Just a short piece I put together out of boredom. Hope you like it.

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It is dark. Two figures traverse a well trodden path out of Suran. The first is a swordsman. The second... his would-be killer.

The swordsman knows of his follower's presence. He listens attentively as the assassin follows. He is clearly untrained, and this may be his first mark. There is no rattle of quarrels or arrows. It is likely the swordsman need not fear a ranged attack.

The swordsman has made an enemy in the Nobles of Suran, and was aware that eventually they would seek his life. But he is not afraid. As a swordsman, death has followed him as a companion he has developed a deep respect for.

His trained ears pick up a sound... a soft and smooth "whif" as a dagger is pulled from a belt.

Spotting a shrine by the road, he approaches. He has no love of the Dunmer, nor has he a love for their Temple, but he is a spiritual man and pays his repects nonetheless as his killer moves in.

He moves his thumb for the guard of his sword. Years of oiling grant it silence as he nudges it from his sheath.

In a flash, he grips the weapon. Rips it from its home. Then thrusts it back, cutting into the assassin's belly. Turning, he frees the weapon with a horizontal slice, then brings the weapon up for a finishing downward cut.

The ordeal is over in a mere span of two seconds. The swordsman flips his sword to remove any blood, then returns it to it's home. He kneels in respect to the life he had just ended. If the nobleman had hired a killer even a tad more competant, the outcome would have been drastically different. If his foe had been equipped with a bow, or maybe armor, or perhaps knowledge of magick, HE would have been the one to die tonight.

He closes the dead man's eyes, mutters a short prayer... then is on his way.

A very intriguing short story. I particularly liked the level of awareness that the swordsman had, and how he used that knowledge in his defense. The would-be assassin definitely sounds untrained. However, I am a little curious about the swordsman's final conclusion. He thinks that if the assassin had used a bow instead, he may have died. However, it seems to me that since he was aware of the assassin long before the dagger was drawn, he may have been able to do something in his defense if there had been a bow. Or perhaps you were thinking that if the assassin had a bow, the arrow would have been fired from much farther away, thus robbing the swordsman of the opportunity to hear the assassin before the killing shot?

One thought popped up in my mind while reading it. Yes, I also thought that it was a nice short story, but this was a different one.

This is the kind of thing I could expect as one of those books in Morrowind that teaches you something. In this case, long blade. You described very good how he dealt with the assassin who was behind him.

I so whole heartedly agree with cloudy on this one! It makes me feel as though my long blade skill had just leveled up after reading it. It was very well written and quite nicely described given how short it was. It made me feel as though I was within a short distance watching it all happen.

Very nice short story Kell, very nice indeed. I really liked the smooth way the story is written and it is described quite well. Good job mate!

Thanks everyone, I'm glad you liked it.

If anyone else has any very short stories they would like to share, feel free to post them her. I would be interested in reading them.

A solitary doe dips its head into a flowing stream for a quick drink before quietly and majestically strolling back into the sprawling fauna that stretches as far as the imagination. Birds chirp their mid morning song as they hop from branch to branch whistling their cheery songs. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves over head and the sun peeks through the thick tree tops letting its warming rays caress all living things and wrap the world in her nurturing embrace.

A lone wood elf creeps slowly in the bushes mere feet from where the young doe quenched her thirst. He is clad in a light leather armor and sports a leather quiver with about a dozen hand made arrows. He carries his bow in hand as he creeps closer trying not to give himself away. Each footstep a strategic and carefully thought out move much like a game of chess.

The wood elf carefully slinks closer as the beautiful doe stops to enjoy the day, oblivious to her surroundings and unable to sense the predator that will soon take her life. She stands watching a lone butterfly as it flutters around her head without a single care on earth.

Such a beautiful scene and would be one that a normal man would simply smile and reflect on how lovely life is but in this case, our wood elf friend is quite hungry and thus brings to mind how the food chain works. This is the one of the many facts of life.

As the hunter closes on his prey, he stops to give thanks that he was able to find such a perfect specimen and he would feel very badly if he were to do this for sport but he had been having bad luck with food and this would remedy his churning stomach.

He slowly and carefully pulls an arrow from his quiver and knocks it into place. He slowly pulls back and gets ready to fire. He can almost taste the meat now as he licks his lips and as he is just about ready to fire, a fiery hole in the very fabric of earth rips realms exposing Oblivion to the world.

The young deer, frightened, runs quickly in the other direction jumping over stumps and bounding over large rocks as it dissappears from view, and our Wood Elf hunter is quickly placed into the position of the hunted as he frantically tries to outrun the snapping jaws of a blood thirsty Daedroth.

Oblivion is so close I can taste it! Have fun everyone!!!

sorry for being a little late on the reply with this one...been busy

I think it might also have leveled my sneak...or counter sneak....or hearing...lol, but long blade would def. be my second choice. I liked this story very much.

Well written Taillus, you described the envrionment very thoroughly and did a great job comparing the wood elf mentioned to your eagerness for Oblivion (not sure if that was your intention, but I'm impressed nonetheless.)

Ha you hit the nail on the head Kell! Thanks BTW but it still like yours more

Sorry, guess I meant to answer this earlier.

The swordsman I described was able to pick up the assassin's footsteps because he had to get in close to use his dagger. The swordsman had been moving the whole trip, and it took some time for the assassin to get close without compromising his stealth (though we know the swordsman was already aware of him). With a bow, he could have simply shot the swordsman from a distance.

Even if the swordsman had detected him, it would still be extremely difficult to defend himself from a speeding arrow, as well as close the distance to dispatch his enemy.

At least... this was my logic as I wrote this .

Not sure about how good this one is, but it is something I wrote at school when I got bored. (Don't tell the teachers )
Funny thing is, it sounds like it is only part of a story, but I have no idea what that story would be.


Slowly, the ship drifted amongst the waves. The only sign of life were the torches burning on the bow and stern. Or was that all? No. At the bow one man stood, gazing at the sky. He was old, with long flowing hair as white as snow. He stood there like a statue, only moving on his heels to compensate for the boat’s movements.

A High Elf opened the door and looked over the deck. There was the man he’d been looking for. He took a quick glance at the sky and sighed. Then, he moved over to join the old man.

,,In a few nights, the moons will be full again.” He said. The Old man remained silent. Finally, after two long minutes, he spoke.
,,You know I don’t fear the servants of the moon.”
The High Elf touched an amulet hanging around his neck, lost in deep thought. The amulet was beautifully crafted and looked just like the moon.

,,I know, how could I forget? You’ve proven it before my eyes.”
,,Yes, I did. But that's not what we're here for. We should reach the island before the moon is full. It has been a long time. Perhaps you should join the hunt once more.” The old man said.

,,I will think about it. We are drinking a bottle of whine below deck. If you like you may join us.” With those words, the High Elf left.

The old man however, remained behind. He didn’t go downstairs and instead waited till he saw the land appear on the horizon. The land had called him and he realized he had much to do with only little time. He smiled at the thought. It had been a many years since he had last worried about not having enough time at his disposal.
,,So we’ll meet again, old friend.” He muttered and finally joined the people below deck.

Interesting story. Since it tells of the full moon and the servants of the Moon I gather this story is about werewolves? And is the mistery island Solthsteim? Keep it up because it sounds interesting.

Indeed, it does have the feeling of a small part of a longer story. I also got the impression that werewolves were somehow involved.

Very good story. Not all great works have to be filled with fight scenes.

Very much agreed Kell. It doesn't take a well executed fight scene to create a good fan fic. I like this One Shot Story idea. It allows me to get away from the chaos of a larger story. But I still have to say that Kell's story has been the best short one on here so far.

Thank you and yes, Kell's story was really good. As for the servants of the moon and all, I was indeed talking about wherewolves. I might continue with it in its own thread, after figuring out just what it's going to be about. I do plan on including some of the more feared beings of Tamriel in it.

Here's another "way of the sword" style story.

I doubt it's as good as my first, but I'll share it. Hope you like it.

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Two men meet on a dusty road somewhere between Balmora and Ald-Ruhn. For years, this territory has been contested. Many lives have ended here in this pointless struggle for territory; many more will end in the years to come.

The first man is an Argonian, and is a champion of House Hlaalu. The second man is a Dunmer, and is a champion of House Redoran.

These two master swordsmen hold no malice for one another. Once upon a time, the two had been great friends. But now, the Argonian’s loyalty demands he slay Redoran’s greatest champion, as the Dunmer’s duty is to slay Hlaalu’s greatest champion.

Loyalty meets duty…

The two stand straight and loosen their shoulders. The Argonian takes hold of his scabbard with his left hand, and then steps forward with his right foot. The Dunmer notes this. The Argonian proceeds to approach, landing his left foot while gripping the handle of his sword.

The Dunmer recognizes this attack. It is a technique that quickly slashes the throat of an opponent as they prepare to attack. It is the very first attack the two learned together so long ago… The Argonian knows the Dunmer recognizes his attack; this unusual choice of technique is more symbolic than effective against this foe.

Finally, the Argonian plants his right foot and strikes. The Dunmer points his own sword upward and catches the blade. He forces the blade to his right, and follows through into an upward-diagonal cut.

The Argonian recovers from his own attack just in time to leap backwards. His flowing old robe obscures his movement and the Dunmer’s blade catches only air and fabric. He then returns with a thrusting attack. The Dunmer spins to the side as his opponent’s blade scrapes his cuirass.

The two continue to exchange an array of their most basic to their most advanced attacks. Time passes, and they are exhausted and pained from fighting one another. A pause comes to their attacks and they regard one another. They can not bear to fight any longer, but they must not go against their orders.

Though no words are spoken, a decision has been made.

The two nod and prepare for a final attack. The Dunmer brings the pommel of his sword to his belly and prepares for a thrust attack. The Argonian lowers the tip of his own sword to the ground and braces himself. The Dunmer charges and the Argonian lifts his sword.

The Argonian is impaled by an upward thrust through the belly as he stabs the Dunmer through his exposed neck with a downward thrust.

Two lives have ended this night, and nothing is gained.

Wow...That was a masterpiece just like your other one. Your short works always make a very bold statement and they are such a pleasure to read.

Thanks. It turned out a little longer than I hoped it would though.

I must say Kell, if there is one story I would qualify as the best in this thread would be yours. You depicted that battle quite well with almost "Wolfie"-like detail. Good Joob! I would recommend that you post this story as a book on the Silgrad Tower mod Literary Department. I'm sure the work will get apreciated there. Here's a link!
http://www.silgrad.com/wbb2/board.php?boardid=45 (btw, you have to register to see that thing, but I recommend that you post it there!)

Oh boy, this one was good. It was kind of sad though, two friends forced to fight for their house.

Four adventurers stand in one of the many rooms that make up a Dwemer ruin far north of the Ghostfence. They stand in awe at the orange tinted metal objects that fill the shelves and chests around them. This certain ruin lies beneath the earth’s surface hidden by years of ash storms and before this point, was not even known to exist by the people of Morrowind.

The four adventurers had filled their pockets and travel bags with priceless Dwemer artifacts knowing that it would not be long before they would be able to retire from the dangerous life of ruin raiding and all could settle down to enjoy their new found wealth.

They had come into possession of everything from Dwemer weapons, close to complete sets of armor, dwemer coins, gears, and other items that could earn them vast riches even on their own. Each man loots the room and refrains from erupting into a fit of excited laughter as they quickly teeter dangerously close to over encumberance.

The self proclaimed leader rallies his men telling them of the money, estates, fine clothes, fine food and especially finer women that wait for them and they all erupt in anxious cheers as they head out of the room and eventually towards the exit of the Dwemer ruin.

One man gasps as his foot sinks in the floor beneath him. He looks to see that he had depressed a tile in the floor with his heel and the adventurers tremble as a deep rumbling can be heard from the walls beside them. Each man breaks into a full run as the walls begin to shuffle inward, attempting to flatten them.

Even though their travel packs full of loot slow them down, not one of them choose to leave anything behind and they yell in horror as the walls slide closer. The second man to the back suddenly trips and screams for help but it falls on deaf ears as they have no choice but to leave the doomed soul behind.

As the walls slowly seal together, only two men make it to the other side but are shocked to see that their exit had sealed as well. Desperate, both remaining men drop their dwemer fortune and begin caressing the walls with the small glimmer of hope that a hidden glyph is waiting to be pressed so they could make their way out.

One of the men stumble upon a spot in the wall that makes the wall blocking their exit quickly rise and he removes his hands to confirm. Both men look at each other wondering how the button can remain pushed to allow both men to escape. They begin to argue over who should be allowed to leave.

One of the two remaining people found the ruin in the first place, the other found the trigger to the door. It doesn’t take long for both of the remaining men to get upset and draw weapons. A long fight ensues and both men suffer critical damage. They both fight as their bodies threaten to buckle under the strain, pain and loss of blood.

In the end, one man stands, the sole survivor of the adventuring team. He leans his deceased comrade against the wall, letting his forehead activate the trigger and picks up his travel pack. He also takes the liberty of dragging his former friend’s share as well. As he gets partially through the exit of the ruin, he looks in horror as his fallen comrade slides across the wall. He frowns over his own greed as the sliding panel that once prevented their exit plummets down upon him, crushing him at the waist. He closes his eyes as life is ripped away from him, hoping death would take him quickly so that he would not have to think about how each man's greed was the cause of their demise.

Interesting story Tallius. Basing a story on basic human emotions like greed or envy is always a good foundation for a story. I liked the story, it had a sad feel to it. It would make a good book at Silgrad you know? A book about some adventurers who get traped. It would increase your, umm, athletics skill? They did run with those horribly heavy sacks on their backs didn't they?

Ok...here's mine....



Janus silently snuck forward, he had to remain undiscovered if this was going to work. He waved at the others, telling them to come. they had been sneaking up the heavy slopes of Red Mountain for hours now, they had to find this traitor who claimed to be Nerevar...and kill him, they had orders from lord Vehk himself to kill Nerevar once he came back out from Dagoth Ur.

Finally they saw the ancien citadel, and they saw Nerevar as vell, but he was...a she. "Go, spread out so that you have full wiuv of the entrance". janus group spread out to different locations, and redied their crossbows.

This traitor was good, but Janus believed that his group was stronger. after a little while the woman who claimed to be the Nerevarine, entered the ancient citadel. After what seemed like many hours, the sky startened to lighten and turn nearly blue. finally Janus heard the door open, and he quickly put the highly reactive explosion bolt in place, and aimed.

She walked out, and looked around in triumph, and started to walk towards the exit of the crater. janus looked in the crosshair of his crossbow, and followed the movements of the woman, finally he had her in his sight, so he loosened the deadly bolt.......it flew, and looked as though it would take her straight between the chest, but she turned away, as though she knew the bolt was coming, but the explosin threw her several feet away, and straight towards the lava filled crater...

She somehow managed to get a grip, merely feet above the lavastream, and started to climb up. The rest of the group loosened their bolts, and three bolt found their mark, and hit her in the back. She sorta just flowed back towards the lave, and Janus screamed for his group to assemble at the exit of the crater. They stood there, and started talking about the kill they had just achieved, but a sound bheind them made the turn around.

She was still alive, and more she was nearly over the edge of the lava pool.

-"Men line up, and reload", screamed janus, while he toog a highly lethal poison bolt this time. Then the started to march towards her, and she had just gotten over the edge, so janus talked to her.

-"So still alive traitor, well not for long, FIRE". The rest of the group opened fire, and the bolts flew into her, and then Janus released his own, and it caught her straight in the chest, it was no assassination, it was an execution. She fell backwards and landed in the lava, and sunk under it.

I thought she was going to survive until the very last word. Very well constructed and laid out. I would take a quick look and possibly edit a couple of spelling mistakes but overall it was very well written. I am glad that Kell started this thread, I like escaping the hefty storyline that is the Taillus Fic and I can bet others like the short vacation from their own works, taking a detour and making sure the creative juices still flow but with some different scenery. Great work everyone!

Two nice stories. Taillus showed greed in its worst form and Telendil gave a big execution with a big surprising twist at the end.

Great work Taillus, you provided us with a very important lesson about Greed. Also this story kind of reminded me of my first days of playing MW when I was looting the dwemer ruins near Balmora. I picked up everything that could be targeted.

And Telendil, also great. Though she may not have been a traitor in our eyes, justice can be interpreted differently among individuals and this can lead to tragic situations like the one you described.

Nice story Telendil. A few grammar mistakes here and there but the story is great. It would have been interesting to actually see this happen in Morrowind while you were playing. You were gloriously leaving Dagoth Ur after slaying Lord Voryn Dagoth and sudenly, you see a dozen crosbowmen all aimed at you. But of course, the hero must by then an utter god so he could dispose of the crosbowmen with relative ease. I also agree with Taillus, this short stories thread hepls keep the creative juice flowing in our minds. In that fashion, I've also decided to make a short story.

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After baricading themselves inside their blasphemous shrine, the Daedra worshipers were ready to withstand the fury of the House Indoril Ordinators. Since the Tribunal came to power, Daedra worshiping has been oulawed throughout Morrowind and only a scant few hold on to this practice. The Daedra worshipers in this respective shrine, Ashurbibi, were followers of the Daedric prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, the most warlike of all the Daedra. His followers were well suited to deal with any temple warriors, Ordinators included.

The Ordinators weren't alone on this Daedra hunt, the Buoyant Armigers were also participating. Their lightly armoured forces were to mop-up the remaining or hiding Daedra worshipers after the Ordinators did their job. The leader of the Buoyant Armigers cast a spell on the whole force that protected them of any possible diseases the Daedra worshipers might throw at them.

The Ordinators lined up and prepared to storm the shrine. Their leader, a temple inquisitor called Ralyn Othravel, stepped forth and started encouraging the men.
"Your acts today, my brothers, shall echo in the whole of Vvardenfell even after your bones are long gone! Come now, and cleanse your sins with the blood of your enemies! For Almsivi!" shouted the Inquisitor.
He then cast a powerfull spell on the baricaded door of the shrine which blew it out of the way completely. The Ordinators then entered the shrine.

The forces of the Tribunal stormed the shrine with ease. They advanced untill they reached the main chamber which contained the heathen statue of Mehrunes Dagon. An order to destroy the statue was commenced and the ordinators all gathered their power into one mighty spell of destruction. The spell was very powerfull and knocked the statue out off its foundations. Such was the power of the Almsivi.

The strange thing was, that no worshipers could be seen. Did they flee? Did they commit suicide? It wasn't in the nature of Daedra worshipers, especially those of Mehrunes Dagon to flee. The mystery was quickly solved however. They were under the influence of the Chameleon spell. This caused them to be virtually invisible. The worshippers charged the ordinators from their hiding places. Before the spell wore off a dozen ordinators had been slain and the rest were swinging their maces through the air, hiting eachother.

Meanwhile, outside, the force of Buoyant Armigers present was wondering why they ordinators were taking so much time to get out. Their suspicions of an ambush were soon confirmed by a wounded, helmless, Ordinator who exited the shrine badly wounded.
"What happened inside?" The leader of the Buoyant Armiger inquired.
"We were...attacked...by our own." said the Ordinator while gasping heavily.
"Brethren, take our brother and give him treatment. If the skilled Ordinators have been defeated what hope do we have?" said the leader of the Armigers to his men.
In reality, the Armigers and the Ordinators were fierce rivals. The Armigers never agreed to the Ordinator's way of solving problems of faith so the Armigers left all surviving Ordinators inside the shrine to die.

Oh that one I enjoyed griffie, as always the ordinaters act like "yeah we are the best we know it, come and die for here we comes" thing...thats why I hate the ordinators.

Show quite well how it happens when you are to self confident, good job indeed.

Thanks for the kind words. I tried to capture the sense of invincibility that ordinators often have. That's why they're so arrogant. And that will also bring their downfall as shown in my short story here.

haha, how though are you now, Ordinator?! Well, how though are you?!

I liked that story, Griff. Seeing the Ordinators get beaten for once felt good.

Good story Griff. Ordinators were fun to pick on. Even after I joined the temple I was collecting their helmets.

I cant believe why we suddenly stopped posting in this one....it is good stuff.


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Mira, shush, move silently, a voice whispered. The two assassins moved deeper into the tower, it was soon dawn, and the duke and king would meet eachother at the Ebonheart docks, so they needed to get to their positions...fast.

ok, we'll split up, I take the west tower, you take the east the man whispered to the assasin know as Mira, they kissed before they took eachothers way.

He moved deeper, and heard the sound of a guard walking down the stairs. he hid behind a crate and waited...waited untill the guard had passed him. Then did he strike, with the speed of a lightning, he ahd plunged a dagger into the neck of the guard, and hidden him, then he moved on.

Meanwhile Mira was facing no guards, no prisoners, not a single person, and so she got to the top of the tower without any trouble at all. She sat down, and loaded her crossbow, the bolt was made of finely crafted adamantium, with enough poison to kill a man ten times over. With fumbling hands, she locked the crossbow, ready to fire...she could see the ship, it had almost docked.

This was the time that the male assassin choosed to appear, he nodded to Mira from across the ther tower, and she nodded and took up her aim. Meanwhile he loaded his crossbow with another type of bolt,one that would make such a big explosion of fire, lightning, frost, and smoke that everyone within twenty yards would either die of be severly injured...and the smoke would give himself and Mira time to escape.

The ship docked, and out came five Royal guards, and then came the King himself, with a hooded person walking behind him, with five more guards walking behind that person again.

The King and his retinue met with the ducke at the docks, and the hooded person removed her hood...Mira gasped, as she realised who the person was. It was Nerevar, a Nerevar who instead of destroying the heart of Akhulakhan had made herself a God, like Vivec and the other members of the tribunal had done for so many years ago.

She brushed her long silvery hair away from her youuthful face, and smiled with a sly look in her face. Then suddenly she moved with inhuman sped, her hands inside the cloak, just to draw two loaded crossbows. She moved them in a direction that was impossible...she couldn't know, but she did indeed know, the squeesed both triggers, and the two bolts flew up towards miras fellow assassin, and wedged themselves in his chest.

As the assassin fell off the tower, his crossbow fired, and hit Miras shoulder...the last thing she saw was the fiery ball that engulfed ehr, and a thunderous bang, and then she was lost to the world.

Meanwhile the citicens that had amassed on the street, saw that Telin fired her crossbows towards one of the Ebonheart towers, then the upper half of the other tower was blow into dust.

As a sence of irony, Miras crossbow flew into the air, landed in front of Duke Vedam Drens feet, and fired...the bolt hit him straight in his forehead, and he fell dead to the floor. Telina smiled to Helseth, finally her arch enemy was dead.

Ouch, she's one nasty little bugger. And I mean that as a compliment. Just wondering, why go through the trouble of mind control (despite the delicious irony.) Wouldn't it be easier to just pop out some Destruction?

I think you misunderstood there a bit Cloudy.......the asassin squeeses the triger in a deathgrip. as he falls down, and the bolt happens to hit Mira, who looses her crossbow, which is flung trhough the air,and lands before Drens feet, just to fire at Dren.

I love the idea...thanks for the compliment

Oh wait, my mistake. It was Telina who pulled out two crossbows, not Mira. (I was already wondering where the second crossbow came from.)

I had assumed that considering their apparent relation, that Mira had been mind controlled and then fired at her friend. So it is Telina who fired the first two bolts and what follows was a very coincidential turn of events.


Edit: I also posted a one shot story today. It's called 'The Broom' and is a sort of interview with a Dremora who isn't very happy with his current job.

I just had this idea jumbling around in my head, just wanted to get something less serious out there for readers. I think I might do more than one of these whenever I feel like a small detour from my current fic, since I can be completely random with the way I have it setup. Well without further adieu...


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Memoirs of a Dremora

My purpose is simple; serve Mehrunes, serve his followers, and destroy. Seem rather simply do they not? Well, most of them are, but as for serving Mehrunes followers…. I have had… difficulties. Mortals are… odd to say the least. I have since grown to detest their existence quite thoroughly.

Let’s see… I was spending my time patrolling Mehrunes’ plane of Oblivion. Did I mention how glad I am to be the top of the line of Mehrunes’ servants? I can kick scamps around whenever I please and actually RIDE the clannfear! Anyways, I was patrolling Oblivion, likely feasting on a soul of some damned mortal, I don’t quite remember, when the Lord of Destruction himself came to me.

“Rhuragix,” Mehrunes boomed at me, “One of my mortal disciples will be calling a Dremora for service soon, and I have decided it shall be you. Serve them as you would serve me.” With that he stalked away, likely to go start a forest fire in the Valenwood or something.

Finally I had a chance to reap some serious havoc! Knowing what Mehrunes stands for, I figured his followers would definitely have some fun things for me to do. For example, setting a village to flame, or maybe boiling a river, causing much ecological damage. I chuckled gleefully as a purplish haze began to surround me. This is it! This is my time to shine!

Physically being ripped out of Oblivion is a very interesting feeling. By interesting I mean painful. I was as if every inch of my body was shredded apart and established in Tamriel in the most obscenely painful way possible. It would be an experience I would never appreciate, ever.

Gasping in pain (I think the summoner thought I was growling), I arrived in Tamriel. I looked across to see who summoned me, turned out it was a Dunmer. Good start, I had heard the Dunmer were a serious sort of people. He was wearing a deep green robe, dusty from travelling I assumed, and his red eyes glowed intently as he clapped his hands together eagerly.

“Servant! My name is Ralen. I have invoked a powerful summoning spell so that you’ll remain here as long as you aren’t banished. Of course there’s only two ways you can be banished; me releasing you, or getting yourself killed. The former won’t happen as long as you do as I say. Understand?” he asked, making his serious expression seem too serious.

I simply nodded, I had no need to say words to someone I could likely kill with a flick of my wrist. He was quite scrawny looking.

His red eyes lit up as I agreed to his demands. “Excellent! Now to decide what to do with you…” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

I nearly gaped at him. He hadn’t a clue on what he wanted to do with me!? What was I dealing with here? I began to pace about, as Ralen was still pondering on what to do. The only movement coming from him was the scratching of his chin.

Suddenly he just exploded. “Will you stop with that damned pacing!!” he practically screamed as he stormed over to me and openly slapped me across the face.

The insolence of this fool! My hand brushed the hilt of my long sword, but then Mehrunes’ words echoed in my head, “Serve him as you would serve me.” So I merely narrowed my eyes and stood in place. Ralen held my gaze, with an almost motherly anger displayed in his eyes. He then snorted angrily and turned away from me.

“I got it! Servant! Come!” he called. It seemed like he was treating me like some sort of dog. “Your mission is to defeat the main enemy of my friends. That enemy being hunters. They have a guildhall in a town to the south of here, in Tel Vos. The poor Cliffracer are being massacred by these brutes! I want them to pay!” Ralen ranted, anger clearly evident on his face.

I again nodded and turned to begin my way south. An arm gripped my shoulder and spun me around. What did this fool want now?

“You must promise me something first. You must not hurt a Cliffracer, ever. Such beautiful creatures don’t deserve death! So promise me!” Ralen said with conviction.

I nodded and with that he released his grip on my shoulder. I was grateful that he believed he thought me as a mute. I did not want a conversation with this fool. Don’t hurt some bird? Surely this Dunmer would fit better serving Sheogorath, wouldn’t he?

As I began my travel south, a sudden ear-grating squawk sounded over my head. Looking up to the sky I saw one of the ugliest creatures I had ever seen. This is coming from someone who is in regular company of smelly scamps and has had the “privilege” of having a conversation with an Ogrim. It looked like some sort of deformed flying rat with a beak. Even at the height it was at, it smelt like a corpse. Now I usually don’t mind the smell of corpses, but then again, the corpses I smell are fresh. This smell was not, it was rancid. I never thought in my whole career of merciless destruction that I would be gagging on a smell.

Attempting to ignore the creature, I continued on the journey. All of a sudden another squawk was heard and another one of these creatures suddenly appeared over my head. The damn noise they were making was getting on my nerves. Normally, I would just roast them with a simple fireball, problem solved, but I had a “mission” to do and the unstable Ralen would probably be upset if I didn’t get this done quickly. So I attempted the very difficult task of drowning out the sound these things were making.

My attempts proved useless as by the time the town of Tel Vos appeared on top of the hills I had a whole flock of the annoying rat-birds following me. I was nearly twitching in anger. Those hunters were definitely going to know what pain feels like, just because I had to put up with these… abominations!

As the guildhall came into view, my inhibition to kill rose to a near crescendo. I pulled out my long sword and suddenly and “Ting” noise came to my ears. I turn around and come face to face with one of these birds. It was attacking me! To make matters more annoying, the whole flock decided to descend upon me and attack me as well.

I was in a sea of gross-smelling, ear-grating noise, complimented by my “dings” and “tings” of my armour being stricken. I had enough, in one swoop of my sword, disembodied birds collapse all around me. I would have never thought the smell of death would disgust me, but the stench emitted from these birds was indescribable. I started to head to the town once again, but a burst of energy drew my attention.

Over a hill to my right, Ralen came storming, huffing and puffing in anger. No… these… things can’t be Cliffracers! The way he talked about them, it sounded as if they were some majestic, golden bird of the noble skies. Not these bottom feeding scum!

“You made a promise, and not even before you complete my assigned task, you break it!” he fumed. I was now certain this mer was insane.

“I release you from this plane!” he yelled at me, waving his arms frantically.

That indescribable pain erupted from every pore of my body and once again I found myself back in Oblivion. I shuddered, that was terrible. We could really use Cliffracers for our forces…

hahaha....oh seriously that was funny. I must agree, that man must have fitted better with good'ol Sheo, but if her just want to be stupid an follo Merry, let him do so.

exellent one shoter, and with a good sense of humor... Jona for you.

There is a what seemed to be a puzzle to me for many months now. For I am Nerevar Reborn, and every prophecy has come true, save one.

'Seventh Trial, His mercy frees the cursed false gods. Binds the broken, redeems the mad.'

"Or should I say that it has now come to pass, Almalexia?" I said speaking to the Azura's Star.

I grip Trueflame's hilt, and I remember how arduous this quest was.

Binds the broken.

I place the Azura's Star, with Almalexia's trapped soul down on the Shrine at Mount Assarnbibi.

Redeems the Mad.

I leave her Sword, Hopesfire, leaning against the shrine.

"Well, Old Girl. I guess this is goodbye the second time. Rest easy." I said as I put on my hood, and walked off into the Ash Storm.

Ooooo very poetic Black Hand. Liked it.

I hope no one minds if I resurrect an old thread (but a good one nonetheless) which has been forgotten long enough. There are too many good stories here to overlook and, besides, what better way to get your artistic juices flowing once a certain setting gets dull and you need to try new things? By posting a short story of course! I'll start by posting a story and I hope many of the other writers join in. I hope you enjoy this story.

~~~
It was a cold and damp night in the city of Dragonstar. Rain was falling down with more fury than the arrows of the Redguards. The Nords were all hard-pressed to find shelter in the ruins near the wall to East Dragonstar. The shadows cast by the small company of Nords gave the image of a much larger host moving along the ruins, trying to find shelter. As they moved from building to building in the cover of darkness, the Nords and the odd assortment of mercenaries and blades-for-hire accompanying them tried to find somewhere where they could stop to rest, away from the cold and the rain. As their scout, a Woodelf who went by the name of Aenvir, scurried inside the ruined remains of an old tavern he waved to his comrades, signaling the building was safe. As the rain-drops battered the old cobblestone of the streets the rest of the company hurried inside the ruins. Besides the remains of the common-rooms, Aenvir had also found some stairs leading down to a door.

"Finally, shelter!" one of the Breton mercenaries accompanying the Nords said as he held his blade tight. His cloak was ragged and torn, not to mention very wet and filthy of mud. "Perhaps we can find something to eat as well."

As the Breton descended the stairs, one of the Nords from the company followed, leading the way for the rest. He was a tall man, powerfully built. A tattered tunic covered the mail shirt he wore on his breast and the shield strapped to his forearm was dull with rust. He held his sword tight in his hand, prepared for battle. You never knew what to expect from these Redguards after all. His face was solemn, and his eyes were keen to sight the enemy, wherever he could be hiding.

"How you could think of a matter as trivial as food in a time like this, Breton, is beyond me." He said in a calm, if somewhat annoyed, voice. Seeing his Breton comrade complain about food broke his concentration.

"What is it to you, Ulfgar? All you Nords know is how to wrestle and how to kill. At least the latter you can manage properly." the Breton said in a despising tone. Nobody really liked him, and he was hard to get to know properly. He also didn't seem to have much self-restraint when it came to insulting people and starting fights. That said, it did not make him less of an amazing warrior. The Nord looked back at him with disgust.

"Far better than you Bretons ever could. Shut up and do what you're paid to do." Ulfgar said in an annoyed voice. He almost shouted at the Breton in his anger, yet he managed to calm himself at the last moment. It would be foolish to give away the whole company for something as trivial as this.

"Then you wouldn't be needing me now would you? That said, you wouldn't be needing that Wood Elf fellow would you? Now, get back to what you're good at, and leave me get back at what I know even better." the Breton said with a mocking smile. He had a very odd skill of making people get angry very fast.

With that said, there weren't any more discussions. Silence took over once again. As Aenvir pried open the door the others all followed him inside. They were an odd group. Twelve Nords formed the backbone of the group together with Aenvir the scout and the Breton warrior as support. Their company had been part of a raid on the Redguard side of Dragonstar. The raid went well, yet as they were returning their company was ambushed and cut off by Redguards. After suffering heavy casualties, they were now forced to hide in the ruins by day, and try to maneuver about by night.

Thus far all had been well, and they had avoided detection. A little more advancing, and they would be close to the wall protecting the Skyrim-owned side of Dragonstar, the Eastern side. Dragonstar had been separated into two separate parts ever since the war of the Bend'r-mahk. Neither side was powerful enough to act and conquer the city fully, yet neither side was weak enough to back down. This lead to a stalemate where guerilla warfare took the fore.

As the group entered the basement of the tavern they appeared to have ended up in a wine-cellar of sorts. The room was dark, yet warm oddly enough. After a few moments of jostling about a torch was soon brought forward and lighted. The room was indeed a wine-cellar, racks filled with bottles lining the walls. The company rejoiced because they could finally rest in a more suitable environment. Ulfgar of course maintained his calm. He knew that they could be attacked at any moment so he kept his sword close.

The rest of the company didn't take heed of him and his caution however, and started unpacking their bed-rolls to prepare for a night's rest. Some of them even opened a few of the wine bottles. After gulps and a glare from Ulfgar they soon put the wine bottles back where they belonged. The Breton, of course, didn't listen to Ulfgar and took some food from his pack as well. After a short meal which he was hesitant to share with the others, the Breton went to sleep, holding his blade near. His armour shone in the light of the torch, which was carelessly thrown in the middle of the chamber.

As everyone slowly fell asleep, only Ulfgar remained vigilant, ever watching the entrance to their make-shift hideout. There was an unpleasant smell of dank clothes combined with mud and dirt from the floor which, coupled with the smell of wine, made the whole chamber have a tavern-like feel. In other days, Ulfgar would have enjoyed spending some time in a tavern, yet now the only thing he desired was peace. He had had enough of war. Ever since the day he had been summarily drafted from his village, along with about 100 other young men like him, he thought of war as something courageous, epic and heroic. Over the past few months he had seen the true face of war, which often involved skulking in the mud and watching for the enemy. Not to mention the rotten food and diseased water, poisoned by the Redguards long before.

A few hours later, after almost falling asleep several times, Ulfgar went to Aenvir. The Wood Elf wore a leather vest over a plain shirt and mail greaves over his pants. In his feet he wore a pair of worn traveling shoes, light and good for running. He let his long hair flow freely, only wearing a small band around his head to keep his hair from getting in his eyes when fighting. Helmets brought discomfort to the Elf, and he despised wearing them. Near his hand was his bow, made of fine yew. His quiver was strapped to his back, and was made of tanned leather. Strapped to his side as well was his dirk, a curved dagger good for quickly slitting the throat of any nearby opponent. At first, the Elf had carried wooden arrows given to him by his Nordic comrades, yet as his arrows began to dwindle he eventually started crafting his own arrows from the bones of fallen foes. Aenvir was a highly religious Elf, and he honoured the Green Pact of Jeffre in all his affairs, even in war.

"Wake up Elf!" Ulfgar said as he shook Aenvir gently, trying to wake him up. "Wake up!"

"What?" the Elf asked in a rather annoyed way after a few minutes of repeated shaking. He held his dagger tight.

"Go out and watch for the enemy. We shouldn't lower our guard, lest we want to wake up with a score of angry Redguards breathing down our necks." Ulfgar said in a calm way, almost whispering so that none could hear, despite the roaring rain and thunder outside.

"Oh, alright then." Aenvir said as he started getting up and rubbing his eyes. "Is it day yet?"

"No, all the better for you to sneak about without anyone seeing you. That sullen tower near might be a good place to start." Ulfgar said. With a short nod the Elf was off, running for the door. His stamina amazed Ulfgar, as he himself never was in the mood for so much running, even when he was well rested.

Some time after the departure of Aenvir, the rest of the group started waking up. Some of the Nords, quite customary to their nature, woke up then fell asleep again, only to be woken up by Ulfgar himself. The last one to wake up was, of course, the Breton. With a loud yawn he was up and about, fitting on his armour.

The first piece of armour to fit on was the breastplate, made of steel. After tying the fine strings which connected the two sides of the breastplate, the Breton fitted on his pauldrons. One of the pauldrons, was rather large and circular, with engraved markings of a heraldic dragon coiling around a sword. The other, somewhat smaller when compared to its larger counterpart, was of worn iron and bore no remarkable markings except the various dents made by weapons. The Breton then strapped on his greaves, made of steel, then carefully fitted on his boots so that they wouldn't be a hindrance in combat. All the months of wandering about on the gravel and broken stones spewed about the ruined remains on the edge of Western Dragonstar had severely damaged his boots. Last came the Breton's sword, a fine longsword of good craft, as was traditional with the Breton warriors of High Rock. After he was finished, he could notice Ulfgar looking at him. With a sly smile, he started talking.

"I suppose you are admiring my armour. It was quite a challenge to gather all of the pieces. The left pauldron, as you can see, was taken from the gasping body of a Knight of Daggerfall. He seemed quite surprised to see my blade thrust in-between the joints of his armour. The breastplate as well, was taken from the cold body of a Knight, though of what Order I can't remember. He fought quite well though, but his neck wasn't as resistant to my sword as his breastplate was. You were saying?" the Breton said in quite an arrogant matter. Ulfgar had gotten used to him though. Ever since the former leader of their company died, Ulfgar had taken his place and everyone listened to him. Everyone except the Breton of course. He wasn't one to take Ulfgar's place as a leader, but that didn't stop him from challenging Ulfgar.

"If I wanted to squint at your armour, Breton, and see what dents and marks it had, I would be hacking it off your dead body. Now listen. The Wood Elf left some time ago to scout out the surroundings and keep watch. The only problem is, he hasn't returned. Make yourself useful and find him. Start looking in the ruined tower nearby." Ulfgar said in a bored tone, accentuating the fact that he wasn't one to cope with the Breton's oddities.

"I guess you want me to go skulking through the rubble to find the Elf. What uses you Nords find for us mercenaries is beyond me to comprehend. I should be out fighting and killing Redguards, not being a baby-sitter for some tree-hugger. But it is understandable, I suppose, to remove warriors of much greater skill than yourself, when you want all the glory." the Breton replied, in the same arrogant way. For a mercenary, he had trouble with following orders.

"You are paid to serve the interests of General Duvais, not to question my motives. As a representative of the General, you answer to me. Now, go out there and find that Elf, Breton!" Ulfgar said, raising his tone to show the Breton he meant business.

"Very well then, if that is what I must do to earn my pay. Don't except me to save you if the Redguards attack." the Breton said as he left the chamber they were all resting in. Odd looks and stares followed him as he left.

"After his contract expires you should really put an axe through his skull Ulfgar, it might lessen his attitude." one of the Nords of the company said, chuckling at the Breton's arrogance.

"He will meet his fate one day, rest assured. One day he will loose the favour of the gods and be struck down just like all the poor souls he has killed. If it is by my hand, then so be it. If not, good riddance all the same." Ulfgar said as he finally lied down to get some proper rest of his own.

Dawn had come to Dragonstar, and the rain had finally stopped. The sky was grey and dark, as the Breton set out to find Aenvir the scout. Since Ulfgar had advised him to search in the fallen tower nearby, that was the first place he visited. The climb up the steps leading to the top of the tower was arduous, since some of the steps were decrepit, and easy to shatter. The Breton's fate however, couldn't involve dying because of stepping on a weak stone. The Wood Elf's on the other hand could. As he reached the top of the tower, the Breton could see all of Dragonstar arrayed in front of him and it was truly a sight to bear. As he looked out, the Breton was standing on the circular top of the tower. Near him, on the edge of the tower's roof, was Aenvir, lying down.

"The wretch has probably fallen asleep. Better wake him up." the Breton said out loud as he approached Aenvir.

After two kicks, the Breton was rather surprised by the fact that Aenvir didn't wake up. Leaning down, the Breton turned Aenvir around, discovering why the Elf was so silent. A deep gash ran along his neck. He had died of bleeding some time ago and, by the blood on his clothes and the stone, the killer was near. As he examined the corpse further, the Breton heard a pebble being crushed by a heavy boot. Someone who was wearing armour was apparently trying to sneak up on him. Slowly rising from Aenvir's corpse, the Breton though about what to do. After a short moment of silence, the Breton turned around, quickly drawing his blade as he did so. His move paid off. An unsuspecting Redguard fell to the ground, blood gashing from his neck and gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. He was obviously drowning on his own blood. With a quick thrust of his blade, the Breton killed the Redguard, sparing him of any further suffering.

"Still sharp, eh Roland?" a voice came from down the stairs. Someone was coming up. The Breton however seemed un-alarmed.

"What took you so long to find me? I suppose you slayed the Elf." the Breton said in a calm, if somewhat angered voice.

"Who else? And regarding all the tracking we had to do to find you and your merry band, don't worry about it. Just tell us where your friends are and you'll get your promised gold." a Redguard revealed himself as the source of the voice. He had a calm and laid back demeanour about him.

"I was starting to get tired of all this running. These Nords sure are cowards. It will be good to finally kill them, after all this time of sneaking about. Oh, and I suppose I should be sorry about your man here. The dastard surprised me, and I think you know how much I hate surprises." the Breton replied, smiling in an evil way.

"You should be sorry, but then again a mercenary won't make any money by being polite. Now, lead on if you'll be so kind." the Redguard said as he stepped aside.

"On one condition. The leader of the Nords is mine, understood?" the Breton said, with deadly seriousness. He was reffering to Ulfgar.

"Of course Roland. Anything for you. Lead on." the Redguard said with a smile. He knew how to handle the Breton so that he wouldn't dissobey his orders. Unlike Ulfgar, he knew how to handle mercenaries like Roland.

After descending from the tower, the Breton and the Redguard met up with the rest of the Redguards. All in all, a party of about 80 men had been following them ever since the main Nordic contingent which lead the raid had been ambushed and split up. All of the other remnants of the main group had been found and destroyed, only this party remained. It wouldn't last long however. The Breton led the Redguard war-party with quick steps. He held his sword firmly, ready for the slaughter to come. An ungodly smile was on his face. As they reached the ruins of the tavern in which the company of Nords had camped out, the Breton stepped aside, leaving the Redguards to form the brunt of the attack. Afterwards, he could descend into the wine-cellar and finish off whatever remained.

"As I said, leave the leader to me." the Breton said in a confident way. With a quick nod, a group of about 30 Redguards, all well outfitted and armed, descended into the wine-cellar.

As the Breton stood outside, he could hear a loud shout then the sound of weapons clashing and men cursing and shouting battle-cries. The clamour of the fight was deafening in the still air and it made the whole city seem alive with battle. After a few moments of anxiously waiting on the edge, the Breton himself descended. As he entered the chamber he could see that many of the wine-racks had been upturned and blood had combined with spilled wine to form a slippery liquid. The Nords and the Redguards were locked in deadly combat. A few were wrestling each other on the floor, trying to strangle or to stab their opponents to death, while the rest were fighting for their lives ferociously. The Breton could see Ulfgar grappling with a taller Redguard. After elbowing the man, Ulfgar quickly hit him in the stomach with the pommel of his sword. He then summarily thrust his blade into the Redguard's neck, pulling it out by pushing the dying Redguard away with his leg. Ulfgar then turned his eyes to the Breton.

"You miserable traitor!" Ulfgar roared with rage in his eyes.

After exchanging a few blows with another Redguard then beheading him, Ulfgar charged the Breton, holding his shield forward. The Breton braced himself for impact, seeing he had nowhere to go to evade the incoming Nord. With his utmost force, Ulfgar bashed the Breton, making him stagger back a few steps. The Breton quickly regained his bearings however, parrying two blows Ulfgar quickly threw, trying to finish his opponent. After parrying Ulfgar's second blow, the Breton quickly swung his own sword towards Ulfgar's lightly armoured left arm. Ulfgar however parried the blow with his shield. That was exactly what the Breton had intended however. Even before he landed his strike on Ulfgar's shield, the Breton quickly wheeled around, striking Ulfgar's right arm. With a shout of pain and anger, Ulfgar pushed his opponent with his shield, sending him into a nearby wall. He then quickly checked his wound. It was a pretty deep cut, and blood was flowing freely.

"Can you feel it, Nord? It's death!" the Breton said in a malevolent voice as he approached Ulfgar once more.

"Yours, Breton!" Ulfgar roared as he attacked the Breton once again.

Ulfgar began his attack with a quick vertical chop, succesfully blocked by the Breton however. The Breton then quickly attacked, only to strike Ulfgar's shield. The Breton's next attack came just as fast as his last one, and almost caught Ulfgar unprepared, yet by sheer reflex he managed to parry the incoming blade with his own blade. For a few moments, their blades were locked and the two began a pushing contest. While the Breton pushed his own blade with two hands, Ulfgar could barely manage to hold him back with his own hand he used to hold his blade. Ulfgar however remembered his shield, which he used to bash the Breton. Sending him backwards a few steps, Ulfgar quickly charged to keep his advantage. He charged the Breton head-on, hitting him with his body and pushing him into a wall. Ulfgar however could feel his strength failing and he could sense pain coming from his stomach. As he looked down, he could see that the Breton had held his blade pointed forward, and that he had impaled himself on the Breton's sword. The Breton smiled as he twisted the blade to increase Ulfgar's pain.

"It's seems the best has, once again, triumphed." the Breton whispered in Ulfgar's ear as he slowly twisted the blade to further increase Ulfgar's pain. The Breton then broke out into a low chuckle of victory. Ulfgar, meanwhile looked at him with a stony face.

"Think again." Ulfgar muttered with a deathly voice as he drove his blade in-between the plates connecting the two sides of the Breton's cuirass. He then slowly twisted the blade to make the Breton's pain more excruciating.

"Someone's actually defeated me. What is this world coming to? I guess it's time...to retire." The Breton said as he chuckled. He then fell down together with Ulfgar.

And thus they stood, until the battle of the last Nordic company ended. And the Redguard which had guided the Breton chuckled as he saw him clutched in a deadly struggle with his last opponent, a Nord who wouldn't go down that easily. After plundering the bodies of weapons and armour, the party of Redguards left, leaving the dead where they lay. And there Roland Dubois' body lied, locked in an eternal struggle with the corpse of his supposed comrade, Ulfgar son of Ulric.

~~~
I hope you liked this story and I also hope the moderators won't kill me for reviving a dead thread.

Oh but Griffie!!!! You know we are blood thirsty bastardes! Of course I´ll kill you....with my bare hands!

No way....I am glad you revived it....you´re perfectly right, there are so many good stories out there worth to be read!

You certainly revived this thread with an excellent piece of work! So hereby I encourage all the Chorrol.com-writers to join in!


Ehhh.....hmm that should include myself I reckon?...

A good story. It was satisfying to see the Breton's overconfidence get the better of him.

Well, I've had a fascination with mercenaries lately, and I really wanted to get the feel of a quirky mercenary who is very good at what he does, yet very arrogant at the same time. A type of 'Achilles' character, if you can notice the connection. I'm glad you liked it, and I hope other stories just as good as it will be posted further.

A rather long one-shotter, but a good one none the less.

I really enjoyed the characterplay between Ulfgar and Roland. Boy, those two really hated each other's guts. Though in Roland's case, it was acceptable. He was one mean little creepy fella.

Also interesting was the idea of a swordsman Breton. Bretons are usually seen as mages.

There are only two things I don't like. Well, actually they amuse me so I do like them.
1: You killed a Bosmer! I love the little treehuggers. They're so cute! How could you?!
2: I share the name with the bad guy. Ayehh!

Vivid battle scene, great characterizations. What more could I ask for? Glad you resurrected this thread, though I personally use the Temple of the Schola thread to post any short stories I write.

Since the political intrigue of my fan fic is getting rather stale, I've decided to write yet another short story which is packed with fighting and other such things. Some of you who cherish Dinasty Warriors may see a slight resemblance. Or you may not, it doesn't really matter, since you can enjoy the story all the same.

~~~
The sky was clear, with only a few restless skies floating about. The sun shone with all its power, casting a clear light upon the fields below. Once in a while a cloud would blot out the sun and only thin rays of light would break through the cloud-cover. These rays of light would resemble the spears and lances borne by the warriors and champions of the battlefield, that unfolded beneath the clear blue skies.

If everything was clear and at peace in the skies, things were anything but peaceful on the once-green fields below. Chaos ruled the field that bloody day. The Nords of Skyrim were clashing with a coallition of Breton clans which were fighting to prevent the encroachment of Nordic marauders into their territory. Small skirmishes had been fought thus far, skirmishes leading to the actual battle fought out between the main hosts of the two factions. The Bretons, somewhat outnumbered by the Nords, used all of their traditional ploys to even the odds. Mercenaries had been hired by the hundreds while militias and war-bands had been mustered and equiped with any weapons availlable, be it swords or spears. It did not matter, since both could kill all the same.

And all had come to this. On one side of the field stood the Nordic host, come to pillage and conquer. The Nordic champions each led a company of brave warriors which were faithful to their leader alone. All of these Nordic champions however were in the service of the overall leader of the Nordic host, King Thorvald, which had come leading the men of his own kingdom. The champions, all seven of them, were all vassals under King Thorvald. Despite their somewhat lesser status however, all of them were warriors of enviable skill. The companies mustered by the seven champions were all made up of seasoned warriors, which were ready to reap glory on the field. Once battle was joined, the Nords would abandon any form of tactical cohesion and individually seek out the most dangerous enemy on the field, in an attempt to duel him and gain glory. This was how Nordic battles were fought, ever since the old days. All in all, a host of about 5 000 warriors had been gathered to defeat what resistance the Bretons posed.

On the opposite side of the field stood the Bretons. Their troops were all colourfully arrayed, not even one of their soldiers being identical to the next, not even the ones recruited from the same clan. They were all equiped in an awkard manner, some wearing cuirasses of fine steel, some wearing iron mail, some even wielding ebony weapons. Some wore only the clothes on their backs and wielded little more than the tools they used to farm: scythes, axes, pitch-forks and the like. Out of all the Breton warriors, those who stood out the most were undoubtedly the seasoned mercenaries and the spell-casters. The mercenaries were a varied bunch, ranging from Orcs to Redguards. All however had deadly skill with almost all weapons. Out of all the mercenaries, the most famous was the Breton mercenary Roland Dubois. He had travelled almost all of Tamriel in his assignments and contracts, and had gained a huge ammount of experience doing so. He had even been offered the position of Blademaster in the Imperial City Arena, yet he refused. The only other mercenary which could compare was the Redguard Owyn, who was just as well-travelled. Besides the mercenaries, there were the spell-casters, made up of an assortment of battlemages and spellswords. Their contribution in battle would be essential, since they served as both archers and heavy infantry, and excelled in both roles. The whole Breton force ammounted to about 4 300 men, with the mercenaries and spell-casters included.

As the two armies lined up and formed a battle-line, one of the seven Nordic champions under the employ of King Thorvald advanced, from the line, along with two of his horsemen. He was a tall man with a beard as red as flame. Sigurd son of Sigmund they called him. He was neither a good planner or tactician yet his men all loved him and were prepared to fight to the death in his name. That was the reason King Thorvald held him in high regard, since most of the warriors were willing to fight to the last gasp if he were to ask it. Sigurd wore a breastplate of Nordic wrought steel, without a backplate to defend his back. Beneath the breastplate he wore a shirt of fine Nordic ring-mail. In his hand he held his longsword, and on his belt he hung his famed dagger, with its handle made from the tooth of a werewolf Sigurd once slew. Soldiers from both sides looked at him with respect, for he was a famed captain and leader of warriors. As he raised his longsword in the air he spoke.

"Before us stands the enemy, the fine men of Bretony. Yet remember that it was a Nord who first discovered this people, and who allowed them to florish. It is now time to do what should have been done many an age ago. Are you with me?" Sigurd shouted. As he did, chills rose up the spines of the Breton soldiers in the front ranks.

"Aye!" the Nords all shouted, while banging their shields and their weapons.

"Then follow me to victory! Fight to the last gasp, but make sure it is theirs! Charge my brethren!" Sigurd shouted as he urged his horse onwards. As he broke off in a gallop, the whole Nordic host followed.

Following Sigurd came the other six Nordic champions, out of which, by far, the most feared was Aenar son of Alfhedil. Aenar was not just as Sigurd was nor loved by his men. He wasn't a skilled tactician or strategist either, blundering when it came to simple matters of planning or logistics. He held little regard for men skilled in these kind of domains. The only thing he held in high regard was battle. That was why he was both respected and feared by most of the army. Out of all the warriors arrayed that day on the field, Aenar was by far the most exceptionally skilled one of them all. Some said he was the avatar of an old Nordic god named Stuhn, which was held to be the god of ransom. True to his fame, Aenar often sought out to humilliate a noble opponent in battle then enslave him and sell him off for rasom. Aenar was also held to have fought in over 25 battles and to have triumphed unscathed in 22 of them.

As Aenar rode on in the wake of Sigurd's charge, all Nordic warriors made way for Aenar's horse, which was followed by Aenar's three thanes which carried his spare weapons and his spare shield. As Aenar rode he held his pole-axe high in the air. It gleamed in the midday sun, blinding any which looked upon the warrior. Much alike his weapon, so did his armour gleam in the sun. Aenar wore an old pelt on his shoulders, both to keep him warm and to serve as a symbol to any who would come upon him on the field of battle. It was said to be the pelt of a great werewolf Aenar once slew in single combat. On his breast he wore an intricate cuirass made of fine Elven steel, with a mithril vest underneath for added protection. Beneath the cuirass, extended faulds of fine steel protected the upper part of his legs and his mid-section, while his legs were protected by fine boots of made of the same Elven steel as his cuirass. The tips of his boots were covered with the pelts from the heads of two wolves, making his boots look as if they were two savage wolves, ready to pounce. All of his equipment also gave Aenar the widely used nickname of "Wolf-Bane".

Besides Aenar and Sigurd, all of the other Nordic champions were all seasoned champions with varied levels of fame. Among them was also King Thorvald's son, Thoralf, finely equiped in the finest Nordic steel money could buy. He was mainly known because of his father, not because of his skill in battle, but those who knew him personally all knew Thoralf had the makings of a fine strategist and tactician. He had personally arranged the logistics for his father's campaign, and thus far it had gone without mistake. Thoralf had also convinced the highly capricious Aenar to participate in the campaign, with promises of loot and glory.

On the other side of the field, the Breton army stood firmly, waiting for the Nordic onslaught to come. The Bretons were lead by Lord Regnier of Evermoor, a well-known noble who was a staunch opposer of Nordic incursions into his territory. Regnier stood at the back of the ranks, leaving the job of actually leading the battle and encouraging the troops to the leader of the Knightly Order of Evermoor, Sir Roderick. Besides the well armed and armoured knights of Evermoor, the rest of the Breton militias gathered from all over the land were rather poorly equiped, with most of them sporting little mail armour and even fewer wearing actual plate armour. The norm for most of them was a padded gambeson or light brigandine armour. The exception were the mercenaries, which were well equiped for battle and disciplined when it came to holding the line. The battlemages and the spellswords were also well equiped with armour and weapons of varying qualities.

As the Nords charged the positions of the Breton army, Sir Roderick ordered the battlemages and spellswords forward in order to bombard the enemy with spells. As he gave the order, the battlemages and spellswords all started advancing as one body. As they reached the front of the ranks, they prepared their spells. The leading battlemage, a grizzled Imperial with a bald head and a short beard, soon spoke.

"Aim!" he shouted. The spell-casters then proceeded to aim their spells. Some of the younger spellswords seemed nervous yet all of the battlemages had a stony aura of calm about them. "Fire!"

As the battlemage shouted, a barrage of spells from fireballs to lightning bolts shot out from the Breton ranks, felling the first two ranks of charging Nords. The spells all missed Sigurd and Aenar however. As the Nords increased their speed, trying to close distance with the Bretons faster, the spell-casters fired a volley once more. Once again, the Nords fell in rows like reeds in a strong wind. Their numbers however didn't seem to falter. As the Nords got within 50 yards of the Breton front ranks, the battlemage gave another shout signalling a renewed volley.

"Give them hell!" the old battlemage shouted as he himself gathered all the strength he could into a mighty fireball.

With this last barrage, spells of an unseen power and magnitude were flung. Fireballs which exploded in a wide radius instantly burning anything they touched, lightning bolts which jumped from foe to foe, frost spells which froze anything within a few metre radius. The Nords were overwhelmed by the combined fire of the battlemages and spellswords, yet the warriors coming from behind were not impressed by the bodies of their comrades which were strewn about their feet. As the Battlemages and Spellswords stood and watched as even more Nords advanced to follow their brethren into the grave, the old Battlemage signalled a retreat.

"That should even the odds." he muttered underneath his voice as he withdrew behind the front ranks. "Withdraw and prepare to join battle!"

The sides were drawn and the battle was about to begin. Now that the sides were even when it came to troop numbers, it was a matter of who had the will to go on, and to fight until the other side gave its last gasp.

TO BE CONTINUED
~~~
This is the first part of this one-shot story. Well, now that you look at it closely, it's actually a two-shot story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the sequel even more than you enjoyed this prelude.

Reminds me of the Illias, with the description of all the heroes and stuff. Good work and I'll be looking forward to the second shot.

Very detailed and descriptive. Me likey!

Yup. Its good. I wander if the mages were sufficent...

Only thing I'd say it that, IMO, writing numbers as words improves the flow of a passage but thats just formatting really.
Introducing a character could add drama but you write the omisient persepctive very well so its not nessesary at all (I thought you might just like some crit).

So yup, jolly good.