The tower was deeply subdued this morning, people moving around on tiptoe as Kallin spoke to me while I broke my fast. “The assassin came in from the southeast,” she briefed me, adding bitterly, “we found a dead guard. He’d been dragged over the hill out of sight. We also found this, outside.”

She handed me a small silver and glass phial. There were only a few dregs of the potion it had contained left in the bottom, but the thick smell rising from the flask was enough to tell us both what it had contained. “Having levitated to your balcony, he used a pick to unlock the door, greasing the hinges so they’d make no noise. How do you intend to respond, Arch-Magister?”

“By tearing a few strips off Master Neloth’s hide,” I replied. “I want to see how much of that ample paunch I can remove before he dies of blood loss or shock. Yes Raissu,” I said, turning my head to address the fidgeting estate manager, “you have something to add?”

“It may be prudent to stay your wrath until you’ve spoken with Neloth’s Mouth,” she suggested. I indicated that she should explain. “I have little knowledge of the Guild of Assassins,” she continued, “nobody does. And those that do have knowledge keep very, very quiet. However, if Neloth had targeted you for assassination, wouldn’t they have had to issue a Black Writ?”

“Which we would have known about,” an exasperated Kallin said, dropping her head so her forehead banged on the table. “Raissu is right, Arch-Magister. The Morag Tong may be a bunch of murderous cut-throats, but they do stick to their rules.”

Kallin then explained to me what she knew of the workings of the Dunmeri assassins. How a Black Writ has to be issued for the ‘execution’ of a target and how the target is made aware of the existence of the Writ. It seemed an odd system to me but it had been that way, apparently, for hundreds of years.

“Everyone out,” I commanded as I stalked into the Telvanni Council Hall in Sadrith Mora. “Not you Arara Uvulas,” I added as the Mouths started to leave. When she and I were the only ones left in the chamber, I spoke, “Last night there was an attempt on my life. Neloth has declared that he considers himself to be my enemy. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t end his life right now.”

Arara looked stricken, glancing about as though in search of aid. Finally, she swallowed and said, “My Master has not been in contact with me for days. In fact Sed, he hasn’t been out of Tel Naga since you became Arch-Magister. He… regrets certain comments he made to you and wishes he had not been so… hasty. I believe he fears that he may have made… an error of judgement.”

I snorted back laughter. Ignoring it, Arara continued, “As for arranging an assassination attempt? It is not something Neloth would do, for fear of precisely this situation.”

“In other words,” I said, “he’s a bully and a coward. Afraid that he’s made a mortal enemy of the Head of House.”

Arara hesitated, then gave a quick nod of the head ~ about as much confirmation that my words were true as I was likely to get from her. “Then if not Neloth,” I mused out loud, “who sent that assassin to my stronghold? Unlikely to be House Redoran, if they wanted me dead they’d do it themselves. House Hlaalu? They could certainly afford to equip an assassin in the armour…”

“Armour, Arch-Magister?” Arara interrupted my thoughts. “What sort of armour?”

“Black,” I replied. “Light-weight, high-quality black armour.”

“Then it was not the Morag Tong,” she said flatly. “Their assassins eschew armour, preferring simple robes. And if it was not the Morag Tong that tried to kill you, then it was not one of the Dunmeri factions that arranged it. Let me call one of the House Guards, they may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The nervous looking guard listened to my tale and spoke quickly when I’d finished. “Sounds like the Dark Brotherhood, Sed Vahl. If you have been targeted for assassination by them…” he let his comment trail off. I wondered where I could find this Brotherhood. “I don’t know,” he replied in response to my question, “but there is a new arrival in Ebonheart who may be able to assist you. An Imperial by the name of Apelles Matius.”

Delas Mrania was only too happy to sell me a spell to get me to Ebonheart when I spoke to her and, after learning it; I took myself from Ald’ruhn to the Imperial blandness of Ebonheart’s Fort.

“You’ll forgive me if I am sceptical Dark Elf,” Apelles Matius said, giving me a condescending smile when I’d told him my tale. “If you were truly marked for death by the Dark Brotherhood, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar Matius,” I snapped. “You’d do well to remember your manners. Now, speak to me of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Well,” he said, quite taken aback. “If you’re telling the truth… which I have no doubt you are,” he added hastily as I smiled blandly at him and dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword, “then you need to travel to Mournhold. That is the only bastion of the Dark Brotherhood in this Province that I am aware of.

“The problem is, Vvardenfell is under quarantine because of the Blight. However, if you speak to Asciene Rane in the Council Hall, I’m sure she would be able to transport you there.”

Cool start to the new chapter Override

aaaarghh I would say scaaaary......I know what she´s up to.....going to Mournhold.......... :paperbag:

Nice new chapter. Great details.
What is this chapter 7? Now i got more work to do. Great.

S.G.M.

[quote=jonajosa]Nice new chapter. Great details.
What is this chapter 7? Now i got more work to do. Great.

S.G.M.[/quote]

heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5


I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always

Asciene Rane turned out to be far more sympathetic than Apelles Matius. She listened to my story and then said, “Oh dear, I understand why you’d want to catch these people. But the Dark Brotherhood: very, very dangerous. I certainly wouldn’t want to tangle with them.

“Now,” she continued, after giving a little shudder, “I will certainly send you to Mournhold but there are things you should know. Almalexia doesn’t allow levitation inside the citadel’s limits, nor does she allow people inside Mournhold to travel outside the citadel, so you won’t be able to make any side trips to the main part of the city. And, because of the quarantine, you’ll have to speak to Effe-Tei in the Royal Palace to return to Vvardenfell and speak to me if you wish to go back. No Recall or translocation spells are allowed.”

I stood there; watching as the woman wove the spell, sparkles of light following her moving finger as she worked. With a suddenness that was shocking, everything went black for a moment, and then I found myself standing in a small room. In front of me stood an Argonian, clad in robes of a higher quality than any I’d seen on the island. I was more interested, for the moment, in my surroundings.

The floor was of some dark stone, grey in colour and flecked with black grains. The same stone formed the walls. Bands of dark green and gold decorated these walls, and the curved and elaborate ceiling was constructed of tiles, glazed the same green and bearing fine designs in gilt enamel. Richly decorated tapestries and rugs adorned the walls and floor and, in one corner, stood a tub in which grew a profusion of plants and flowers quite unknown to me. However, despite the greenery and the rich decorations, there was a gloom to the room that was unsettling.

“Help traveller. Effe-Tei. How?” the Argonian said as I approached it. I explained my problem and, after making a thin hissing sound, it said, “Guard. Royal. Problem should be addressed. Information, possible, that source.”

After clarifying that the Argonian Effe-Tei was suggesting that I speak to one of the Royal Guards, I looked around and saw a tall, armoured figure watching me. The armour was, like so many things I was to see here, of much better quality than any I’d seen before. The colour, the unsettling colour of dried blood, made me nervous as did the fact that the full helm made it impossible for me to see the wearer’s eyes. Still, this was the Royal Palace so the odds were good that the figure was a Royal Guard.

The guard was every bit as unfriendly as I’d feared and proved reluctant to speak to me. However, I turned on the charm and, before long, he grudgingly parted with information. “I’ve heard a rumour that the Dark Brotherhood have a base down in the old sewers beneath the Bazaar. You might want to try there.”

“Do you know where in the sewers?” I asked.

“Do I look like someone who’d go down into the sewers traveller?” he snapped. With that, he turned and stalked off. Very smooth Sudhendra, I thought to myself, very smooth.

A tall, well-dressed Cyrodiil in the courtyard of the Palace turned out to be very much more helpful. “I can’t help you with that my dear,” he said, “but I can direct you to the Bazaar and the sewers.” Which he promptly proceeded to do.

I left the Palace through the gate the Man had indicated and stopped dead in my tracks. He’d spoke in an off-hand way about the ‘Plaza Brindisi-Dorum’ when giving me directions: what he’d neglected to mention was the breath-taking beauty of the wide area I found myself in. Huge swathes of grass covered the area around the outside edge of the circular plaza and a profusion of trees and cultivated plants dotted the greenery. Many were of types I’d never seen before. Broad, well-maintained paths of smooth dark stone led through this park area to a gargantuan central pool. Carefully times plumes of water shot up from the water, creating a dancing effect as they went around the central statue in sequence. The statue, of an armoured woman battling Mehrunes Dagon, consisted of more fine white marble in one place than I’d ever seen.

As I followed the path towards the pool, I saw that the central statue was not the plaza’s only decoration. Off to my left there was a tall, slender spire of a pastel-hued green stone ~ hundreds of feet tall. Blinking at the magnificence of the surroundings, I drew close to the central pool. “Mournhold: City of Magic, City of Light,” one of the Royal Guards intoned as I went past. I had the feeling that this was some sort of greeting and I inclined my head politely.

Now here was an interesting thing: on the side of the statue where I was standing were three Royal Guards. On the other side were three other guards; these dressed in silvery armour that bore the ‘Moon and Star’ design of House Indoril. And, although all six guards were patrolling the area, neither set of guards crossed over into the area patrolled by the other. Filing this away for future reference, I followed the path and came, eventually, to the large wooden gate in the high walls that surrounded Plaza Brindisi Dorum. Passing through, I entered the Great Bazaar.

The Great Bazaar of Mournhold! After passing through the gate, I found myself on an elevated walkway above the Bazaar. Which was slightly bigger than a village back on the island. Throngs of people passed by below, chattering and laughing as vendors by the hundred called out to them to come and look at their wares. Nor were these booths and barrows the only retailers available: large stone buildings, their roofs only just reaching the level of the walkway, lined the side of the Bazaar. As I followed the walkway, more of the Great Bazaar was revealed. There, below, was what appeared to be a stage ~ complete with scenery and props.

The huge sweep of stone stairs that led down into the Bazaar beckoned and, sewers for the moment forgotten, I walked down them and joined the crowds below. The merchandise was plentiful and some of it, at least, quite affordable. My walk through the crowd was profitable, for I overheard many snippets of information. Like the conversation between the two women discussing the wizard that had been seen around Mournhold, showing off his powers. Or the information that a clock-maker had set up in a place called Godsreach.

Some time later, I emerged from the throng at the opposite side of the Great Bazaar and climbed the stairs that led back up to the walkway. Here, a deep, water-filed channel ran along the base of the high wall, entering from a huge metal grate and exiting through a similar grate at the far end of its course. Beside this, flush to the ground, was the trapdoor down into the sewers that I was seeking.

I expected someone to shout to tell me to stop as I lifted the heavy flap and manoeuvred around so I could set my feet on the uppermost rung of the ladder that led down into the darkness. But, even though several people saw me, nobody seemed to mind. With a mental shrug, I started down the ladder, leaving the trapdoor open to provide a little light for my descent.

Sewers, have I mentioned recently just how much I hate them? Dark, usually smelly, always dank ~ and these, despite their vast size, were little different than the sewers beneath Saint Delyn or Vehk’s palace. The spluttering torches set at regular intervals assured me that I was not going to run into a pocket of something lethal but did little to light these wide tunnels. And the rats, and worse, were pretty thick down here too. Not having much idea which way to go, I fetched a stub of chalk from my pack and, drawing an arrow heading into the gloom, I set off.

Many chalk-drawn arrows later, I came to a spot where the sewer-wall had collapsed. A tunnel, roughly hewn from the grey rock, led away from the spot. Drawing a final arrow, I headed down the tunnel to see what I could find.

Assassins: that’s what I found. I’d passed through several chambers hewn in the rock ~ spots where masonry from some older city thrust through the stone, or where finely tiled and mosaic-tiled floors showed through the dirt and gravel underfoot. In several places, there were intricately designed, slender pillars that rose from the rock bed and vanished into the rock of the roof of the tunnel. As I ventured further, I found more and more evidence of this buried city beneath the new. As I waded through a stretch of flooded tunnel there was an articulate shout from just ahead.

Cloak floating behind him, a black-armoured figure ran at me ~ light from the luminous moss glinting of the blade of a steel dagger. Either the fact he was a novice, or his overconfidence, caused his defeat. Of course, the fact that I was wielding an Ebony broadsword compared to his tiny little dagger might have played a part in it too. He lunged inward with the dagger, I slapped his arm away with the flat of the blade ~ his dagger splashing into the water as he lost his grip on it ~ and then reversed the direction of the cut and tore a huge rent in his armour.

He staggered backwards, his feet shooting from underneath him as he fell in the water with a huge splash. Before he could recover, I was standing astride him with the point of the sword pressed against his throat. “You and I,” I informed him, “are going to have words.

“Who sent you after a Dunmer named Sudhendra Vahl?” I asked, pressing down with the blade just enough to draw the faintest trickle of blood.

“Go to Oblivion scum,” he spat. Before I could respond, he arched his back and drove his throat up onto the sword. I cursed, leaping backwards as a spray of blood jetted upwards. Shaken, I stood there looking at his lifeless body, trying to process what had just happened. The assassin had taken his own life rather than talk to me and I was at a loss.

My plan had been to blast in here and acquire the information that would set me on the right path to who ever was behind the attempt on my life. I’d been willing to be as rough and ruthless as necessary to gain that information but had intended to spare the lives of those who told me what I needed. It was the person behind the Dark Brotherhood I wanted ~ with him I intended to be less than merciful. Okay, maybe not the greatest plan in the Grey Maybe, but it had seemed sensible enough. Now I needed a rethink.

As I crouched atop the rock, keeping out of the bloodied waters while I thought, something occurred to me. In these dark passages, one black-armoured figure would look very much like another. Provided they didn’t have any watchwords, I might, just might, be able to infiltrate the tunnels without further bloodshed. Removing the armour from the limp and lifeless Mer was no easy task, cleaning it of bloody water even less so. But, about half-an-hour after the idea had occurred to me, I stood in the tunnels clad in Dark Brotherhood armour.

The armour was about a size and a half too big for me but I hoped that the dim tunnels would disguise the worst of it. It was a wrench leaving my pack behind, but the small pouches around the armour took what I considered to be essential supplies and I made sure my pack was well hidden against chance discovery. I could do nothing about the rent in the front of the armour other than push the edges closed and wear something dark underneath. If I could find an assassin alone, I was resolved to replace the cuirass as quickly as possible. I got my chance much quicker than I would have liked.

“What are you doing away from your post Gadali?” the slender assassin asked as I rounded the bend in the tunnel. As gruffly as I could, I coughed and made a drinking motion. “Be quick about it then, otherwise…Urk!”

The crossbow bolt jutting from his eyeball cut short his warning, and his life. I grinned, dragging the body into a shallow recess and setting to work stripping it of armour. The Dunmer was much closer in size to me than the first fellow had been. As a bonus, his armour was not squelching wet and didn’t have a huge gash in the front. Clad in undamaged armour that was a much closer fit, although I couldn’t do anything about the helm since the smaller one was irreparably damaged, I reloaded the crossbow I’d taken from Berengeval’s corpse. Even though I only had a few bolts, in these corridors its power and effectiveness might prove a deciding factor.

My disguise proved to be marginally effective ~ it allowed me to wander past several of the patrolling assassins without comment. Always heading towards where the assassins were coming from, I quickly found myself at the end of the tunnel. Which opened into a huge cavern ~ along the bottom of which were several large buildings. Trying very hard to look as though I belonged there, I descended the ramps and headed towards the nearest building. The sign above the door identified it as Moril Manor and, feeling much emboldened by my success so far, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. That, of course, was when my luck ran out.

“Word of the Day?” the hulking black-clad assassin who stood just inside the door demanded.

“Bugger,” I suggested ~ not that I hoped that was the password, it was just a heartfelt response. He lifted himself up of his stool ~ by the Divines, I’d thought the behemoth was already standing.

“INTRUDER!” he yelled at the very top of his voice. Then, in a much smaller and higher voice, he screamed, “Arggggh!” Well, it had been such an enticing target, at just the right height, and I did have a loaded crossbow. Leaving the monster curled up in a little ball clutching his… essentials, I drew the Last Wish from beneath the cape as three more of the Brotherhood skidded into view.

Three crossbow bolts zipped through the air, one smashing itself against the table, one clanging of the oversized helm and the other neatly pinning my leg in almost poetic justice. Dropping their bows, the trio drew weapons and started towards me. In shock and a great deal of pain, a spell rose unbidden to my mind. I coughed, gagging on fricatives and alien syllables as I spoke harsh words I couldn’t possibly know.

“[b]Forn blao kula,” I spat out. The table beside me creaked alarmingly, and then collapsed in a shower of yellow light. Bits of metal twisted impossibly as thunderous chimes rang in my head. When my vision cleared, a Blade-Sphere Type II animalcule was already hammering seven shades out of one of the assassins while the others struck at it with their dagger and short sword. Grabbing the Wish from where it had fallen, I limped towards the fray and added my own skills to the mix.

A cleaving blow tore open one of the assassins’ armour down the back, alerting the three of them that I was there. Not that one of them was in much condition to do much about it ~ the gleaming metal spike extruded from the ‘arm’ of the animalcule was driven deep into his stomach and the device was making a determined effort to turn his head into mulch with its shield. Making a pretty decent job of it too.

I meanwhile, was battling valiantly despite my injury ~ fending off the two assassins’ shorter weapons with the axe and desperately trying to inflict injury. I was ably assisted in that by the animalcule, which, having decided there was no more fun to be had with the bleeding limp wreck it was currently toying with, turned and neatly skewered one of the remaining assassins from behind. While he was coming to terms with the sudden existence of several feet of Dwemer metal occupying some of the same space he was in, I quickly despatched the remaining assassin.

Some quick surgery with one of their daggers removed the bolt from my leg: with that done I could take a healing draught, or two. When I’d stopped bleeding and wincing in pain every time I put weight on my leg, I examined my surroundings more closely. Not that I was paying too much attention; I was more concerned about what I had wrought from the table. And about where those strange syllables had come from. All I could think of was that strange experience I’d had in Galom Daeus. And the thought that some millennia dead Dwemer ‘Mage’ could plant a spell in my mind, moreover a spell I couldn’t now seem to access, scared the spit right out of my mouth.

I had several more run ins with assassins as I explored Moril Manor, but I had learned my lesson. I was now fully stocked with bolts for my crossbow courtesy of the assassins and carried two ~ fully loaded and ready to go. I’d ditched the helm but kept the armour: it was light enough not to be a hindrance and its sombre colours might provide a slight advantage in these gloomy halls. Bare-foot, I padded down the halls as silent as one of the assassins I sought.

Where possible, I struck from a distance using the bows, finding these to be far easier to aim than a traditional longbow, as well as far more powerful and accurate. I found that one bolt was generally sufficient to take down an assassin: two was more than enough. Then, melting back into the shadows, I continued the silent but deadly game of stalking and killing. Where there was more than the one member of the Brotherhood, I would take one out with the bows and use magic, silent Telvanni-style casting, to deal with the others.

It was the last door that I opened that almost proved my undoing. Instead of the wide, gloomy corridors I expected to find I found instead a small ‘L’-shaped chamber. Standing in the middle, looking at the door in shock was a white-haired Mer.

“Vahl,” he breathed, taking a step back. With a quick gesture, he summoned a heavy-looking bow from thin air and quickly notched an arrow. I had had enough holes poked in my hide for one day and wasn’t looking for more. With a blood-curdling yell, I fired my crossbow at him, following up the speeding bolt with the crossbow itself. Even as it left my hand, I was grabbing for the Last Wish and running at him.

He was quick, I’ll give him that ~ he’d unleashed the arrow and was drawing a vicious looking curved glass blade even as the cry was leaving my mouth. The arrow passed close enough to part my hair and then our weapons locked together. He was far stronger than me, and his extra height gave him added leverage. But I was Telvanni, and I didn’t rely on blade and raw muscle. Allowing myself to collapse backwards, dragging him with me, I grabbed his wrist and hissed, “igneus manus.”

He screamed as the fire bit into his wrist, the skin blackening and crisping. Dropping his weapon, he rolled away from me and lashed out with his foot. The kick took me high on the shoulder, spinning me around. As I struggled to gain my feet, he was already part way up. My hand fell onto the Wish and, grabbing it, I threw it as hard as I could.

When I regained my feet, the Mer was sitting on a wooden bench, the colour draining from his face as he looked at the blade protruding from his stomach. I clearly heard him say, “I have failed my liege,” before he clapped his hand to his mouth. I was rushing towards him even as I heard the crunch of something small and fragile between his teeth.

Much, much too late. Even though no more than ten quick paces separated us, he was dead before I’d covered half the distance. I yanked the axe from the corpse, kicking the body in frustration so it toppled off the bench and landed untidily on the rough floor. Now I would never find out who had hired these killers. And that meant that I’d be unable to persuade him not to hire more.

More out of habit than anything, I searched the body. And I found a rolled-up piece of parchment. There, written in a bold hand was the following message:


Attached to the bottom of the parchment was a rather good charcoal drawing of me. That was worrying ~ somebody had been close enough to sketch me. Also worrying was the fact that the Dark Brother that I’d killed had obviously been preparing to come after me. Still, at least I now knew that ‘H’ was the mysterious person who wanted me dead. Now all I had to do was scour the world until I found everyone whose name began with that letter and ask him or her if they’d arranged to have me killed.

With a weary sigh, I dragged the dead body out of the chamber and warded the door. It was warm, relatively safe, and I was dead to the world in seconds.

[quote=Alexander]
heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5

I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always [/quote]

Looks like a gave away your plans alittle to soon Override... sorry. But there you go folks Override has more for you! And trust me after looking over all the work he has sent me... you'll like it.

Being a editor for the library has so many advantages.


Good next part

[quote=jonajosa][quote=Alexander]
heh, you're way ahead, this is but chapter 5

I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now

and a great addition of course OverrideB1, as always [/quote]

Looks like a gave away your plans alittle to soon Override... sorry. But there you go folks Override has more for you! And trust me after looking over all the work he has sent me... you'll like it.

Being a editor for the library has so many advantages.


Good next part[/quote]

Do not brag too much Jona.......you´re no the only one with privileges

LOL. Note to self: Don't mess with Minque

The slow dripping of water woke me this morning; from somewhere sewer water was trickling into the little cell I’d used overnight. Packing up was a quick business; I had very few possessions with me. The only things I took with me from that chamber which were not mine were the short glass-blade and the Writ with my name on it. My aim for today was to find a way back to the surface that didn’t involve too many one-on-one fights with assassins. I was not in the mood for much sneaking around.

After collecting my pack from its hiding place, I set off down the tunnels. The crossbows proved their worth again, allowing me to pick off the three would-be assassins that I encountered from a safe distance. But I had a different problem ~ somewhere along the way I’d taken a wrong turning. I didn’t recognise these tunnels at all.

I found what appeared to be a tunnel back into the sewers but it quickly became apparent that the way ahead was blocked. The tunnel was flooded and, when I dived down and swam through to the door to the sewers it was immovable. As I gasped a breath of air in the small air pocket above the doors, I caught a metallic glint under water. Diving down, I grabbed the object as I went passed and rose; spluttering and coughing, back in the tunnels clutching my prize.

And what a prize it was too. It was a helm, made of the same light metal as the dagger that Hrundi had given me. Adamantium that was what he’d called it. The helm was light but solid, with a round neck-protection at the back and a fixed visor that protected the eyes in battle. The thick padding inside was soaked through, but dried quite quickly. It proved to be surprisingly comfortable and, once I’d got used to the slightly restricted vision, very useful.

Deciding to press on in the direction I’d been heading originally (in the vague hope that I’d make my way back to something I recognised), I headed off. The huge, echoing cavern that I reached at the end of the tunnel was enough to convince me that I should turn back. But, before I did that, I would spend a little time exploring. That decision provided me with a puzzle that I’ve yet to solve. Deep under the water, below an overhanging ledge, I found the water-washed bones of a young Mer. Glancing upwards, I saw something fluttering on the edge of the ledge and, speaking the necessary words, I levitated up there.

I found several interesting things that only added to the puzzling presence of the bones below. There was a richly embroidered shirt, a perfect match to the remains of the clothing the skeleton was wearing; a small pile of golden coins, a pair of Adamantium boots, a pair of Adamantium bracers, and a hastily scribbled note. The note, addressed to someone called Shara, simply said:


So, there was the puzzle: were the bleached and scattered bones the body of the nameless Mer who’d scribed the note? Or were they the bones of this feckless Shara? Had some jealous lover killed the writer, or had he killed Shara in a fit of rage and fled in remorse? Over the centuries I’ve made various enquiries but have, to date, found out nothing that I didn’t learn that day. Oblivion, I don’t even know when the note was written.

Backtracking, I returned to the junction where I thought I’d taken the wrong turning. From there, I headed off in the opposite direction and quickly found, to my joy, a set of doors back into the sewers. The only problem was, they were not the section of the Bazaar sewers through which I’d entered the complex of tunnels and caves. With a sigh, I took my last piece of chalk from the pack and started to mark out my route. I had to climb some quite steep slopes and wade though several deep pools before I came to the uppermost levels of the sewers ~ the manor district must have been far more deeply buried than I’d thought.

It was in these tunnels that I met the distraught Dunmer woman. I was walking along, relaxed but alert, when I espied movement ahead. Gripping the glass short-blade, I advanced carefully. As I drew closer to the corner I’d seen the woman head around, I began to discern the soft sound of weeping. With soft feet, I walked around the corner and looked down the tunnel. I must have made some slight sound, for the Meric woman looked around in sheer terror and bolted.

“Halt, Halt!” I yelled, “I mean you no harm. In fact, I seek your help ~ how do I get out of these benighted sewers?”

My question brought the woman to a standstill and she eyed me nervously as I walked briskly towards her. Narisa Adus, for that was her name, gave me the information I sought. “You are quite close to the exit Muthsera,” she said. “If you go along here, you’ll come to a chamber with four exits. One is blocked, and two go up to the catchments systems under the Temple. You don’t want to go that way. Take the fourth exit and follow it, some three hundred paces along you’ll come to a ladder that will bring you up into the Bazaar catchments system. From there, simply follow your nose.”

“Thank you,” I said with relief. “I thought I was completely lost. But tell me, why should I avoid the Temple sewers?”

“The Black Dart Gang,” she said, as thought that should answer my question completely. Seeing my puzzled look, she explained. “They are a gang of bandits who dress like poor beggars. But they use deadly poisonous darts ~ one is enough to kill you. They… they… they killed my poor Variner.” With that, she broke down in tears.

Bit by patient bit, I dragged the story from Narisa. It seems that they used the sewers to meet but, during one of these trysts, they had run foul of this Black Dart Gang. Narisa had managed to escape, but a thrown dart had killed her lover. Now she claimed that the ghost of Variner was visiting her of a night, begging her to rescue him. She tries, her presence here in the sewers her latest attempt, but she is too afraid to go too deep or too far. She begged me to seek out her lover’s spirit and see if it had a message for her.

I wouldn’t commit myself to wandering these dank halls in search of Variner’s ghost but I did promise that, should I ever meet that specific shade, I would speak with it. It was wrong of me to so promise, since I had no intention of returning to the sewers unless it involved the death of this mysterious ‘H’.

Narisa’s directions proved to be excellent and I soon realised what she’d meant when she’d said I ‘should follow my nose’. Fresh, blessedly untainted air blew from one direction down the sewers. Turning my face to the breeze, I soon found myself scrambling through a grate and into the watercourse that ran into and out of the Great Bazaar. I found myself a bench and sat in the sunshine, warming myself as the sun dried me and the fresh breeze blew away the lingering stench of the sewers. While I sat there, I wondered what I should do next ~ perhaps one of the guards could help me find this ‘H’?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Sed,” the Ordinator said when I addressed him. I took the opportunity to covertly examine his armour. Even though it was silver, instead of the golden colour the Ordinators wore in Vivec City, it was of much higher quality. The helm, with its stern representation of male features was the same except for its colour. The rest of the armour was decorated with embossed patterns: the repeating image of House Indoril’s Moon-and-Star device featuring heavily. About the Ordinators waist hung a tabard, made of silver and white material that hung down around the ankles. At his waist hung a massive scimitar: silver and gold decorating the hilt and cross guard, the blade of gold-chased Ebony. “However, perhaps Sed Hler in the Temple can help. If anyone will know…”

“I am Ovis Velas,” a magically magnified voice boomed, cutting across what the Ordinator was saying. “I am the greatest Mage that ever lived.”

Heh, now this outta be interesting.... :paperbag:

The Velas bros. are gonna meet sudhendra...

[quote=minque]
Do not brag too much Jona.......you´re no the only one with privileges [/quote]

I should have that privilege if it is the only advantage i have... Only one :ashamed: Do not ruin this for me.

Good next part.

I turned to see a figure step from a cloud of silvery-white smoke. He was a bald Mer with a long white beard. He was clad in a dark blue robe, arcane symbols around the sleeves and hem. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the crowd, many of whom were backing slowly away. “You,” he said, pointing at a young man, “prepare to defend yourself.”

This was too much for me. Stepping in front of the cowering youth, I snapped, “Try picking on someone who’s got some experience of magic.” For a second I thought I saw a flicker of something in the wizard’s eyes, and then he straightened and nodded.

“So be it,” he boomed. Then, extending a finger, he began to chant a complex sounding spell. With a grin, I reached out and grabbed the extended finger and rattled off a quick spell of my own, “igneus manus.”

The effect was stunning: screaming, the almighty Velas grabbed his arm and collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony. Suddenly he stiffened and groaned, then went completely limp. I bent to examine the wizard, only to find that it was a corpse that I was studying. I glanced up at the Ordinator; they tend to take a very dim view of that sort of thing. Fortunately, the guard was as nonplussed as I was. “That was certainly… odd,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been hearing tales of this great and powerful wizard Velas all week. Yet, when he appears, you end up killing him with a simple fire-bite spell. Well, that’s certainly one I’ll be telling the lads back at the barracks.”

“It was certainly different,” I said, straightening up. “There’s no way that that spell should have killed him.”

“Velas?” the Ordinator mused. “Hmmm, there’s a Velas Manor over in Godsreach.” With that, the Ordinator marched off about his business. Leaving me to ponder the unlikely demise of the ‘great and powerful’ wizard Velas and any possible links he might have to Velas Manor. I decided it couldn’t hurt to investigate. Godsreach was easy enough to find ~ it was on the opposite side of the Plaza Brindisi Dorum to the Great Bazaar.

Godsreach was impressive and imposing. Occupying roughly the same sort of area as the Bazaar, this district of Mournhold was filled with fine mansions. Built of the same dark stone that the rest of the citadel, these two and three story edifices screamed wealth and power. Velas Manor was pretty representative of the rest of the buildings: a large, two-storey building with arched windows and an engraved front door. A locked, engraved front door.

Glancing around to make sure I was unobserved, I withdrew a scroll from my pack and repeated the words written thereon. It’s fortunate that there were very few pedestrians in Godsreach ~ the flare of magic would have been easily visible to anyone who cared to look. As the lock clicked and fell open, I quickly pushed on the door and stepped inside. The interior of the manse was cool but well lit, and books lined the shelves that stood on both sides of the room. Over in one corner a set of stairs led down to a basement while, directly next to them, a set of stairs led to an upper floor. I could hear footsteps descending the stairs.

“Didn’t I just kill you?” I asked the bald Mer with the long white beard as he stepped into the room and glared at me. He was an exact duplicate of the Mer I’d just accidentally killed in the Great Bazaar.

“Ahh,” he said in a cultured voice that held the faint lingering hints of Imperial elocution, “you must have met my brother Ovis. I am Gavis Velas, and my brother was fond of passing himself off as me since we are identical twins. Or rather, were identical twins.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said with genuine feeling. “But…”

“Oh, I have no doubt that Ovis attacked you first,” Gavis said with a wave of the hand. “Exactly the sort of damn’ fool thing he would have done. You are, I take it, something of a Mage yourself?” I confirmed that this was so, and the wizard sighed. “Magic runs in our family you see,” he explained. “Unfortunately, I seem to have got Ovis’ share of the power as well as my own. He could never accept that…

“Still, the fact remains that you did kill my brother,” he stated. “And, for that Muthsera, I’m afraid you are going to have to die.” As he finished speaking, he raised his hands. A stiff wind blew up and the air above his head started to darken and swirl.

To be perfectly honest, I am a great judge of my own luck, or lack thereof, and had been expecting something like this since the Mer had descended the stairs. The loaded crossbow clicked and Gavis’ shoulder suddenly grew a short stub of feathered steel. He clutched his shoulder and then, with a grimace, pushed the bolt right the way through and pulled it out through the back. As he straightened from the contortions this manoeuvre had necessitated, blue sparks spun in a localised vortex around his shoulder, repairing the damage. That little trick was almost as impressive as the fact that, throughout the whole bolt-removal and healing-spell casting, he’d never once allowed the vortex above his head to collapse. I began to get the feeling that I might be in trouble here.

The vortex had, by now, taken on a stormy aspect, and tiny flickers of lightning were already visible in the gathering storm. I quickly reviewed my spells and decided that magic wasn’t the way to go. Any attempt I made to fight Gavis on a magical level was probably doomed to failure. That left the old scream and leap technique.

Of course, that only works when the blade of your sword doesn’t bounce off a hastily conjured mystic shield. Of course, this did have the advantage of keeping Gavis Velas trapped inside the shield ~ along with the very nasty storm he was brewing up. With a wicked grin, I began pounding on the shield, forcing the mage to keep it in place so I didn’t get a blow through. After I’d hit the shield enough times, there was also the possibility of it collapsing. Gavis realised this and, with a grimace, dismissed his portable storm clouds and started chanting something else. There was a subtle shifting in the air and I dived aside as the Summoned Golden Saint’s scythe hissed through the air where I’d been standing.

This was even better: levelling my gloved hand, I concentrated and let the power flow out. Cold and devoid of any feelings, the mind of the Golden Saint opened up to me and, with a faintly metallic creak, it turned and began pounding on the mage’s shield with the scythe. After a minute of this, it became obvious that it was down to a contest of will. Sweat was pouring down his face as he struggled to re-establish control over his Summoning and maintain the integrity of his defensive field. I, meanwhile, was struggling to keep my hold over the Dremora intact ~ between Gavis’ efforts to regain control and the Golden Saint’s natural resistance, I was almost on my knees with the effort of it.

I couldn’t say how long we’d been at it when two things happened at once. A particularly hard blow from the scythe caused the mystic shield to blink out of existence while, almost immediately afterwards, the Summoned’s allotted time on this plane ran out and it vanished in a puff of yellowish smoke. Gavis and I reeled backwards with the shock of it and it was only my quicker reflexes that allowed me to defeat the Mage. Screaming, ”Vomica cruor,” I launched my final spell at him ~ constantly regaining control over the Golden Saint had all but drained me.

The spell caught, and he shrieked in agony as he was consumed from the inside out by the vindictive power of the enchantment. Sagging, totally exhausted, I made my way through the rest of the manor building in search of unwelcome surprises. Finding none, I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In fact, its so good, I'm going to say so again here as well. I'm totally jealous of the way you describe these action scenes. I've pasted them all into a Word doc, to see if I can figure out how you do it. Hm, homework, been a long while since I had any.

[quote=Alexander]
I do wonder how many chapters have been completed by now [/quote]

Hmmmm, I wonder if I should admit that there are, to date, only a prologue and 4 chapters....

Currently, it runs:
Prologue
Chapter One: Last Seed
Chapter Two: Heart Fire
Chapter Three: Frost Fall
Chapter Four: Sun's Dusk

What I'm currently posting is part of Chapter 3 and I'm still writing Chapter 4

(edit: And complety writer's blocked on one section :< I will, however, think about it and try to put together a good riddle session (and, if you know the various quests well, that's a hint. If not ~ that's the best you're gonna get )

Having spent those parts of yestere when I was not recuperating from my experiences with Gavis Velas and the Dark Brotherhood, in the profitable pastime of selling the daggers and blades I’d picked up in the sewers, I awoke this morning feeling much refreshed and relaxed. I had arranged an interview with Fedris Hler for later in the day and decided that I should get myself acquainted with the wonders of this citadel within a city. My first point of exploration was to be Godsreach itself.

My accommodation was one of many large manors that filled this area, perhaps one of the largest with its secure vaults downstairs and its large upper floor. Many of the other mansions were far more impressively appointed and several, I found, were built one above the other. There was also a large Inn, called ‘The Wing’d Guar’, which did a brisk trade in providing accommodation for those caught inside the Citadel when the curfew bell rang. There was also two massively imposing structures: ‘The Mournhold Museum’ being one, and ‘The Craftsman’s Hall’ being the other. Since museums hold little interest for me, I went into the Craftsman’s Hall.

This proved to be a collection of very exclusive shops (i.e. extremely expensive) brought together under one roof. There were, I learned, various living quarters and tradesmen upstairs as well as on the main floor. Two shops in particular caught my eye. Walking to the back of the hall, I entered the Blacksmith’s there.

“Watch where you’re going Dark Elf!” a young Imperial snapped, even though I was nowhere near him. “Name’s Ilnori Faustus,” he said arrogantly. “A name you’d do well to remember: for I intend to make sure it goes into the history books as the name of the greatest adventurer of all time. I’m ill suited for this… menial work and only pursue this trade until I can get away.” With that, he turned away and continued stacking plates of hammered steel onto the shelf. I was sore tempted to tell him that the life he sought was no easy one but why should I spoil all the surprises?

Bols Indalen was one of the two smiths that worked the forge, the other being a large Orc who was ~ it seemed ~ far too busy to speak to me. Bols, however, seemed to be open and friendly. “I makes armour, me” he said proudly. “Bestest damn’ armour in t’whole of Mournhold. You want something off t’shelf; I’m yer Mer. Want something a bit more custom-made, like? Bring us the raw materials an’ I’ll make yer t’bestest armour you’ve e’er seen.”

“Could you do something with these?” I asked, fetching the Adamantium boots from their straps under my pack. “They’re a bit too big you see.”

“Aye,” he said, running a practiced eye over the boots. Putting them down, he took a tape and took several measurements of my foot before asking me to step, one foot at a time, into trays of wet clay. “Let’s ‘ave us a look at the boots,” he said. “Cor, right fine these are. I bain’t seen workmanship like this in a Guar’s age. Reckon these are booty, like?”

I confirmed that I had found them, and then asked the question that had been amusing me ever since Bols had started speaking. “What’s with the accent?”

“I dunno what yer means lass,” he replied, “Always spoken like this, me.”

“Come off it,” I said with a chuckle. “The genius yokel from nowhere who’s a wizard with metalwork might convince the locals, not me. Besides, your accent keeps slipping.” Bols grinned.

Leaning close, he whispered in my ear, “The locals all know, it’s only something put on for travellers such as you.” Then, in a normal tone of voice and, mercifully, without the yokel accent, he said, “It’ll take a few days to resize the boots ma’am. And I’ll have to ask you for two hundred and fifty Septims for labour and materials.” I agreed that this was an acceptable price and, taking one of his price-lists, I left the boots with him.

Edern Albrege was a clockmaker, an occupation I’d never heard of before. He enthusiastically explained his Craft to me. As best as I could understand it, he constructed time-keeping devices which ~ using a complex arrangement of gears, cogs, and pendulums ~ could keep time almost as well as the much rarer Dwemer timepieces. Fascinated and intrigued, I asked if I could commission a piece.

“I would be delighted and honoured to create a time-piece for you My Lady,” he replied. “Regrettably, I can undertake no new commissions at this time. A consignment of vitally important parts from Cyrodiil is unfortunately overdue. I have barely enough parts to complete the commissions I have.”

“Perhaps I can help?” I said. Albrege thought about this for a moment, and then told me that the shipment was coming via Ebonheart in Vvardenfell. Promising to look into the matter for him, I left the Craftsman's Hall and made my way across Godsreach to the gate that led to the Temple complex. I thought that those parts of the Palace I’d seen were impressive: next to the magnificence of the Temple, they paled to insignificance. Vast, and built of a pale green stone, the Temple stood on a raised platform in the middle of the park that surrounded it.

Fedris Hler, a short and rotund Mer with a fringe of black hair surrounding an island of skin atop his head, peered up at me. “Vahl, eh? I’ve heard something of your exploits in Old Mournhold young lady. But I assure you,” he added, “that I know nothing of this ‘H’ of whom you speak and less still about the machinations of the Dark Brotherhood. I do, however, have a small job I’d like you to do, Sed Vahl.”

The sudden use of the honorific reminded me exactly whom it was I was speaking to. Here was a Mer high in the service of the Temple I professed to serve. “My Faith, My Life” I murmured, repeating the phrase that I’d used in the Puzzle Canal.

“An excellent approach Curate,” he said. “Now, the Goddess Almalexia has information that King Helseth is training Goblins to serve in his army. The Lady considers such creatures an abomination and is aghast that Helseth would even consider using them as foot soldiers. Of equal concern is her fear that Helseth will not be able to control these foul beasts and that they will break into Mournhold doing untold harm.

“It is The Lady’s wish that you locate and destroy the Goblin War-Chiefs and the two Altmeri that Helseth has engaged to train the Goblins. Unfortunately, we have not been able to determine where Helseth is training them. Do this, and Goddess will be most pleased.”

Bowing low, I took my leave of the Temple and only letting my feelings be known when I was safely outside. Well, at least I shouldn’t have too much trouble locating where they were ~ Goblins aren’t the cleanest or most discrete of creatures. Once I’d located them, I could consider what to do next ~ and exactly how far I could run in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me,” a thin, reedy voice accompanied the tug on my robe. Looking down, I looked into the face of a Bosmeri. “I will gladly pay you back on Tirdas for a loan of ten Septims today.”

Looking at the shabby state of the Wood Elf’s clothing, I figured that here was a down-on-his-luck pilgrim. A small donation, a show of charity, might get me a little better luck. “Here,” I said, tossing the Bosmer a 10-Septim coin.

“You are most kind Dark Elf,” he said. “Since we are on such good terms, perhaps you could lend me a hundred Septims today, I will gladly pay you back next Tirdas.”

I laughed, “That’s some approach you’ve got there friend. For the sheer cheek of it, here.” Digging in my purse, I found ten ten-Septim coins and gave them to the Bosmeri. He clutched them, beaming happily.

“We’re getting along famously, you and I,” he said. “I’m sure that you will lend me a thousand Septims today, and I will gladly pay you back next Tirdas.”

“Now you’re just being greedy,” I snapped, no longer seeing the humour. “No, I will not lend you a thousand Septims.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” he said, his broad face flushing. “You lend me a thousand Septims today. I pay you back next Tirdas. A very simple transaction.”

“Perhaps it’s you who misunderstand,” I replied. “Do you have some difficulty understanding the concept of ‘No’?”

“You’ll regret this Dark Elf,” he hissed in an icy voice. “Nobody says no to Gaenor, nobody.” He stalked off, muttering to himself. Shaking my head, I made my way towards the Brindisi Dorum Gate ~ reflecting as I did so that there are few odder creatures on this plane of existence than Bosmeri.

“Goblins? Not that I know of,” said the High Ordinator when I asked him the question. “Although, there have been some strange creatures seen in the sewers beneath Godsreach.” I thanked him and continued across Brindisi Dorum until I came to the massive wooden gates of the Royal Palace. Tienius Delitian was obviously expecting me; he’d sent a guard to escort me to him.

“Ahh, the esteemed Sudhendra Vahl,” the Cyrodiil said as I was led into the huge echoing chamber of the throne room. I took the opportunity to look at him as I walked closer. He had the usual arrogant bearing of a high-ranking Imperial and was clad in the same red and silver armour as the guards that lined the sides of the chamber ~ although he wasn’t wearing a helm. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending his hand in the western fashion. I glanced down at it and ignored it totally.

“Well,” he said, letting his hand drop to his side after a second or two, “I am sure that you can be…”

“What do you know about an assassination attempt?” I cut across whatever he was going to say. “More specifically, an attempt on my life?”

“There are more important matters to discuss,” he said smoothly. I knew, in that instant, that here was someone who knew about the Dark Brotherhood contract on me. However, it would seem that I had to play his game if I wished to gain more information.

“Such as,” he continued, “the source of the rumours about the death of King Llethan. His majesty, King Helseth, is quite concerned about the stories going around that Llethan’s death might not have been entirely natural. He would like you to go out, among the common people, and speak to them. He desires a report on what their feelings about the former King’s death are. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” I replied, shaking my arm free of the guard’s grip. Turning on my heel, I stalked from the Throne Room and down into the reception area. Somehow, by coming here, I have got myself caught between State and Church ~ each seeking to use me for their own ends in their fight for supremacy in Mournhold. Well, blow that for a game ~ I needed time to decide what, if anything, I was going to do about Helseth’s Goblins or the rumours about Llethan’s death.

Effie-Tai proved to be willing to return me to Ebonheart, so I left the intrigue behind for a while so I could get some time to think.

“Arch-Magister,” the Dunmeri woman said, sweeping in to stand beside me as I walked through the Grand Council Chamber. “You look troubled. How may I help you Sed?”

The woman turned out to be Galus Drenim, the Telvanni representative to Ebonheart. It was her job to make sure that House Hlaalu and House Redoran didn’t try to pull any sneaky tricks in the Council and to represent the House’s best interests. She quickly pointed out the Mer who represented Hlaalu and Redoran. I asked her if she’d heard anything about a shipment of clock parts. “Alas no Arch-Magister,” she replied. “We try not to get bogged down in the minutiae of everyday life in the Council. However, if you need information on shipments in and out of Ebonheart, you could do worse than starting at the East Empire Company offices down by the docks.”

Canctunian Ponius, another fat and smug Imperial official, was initially reluctant to help until I reminded him that it was his job to do so ~ without ‘sweeteners’ to grease the wheel. When he suggested I come back in five, or six, days I politely pointed out to him he was talking to the Arch-Magister of Great House Telvanni and that I didn’t intend to wait more than a few minutes for the information. “Well,” he said huffily, after scrabbling through various papers on his desk, “there was a consignment bound for Mournhold. It was loaded aboard ‘The Muzariah’: which sailed over a fortnight ago. I see no reason the shipment should have been delayed by Customs on the Mainland, so it should have arrived by now.”

Well, it obviously hadn’t arrived on the Mainland, and I was now nonplussed as to what to do next. If I returned to Mournhold, I wouldn’t be able to get out of the enclave to go down to the local warehouses to check and, because of the quarantine, I wouldn’t be able to get passage over to the nearest Mainland port to find out what had happened.

Lacking any obvious way to find out what had happened to the shipment, I translocated myself over to Ald’ruhn and spoke with Tuls Valen. “You have returned to us,” he said with a smile. “This is excellent, especially since word has come from the upper hierarchy that they want you to receive another promotion. Congratulations Disciple Vahl.

“Now,” he said. I was fast coming to hate that word when uttered by a member of the Temple, it invariably meant that I was about to be passed some hot Ash Yam that somebody wanted dealt with ~ quickly. This was no exception. “There are, we understand, some cultists in the caverns of Hassour. We want you to cleanse the caves and bring the Temple’s justice to the cultists.”

“How do I find this Hassour?” I asked.

“Firstly, you’ll need to go to Balmora. From there, head east past the Fort and into the Foyada Mamaea. If you follow this south, you will reach the caverns of Hassour.”

Now, this is getting very interesting. Jumping back and forth from the mainland to Mournhold. If Sudhendra had thought she was escaping the unpleasant smell of politics from the great houses.... She might well be looking forward to rentering those sewers, at least they're straightforward.

Nice handling of Gaenor as well Something tells me we might see more of him.

Heh, Gaenor.

I can't wait for that fight. What with Gaenor's super-luck and inate reflection abilites...

[quote=burntsierra]In fact, its so good, I'm going to say so again here as well. I'm totally jealous of the way you describe these action scenes. I've pasted them all into a Word doc, to see if I can figure out how you do it. Hm, homework, been a long while since I had any. [/quote]


Indeed it is....very good ..and besides from that I get encouraged to play after reading one of these Mournhold-parts I immediately fire up MW and go to Mournhold...just for the scary thing of it and see if I can do as Sudhendra does.....which I not always can..of course, but it´s really thrilling...

:goodjob:

I didn’t stop long in Balmora after I’d returned there. I was still nervous of the Camonna Tong and didn’t wish to attract their attention by stopping in Hlaalu-controlled territory for too long. The Foyada was the usual bleak gully of rock, with no points of interest until I reached the very southernmost end. There, in the blank grey rock was set a plain wooden door. With a quiet prayer to anything that might be paying attention, I drew my axe and pushed open the door.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the gloom inside the caves was the smell. A mixture of rotting flesh and sulphur. The next things were the candles: dozens of them set on every possible surface. Small, squat, red candles ~ very much like those in Telasero. I hoped this was simply coincidental, but I feared very much that it wasn’t. Of course, if wishes were Septims, we’d all live like Emperors.

The first indication that I was facing the same cult that had infested Telasero was the naked Dunmer that raced out of a side tunnel, waving a chitin club. A few quick axe-strokes soon dealt with that problem. There were several more of these naked cultists in the tunnels, along with other creatures I’d not seen before. One, which I named an Ash-Slave, was a greatly disfigured Mer whose eyes were deeply sunken back in his head: this creature was slow but armed with fairly powerful magic. There was, however, worse to come.

Deep inside the tunnels of Hassour, I encountered a creature that seemed to have degenerated a stage further than the Ash-Slave. It was impossible to tell, from its appearance, whether the creature had been Man or Mer ~ its smooth, hairless skull gave no clue. The skin had gone totally grey, the pale colour of the ash wastes of the Molag Amur. However, despite it’s colour, the skin was smooth and lacked the flaky appearance of the other creatures I had encountered. What was most horrifying was the disfigurement of the face. The mouth had become little more than a lipless slit framing oddly discoloured teeth but that was the least of the changes. Where there should have been eyes and a nose was only a deep pit, the flesh inside blackened and covered in small lumps. In the centre of the hollow was a protrusion. Horrified that anyone would voluntarily undergo such appalling mutilation, I lashed out violently ~ hacking the creature down before it could even start weaving a spell.

It was deep inside Hassour, behind an ancient wooden door, that I found the ultimate horror of this dark cult ~ or so I thought. The door creaked open and a rush of fetid air rushed out. In the middle of the chamber was another of those dark metal shrines these cultists raise to whatever infernal god they worship. As in Telasero, there was a triangular plinth, the recesses of which were filled with a number of those grotesque statuettes. A larger, but no less hideous, version of the statue stood in the centre of the raised dais. Nearby was a single stone trough. Dominating the shrine was a robed and hooded figure, making some obscene obsequience to the red and black banner raised above the shrine.

I crept closer, axe raised. Some small fragment of stone must have moved under my foot for the hooded figure stiffened and turned quickly. Like the creature I had named an Ash-Zombie, this mutilated creature had undergone similar transmogrification. However, where there had been a slight protuberance, now grew a single thick tentacle of the same ash tones as the rest of the figure. Quick as a snake, it raised its hands and a flash of lightning lit the chamber.

I screamed as the bolt tore into me, my whole body jerking at the power of it. Even as I started to recover, there was another bolt heading towards me. Proving that I was no slouch in the ‘moving quickly’ department, I dove behind the trough (thankfully not filled with stinking meat as it had been in Telasero). As the bolt detonated harmlessly against the stone floor, I unshipped one of the crossbows and struggled to load it. When the bolt was in place and the string had snapped into the ratchet, I took a deep breath.

As another thunderous explosion shook the massive trough, I shot to my knees, aimed, and fired before ducking back behind cover as quickly as I could. The expected retaliatory thunderbolt failed to materialise, and I took the opportunity to recock and reload the crossbow. As I prepared to fire again, I realised I could hear a faint noise ~ like someone struggling to breath.

I risked a quick glance over the lip of the stone trough, steeling myself against any incoming magic. The hooded figure was flat on its back, arms and legs threshing wildly. Leaping to my feet and keeping the crossbow trained on it, I moved cautiously forwards. My hastily aimed bolt had taken the thing high in the chest, roughly where you’d expect a lung to be. Thick, black ichors oozed from the wound, staining the grey robe. With a moue of disgust, I pressed my foot to the creature’s chest ~ pushing it onto its back and pinning it in place. Aiming the ‘bow, I lowered it to a fraction of an inch from the creature’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

I leapt back to avoid the jet of thick, stinking fluid that spurted up as the creature’s head was slammed back against the rough stone. Then, avoiding stepping in the spreading pool of black liquid, I approached the banner the thing had been praying to. Made of some deep red fabric, it featured an insectoid device that I was sure I’d seen before. As I studied it, I realised that it was exactly the same as the handle of the dagger I’d taken from the Dunmer murderess. With a shiver, I grabbed the edge of the brocade and brought the shape of the Firebite spell to mind. I hade no idea if what I was attempting would work, and I was gratified to see the edge of the fabric charring as I poured power into the cantrip. By the time I was finished, there were rapidly spreading areas of blackening fabric as the device burned.

After despoiling the alter ~ smashing that evilly leering statue and scattering the smaller statuettes ~ I grabbed what seemed useful from the trough before hurling a fireball into the spreading flames and making a hasty exit. As I closed the door on that ill-fated chamber, I could see the flames eagerly consuming the monstrosity that had prayed there. Ashes to ashes, I thought, giggling a trifle hysterically.

Sobering quickly, I realised that there were unexplored areas of Hassour and that Tuls Valen had been very specific ~ cleanse the caves in the name of ALMSIVI had been his instructions. I took that to mean that I should leave no trace of this foul and depraved cult. There were few possessions to be seen in the mean cells hollowed out of the living rock at the end of the warren of tunnels under Hassour but the bedrolls burned with an eager flame ~ igniting everything that would burn nearby. So, axe in hand and leaving a trail of flame behind me, I shrived Hassour.

“So, you killed Dagoth Favon?” asked the man who’d stepped from the back of the last chamber I’d come to. “Pity, there’s so much more I could have taught him, and he me. Still, it is oft said that the best laid plans of Man and Mer…”

With a gesture, he caused a fine reddish mist to curl up around him. “Danio Brythwch,” he commanded. The mist writhed and thickened, becoming a swirling cloud of flame that leapt at me with startling speed. I threw myself out of the way, dropping the Wish as the flames scoured the spot where I’d been standing. When they faded, the very rock itself was glowing red-hot. Snapping to the side, I launched a fireball at him, watching in horror as the sphere of flames washed over him and left him completely unmarked. I dived for cover as a fireball roughly the size of a large Kagouti screamed down the narrow passageway. The sound of its passing was like thunder and it burned bright as the sun as it exploded against the far wall.

What manner of sorcerer was he? The spells he was casting were not any I’d heard of, couched as they were in the local language. And the sheer power of them was terrifying. I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover, chanting, “Obscurum successio,” as I did so. He screamed, the fireball he’d been in the process of creating spinning wildly out of control as the spell clouded his vision.

“This won’t stop me,” he screamed in fury, his fingers already weaving the mystic fluxes into the shape of a new spell. It didn’t need to stop him; it just needed to give me a second or two of clear aiming time. The crossbow twanged, launching its lethal load at his head. The sound was just what he’d been waiting for but his heightened senses proved to be his undoing. As he turned to face me, the bolt punctured his left eye with a gristly sound that was audible even from here. Without a sound, he fell like a log.

Having made sure that there was nothing left living anywhere in Hassour, I translocated to Balmora and locked myself into the former home of Dura gra-Bol’s.

Very cool. :goodjob:

Sweet.

[quote=LoneWolf]Sweet.[/quote] EEEEK.......I´d say wonderfully scaaaary, but nevertheless an outstanding story..

Whatever works for you lol

As you can imagine, my sleep was an uneasy thing, filled with dreams of Hassour. While most revolved around the tentacle-faced creature the cultist had referred to as Dagoth Favon, more than a few were filled with the cultist’s face. What puzzled me was the sheer elemental power of the Man’s magic. Yet, as far as I’d been able to see, he bore none of the taint of the other creatures: which made his puissance all the more puzzling. Finally, as the thin light of dawn filtered through the windows, I threw back the covers and dressed.

“I cannot discuss such a matter Sed Vahl,” Tuls Valen insisted the second time I asked him about the creatures in Hassour’s caverns. “While the Temple is most grateful that you have cleansed the taint of those filth from the caves, and has rewarded you accordingly, details of that dark cult are reserved for the Temple’s uppermost hierarchy.” I persisted in my questions and, finally, he made an admission. “Sed Vahl, I’d answer your questions if I could. I am but a humble Proctor and, as such, am not privy to the decisions of the Patriarch and his advisors.

“I regret that we have no additional duties for you at the moment,” he said, clearly changing the subject to one he was more comfortable with. “I suggest you speak with the Proctors at the Ghostgate, or in Vivec City for additional duties. May the grace of ALMSIVI go with you.”

With that, he turned and vanished into the interior of the Temple, obviously either my tale or my questions had upset him greatly. With a sigh, I sat and looked at the handful of scrolls I’d been given. I didn’t wish to return to the Ghostgate, to do so would entail Uvoo Llaren asking awkward questions about when I intended to go up Red Mountain and get that cleaver. The last time I’d spoken to Endryn Llethan he’d been very clear that any duties he had were not for someone of my rank. That left just one possible option.

“Ah, I’m glad you came Sed Vahl,” Tharer Rotheloth said when I stepped into the Temple building in Molag Mar. “I heard that you had a few problems and had to visit the mainland for a while. Tell me, is the Temple in Mournhold as magnificent as they say it is?” I assured him that, whatever he’d heard, the Mournhold Temple surpassed all tales. He sighed, and I’m sure I heard him murmur “one day”.

“I’m glad you got the chance to travel there,” he said wistfully, “despite the, erm, unpleasant circumstances. But I’m much happier that you are here. You see word has reached us of a vampiric infestation at a Dwemer ruin called Galom Daeus. We… why do you laugh, Sed Vahl?”

“If you are referring to the Clan Berne of Galom Daeus,” I said, “I can assure you that they, and their Master, are so much extra dust on the floor.” He looked sceptical so, avoiding any details of why I was there, or what I discovered, I told him the harrowing tale of the cleansing of Galom Daeus.

“So you have a stronghold in the area known as Uvirith’s Grave, eh?” he said pensively. “I had no idea the Telvanni were interested in that region. Still,” he added, brightening up considerably, “the fact you’ve rid the area of the taint of the undead is good news. You know that the Temple has a special honour and reward for those that have shrived a vampire lair?”

I admitted that I didn’t know that. He smiled and vanished into his office, returning a few moments later with a heavy chest. Setting on the table, he unfastened the padlock and lifted the lid. “It’s been a while since these were given out,” he said, coughing slightly at the dust that arose from the interior. “But these are well deserved: Vahl the Vampire-Slayer.” From the depths of the chest, he fetched three wrapped items. The first was a massive hammer, with intricate designs in gold and an unfamiliar green stone adorning the shaft. The second was a buckler, made of gold-rimmed Ebony. Lastly there was a ring, silver and again inlaid with the same pale green stone as the hammer. “Please accept The Warden’s ring: may it prevent your enemies from casting enchantments upon themselves. May the Saint’s Shield nourish you in combat and lighten your load at need, and may the Hammer of Veloth’s Judgement bring the Temple’s justice to her foes.”

Since the cleansing of Galom Daeus was the only thing that Tharer had for me to do, I took my leave and returned to Tel Vahl. There had been much work done in my absence. Both the northern and southern watchtowers were now complete, and the foundations for two more had been dug ~ one to the east and one to the west. The barracks were now complete and it seems that Kallin Basalius had persuaded the architect to design a wall that ran from the barracks to the southern watchtower. Made of wood, it had a walkway on the inside that allowed my guards to patrol along it. Obviously, the lesson imparted by the Dark Brotherhood assassin had been taken very much to heart and the area around my Tel was now strongly guarded to ensure that there would be no repetition.

Cool. I wish my telvanni stronghold was like that

"Vahl the Vampire Slayer"...or was it Buffy? oh aye an excellent addition here, the humour of that lassie is great!

what we really need now is....PICTURES!

:goodjob:

This morning found me back in Ebonheart: a thought had occurred to me late last night. If anyone would know what happened to ‘The Muzariah’, it will be the shipmasters that ply their trade out of the docks. My guess had been right, although it took a bribe of three hundred Septims before the Master of the ‘Chun-Ook’ would give me any information.

“Aye Muthsera,” he said, spitting over the handrail, “I know of the Muzariah. She sailed about a ten-day ago, bound for the Mainland ~ heading for Darvon’s Watch. But you ain’t the first to be asking about the Muzariah Muthsera, no you ain’t.”

“Well,” he said, when I pressed him for details. “It were about an hour or so after she’d sailed that these two Imperials come around, asking after her. When they found out she’d already sailed, they put to sea in a hurry. Fancy I saw the lights of some bigger ship out there too, maybe what they was heading for. Bigger ship, if that’s what it was, set off at a hurry for the southwest point.” He spat again. “All I can tell you.” Then, in a voice raised little over a whisper, he added, “I’m afeared that they might have had somewhat to do with the Muzariah not arriving.”

Thanking him for the information, I left Ebonheart and headed towards the promontory of land he’d mentioned. After walking for a little while, I came to the spur of land. A little way out lay the wreck of a ship ~ could this be the Muzariah? As I water-walked closer, I noticed that several of the pieces of flotsam were charred, as though they’d been in a fire. Yet, as I drew close enough to make out the legend MUZARIAH painted on the back of the vessel, I could see no visible evidence of a shipboard fire.

There were no survivors aboard the badly listing vessel, and I made my way carefully along the sloping deck and into the captain’s cabin. Although there was no body, there was plenty of evidence of a fight ~ small areas of spattered blood had dried to a dull maroon colour on the weathered deck. From the scattered papers, it was obvious that the cabin had been searched and searched thoroughly. I gathered the various parchments and scanned through them quickly. They were the shipping log and bills of lading. Quickly turning to the last entry headed “Almalexia”, I scanned down the list until I found an entry: ‘3 crates, mechanical parts, Ederen Albrege, Craftsman’s Hall, Mournhold’.

Oddly, I couldn’t find the bill of lading for that particular consignment ~ the reason for that worried me since the document would have Albrege’s address on it. Even more disconcerting was the thing I saw on the hook beside the cabin door. Just a simple thing, a heavy iron key marked ‘Cargo Hold’. Up to that point I had been pretty sure that pirates were involved ~ there are always rumours of them plying their craft across the Circle Sea. But the key to the hold was there, unmoved and untaken. Grabbing the key, I went up on deck and down into the crews’ quarters.

My consternation grew as I saw that the heavily barred and padlocked hatch down into the cargo hold was still… heavily barred and padlocked. Whoever had grounded the ship ~ for there was now no question that it had not been accidental ~ had been interested in one thing and one thing only: the location of Ederen Albrege. The lock clicked heavily as I turned the key, greased bars sliding easily aside to allow me into the ship’s hold.

Despite the awkward angle of the vessel, and the fact that the hold was partially flooded, it didn’t take me long to locate the three crates. One had split open, and heavy brass cogs and gears littered the wooden decking. Finding an empty crate, I quickly gathered the items and put them inside before hauling the crates topside and then, one at a time, moving them to dry land. And that was pretty much all I could do by myself. The crates were too heavy for me to carry ~ one at a time or all together ~ back to Ebonheart. I needed some other method of getting them there.

“You want to hire my skiff to do what?” Blatta Hateria said incredulously. I repeated what I’d said, that I wanted her to come with me and collect three crates from the wreck of the Muzariah and ferry them back to Ebonheart. “Well,” she said pensively, looking at the pile of coins I’d dropped in her hand, “I usually only do fishing trips but… Okay, just this once.”

Blatta proved to be an excellent captain, for all that she claimed to only do fishing trips. She certainly knew her way around the coastal waters and, in less than an hour, we were beached near the wreck and she was watching me haul the crates aboard. The journey back was much quicker since, as she explained, we were now tacking with the wind rather than against it. Not that such nautical gibberish meant that much to me. Three burly stevedores proved amenable to moving the crates up to the Grand Council Hall for a couple of Septims apiece and, after muttering something about excess baggage that I didn’t quite understand, Asciene Rane agreed to transport both the crates and me to Mournhold.

“You are a gods send,” Albrege gushed when I told him his crates were currently sitting in the Royal Palace. He quickly arranged for three of the apprentices to go and collect the crates, thus relieving me of the problem of finding porters to get them delivered. “Now,” he said, putting a thick volume down on the counter in front of me, “I think a clock would be the ideal reward. Perhaps something in a long-case, like this?” He showed me several designs, each more ornate than the last and came, after several exquisite designs to one that caught my eye.

“This one,” I said, pointing to it.

“Capital choice,” he said. “One of my finest designs. It sells for six thousand Septims ~ but I will give you a very substantial discount since you have, quite literally, saved my business. I’ve finished my last commission so this should be ready in, oh, four days?”

Four days sounded excellent to me, and I told Albrege that that would be fine. Even though the cost of the clock, even with the discount, was likely to be outrageous, I couldn’t resist the thought of having one in Tel Vahl.

“Excuse me Muthsera,” the Dunmer said as I stepped out of the Craftsman’s Hall, “but are you the Telvanni known as Sudhendra Vahl?”

cool. Sounds like one very ornate clock for that pricetag

Ah a very interesting story here, all new to me, and yet quite familiar......oh do I like this....... :goodjob:

[quote=LoneWolf]cool. Sounds like one very ornate clock for that pricetag [/quote]
It's pretty ornate and completely functional - as you can see from this picture:

http://photobucket.com/albums/v636/Overrid...rrent=Clock.jpg

holy muffin....looks like my grandmother´s clock.......niiice

Very cool.

sweet!

“That would depend,” I said, dropping my hand to the hilt of my sword, “on who was asking.”

“I come on behalf of Plitinius Mero,” the Dunmer said, taking a nervous step backwards. “He would like to meet with you in the palace courtyard, as soon as possible.” Message delivered, the courtier fled. Poor fellow, he was probably quite unaccustomed to grim-faced Dunmer threatening him. I would have to remember, I mused, that there were different rules here in Mournhold than on Vvardenfell.

“Ahh, you gave my friend quite the scare,” the smiling, grey-haired Man said as I approached him. “I am Plitinius Mero and I am, I’m afraid, quite unsure how to address you.”

“Sed Vahl, or Arch-Magister, are fine,” I said, grasping his outstretched hand and giving it a shake. “Why do you wish to see me?”

“Well, Sed Vahl,” he said, “it seems that King Helseth has learned that there is a plot to kill the clockmaker…”

“I feared as much,” I said, interrupting. I went on to explain the things I’d found aboard the Muzariah.

“Quite,” he said, looking at me with a quiet smile. “Well, perhaps a little background will help? Albrege is, as you know, a clockmaker. There are some among the adherents of Akatosh that hold he is defiling the Dragon’s realm by… well, their phrasing is ‘capturing the Dragon’s essence’. Now, while most members of the Akatosh cult are quite willing to let the Man be, there are certain zealots who’d like nothing more than to kill him. Those particular zealots were, King Helseth thinks, responsible for the wrecking of the Muzariah and are on their way here to kill Albrege. According to our… King Helseth’s sources, the attempt will be made tomorrow night.”

“And Helseth wishes me to protect the clockmaker?” I said with a sigh.

“Exactly,” Plitinius Mero said. “He feels that such an assassination would only reinforce the general belief that the Dunmer are a superstitious people, mired in the past.”

Ederen Albrege dismissed the whole thing as fantasy. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “I’m a simple artisan; the thought of anyone trying to kill me is… well, ridiculous.” And that was as much as he would discuss the matter with me. His wife, Sosille, was a different matter.

“Oh dear, not again,” she moaned when I told her that there was a possibility of an assassination attempt. She explained that was the reason that they’d left Cyrodiil City, the threats against her husband’s life had become so extreme that they’d moved as far away as they could get. She asked me what she could do, and I explained that I intended to be on hand and that I was going to try and foil the killers if I could. She looked a little sceptical, but agreed that she would let me stop in the Craftsman’s Hall on the morrow.

I spoke to a rather annoyed Bols Indalen about my boots. He confirmed that they’ be ready on the morrow. When I enquired as to the cause of his annoyance, he virtually exploded. “That damn’ fool Ilnori Faustus left this morning, took five hundred Septims from the cash box, several good bits of armour, a sword and just sodded off. If I get my hands on that thieving little…

“Ahem,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well, let’s just say that young Master Faustus won’t be welcome back here. Which leaves me with no apprentice. Say, you wouldn’t be interested would you?”

I assured him that, while his offer was extremely kind, I really had no interest in blacksmithing. “If I meet anyone who’s looking for a job I’ll make sure to send them to you,” I promised.

I returned to Godsreach and made my way to the Wing'd Guar, intending to take a meal and maybe a libation or two before returning to the Craftsman’s Hall. Just because the information said that the assassination attempt was scheduled for the morrow was no reason to take chances. As I approached, I was amused to see a Bosmer remonstrating with two Ordinators. Whatever reply he got from them obviously wasn’t the one he wanted and, when I got to the inn’s door, he was fair vibrating with indignation. “Stupid Nords,” he fumed as I went past. “Going around beating people up for no reason whatsoever. Shouldn’t be allowed. And those guards, they’re about as much use as a paper shield. Hey, Dark Elf…”

I tensed slightly at that. Everyone on Vvardenfell was careful not to use that particular name for the Dunmeri ~ well, everyone except the Imperials and those who’re being deliberately insulting ~ and I’d gotten used to it. Here on the mainland they seemed a little less careful. “What do you want… Wood Elf?” I responded, heavily stressing the words ‘wood’ and ‘elf’.

Now it was his turn to tense up and glare. He obviously decided we were about even in the insulting each other stakes and said, “there’s this big Nord in the Wing'd Guar. He beat me up for no reason whatsoever. If you take care of him, I’ll reward you handsomely.”

“’Take care of him’?” I spluttered. “What? Do I look like an assassin to you?”

“No, no, no you misunderstand,” he gasped, waving his hands in a gesture that was probably intended to make me calm down. “I want the big lummox humiliated, not killed.” I shrugged, telling High-Pockets that I’d see what I could do. Finding the big Nord wasn’t a problem; he was the one yelling something about ‘taking on anyone who fancied a wee fight’. I didn’t fancy a fight and told him so when he challenged me. I did offer to buy him a couple of drinks by way of recompense.

“I want you to put a measure of Cyrodiilic Brandy in the bottom of a mug,” I told the Suthay-Raht behind the counter. When the strong brown liquor had been poured, I told the barkeeper to add equal measures of Sujamma, Matze, Flinn, and that thick viscous Mead that the Nords are so fond of. Carrying the noxious brew back to the swaying Holmar, I presented it with my compliments.

“Yer health lassie,” the Nord said, raising the tankard and taking a massive swig of the contents. “Hmmm, no a bad drop of the creature,” he said. Raising the tankard again, he drank deeply, slamming the empty mug on the table. “That fair hit the spot… I…” a look of consternation appeared on the Nord’s face. A second later he belched, loudly enough to rattle the bottles on the shelves.

“No feelin’ so well,” he groaned, staggering to his feet. He stood there, swaying gently. Then, with all the impressiveness of a tree that’s just been felled, he toppled forward. With a crash he hit the floor, while High-Pockets danced gleefully.

“That was wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands. “Here, have this ring and purse of money. You deserve it.” With that, he turned and swaggered out of the inn.

The grinning barkeeper handed me a plate of food and a glass of Sujamma and I took my place at the table while I ate. Inns are really quite useful places, you can overhear all sorts of things if you’re quite and pay attention. Like the rumour going around that the Empire might recall the Legions to deal with civil unrest in Cyrodiil City. Or the fact that a merchant called ‘Ten-Tongues Weerhat’ offered surprisingly high discounts on potent scrolls and magical items. Having made careful note of the dividends of my eavesdropping, I left the inn and stood breathing the early afternoon air. There was quite a while left before my self-imposed vigil at the Craftsman's Hall was due to start, so I decided to have a look around the museum.

The museum proved to be very disappointing: they had only the one item on display. Although, I have to say, it was a very impressive item ~ a hammer allegedly belonging to Stendarr. According to the gilded plaque, it weighed over 1000 pounds ~ making it impossible for a mortal to wield in combat. The curator saw me admiring the hammer and came over to speak to me. “I’m pleased to see a visitor, we don’t get many,” she said.

“That might have something to do with the lack of things on display,” I said bluntly.

She laughed, apparently not offended by my comment. “That’s probably true,” she said. “We do have quite a large budget to buy items, but very few people seem to want to part with them. For instance, is that Veloth’s Hammer I see slung to the back of your pack?”

“It is,” I replied. “Make me an offer.” She looked at me, dumbstruck for a moment.

“Are you serious?” she asked, breathlessly. When I nodded, she fetched out a large purse and offered me five thousand Septims for the hammer. That certainly seemed a very good price to me, especially since I had no skill using such a weapon. With a handshake, we sealed the deal ~ she rushed off to put the hammer on display while I walked out a good deal richer than I had been when I walked in.

Taking a brief detour to drop the money into a securely locked chest in Velas Manor, I made my way back to the Craftsman’s Hall and settled down in a seat by the door. Even though I managed to stay awake for most of the night ~ falling into the occasional fitful doze ~ nothing, and lots of it, happened.

Nice handling of Holmar the Nord... as always a joy to read ...... :goodjob:

*leaning back in the sofa and wait for more*

again i am at loss for words. so.... here

:goodjob: :goodjob: :goodjob:

By the time I returned to Velas manor, it was so late, it was early. There had been no assassination attempt on the Albreges overnight: and I was unsure whether that was a good thing or not. It might mean that there was no assassination attempt planned and that the whole situation was merely the result of deep-seated paranoia. On the other hand, the quiet night might simply mean that the information passed to me by Mero was extremely accurate. And that was an uncomfortable thought ~ if Helseth had access to information of that degree of sensitivity from Cyrodiil, then he had an enviable network of spies. It was with these, and other less coherent, thoughts whirling around in my head that I fell into bed.

Hunger drove me from my bed in the early afternoon, and I made my way over to the Wing'd Guar to grab a bite or two to eat. After that, I lounged about until it was time to make my way over to the Craftsman's Hall. As I had the previous night, I took a seat close to the entrance and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.

Just as I was about to write the whole thing off as a waste of time, I heard the furtive rattle of the door-handles. Larrius Varro’s ring would have a chance to prove its worth ~ slipping it onto my finger, I concentrated on the slowly coiling magical construct in my mind, feeding it the power it needed. When I opened my eyes, it was to a world gone grey and shadowy. I watched as the main doors to the Craftsman’s Hall swung open and three robed figures crept in.

As the third of them passed, I stepped behind him and, grapping his head, I pulled it back so I could run the razor-sharp edge of my dagger along his throat. Clamping my hand over his mouth as he threshed and struggled, I held him tightly until he struggled no more. The other two zealots were standing there aghast, watching their compatriot fighting against thin air as his life’s blood gushed out of the gaping wound I’d inflicted. By the time they’d realised what was going on, I’d dropped the first zealot and moved away from the body.

“There,” one of them hissed, pointing towards me. His associate rushed forward, the glint of a dagger in his right hand. I twisted to one side, taking several quick steps away from where I’d been as the would-be assassin slashed at the now vacant space.

“Where?” he called to his companion. The taller assassin, eyes narrowed, scanned the area around himself. Again, despite the cloaking-spell, he pointed directly at me. I was confused as I darted out of the way of the shorter zealot’s probing blade ~ how did he keep seeing me? Then I realised and, with a grin that would have terrified them if they’d been able to see it, I stepped into the shadow of one of the central pillars.

As the two zealots cast around, looking for me, I concentrated on the ring and allowed the construct to refresh itself. Then, using the silent method that Aryon had taught me, I built the towering structure of the summon Atronach spell and fed that enough power. Shadows shifted and rippled and the zealots found themselves facing an extremely irate Storm Atronach. As it turned and raised craggy fists, I slipped from the shadows and headed towards the entrance to Albrege’s store.

The fourth zealot, who had managed to slip in somewhere upstairs, never stood a chance. As he knelt, carefully picking the lock, I drove the dagger down into the nape of his neck. As he trashed and jerked in a most satisfying manner, something whizzed past my head and thumped against the wall. Yanking the dagger free, I span to meet this new threat. For a wonder, I didn’t throw up: the Atronach was merrily beating one of the zealots to death with the mangled and headless stump of his companion. I have noticed that the more scared or angry that I am, the more vicious the Summons that I summon are.

While muttering guards hauled the mangled and broken corpses out of the Craftsman's Hall, a very relieved Ederen Albrege was thanking me. “I didn’t believe that they’d go so far,” he said. “I thought that, if I went far enough away from them, they wouldn’t bother with me any more.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude Sudhendra,” he said, “one I shall not forget. As a token of my appreciation, please accept this small gift.” The small gift was a Lantern Clock, a small and beautifully engraved contrivance of scented wood, gold leaf, and translucent crystal. Thanking him, I carried this little treasure back to Velas manor and placed it where I could see it each morning as I awoke.

cool. Hehe the Atronach mangled him

I’ve been putting off going down into the Godsreach sewers for long enough. If it is true that there are Goblins down there, then it is a problem that needs to be dealt with. I doubt if either the Goddess or Fedris Hler would be very amused if I dallied for too long and the loathsome creatures somehow got into the streets. Accordingly, I spent a little time this morning repairing and sharpening my weapons and packing enough food, water, scrolls, and potions to last a couple of days. If my last foray into the sewers was anything to go by, I may be some time down there.

The heavy hatch that leads into the sewers is not far from Velas Manor and, as before, nobody took any notice when I lifted it and descended into the darkness. Of course, I now know the reason for this: it is common practice for poor visitors to use the sewer tunnels as a resting place instead of paying for a room. I consider myself extremely luck that I’ve not had to resort to that.

The burning torches threw grotesque shadows along the walls as I made my way along the ledge beside the dirty sewer water. There was a foul stench down here ~ fouler than the normal smell of the sewers I mean. A dirty, animal smell.

As I skirted a huge pile of fallen rock, I spotted a scrap of parchment. Lifting several stones revealed a sheet of it still clutched in the rotting remains of the poor unfortunate who’d brought it down here. It was headed ‘The Common Tongue’ and seemed to be a list of questions: an example of which was: “Anhar was an agent for Eastern Ebony merchants. There was an unfortunate scandal concerning improper contracts offered to Helseth as compensation for his assistance in obtaining Ebony import remits from the Imperial Board of Census and Excise. Luckily for Prince Helseth, this scandal blew over when no one could be found to testify. Is it just a coincidence that Anhar's health went into a steep decline, just as he was to testify before the Imperial magistrates? He died a natural death, according to the Imperial coroners. Convenient and timely, perhaps, but natural.” If this broadsheet were being passed around Mournhold it would explain why Tienius Delitian was hearing so many murmurings about the former king’s death. Folding the damming piece of parchment and tucking it into my pack, I continued on my way.

With a feral yell, the squat shape of a Goblin hurled itself from a side tunnel ~ clashing its crude sword against the buckler it carried. The creature was unskilled, even by my standards, and seemed to have no concept of defending itself. A quick, scything blow with the Wish soon silenced it forever. There was a problem, from somewhere ahead, in the dark, I could hear the dim clash of weapon on shield ~ no doubt more of the foul brood alerted by the one who’d attacked me. There was nothing I could do about it right now, other than advance with the utmost care and try to avoid running into large numbers of Goblins.

Of course, such a thing is easier said than done and it wasn’t long after killing the forward scout that I ran into a larger band. There were several foot soldiers and a much larger Goblin that seemed to be directing them. The larger Goblin was equipped with steel pauldrons and carried a small steel hand-axe instead of the crude bone weapons of its lesser brethren. The smaller, less organised Goblins fell easily enough ~ a well-paced fireball was all it took to scatter them sufficiently for me to take them on one-on-one. The hulking brute that led the band was a different matter.

The creature knew how to wield the axe; obviously well trained in the weapon it caused me several problems. Despite its great size and bulk, it was scarily quick on its clawed feet and its reflexes weren’t to be overlooked. I had the greater advantage in as much as I was armed with a much longer sword: before long the scaly green hide was a mass of small cuts and wounds where the Goblin hadn’t been able to avoid my blows. Finally, with a grunt, I managed to behead the damn’ thing.

The pouch at its waist contained several interesting items ~ a magical emblem of some kind and a yellow Ioun Stone amongst them. The presence of the glittering teardrop shaped stone was fairly probative of the fact that someone well connected was supplying the Horde. While I had no idea what powers the Ioun Stone might confer, I was extremely grateful that the creature hadn’t been using the Stone. Perhaps, in its eagerness to join the fight, it had simply forgotten that it had the stone? Of course, there was always the possibility that the stone belonged to some other poor adventurer who, venturing into these tunnels, had come to an… unpleasant end.

The sewers continued, ever descending, ever infested with Goblins and a variety of creature I’d never seen before. Of the size of a small pony, this scaled green beast with startling crimson eyes proved to be a far more formidable opponent than it’s appearance would suggest. Its speed and ferocity were to be both admired and feared: the slashing claws and drooling fangs made it a foe to be respected. Some of these creatures ~ that I’ve since learned are called Durzogs ~ bore studded leather collars around their thick necks and were obviously trained to defend the approaches to the area the Goblins were being trained.

Shaken and bruised, I reached the end of the sewers and the start of a series of caves cut into the rock. As before, these caves were littered with the remnants of buildings and structures long forgotten. As I ventured into the caves, a Nord ~ sitting on a bedroll beside a fire, gave me a flat glance. I nodded and continued on my way ~ why he was there and what he was doing were of no concern to me.

I came, in time, to a large cavern ~ the name of which struck me as fairly appropriate. ‘Battlefield’ was its name and a battlefield it would be. From my vantage point hidden in the rocks high above the rocky bowl, I could count half-a-dozen Goblins gathered around a number of camp-fires. Various passages led off from this place and, from the raucous din that echoed throughout, I knew that there were more of these foul creatures to be found.

I retreated back into the tunnels, finding an elevated spot where some long-ago tunneller had started to chip away but stopped after creating a small hollow. There were several of these in the tunnels and I had yet to discern their function ~ other than making for a secure spot to rest for the night. Hoping that there were no Shamans amongst the Horde, I levitated up to the hollow and set up a small camp ~ spending a cold and miserable night in those dank passages.

That settles it...I have to fire up MW and go down the sewers......this is most inspiring and awfully well described, eew those horrible Durzogs..... :paperbag:


ehhh screenshots from the sewers? please...

Sudhendra's starting to find the life of a heroine to be quite a lonely one isn't she? Crawling around in dark and damp sewers, I'm feeling quite sorry for her. The excellent descriptions of the miserable setting certainly helped, you bring the game's environment's to life really well, I'm still shivering over your account of Kogoruhn, and I'm sure you already know how I feel about your action sequences, seeing as I seem to mention them every time.

This is one of the stories that I enjoy reading the most. Always well written and extremely entertaining, it still amazes me how you seem to be able to update it so regularly. Looking forward to the next installment.:goodjob:

More great installments. I look forward to seeing this in the library in its complete form. :goodjob:

[quote=jonajosa]More great installments. I look forward to seeing this in the library in its complete form. :goodjob:[/quote]

Me too, but you have to dedicate an entire bookshelf for it!!! :goodjob:

I awoke from fitful sleep, feeling much stronger and focused than I had the day before. Obviously my travails of yestere had toned up my muscle and made me fitter, although that couldn’t account for the increased clarity of my mind. It was a sensation I knew well, that feeling of having, somehow, reached a new level of experience. And, I have to say, it was a feeling I was coming to enjoy: each time I experienced it, I felt reinvigorated and renewed, ready to take on the whole of Tamriel.

Before I’d ventured into the sewers, I had taken the time to visit a Mage in Mournhold, purchasing from him a number of cantrips that I thought might be of use to me. It was with the glowing green edifice of one of these spells firmly in mind that I returned to the rocky vantage point I’d discovered the night before. Staring down at the scene below, I visualised what I wanted to do and slowly spoke the words that would trigger the spell’s devastating effect, “'R awyra a anadli, Yn cripio addoed, gwenwyns chusana”.

It was a complex spell, one of the hardest that I’d ever had to master up to that point. The Mage had said that it wasn’t flashy or showy ~ just incredibly deadly. There was no difference that was visible to the mundane eye but, to one magically inclined, the fires dotted below now issued forth a creeping green smoke that wrapped itself around the creatures sitting next to them. As I crouched there, the sweat running down my face from the effort involved in casting and maintaining the spell, it seemed that nothing was happening.

Suddenly, with a harsh bark, one of the assembled foot soldiers stood, clawing at its throat. It coughed, spitting forth thin yellow bile that spattered the face of its nearest companion. Then, with a convulsive jerk, it crashed to the ground. Nor was it alone ~ others were now vomiting and coughing their last few moments away. Still others ran frantically back and forth, their tiny minds unable to comprehend that death, silent and deadly, wrapped its cloak around them no matter where in that chamber they ran.

In minutes it was over, all but the hardiest Goblins no more than slumped corpses. The rest mewled and crawled, desperately seeking aid that would be far to late even if it arrived. With a shaky sigh, I allowed the spell to collapse and slumped, drained, against the rocks. The restorative potion was a blessed relief, and I could feel the magicka ~ crystallised from the very air around me ~ pouring back into my body.

Clambering down the rocky slope into the now silent chamber, I reflected that the place was aptly named ~ a battlefield it had been, albeit a most unequal battle. As I stood on that field of death, I realised that I had accomplished something here, something momentous. For the very first time I had not had to rely on muscle-power to accomplish a task. Oh, I had used magic in combat before but only as a sort of additional ability to be used when sword or axe failed. This was something different: I had changed the world using naught but my mind and the focussing lens of a magic spell. Suddenly I understood the Telvanni drive for power, for this was power on a scale that could topple Empires. I also understood the tight restraints and checks that the Empire kept on Mages, for they too understood that Magic, unchecked and untrammelled, could tear apart the very fabric of reality to bring about changes of a magnitude undreamt of.

Flexing my fingers, I drew in a deep breath. Dismissing the already decaying bodies from my mind, I ventured deeper into the tunnels. And tunnels there were, dozens of them ~ if she didn’t have several pieces of chalk handy, a girl could get very lost down here.

As it was, I had to backtrack several times and once I walked into a series of tunnels only to find my own chalk-marks already scrawled on the walls ~ heading back in the direction I was coming from! So it was something of a surprise when I found myself standing in front of a simple oval door set into the frontage of a long buried building. The cartouche over the door read ‘Teran Hall’ but, scrawled alongside it, was a simple symbol of Goblin origin. This, then, was the heart of the infestation.

The door swung open at the slightest touch, silent and smooth on well-greased hinges. Several foot soldiers and a brutish ‘handler’ were using the halls of this long-forgotten manse but they proved to be susceptible to the kiss of magical death too ~ this time in the form of boiling blood. Once these had been dealt with, I was free to explore a little further: making sure to keep a wary lookout for any more of these brutes.

Of course, it’s all very well concentrating on a possible ambush. A wise and sensible precaution. Sometimes, however, it pays to spare a little awareness to your surroundings. I knew I was in trouble the instant I put my foot on the floor and it creaked alarmingly. As it sagged suddenly, I threw myself backwards but it was too late. With a grinding crash, the floor collapsed in a wide area around me and, accompanied by stone, rock, tiles and shards of wood, I plummeted into the darkness below.

And, for those that want to know, the Poison Cloud spell described in the above section [quote]'R awyra a anadli, Yn cripio addoed, gwenwyns chusana[/quote] is Welsh and is pronounced AR awira AH ANAD-lee In KREP-yo athood GWINIS KU-sana


A rough translation would be [quote]The Air that you breathe, creeping death, venom’s kiss[/quote]

cool! i thought you had just made up some random gibberish (no offence to any welsh people out there)

[quote=LoneWolf]cool! i thought you had just made up some random gibberish (no offence to any welsh people out there)[/quote] :rofl:

How long I lay there, semi-conscious, I have no idea. Finally the pain in my left leg convinced me it was time to do something about it and, crawling like a child, I made my slow way from the rubble into a small chamber. Gradually, I rolled onto my back and levered myself into a sitting position against the wall ~ the pain in my leg having gone from a low hum to a full-blown aria. If it wasn’t broken, it was doing a pretty good impression. Of course, the length of wood sticking through my shin wasn’t exactly helping matters. The corpse propped up in the corner engendered certain morbid thoughts too.

One step at a time Sudhendra, I thought, you can do this. Wincing, since every slightest movement brought a silvery bolt of pain, I reached down and slit the hem of my robe, freeing my leg so I could get at the wooden shard. I cut a strip of fabric from my robe and wadded it up before shoving it between my teeth. Biting down hard on it ~ since I figured that this was going to be painful and I didn’t particularly want to attract more attention than I had to ~ I grasped the stub of wood and yanked…

When the world swam back into focus, there was a sizeable pool of blood under my left leg. “Oh that can’t be good,” I thought, spitting out the wadded up fabric. Leaning over produced another bolt of quite excruciating pain; it also brought my fingers to the strap of my pack. Now, if only the sturdy construction had protected the contents well enough, the results might be worth the agony.

I popped the lid off the small golden phial and drank deeply of the contents. “What you grinning at?” I asked the corpse, gritting my teeth as bone and flesh slowly knit itself back together again. I’m not too certain which was worse ~ the pain of the original injuries or the pain of reconstitution. Actually, on reflection…

When I could stand again, I moved slowly around the chamber until the dead-feeling had worked its way out of my leg. No longer hobbling like some four-hundred year old, I picked up my pack and checked through the contents. Some of the food had got a bit squashed, but there were no major breakages. Food, that seemed like a good idea. As I ate the hastily constructed meal, I squatted and examined the corpse. His clothing was strange, not just because it was very out of style, but also the cut and even the type of garments were odd. Nearby, next to the small fire pit, lay a note. It was badly scribbled and parts of the vellum had worn away with age ~ making it very difficult to read. From what I could piece together, the Man had been a sailor, brought here after a shipwreck and left to moulder and die in this pit.

Glancing up to reassure myself that I could levitate out of here if I needed to, I set about examining the chamber. It was obvious that the collapse of the floor above had breached its walls, making it possible to access the corridors beyond. To my great amusement, a green and malformed foot stuck out of the rubble. Obviously a scouting Goblin who’d got the shock of its life when the ceiling had suddenly come crashing down on it. Shouldering my pack, I moved into the corridor beyond the shattered wall. The one end was blocked and impassable, made so by a far more ancient collapse. The remainder of the corridor took a sharp left turn and ended in another of those oval metal doors.

From behind which I could hear muffled voices. Now, to the best of my knowledge, Goblins don’t communicate in anything more sophisticated than grunts and basic hand gestures ~ although they are capable of understanding spoke words if the speaker speaks slowly and clearly. My best guess? The room beyond the door was where the Altmeri trainers were hidden.

Returning to the corner of the corridor, I unhurriedly took the two crossbows off my pack and checked them over. The fall didn’t seem to have damaged them in any way so, using the foot-stirrups, I quickly loaded both and levelled them, aiming at the door. Concentrating deeply, I spoke the second of the three spells I’d purchased yestere, “Ysbryd ddwylaw.”

There was the strangest doubling sensation, as though I was still standing at the corner of the corridor but was, simultaneously, standing right beside the door. I pictured my doppelganger opening the door and, down the corridor, the metal portal swung open. There was a sudden silence from within, and then a steel-armoured High Elf appeared in the doorway. He grunted and pitched backwards as twin bolts slammed into the armour covering his chest. Even as a questioning voice rose from inside the room, I was casting down the crossbows and racing towards the door, the Ebony blade sliding from its scabbard.

I dived low, rolling through the door as a heavy blade crashed into the solid frame. Coming to my feet, I saw that one of the Altmeri was down but not out, cursing as he fumbled for a healing potion. The other was very much up and alive, turning towards me with a wickedly sharp-looking blade in his hand. Reaching down as he advanced, he pulled a shorted, curved dagger from his belt.

Our swords clashed briefly, I had to step quickly backwards to avoid a slashing blow from the dagger that would have done severe damage had it connected. I’ve never fought an opponent that used two blades before and it was increasingly difficult to deal with him, as he seemed able to effortlessly counter my every strike while his own skill with the twin blades was stretching me to the limit. As we fought, the knowledge that the other trainer was still alive and capable of joining in at any moment hovered in the back of my mind.

As we locked blades, I brought my knee up sharply ~ catching him in the one unarmoured spot. As his eyes crossed, I shoved him away as hard as I could and spat, “bob beichia blygedig a blygedig ail.”

He grunted, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead as the weight of every item he carried suddenly quadrupled in weight. On unsteady legs, he moved towards me, gritting his teeth as he struggled to bring up his now weightier sword. Stepping back, I repeated the cantrip, grinning as he fell to his knees. Muscles bulged as he fought to stand ~ a scything cut ending his efforts by crushing his Temple and smashing his skull.

“Narro haud veneficus,” shouted the second trainer, the shock of the spell cleaving my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Bereft of magical offence, I took refuge in the magic he couldn’t stop. The scroll was exactly where I needed it to be and, hurriedly, I spoke the strange words written there. There was a metallic groaning noise as dust motes swirled in the air. The figure that manifested between us was slim and shapely, tall and indisputably feminine. With a metallic creak, the blank golden features turned in my direction, the head rotating through an impossible 180-degrees. At that moment, the Altmer moved.

Light flared deep inside hollow eye-sockets as the head whipped around to face him, a harsh crash accompanying the sudden straightening of limbs. A short glass sickle appeared in the hand of the Golden Saint while across the left arm a shimmering golden shield appeared. With an unearthly shriek, the Summoned threw itself at the armoured Mer, the hand-held scythe effortlessly ripping a gaping gash in the steel armour. I watched aghast as the butchery began ~ the hapless Mer pinned to the wall by the bulk of the Golden Saint as the sickle rose and fell with mechanical precision and relentlessness. The screams, as fine droplets of blood were replaced with larger splashes and then gouts of the stuff, were pitiful to hear.

Dripping with gore, the Golden Saint turned to face me. Emotionless features stared into my face as the demonic Summoning slowly sparkled and faded. Surely the sardonic quirk of the mouth at the last instant before dissolution was a figment of my imagination? The slow, smouldering hatred of that blank gaze was no figment. I shuddered; Atronachs were ferocious creatures ~ that I knew from personal experience. Golden Saints were a higher order of creature, surpassed only by the Dukes and Barons of Oblivion (and, of course, their infernal masters: the Daedra Princes themselves). What I had not anticipated was the sheer lethality, the cold and calculating, murderous hatred of the thing.

Securing a nearby room, I looked at the remaining scrolls that Dratha had given me. I had expected the Golden Saint to be a killing machine, like the Atronachs I had summoned in the past. But, while the Atronachs had clearly resented the Summoning, I couldn’t shake the feeling the Golden Saint had been furious and, with some cold intelligence, plotting vile and bloody revenge.