towards it. Usually he would drink the atmosphere in with a sort of fascination. Here in this place where people could do more or less anything it was fascinating that it ended closer to a cesspit than utopia. But it was a glittering cesspit of wonders.

There were a couple of men in loose jackets wandering in seemingly aimless circles. Dealers. He was half tempted, but nothing flirted with his mood, it was morbid, all the pleasures his mind could imagine, and many he wished he hadn't, were available. But they were grey ashes, pointless fleeting things more akin to butterflies to be smashed apart in a hurricane. They were tragic in their brevity. In a land where one portion of the populace measured their lives in decades and the other centuries wasn’t that always the case?

He shook the thought away. Drinking in this mood was a terrible idea. He knew it fine, but he also knew it would help in the long run. He could feel the loss pushing at the walls his mind had erected round it, a pressure waiting to burst. Alcohol eroded those walls, and dulled the pain when the miasma behind escaped. More correctly it dulled the memory of the pain, but he didn’t care.

Neither did he care for the occasional person who recognised him and waved, or the imperial recruiting for something. The noisy display, complete with scantily clad woman, was an art-form in persuasion. He walked past it, his eyes trying to find somewhere to look and avoid the unpleasant gazes of the whores who would be clustering in the rose glow of the brothel on the corner. As always their heavy perfume failed to quite disguise the stench from within.

What’s wrong with me, he thought. Normally he liked the camp for its deranged freedom which flapped wildly to the four winds. I don’t know who I am now. It wasn’t quite right. He was still who he’d been, but the anchors were torn. Tomorrow didn’t know and as much as he longed for it when direction was taken away it was disconcerting until he had the tiller again. Like being in a ship drifting blindly in a rocky bay.

The coloured awnings of Tashba’s brightened his mood a shade. But as he passed through the batwing doors into the marquee which housed the tavern he still had one intention. He saw Senril at the bar, the dunmer had his usual herbal liqueur, the bright green twinkled in the multitude of lanterns. He was dragging on a rollie with smoke just a little too white.

“I thought you’d given that stuff up,” said Ferir as he approached.

Senril shrugged. “Have a drink,” he gestured to a very generous measure of something dark and cloudy which sat by an empty barstool. Ferir took a sip and sat. It tasted of aniseed and fire, the water added had been enough to make it louche and no more. Senril met his eye. “Are you alright?” His tone told that he’d heard.

“I’m alive.” It came out bitterer than Ferir intended. “You?”

“Yeah," Senril shrugged, a lump of ash fell from the rollie, "money comes money goes. Bit of a rough patch but it’ll pass.”

“Don’t know why you stay,” Ferir took a generous gulp of the spirit and winced.

The dunmer man shrugged, then grinned. “I like being in one place, we’re not all like you. What will you do now?”

Ferir took another swig. “Drift I suppose. Even here might not be safe enough, and I’ve no intention of staying anyway.”

“You’re going back to Sundew.”

Ferir shrugged. The accusation had been in the tone, and yes it was stupid. But he needed to. The deaths sat heavy, not crushing like they had been but when he considered them... He turned away from the thought’s sting. It was a thousand times more bitter than the spirit he washed it away with.

“They’ll expect it.”

“I know.”

“Then why go? What draws you back there above anywhere else? Above here?”

“I need to see it.”

Senril shook his head. Ferir noticed that he’d made a greater then usual effort with his hair, it was cut into a stripe again. Freshly too. He was not the only one drawn to a dead past.

He drained his glass then thumped it down on the bar and nodded to the khajit serving it. She raised her ears.

“A whisky,” said a voice behind him, “Make that two. Doubles.”

“Holga,” he said turning. “How are you?”

She nodded and gave a half smile. “Alright,” the smile melted. “More to the point how are you?”

Ferir shrugged. “Not great. Not dead. I’m coming to be glad of that much.”

Holga nodded and took two glasses from the khajit. “Here, you need spirits at a time like this.”

“Thanks,” Ferir took a sip. It was cheap stuff, but they didn’t water them at Tashba’s which was more than plenty of places in Carbo’s Camp could claim.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not much.”

“Well if you change your mind after a few drinks, or tomorrow I’m here.”

“Likewise,” said Senril pushing himself back in.

“Thanks.”

A silence opened. Ferir filled it with a sip which went on slightly longer than was pleasant. The stuff wasn’t smoky enough for his tastes. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but under the gaze of companionship a chasm yawned.

“Been some strange stuff going down here recently,” said Senril.

Ferir caught the glance which passed between him and Holga. “Yes," the nord woman continued, “rumours of rogue mages and sightings of zombies to the east.”

“And the lights.”

“The lights?” asked Ferir. Carbo’s Camp was always full of tall tales, but this one wasn’t like most.

“We see them from camp,” said Senril. “At night when Masser is just past half full, there’s a violet glow to the east. I went to take a look the second time it happened, over a month ago now. Got scared though,” he gave a laugh that tried to be self mocking but ended unpleasant, “and turned back.”

Ferir’s interest was piqued. The sip he took before speaking was cursory. “What is it?”

“No one knows. No one’s found anything, well no one who’s returned anyway.”

Holga made a hissing sound and rolled her eyes. “Yes, there’s no chance a few disappearances, at night, in the backcountry, from Carbo's weren’t something unnatural. I’d be more surprised if they had all returned.”

There was more gossip, Ferir could see it dancing in Senril’s red eyes. “What else?” he obliged.

“There was a damned strange woman passed through here day before yesterday. The sort who puts you a bit on edge you know. A mage I reckon.”

“Off to join whatever cult is responsible for the lights?”

“Who knows.”

“Men,” Holga shook her head. “You’re no better than a sewing circle. All dramatic stories. Now you know Elsen Roleen down by the southstream?”

Ferir let the mingled gossip wash over him. They were friendly faces, and by the gods he’d needed some. The following day would bring what came, for now there was company. And there was drink.

The company I want though?

This post has been edited by Olen: Dec 22 2011, 05:37 PM

[mALX]

The dialogue rules this chapter, Great Write !!

[McBadgere]

Fair enough!... ...

Most excellent chapter...

I remember this feeling very well...

What’s wrong with me, he thought. Normally he liked the camp for its deranged freedom which flapped wildly to the four winds. I don’t know who I am now. It wasn’t quite right. He was still who he’d been, but the anchors were torn. Tomorrow didn’t know and as much as he longed for it when direction was taken away it was disconcerting until he had the tiller again. Like being in a ship drifting blindly in a rocky bay.

So I think that was my fave lines of the whole thing so far...

Oh, and this line...

“Men,” Holga shook her head. “You’re no better than a sewing circle.

...Most excellent...*Applauds*...

Nice one... ...

[Fawkes]

Oh, I really enjoy this! Really great write!

More specifically this,

What’s wrong with me, he thought. Normally he liked the camp for its deranged freedom which flapped wildly to the four winds. I don’t know who I am now. It wasn’t quite right. He was still who he’d been, but the anchors were torn. Tomorrow didn’t know and as much as he longed for it when direction was taken away it was disconcerting until he had the tiller again. Like being in a ship drifting blindly in a rocky bay.

and

Senril shook his head. Ferir noticed that he’d made a greater then usual effort with his hair, it was cut into a stripe again. Freshly too. He was not the only one drawn to a dead past.

looking forward for more!

[SubRosa]

“That crazy bark biter?”
Teresa is one of his old acquaintances? Oh, I guess not.

in much the same way as a bone in a maggot filled corpse. It wasn’t exactly pleasant
Not exactly pleasant? I would hate to see what Ferir considers unpleasant!

I loved Ferir's grim musings in the bar, about how the lack of constraints leads to ruin rather than utopia, and especially the balance of lifespans, between centuries and decades.

I also enjoyed his lack of ease caused by being in a transitional state. He is neither one thing, or another right now. His old life is gone, and his new one -whatever that might be - has yet to begin. Rather he is in between. That is a very difficult place for most people to be in.

Hmm, it sounds like the necromancers from the Dark Fissure are restless. Zombies, the Necromancer's Moon, disappearances.




nits:
Ferir gave a shrug and wondered off into the labyrinthine streets.
That is wandered.

There were a couple of men in loose jackets wondering in seemingly aimless circles.
Again in this sentence too.

[Grits]

I love your decision to show the meeting with Relthas from Ruben’s point of view. We have to infer things from Ruben’s observations and the minimal explanation that Ferir offers in the next section. Very engaging.

Nearby necromancers and Ferir’s desire to return to Sundew add up to an uncomfortable possibility.

[Olen]

Sorry for being slow. RL is devouring me just now. I have chapter three finished though so there will be more updates now.

mALX - glad the dialogue worked for you. Just as well seeing as this story seems rather dialogue heavy.

McBadgere - glad you like it. The line you quoted was an important one, so I'm glad that worked. Also thanks for prodding me into polishing another part for posting...

Fawkes - I'm glad you like it. Good eye with the quotes too.

Subrosa - Nits were fixed. I think I've found everything in this piece (though probably haven't). You seem to have picked up on all the foreshadowings, there's no sneaking anything past

And yes I've stolen the odd phrase from the TF world, it's just so much more real to me than the game world now, though there are some differences.

Grits - I'm glad the PoV hops are working. It's easier to avoid bogging things down with back story with the odd head hop. And Ruben is quite fun to write.

This part begins the morning after Ferir met a couple fo old aquaintances for a drink in Carbo's Camp.


2.3 Shopping

"No poppy, I need to be awake today." Ferir's voice was hoarse and his tongue felt like a strip of leather. How can I be so thirsty when I drank so much last night? It was one of life's mysteries.

The trader smiled, "I can give you something for that too."

Ferir shook his head. The stall claimed to be an alchemists but the decent potions looked stolen and the rest was a mixture of wortcraft and snakeoil. "Just the willow bark one with syrup and liver salts please."

"It's your hangover."

Don't I know it, thought Ferir as he handed the coin across. He downed the flask and tried to ignore the nauseating taste, a cheap healing and stamina draught followed it. It was probably unnecessary but at least it felt like he was doing something.

"Thanks," he muttered and carried on to the next stall to catch up with Holga.

"Feeling any better?"

"Nope."

"Me neither," she said. "Still having seen the rubbish in your pack I think more shopping should distract us."

"True, I need soap, and a towel. Guards are disgusting."

"I was more thinking some armour, and a decent weapon."

"That too," Ferir stopped at a large stall. Several tables were laid out with a bizarre range of items. A large and ornate claymore nestled among a mountain of chipped crockery. Books half eaten by mice lay next to soul gems, alchemy equipment in varying states and an unusually tasteless statuette of a ballerina. "I'll get you that if you're not careful," he muttered pointing it out to Holga.

"Please don't," she said. "This can be a good place, it's cheap and stuff moves quickly but sometimes they have something worthwhile. Just don't ask where it came from."

Ferir smiled. "There's shops enough like that everywhere." He turned his attention back towards the clutter. A few mortars and pestles had caught his eye. There was other equipment too but he ignored it. A saucepan would do calcine ingredients in the few occasions that was necessary and distilling was too difficult without a proper bench.

He glanced up and suppressed a grin as the store owner appeared. He couldn't have imagined a more likely candidate. The redguard wore a confused mixture of Cyrodiilic clothing and that of Hammerfell from where he clearly originated. His curly hair stood almost straight up from his head and showed the first signs of grey.

"Ah, what are you looking for?" The stall owner's eyes darted around, "I have the finest silks from Elswer," a yellow scarf emerged from nowhere. "Just your colour and feel the quality."

"No thanks," said Ferir.

"But feel the quality!" There was a manic energy in the man's voice, but the smell emanating from the scarf was even more unsettling. "This silk is the finest. Only the khajit know who to make it so fine from the worm's bottom!"

Ferir could only imagine something had been lost in translation. "No thanks. Do you have any armour? Light stuff and decent quality."

The man put the scarf down and scratched his head. "I have some mail," he rooted through a trunk under a table and pulled out a rusted heap of junk.

"No thanks, too rusty." The seller went to reply and Ferir cut across him, "I don't have time to clean it, I want it to wear now. Mail is too heavy too." It was better to agree with people like this and manipulate them. Arguing was like banging your face against a tree, but less satisfying.

"Leather offers less protection."

"I know."

"Have a look." With unexpected strength the man lifted the trunk onto the table sending pots and pans scattering with a clatter which made Ferir's brain grate the inside of his skull. Before Ferir could look a second trunk joined the first and the seller had pulled a suit of leather armour out. The cut was poor and the build looked shoddy to Ferir.

He grunted and began to look ignoring the seller's spiel. A suit of dark cuir bouillie caught his eye. He lifted it out and was surprised to find it in reasonable condition.

"Ah," the seller sounded almost regretful, "an excellent piece. Very good, feel the waxiness. This piece was made with beeswax, that gives a good waterproofing you know."

Ferir nodded. You haven't got a clue have you? The question was how much did the man know about price? "How much?"

"For you? Fifty drakes."

"Hmmm," Ferir wobbled his head. The rest of the box was musty and foul smelling. As he raked his hand through another piece caught his attention. It was the studded leather the Imperials used in some provinces, how it had come to be in Carbo's was a mystery. It's condition was okay but not great. It needed a waxing that much was certain. So why had it caught his eye?

It hadn't. That was the simple answer, it had caught his attention. He picked it up and felt it again. Enchantment, but there wasn't the characteristic glitter and it was hard to detect. A decent pawnbroker would know, and know exactly what it was worth. But the man was a lunatic.

"I'm not sure that cuirass will fit me, this one will though. The quality isn't quite the same but I didn't really want to spend that much."

"But it's not a set then."

"You're left with a better cuirass though," said Ferir. Will you disagree? If he did that was an excuse to pull the price down, and the man might believe him anyway. "How does twenty five sound?"

"No no. This is worth much more. With this cuirass forty five."

"I only wanted to spend thirty. Sorry." Ferir started putting the armour back.

The man blocked him. "Thirty five. My final offer."

Ferir made a show of looking at the suit again. "I need to get other things though. I wanted a mortar and pestle from somewhere."

"I have many mortar and pestles," the man threw his arms wide to indicate just how many. Coupled with his beard the frantic gesticulation made him look like one of the strange men who spent their time on street corners alternately damning passers by and soiling themselves.

"Put in a cheap one and we call it thirty five."

The seller smiled and raked in another pile which seemed mainly to consist of over-stuffed dead furry things and plaster busts of past emperors. The smile was still evident when he put down a slightly battered and very thin mortar and pestle. As Ferir picked it up the seller spoke. "For another three I give you a better one. That one very thin." He pronounced it 'theen' with a slight screech.

As Ferir looked at it it was his turn to smile. The man hadn't got a clue. "No no. This one will do, I'm only starting anyway." He counted out the coins, three larger gold ones and a smaller one. The sellers eyes darted to them the back to the merchandise with a sort of longing. "I assume you will throw in some neats wax, the leather needs it and you'd have to do it soon if I wasn't buying."

The seller paused then threw his hands up. "Fine. Yes." He scooped up the money and pulled a small bottle from yet another case. "Good bye, unless you're interested in-"

Ferir shook his head and smiled. He met Holga's eye and raised his brows. She grinned. He wandered a short way away to look at the wares of another merchant, by the range a fence, before he spoke. "He doesn't have a clue does he?"

"No, he pulls prices out the air. You did alright, well except for that mortar and pestle which looks like junk."

Ferir raised his eyebrows.

"It's not is it," Holga said, "I know that look."

"It certainly isn't. I'm not sure exactly what it's made from but it's strong. Mithril doesn't work, but there are other unusual materials. Either way it's definitely light." He spun it between his fingers to demonstrate.

"I saw the same look when you switched the cuirass."

Ferir nodded and drifted on to the next stall. It was a lizard place, all scale polish and tail oil. There was a stand of the musty stuff which passed for perfume between them too. "You did," he said. He glanced back to check the seller wasn't too close but saw something quite different. It took him a moment to notice the hulk of a man bustling through the crowd at speed but then he did. Ruben.

He was red faced and wheezing slightly. "We need to leave," he said.

This post has been edited by Olen: Jan 30 2012, 10:58 PM

[McBadgere]

YAY!!... ...

A pleasure...*Bows*...

Love this story...It's ace!!... ...

Brilliant chapter...I laughed at the way he played the Redguard...

Loved it!!...

Nice one...Glad it's back... ...

*Applauds heartily*...

[SubRosa]

Ferir is perusing the priceless treasures junkpile for something useful. At least he came away with what looks like some decent armor and a mortar & pestle.

It was a lizard place, all scale polish and tail oil.
I loved this!

Uh oh, what did Ruben do? I get the feeling he opened his big mouth about being with the city guard...

nits:
He wondered a short way away to look at the wares of another merchant
Ferir is wondering when he should be wandering again.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jan 30 2012, 07:22 PM

[mALX]

*

but the smell emanating from the scarf was even more unsettling. "This silk is the finest. Only the khajit know who to make it so fine from the worm's bottom!"

Ferir could only imagine something had been lost in translation.

ROFL !!!

You haven't got a clue have you?

Love that line !!!

*

Coupled with his beard the frantic gesticulation made him look like one of the strange men who spent their time on street corners alternately damning passers by and soiling themselves.

ROFL !!


SubRosa already quoted this, but I had to anyway - Loved this line !!

Ferir nodded and drifted on to the next stall. It was a lizard place, all scale polish and tail oil.

Really great chapter - now this has the feel of your old stories, where you can take a shopping expedition and keep the reader rapt and unable to tear themselves from it !!! This is Olen !!! Loved it !!

*